Hurt-People hurt People!

Dear God,

I laughed so hard last week, my ribs were crying for help! Yes oh, after I presented Oga Ejike’s kolanut saga before You and Your angelic council — the gentleman showed up in my office calling for truce. And guess what he brought for reconciliation? A bottle of Ukwa! Not Kolanut oh. (Laughs). Now I know what to do to anybody that looks for my trouble!

But that’s by-the-way, Daddy. Please sit for a moment, I brought some juicy gist for you.

So, I went to this small get-together a friend organized. Nothing serious, just some old friends. You know how we women can be — loud greetings, exaggerated hugs, discreetly comparing fashion styles and waistlines. All was going well until wahala entered the room wearing high heels.

So, these two women (let’s just call them Sister Amaka and Sister Rose for national peace) went at each other like Tom and Jerry. Immediately sister Amaka sashed into the room, the texture of the room changed. The tension could fry akara rapidly. All it took was one look at each other and Boom!  I mean, they tore into each other’s destiny like it was a wrap of suya! The kind of fight that starts with fatal verbal bullets and ends with security being called in. Whew!

Apparently, they had been nursing bad blood since 2019, but instead of seating down to settle this matter privately, they decided to take the battle to social media. One would sub the other, the other would reply with “quotes” laced with venom. You know how our generation do battles, right? And the Netizens will then choose camps and stroke the fire until what started with “My Mercedes is bigger than yours” metamorphous into a full-blown war that made one of them lose her marriage.

Yes oh! the husband could no longer handle the public disgrace. When people start washing their dirty linen in public, something must give. He packed what was left of his dignity and left. And that day, in that party, they delivered the final episode of their embattled life.

They went after each other’s throat, dragging clothes and hair like bags of okirika in Yaba market, and we had the tough job of separating them. I sat with sister Rose hoping to talk some sense into her head. But God, hmm… bitterness is not a wound you patch with band-aid. That woman was hating and hurting bad.

“She took everything from me,” she said with fire in her eyes. “My business, my peace, my husband… all started because of one stupid post!”

I shook my head sadly as I remembered something my grandmother once told me. A story I’ve never forgotten. Grandma said that one hot afternoon, a kind farmer was clearing his farmland. As he lifted some grass, he saw baby snakes nestled underneath. Instead of killing them, he gently picked them up and placed them in a safer spot nearby. That’s how good his heart was.

The mother snake returned shortly after and didn’t find her babies where she left them. Panic grabbed her throat. She hissed and searched, then noticed a big gallon of fresh palm wine the farmer had just tapped. “It must be him! He killed my babies” she concluded in blind rage.

In her anger, she released venom into the gallon of palm wine. A few minutes later, she discovered her babies were safe — moved just a few meters away by the same kind man. Her heart sank.

She raced back to warn him… but alas! The farmer had already carried the poisoned wine to the village square. Generous soul that he was, he began to share the drink among the villagers. The snake watched in horror as they drank, danced, and dropped — poisoned by her rashness.

My grandma used to end that story with a warning: “Sometimes, we act like that snake. In a moment of anger, we poison people who were only trying to help — and by the time we realize our mistake, the damage has spread beyond what apology can repair.”

Dad, Sister Amaka didn’t ruin her friend’s marriage in one day. It started with one bitter post. One poisoned caption. One sarcastic meme. And by the time she realized what she’d done, her friend’s home was part of the body count.

Yes, she apologized. She even cried. But like my grandma said, “What is ‘I’m sorry’ after you’ve served poisoned soup?” The bitterness had already sunk into someone’s marrow. And You know, my God, not every wound stops bleeding after forgiveness.

Ah! You said we should forgive 70 x 7 times, and I hear You, Lord. I really do. But can we also talk about healing? Can we ask if the victim has recovered from the venom? Have they emotionally detoxed? If they forgive, have they forgotten? Will they forget?

In Nigeria we say, “You can’t beat a child and tell him not to cry.” This idea of brushing over deep hurt with apology — Kole work! (e no work). Forgiveness without healing is like painting a cracked wall; it will still collapse under pressure.

So yes, we must forgive. But we must also be careful with our words, especially online. Social media has become the new battlefield. People now use captions as bullets, hashtags as knives, and “likes” as battalions.

One of the ladies with me said something that pierced me. “The worst thing about hurting someone,” she whispered, “is that you may never get the chance to make it right.” And this is so true.

My Lord, this our generation needs sense. We need to borrow holy sense. This is the era where people would rather sub their enemies than pray for them. They drag everything into social media even their most private lives (it’s scary). They don’t know that “the tongue is like fire; once it spreads, even the fire brigade of apology cannot quench it.”

Sometimes, when I read certain things, I want to shout, “Who hurt you?” But I already know the answer. Hurt people hurt people. And the Internet has given every bitter soul a loudspeaker. But just because you have the microphone doesn’t mean you should sing.

Father Lord, I want to be a healer. Not a herder of gossip. Not a spreader of venom. Not a partaker in digital crucifixion. I want to speak life, not loss. To restore, not ridicule. To correct, not condemn.

I want to remind everyone that “words are like eggs; once broken, you can’t pack them back.” If you must fight, do it with your prayers. If you must post, do it with love. And if you must gossip, let it be about how good You’ve been. Leave other people out of your hurting space. If you can’t do it kindly, leave it alone.

Lord, I’m not perfect. Sometimes, my own tongue dey scratch me to respond to nonsense (Yeah, I know you will smile). But help me, help all of us, to remember the poison story. The snake didn’t mean to kill the villagers — but intentions don’t undo consequences.

So, to everyone out there: Before you type that message, remember the snake and the palm wine. Before you share that meme, remember the baby snakes. Before you slap back with comments, remember the innocent people in the village square. And if you must post at all, please post peace.

Thank You, Lord, for listening to my rantings.

This is your daughter Lord, I may not know it all, but I am checking in the little wisdom I have from you, my Papa in Heaven.