HomilyfromthePew

I think I learned my laughter from my blessed uncle, the indefatigable Chief Gani Fawehinmi, whom I had the privilege of living with in my late teenage years. He laughed loudly. His laughter filled rooms. It broke tension. It scattered fear. It made heavy nights lighter.

There was rarely a dull moment around him. He carried Nigeria’s burdens on his shoulders, yet he refused to let those burdens steal his humanity. For him, laughter was not denial; it was therapy. Night after night, I listened as he spoke with his friend, Dr. Olu Onagoruwa, and it seemed every sentence could summon laughter, deep, boisterous laughter. He created humor out of everything: a nickname for you, a sharp observation, a playful jab at the absurdity of public life. He fought hard, but he did not live bitter.

I hardly ever saw him break down. The one time I remember clearly was when Ken Saro-Wiwa and the Ogoni 9 were hanged. That was not a moment for laughter. That was grief, raw, national grief, personal grief. And it taught me something: laughter is not a mask; it is a choice. And sometimes, the only honest choice is tears.

I took more than his laughter from him. I took his way of speaking, pointed, passionate, muscular with meaning. He spoke with every fiber in him. He was descriptive, relentless, and unafraid of naming things as they were. He could talk about “small men in power,” and you would feel the weight of the phrase. He could describe a nation’s tragedy with the precision of someone who had studied the anatomy of injustice.

And now, I recognize myself: I weep a lot, and I laugh a lot.

I weep when I see humanity at its kindest.
I weep when I see people master their craft.
I weep when human ingenuity breaks through limitation.
And yes, sometimes I weep at human wretchedness.

But I also laugh hard when I see human beings act as though they are gods.

I laugh when people present lies as truth.
I laugh when they believe power is permanent.
I laugh when they ride roughshod over the rights of others.
I laugh when they oppress, cheat, corner national and commonwealth resources, and then pose as saviors.

I laugh when those who swear to uphold the welfare and security of the people become the very ones leading them to the slaughter, yet they understand “security” well enough to vote themselves unaccounted billions as security votes.

Meanwhile, the people they swore to keep safe are slaughtered in their millions, installment by installment, and what follows is only sterile scrolls of commiseration.

Ajá mọ́ tí ẹ̀ fún ní òmùn; ó máa tì ọdùoyà kì mọ̀ lé.
The dog knows how to nurse and protect its own pups, yet it also knows how to prey on weaker animals.

Ọmọ ọlọ́mọ la ń rán níṣẹ́ dé tórùtórù.
It is the child of the poor, or the neighbour’s child that is sent on reckless and dangerous errands.

I laugh when they think intimidation is authority and cruelty is competence.

“Ọ̀rọ̀ burúkú tó ń t’ẹrín.”
There are shameful, wicked matters that provoke laughter, because they are absurd, because they are doomed, because they cannot stand.

You see, I have no respect for a human being who can deceive another human being and call it wisdom. That is a cheap con. A fellow human being can be deceived; that is not proof of greatness. If there is any “remarkable” deception, if there is any “real deal”, it would be to deceive God and get away with it. But no one does. No one ever has. No one ever will.

Deception cannot sustain itself in perpetuity, whether in your lifetime or in the lifetime of generations after you. Lies have an expiry date. Injustice has a collapse built into it. Oppression always overreaches. Pride always miscalculates. And sooner or later, reality collects its debt.

That is why, when I see people pitch their tent with injustice, when I see those who suppress truth, those who sit on the fence, those who become ambivalent in the face of wickedness, I laugh. Not because the pain is funny, but because their confidence is foolish.

Yoruba wisdom trained me early. My mid-childhood was formed in the bosom of my paternal grandmother, Mama Comfort Aina Akinlami, who nurtured me with proverbs until they became mental furniture.

One proverb still holds me:

“Tí ìrò bá sà rè títí t’ogún ọdún, òtítọ́ a lè bá a lọ́jọ́ kan.”
Even if a lie runs for twenty years, truth will meet it one day.

And my bosom friend and dearly beloved brother, Dele Farotimi, offered a perspective that sharpened that proverb into a blade: truth does not chase lies. Truth is confident. Truth stands. It is lies that keep traveling, running around, searching for evidence, recruiting noise, staging performance. Truth remains constant, like the northern sun. And after lies have run and run and run, they return, only to meet truth still standing where truth has always stood.

That changed my posture. It made me understand something more: truth is not only a concept. Truth is a Person.

When Jesus stood before Pilate, Pilate asked, “What is truth?” (John 18:38). John records no answer from Jesus at that moment. I strongly believe the reason for that was that Pilate was asking the wrong question. The question, however, remains searching: not what is truth, the deeper question is: who is truth.

Jesus had already said it plainly: “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” (John 14:6)

Truth is a Person, and truth finds expression in men and women who are willing to stand and defend it, even when it is costly.

So now I return to my final question: why does God laugh?

I think I laugh for the same reason.

Psalm 2 opens with a diagnosis of human arrogance:

“Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?” (Psalm 2:1)

They plot. They posture. They threaten. They coordinate their arrogance like strategy. They imagine they can reset moral law by committee. They imagine they can erase consequence by propaganda.

And then the Psalm delivers the most devastating response to inflated power:

“He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh: the Lord shall have them in derision.” (Psalm 2:4)

God’s comedy room is full of small men and small women in power, people who do not know how temporary their reign is; people who do not know how fickle their grip is; people who do not know how fast the ground can move under their feet.

They act as though history has no judgment.
They act as though heaven has no memory.
They act as though God is blind.

But Scripture insists: God is not impressed. God is not confused. God is not intimidated.

Elsewhere the Psalmist says something similar:

“The wicked plotteth against the just… The Lord shall laugh at him: for he seeth that his day is coming.” (Psalm 37:12–13)

That line matters: his day is coming. Not might. Not perhaps. Not if. His day is coming.

And the moral architecture of the world remains firm:

“Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” (Galatians 6:7)

Not mocked. Not outsmarted. Not bribed. Not intimidated.

So yes, today I laugh with God.

Not because evil is harmless, but because evil is doomed.

Not because injustice is light, but because injustice is limited.

Not because oppressors are strong, but because their strength is borrowed time.

That is my homily from the pew:

He that sits in heaven will laugh. And today, I laugh with Him.

Because it is only a matter of time.

There is a last laugh. And the last laugh is not the oppressor’s laugh. It is not the liar’s laugh. It is not the bully’s laugh. It is God’s laugh, the laugh that holds them in derision, the laugh that exposes their short-sightedness, the laugh that unmasks their vanity.

And let me say it as plainly as I can:

When you are a joke to God, you are a very big joke.

Do have an INSPIRED week ahead with the family.