The Makeshift Tent.

It is a sunny afternoon in Ilowa. Everyone in town is happy. Everywhere is bustling with people dancing around. Chants and songs of praise fill the air. The sight of horses on the street is a symbol of a good thing. Bukuowo, the son of the soil is in town.

Bukuowo! The son of Olu. Bukuowo, the thief, ‘eégún nlá tíí fẹ̀kú jalè.’ Bukuowo is a thief ,but not the type to be set on fire in the market square. He is neither the type to be beaten into coma by market women. Only petty thieves deserve to be so dishonored. Bukuowo is a reputable thief. A great man that Kings roll out chieftaincy titles for every other time. The kind of thief most of his people wish their children could be –‘Olè oníbiro’. Bukuowo didn’t become this honourable overnight. The staff of honor was handed over to him by his father, Olu.

The late Olu, baba Oloye. Olu, the thief with a large yard of doom where the fortune of the stomach was served to people daily. Olu, the wise one who understood the rudiments of stealing and used it well to his advantage. When Olu stole herds of cattle, that generations to come should live on, he would quickly move to the town to feed people with the bone. How is biscuit bone different from meat? There is calcium in the bone anyway. His people would eat and rejoice. They would send praises to the Supreme God in Heaven for blessing them with a giant. The priests of the land spared no night to pray for Olu and all of his fruits for the good works of his hands.

Olu was a hero. Olu was a god.Olu was perfect. He was mighty, mightier than the sword of law. The other day, when a boy who was not invited into Adegboro’s house ,crawled in and fell into the soak-away under construction and died. The law said it was Adegboro’s fault. That the soak-away should not have been left opened. Even though Adegboro put up a defence, that he put a red flag around the construction. The word of a pauper made no sense to the government. Now, he is still on remand ,awaiting justice after 15years. But when hundred of lives perished in Olu’s compound. The law went to bed. When the fire of a saint like Olu raged destruction, the government slumbered.

Before his death, Olu has anointed his son, Bukuowo to keep up with his heritage. ‘Loyalty is when someone tells you to go to hell, and without thinking,you embarked on a safe journey to the pit of hell’ -this is the best definition of the Ilowa people’s loyalty. Bukuowo was accepted as the new hero of the land, out of loyalty for his father. ‘Ọmọ wa ni,ẹ jé kó se é’.

Bukuowo is in town now. He is addressing the massive crowd that surrounded him at Oja-eru. He never needs to prepare a speech. Anything he says is perfect anyway. The son of the soil, even though he is no more with them in Ilowa, he is representing them well at Abule-Oja, the seat of power. Today, he is here to tell them that the tent which used to house him is no longer functional. The roof of the tent has leaks. Broom could no longer sweep out the water. He is going back to where umbrella is available, to save him from being drenched by heavy waters. This speech sounds so illogical as it was contrary to what they heard some years ago when he ditched the umbrella for the broom. But in their land, when a rich man farts, they don’t say it smells, they say it scents. So the people, without questions, hoisted their new umbrellas into the sky in unison. ‘He is covered, they are covered’.

The sky is heavy. Bukuowo is preparing to leave quickly before all the roads get flooded. They don’t have good drainage system in this part of the country just like they don’t have well equipped hospitals. But all of those things don’t matter. They have Bukuowo, the number 3 man of the country. That’s enough to feed them and save their lives. Bukuowo never leaves a gathering without blessing his people with the dividends of democracy. So he showers new mints on his people amidst cheers. As they are hustling for the mints, he is exiting the gathering. His tyres clouding dust over their best attires. A good man doesn’t leave without a mark. There is his!

This is a town far from hell, Ilowa.

#shortstory #democracy #masses #

Image from


Mango and Coke

Entry 1

‘She was sleeping in a pink,transparent lingerie. I wanted to wake her to run errands for me. She looked like her mother that moment. So I could not resist touching her. I didn’t do much. You can check. Please, I didn’t cum inside her. She is my daughter. I’m sure she knows it’s the devil. Please forgive me’

It’s the high-pitch tone from my father’s transistor radio. It is a tradition to wake up this way in my house. Trying to avoid it is like trying to avoid daylight. Today, it’s the words of the unfortunate man who slept with his 5 years old daughter I woke up to. The last sentence is the slogan of every evil doer in the nation. The devil is the mentor and coach of the evil politicians, the ritualists ,the pedophiles and every other groups with evil intent. The devil has been damned to carry the blame for every evil act. ‘What a nation!’ I thought aloud.

