Some people will hug you with one hand and hold a knife in the other. They’ll smile sweetly, call you “dear,” and still hope you fail. That’s the world we live in, where sincerity is now treated like a weakness, and performance has replaced honesty.
But let’s be clear: insincerity is not just disappointing; it’s dangerous. It’s like using palm oil to polish a wound. It looks shiny, but it festers underneath. You might fool the crowd, but the mirror knows. And eventually, so will everyone else, because one horse cannot cover the whole earth with its hooves. Bi irọ́ bá lọ fún ogún ọdún, ọjọ́ kan báyìí ni òtítọ́ ó ba!
Let me say it loud: I would rather be sincerely wrong than be perfectly fake. I’ll trip in the open before I walk smoothly in a lie. Because even a fall in truth has more dignity than a standing ovation in deceit. And guess what? The truth may embarrass you for a moment, but lies will haunt you for a lifetime.
We live in a time when people curate their lives like Instagram feeds– filtered, staged, and painted with smiles that don’t touch the heart. You ask how someone is doing, they say, “Highly favoured,” yet their soul is crawling through broken glass. Why? Because we’ve been taught that being real is being weak. But I’ve learned, the hard way, that silence can bleed louder than words.
I once wore the mask too. Mo fi ẹ̀tẹ̀ sílẹ̀, mo ń pa làpálàpá. I told everyone I was fine while I was falling apart in pieces only God could count. I smiled in daylight and drowned in private. And the sad part? No one suspected. Because I had mastered the art of appearing okay. But sincerity, raw, tear-streaked, vulnerable sincerity was the key that unlocked my healing.
There’s a strange power in being honest. A quiet strength. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t perform. But it stands steady, unmoved, clear. Have you ever argued with someone who is wrong but sincere? You’ll be frustrated, but you’ll respect them. Because they mean what they say. But the insincere? They bend with the wind, switch like NEPA light, and hide behind polished words that taste like dust.
Give me someone who says, “I no like what you did,” to my face, over someone who hugs me and stabs me behind. Give me the friend who confronts me with love, not the one who praises me publicly but poisons me privately. I’m no longer impressed by soft voices and gentle lies. I’m drawn to rough truths said in love.
We must return to truth. Not perfection, but truth. That’s where real connection begins. That’s where trust is built. That’s where healing starts. Because even when you fail, if you do it sincerely, people will root for you. But if you succeed through deception, the applause will be short-lived, and the shame will echo long after.
So, if you ever have to choose between smooth words and sincere ones, choose sincerity. Speak your truth, even if your voice trembles. Say sorry and mean it. Say “I love you” without acting like it’s a business proposal. Let your ‘yes’ be ‘yes’. Let your ‘no’ be ‘no’. Enough of this sugarcoated dishonesty that leaves a sour aftertaste.
Because in the end, sincerity may not win you the crowd, but it will win you peace. And in this noisy, chaotic world, peace is the loudest victory.
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