WHY WE DON'T HATE

Why We Don’t Hate

The sun dipped low over the village of Ekanaya, painting the sky in fiery streaks of orange and crimson. It was the kind of evening that invited reflection, and yet, the air carried a palpable tension. The feud between the Adebayo and Olaniyan families had lingered for nearly two decades, splitting the once-harmonious community into factions. No one remembered exactly how it began—some said it was a land dispute, others whispered of a broken promise. Whatever the cause, the hatred between these families burned fiercely, affecting everyone around them.

In the heart of the village, ten-year-old Timi Olaniyan and his friend Ada Adebayo sat by the riverbank, their toes dipping into the cool water. They were too young to understand the depth of the enmity that had ensnared their families. To them, the world was simple—a place for laughter, shared secrets, and adventures.

“Timi,” Ada began hesitantly, brushing a strand of her curly hair behind her ear. “Do you think our parents will ever stop fighting?”

Timi shrugged, skipping a stone across the river’s surface. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t make sense, does it? My dad says your family took something from us, but he never says what.”

Ada frowned. “My mom says the same thing about your family. But… what if they’re wrong?”

Their innocent question lingered, unspoken, as they watched the ripples fade.

A few weeks later, the fragile peace in the village was shattered. The Adebayo family’s farm was set on fire, and suspicion fell squarely on the Olaniyans. Retaliation came swiftly—a herd of Olaniyan cattle mysteriously disappeared overnight. Both families denied responsibility, but the accusations grew louder, and the divide deepened.

Timi’s father, Chief Olaniyan, was a stern man with a voice that could command a crowd. That night, he gathered his family in their courtyard, his expression grave.

“We cannot let the Adebayos continue this treachery,” he declared. “They will pay for their actions.”

Timi, sitting quietly in the corner, felt a pang of unease. “But Papa,” he ventured, “how do we know they’re the ones who burned the farm?”

Chief Olaniyan’s sharp gaze landed on him. “Because, Timi, they’ve always hated us. Hate begets hate—it’s the way of the world.”

But Timi wasn’t convinced. He had seen Ada’s tear-streaked face that morning when she spoke of the fire. Could hatred truly explain everything?

The next day, Ada approached Timi secretly by the old mango tree. Her eyes were red, her voice trembling. “Timi, I think it’s time we did something. This hatred… it’s tearing everything apart.”

“What can we do? We’re just kids,” Timi replied, though her determination stirred something in him.

Ada clasped his hands. “What if we find out the truth? About the fire, the cattle, everything? Maybe if we show them, they’ll stop fighting.”

It was a dangerous idea, but Timi agreed. Together, they began sneaking around the village, talking to neighbors, piecing together clues. They discovered that the fire had started not from sabotage but from a faulty lantern left unattended. The missing cattle? They had wandered into a dense thicket by the river, not stolen.

The more they uncovered, the more absurd the feud seemed. It wasn’t built on deliberate malice but on misunderstandings, pride, and the unwillingness to forgive.

Armed with their findings, Ada and Timi decided to confront their families. They chose the annual village festival, a gathering meant to celebrate unity but now marred by silent hostility.

As the festivities unfolded, Timi and Ada stood before the crowd, their small voices amplified by courage.

“Everyone, please listen to us!” Ada began, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “We’ve discovered the truth about what’s been happening.”

Timi held up a lantern and a bunch of cattle bells, symbols of the events that had reignited the feud. “The fire wasn’t set by anyone. It was an accident. And the cattle weren’t stolen—they just got lost.”

The crowd murmured, disbelief and curiosity rippling through it.

“But more than that,” Ada continued, her gaze sweeping over the villagers, “we’ve realized something important. The hatred between our families isn’t about these things. It’s about refusing to let go of the past.”

Chief Olaniyan stood, his face dark with anger. “And what do children know of such matters?”

Ada met his gaze, unflinching. “We know that hatred only causes more pain. We know that it’s making all of us miserable. Why can’t we choose to forgive instead?”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air. Then, an elder from the crowd spoke up. “The children are right. We’ve held onto this grudge for too long, and it’s cost us dearly.”

One by one, others began to nod, their expressions softening.

In the days that followed, conversations replaced accusations. The Olaniyans and Adebayos sat together for the first time in years, sharing stories, memories, and apologies. Slowly but surely, the village began to heal.

Timi and Ada watched from the sidelines, their hearts swelling with pride. They had done what no one else had dared to try: they had broken the cycle of hatred.

Years later, as they stood together by the same riverbank, now adults, Ada turned to Timi with a smile.

“Do you think they’ll ever forget what happened?” she asked.

Timi shook his head. “Probably not. But that’s okay. Remembering isn’t the same as hating. And that’s why we don’t hate—we choose to move forward instead.”

As the sun set over Ekanaya once more, its golden light reflected the promise of a brighter, kinder future.

Hatred breeds division and pain, but forgiveness and understanding can heal even the deepest wounds.

By choosing empathy and seeking the truth, we can break free from cycles of anger and resentment, fostering harmony and growth. It teaches us that holding onto grudges harms everyone involved, and it’s only by letting go of the past that we can create a brighter future for ourselves and others.

This is suggested to be read by matured minded people, who sees everyone as one.