The broadcaster’s voice didn’t help the already unfortunate news she was airing. Her voice was coarse. She sounded like a woman battling menstrual cramp. I could imagine her, minutes ago, before she came on air. Fire in her pelvic area. Her back aching, like a mansion just fell on her. She might have been groaning, asking for hot water to dab her abdomen. No institution recognizes menstrual cramp as a form of sickness anyway. ‘ This is why you are a woman after all , some pains are just natural. You shouldn’t be excused or pitied for them’- her production manager must have told her. She would have picked up herself after such statement to get ready for the broadcast.

My father’s voice interrupted my thought. He was inviting me to the sitting room, where he was seated with his best friend –the radio. As a kid, my father would have my siblings and I sit beside him to listen to the radio. It was always a tensed moment. After the news, it would be questioning time. Which, of course, is followed by the awarding of rewards or giving of punishment, depending on our response.

I can’t forget a day, some years back. The broadcaster had in the course of the news mentioned a man, known for his red cap. That man that has had in front of his name, all the honorifics ; Honourable, Minister, Governor, Senator and still aiming for more . The very one who bears the name of a town. He had ditched his former political party for another. It wasn’t a new tradition in this country, it happens every time election looms. So I wasn’t bothered. I was rather carried away by the vocabulary ‘cross-carpeted’ that the broadcaster had used in describing the defection process . While imagining the color of the carpet he would have walked on to another, the texture of the carpet, the layout pattern on it. My father’s voice distracted my oneiric thought. ‘You! Mention the parties he has contested under, since 1992,’ He asked.

Of course his lips were pointing at me. African parents never point with fingers. It’s cultural to do that with the mouth, every child understands direction without being told. I was blank. I thought immediately that it was better to pretend, to avoid punishment. So I looked up to the ceiling, like I was trying to fetch the answer from my well of knowledge, which was dry at that point.

Keeping up with politicians and their defection history was hard for me. Worse than being updated with soccer players. Today, a player might be signing contract in the English Premiership. The next minute, he is already in the Spanish league. At a later time, he is out chasing money on the pitch of Italy. They kiss the badge but don’t wear it for long. So are the politicians , they move for the election or re-election ticket. The party where ‘security votes’ is well distributed to fill their vault is always their party of the moment. When things don’t work out, they move to another. Just like a covetous woman ditches her husband when hardship knocks.
My brother, his brain , sharper than the lens of Cannon Ef- s 17mm, had started reciting the parties to my father’s delight. I pretended like I was really angry. Infuriated that he didn’t allow me answer the question that actually belonged to me. The nation was filled of drama. I had to add mine. Good God! I was saved.

I’m in the sitting room now. Sitting by my father just for the culture. Not that I was interested in the radio. Listening to the news has less importance nowadays. Most people of this generation, don’t personally seek out news.
The broadcaster, is still straining her voice, out of pain obviously. This time, the headline is about two buffaloes. While one, the giant buffalo, stays in the villa to execute policies. The other, the ambition-driven buffalo, has a chamber as his office . The giant buffalo has allowed the short, ambitious buffalo some sovereignty in his circle. Ambition ,they say is a wild fire. The ambitious buffalo seems to be going overboard. It’s seeking to leave his red chamber for the rocky villa. The pot of trouble is stirred!

There is an analyst, live on radio, to discuss the issue. As my father and I listened to him, we both seem to agree in our minds that his analysis is censored and monitored.

‘Damn! The press has lost its appeal. Gone are the days of press Independence.’ my father said angrily. ‘You see why we don’t care about listening to it again? Radio programmes are no longer ubiquitous as you narrate it to be then. People are hardly bothered about its content nowadays.’ I replied.

‘What’s wrong with this new age?’ my father continued not paying attention to what I have said. ‘Nothing seems to be working in your time. The government,this time ,doesn’t even care about the people. The youth cherish internet connection than human bond. So much has changed. How do we get here? Isn’t this the same way you have replaced coke with mango?’ he gave me a stern look this time.

Anytime the mango and coke argument comes up, I have always had my defence. In the past, I would have argued the mango is just a dirty fruit that should not be compared to coke, a drink that gives satisfaction on every occasion and event. My father would have engaged me on the benefits of eating mango compared to the side effects of beverages. He would go further to describe how people in his time cherished fruits, especially mango. ‘Those things you drink now, especially the coke, contain chemicals that can cause diabetes and cancer’ his words. ‘You think there is a magic to why children of the 40s and 50s needed no hospital? We eat healthy fruits. Mango was everywhere then.’ Of course, I would have something to counter such claim too. Some other time, I would have argued his mango-eating generation wasn’t better than my coke-addicted one. As they dumped our cultural heritage; the gods of our land for the White’s own, so did we dump the mango for coke.

Today,I decided not to add to the pain in his heart. Silence is honorable.

Entry 2

Uma Thurman whistled again as she killed yet another rapist. I found her quest for revenge oddly satisfying, and even more so that she wasn’t apprehended by the police at the end of the movie; the ultimate unraveling moment in Nollywood suspense.
Just right after the light went off, Owolade walked by, getting down on both knees to greet me. She beamed a beautiful smile at me, and I could almost feel my heart melt. It was that time of the year when flies saunter in abundance, and supposedly well-mannered people throw caution to the wind to enjoy a natural delicacy. I remembered the tale once a long time ago. Eating mango and drinking Coke was considered to be a poisonous act. According to my mother then, the chemicals in the Coke react violently to the mango fluid, and this would cause serious stomach ache till the person dies. Myths from childhood.
Mama Owolade greeted me too, just that this time, it was in response to my initial greeting. I didn’t kneel for her. She was at least 15 years older than I was, but then we were both married women and as far as I was concerned, we belonged to the same clique – not entirely.
My husband of ten years had refused to take a new wife or have extra marital affairs. The first time I suggested he look outside for a kid to call his own, he was so close to hitting me that day. “If you think I didn’t mean the for better for worse vows I made to you in your wedding day, then you might as well file for a divorce.” Those were his words that particular day. I knew that my childlessness was my fault. I knew it was as a result of the pills I took when I tried to have an abortion in my teen days. I knew all of this. I knew having a child would fall short of nothing but a miracle. He knew too. On countless occasions, I’ve tried to understand why he’s still with me, why he’s still proud of me, why he’s still always treating me like he owes me total happiness. Once, my mother had briefly talked about the possibility that he used my womb for rituals. Poor woman. She had no idea what her child had done to herself. People tried to find a reason why my husband has remained my husband, they care about us, yet they awe we are still together.
Of such people is Mama Owolade. She hated that my husband was treating me better than her husband was treating her. She hated that she gave her husband male and female children, and still, he falls short of my husband’s standards. She would knowingly increase the volume of her radio anytime they are talking about family or motherhood. She joined all the motherhood associations in the community, and would proudly done their vests or Ankara prints just to spite me. The height was when she called me to my face and said “Iya Lagbaja.”
I wondered that night, recalling with vivid imagination, the moment I took the pill. Tears failed me and for the umpteenth time, I rode away my frustration on my darling husband, making him grunt and moan even though he knew he was seeding in a ruptured womb.
The mangoes were very large, and I carefully looked around for one with dark spots. Flies followed me about but I didn’t mind. It was Mama Owolade’s birthday, and I was going to celebrate with her. I didn’t haggle the price of the mangoes. I took four pieces for #200 and I hurried home.
Owolade met me at the gate and offered to help me with my bags. On getting inside, I asked her to wait for me while I washed the mangoes. I gave her one, and together we ate, suckled and gnawed till the yellow folds became white.
She died few hours later, and I celebrated in the corner of my room. As her mother wailed and I wailed with them, the next door neighbor said she last saw her eat the mango her mother gave her, and maybe it affected her stomach. Nobody knew I had already given her a poisoned mango before she took another one from her mother’s bag. And while everyone was asking the cause of death, I asked mine.
“Did she drink Coke before or after taking the mango?”
There was a general “aaaahhhhhh” as it dawned on them that she took a Coke in between my mango and her mother’s.
The wailing continued into the night as I marked Owolade’s me off the list.
Baba Owolade comes next.

Entry 1 written by Muna writes

Entry 2 written by Adeyalo Kola

In My Mind’s Mansion

At last, the jinx was broken.
Everyone always asked how I managed never to break a sweat no matter how hot the weather was. Not that they cared, not that they were worried, just that they wanted my skin routine ; that was all that mattered. I have a skin specially made for the sun. I was probably made for the middle East, or more or less being constantly reminded that I was made for this country’s worst days.

The August sun was high in the sky, which wasn’t unusual, just likewise unpredictable .It shone like it had a point to prove ; a battle of supremacy with the time allocated to it before the sudden rain that would probably fill up the evening. Poor sun! Her heart might have been broken. I remember once a tale of the love between the moon and the sun, and how their fight was the reason they don’t shine simultaneously. Don’t they love in Heaven? Never a tale has been heard of the perfect matrimony up above. In my time studying African Folklore, there was hardly a love without the greater evil triumphing. Is the sun even in heaven? No one has told me where the sun lives, not even in the folklores that are now extinct. The sweat rolled down my face. The handkerchief I bought a fortnight ago, while trying so hard to appear neat for an interview, wasn’t on me. I searched frantically for an imaginary one in my bag. Funny how our brain makes us believe even our own lies. I used my hand to wipe my face, an act prone to humans but peculiar to Africans. “I am African anyway”, I muttered to myself when the realization struck me, that I have done a humane thing.

My mind flicked to the handkerchief again. It wasn’t in my mother’s bag, the one I inherited since this hunt started, now strapped over my shoulder. It wasn’t at home either. I had left it at his office. Briefly, the mental image of him picking it up to sniff came into my head, and the thought made me spit into the nearby gutter.

That moment, I pictured his ugly face, the receding hairline, the eyeballs that looked like the sockets were choking them. When he turned, his neckline was kissing his collar. His is the perfect example of more growing where it isn’t needed and not enough where needed. Life isn’t fair. Neither is the angel giving out hair. It didn’t take a long while before I realized he deserved the unfairness. He was cruel, far from fair!
The devil has no name. Devil was enough a name for him. I couldn’t remember the name on the tag placed on his table. He was the Human Resource manager of the company and his voice echoed in my head. ‘Young woman, you have no work experience,’ he roared, dismissing my pride with just a wave of his fingers that looked like fat sausages. I quickly made for the Curriculum Vitae, which was staring hopelessly at me, on his table. ‘NYSC experience is no experience,’ he quickly added, not ready for the defence I was about to put forward. Nothing sounded more dismissive. A year of hard work, of great service has just been discarded in minutes of impatient gesture. The risk of life in the troubled city of Maiduguri, the stress, the act of patriotism all reduced to nothing by a man that would pass as a doppelganger for a porcupine! I didn’t hear what he said last but I did see him point at the door. I made for the door with the kind of fury that could melt an ore. I stormed out of his office, banging the door behind me. The sound shook the walls of the reception to my great delight. The receptionist jumped up out of fear as I gave a long hiss on my way out. Thrash.

It seemed like the fury of that day was burning again because strokes of sweat rolled down my face. I didn’t bother to wipe them this time. I was already running late. It was another interview with a brighter prospect. I checked my wristwatch, as if I wasn’t aware it has stopped working months ago. I began to walk fast. I was raising my leg like there was fire on the road I walked on, reminding myself of the picture of Agbo Areo in one of the primary school books I read. I raised dust as I squeaked on the untarred road. Unmotorable road isn’t a new thing in Nigeria. The problem has existed years before I was born. Going out and returning safely everyday, is regarded as a blessing here. It’s a nation where approximately 10000 people die on the average every year due to bad road network. We have a term for them. We say they “perished.”
Standing at the gate, I caught the gatekeeper’s frost stare. Basically, he was employed and I still wasn’t. His eyes searched me from my head to toes with distaste. I felt like he was looking deep into my skeleton with the way his eyes scanned me. I was not bothered anyway. I was there for a job, definitely not to be liked by an ordinary gatekeeper. As I gazed back at him ‘Does he even know who I am ?’ I thought. He sure looked like Adamu. Adamu, the drunk who lives opposite my house. The one whose wife keeps her nose to the grindstone to take care of her children. Adamu, the ingrate ,who comes back home dead drunk to appreciate his wife’s financial support with jabs. Pathetic woman, Aliero, she wouldn’t dare leave the marriage for the fear of being stigmatised. ‘Having a black face and scarred body as a result of constant beating is better than being divorced’, her defence . That’s the reality of my people. Live for marriage and die in it . ‘This certainly isn’t him’ I said to myself. He could be the man from my secondary school, the gatekeeper that raped the 12year-old girl, Imisi. That was a memory I hate to remember. After the rape, we all had expected that Gbenga would be jailed, probably killed for such barbaric act. ‘Pedophiles are wild animals, they deserve no place among humans’, I have reasoned. Two weeks after his arrest, my mother returned from the market to tell me she saw him, drinking at a bar close to her stall. That day, I wished my forefathers haven’t given up their charms when they embraced religion. I would have appeared wherever he was and hunt him down. ‘If this is Gbenga, ‘I’m going to deal with him when I become his boss’, I snorted.

The gate screeched. I rushed in before he could change his mind. I hurriedly made for the reception. ‘Stop there! Young woman!’
How much I hated that name, so I ignored the woman trying to converse with me as I made my way in. ‘Where do you think you coming to like this’ she gestured with her hand like someone conducting an orchestra. ‘Please, get out! See how dirty and soaked you are’ she said.
The world stood still as I realized for the first time since I set out from the house that it has actually been raining. The white camisole beneath my Yaba suit was dripping water. My skirt was stained and my shoe muddy. I could literally feel my intestines were drenched.

No jinx was broken,there was no sweating. I was actually walking in the rain and I didn’t realize it. It seemed like my brown envelope had mouth, for I could hear it say to me ‘foolish girl, see how you got me soaked’. Sun was shining only in my mind all along.

As I dragged myself out of the office, embarrassed by how messy I looked, I heard my mother’s voice. The low, pathetic voice. ‘So after this project,you would be done paying fees?’ she asked. I had nodded in confirmation. ‘You will get a job after and start making money?’ She continued. Again,with a broad smile, I gave a positive answer. ‘Why not mummy? I’m going to graduate from school with a 2:1 in English studies. After this , I would be a hot cake in the employment market.’

My mind immediately pictured working in a big firm. I have bought a black corrolla for my mother and a red Mercedes Benz for myself. I saw myself in a big mansion,the one I built for my mother and the Nigerian dream achieved. Good things happen only in my mind, in our minds.

I remembered how my mother had rushed out after this conversation. She went straight to the co-operative society close to the market square. Didn’t she promise she was going to pay back the loan and interest in 3months when her daughter gets a job? There I was , three years gone, looking so messed up, leaving an office where I ought to be interviewed to be a secretary.

Unlike the day when the woman, who struggled to speak a sentence correctly in English language, had offered me a #10000 salary to teach 6 classes in her school , of which I swiftly rejected, not fully aware that the labour market is a snake pit, I couldn’t utter ‘ all is well’ .
Just the other day, I had trekked from Ogudu to ogba ,to check the progress of the papers I submitted at a radio station, where I had applied for the post of an editor. The HR was not on seat. I had waited until closing hour before I was told she was out of town. On my way home, I had decided to get roasted corn as the worms in my stomach were already feeding on my stomach wall. The woman roasting the corn was filled with so much love for her business, you could see that from how she turned each, making sure none got burnt. The way the sun had nothing on her , and the way she had managed to sit so undisturbed, by the stench oozing out of the wet, dirty gutter, beside where she sat were amazing. I had #50 and I wasn’t ready to let go of all on the corn. After a long time of pricing, we had agreed on #30. Eating corn on the road is a tradition in the land. It didn’t begin and won’t end with me. So I had unwrapped the corn to my greatest shock.

A page of my Curriculum Vitae! ‘Which of those companies have done this?’ I cried out. ‘what the heck is this,this woman has the conscience to sell me corn with my own CV?’ I questioned expecting an answer I would never get. At first, I had felt like going back to the old woman to question her. As I looked back at her fragile body, with her arthritic hand arranging the corn on the tray, I knew well enough that her condition wasn’t better than mine. So I had to leave . On that day , I went home with the hope that all will be history one day.

This minute, flashing back at days gone with my shattered body and troubled mind, no hope seems forthcoming. This hunt seems to be endless, totally endless.

#shortstory #thehunt #Nigerianwriter #

#mirage #trust #love #poetry #

The Broken Tale

Today, let’s gather under the àràbà
Not for the tricker tales
Nor for the secret tales of the ghost land
It isn’t time for the tall tattle of tortoise

Send message to Oníbàtá
Today,there would be no dance
Only words from the hurt
Message for the wise

I bind the color
Let Alàbẹ̀bẹ̀ remain at Ìgbálẹ̀
I heed not the words of Ará-ọ̀run
The daughter of man has a story

Hush not the voice of my mouth
Hearken the words of my heart
Today, I will tell my story
The BRO-KEN tale

The effervescent wind blew my youthfulness
In the vivaciousness of ignorance
I rose in innocence
To unknown wickedness of the world

The Olúayé did not prewarn me
Neither did Olùmọ́ràn-ìkà send an alert
So I danced to the drum of dissimulation
As I hugged the bustling of the world in admiration

I have your back
Watching your front is my fealty
My eyes shall be yours
So were the words of Olù-da-yọ̀-nù

Who seized the syrinx of the parrot?
For I heard not the warning of Ayékòotọ́
As I jolly in naivety
Unknown of the worldiliness of the world

I ran to the open embrace of man
Glistening my thirty-two
Joyous as the trill of the skylark
Merry as a child – with no worries

I walked with the grace of a cat
Defted like a ballerina
Serotonin scampered my steps
To the mirage of trust and love

Olúayé blinked an eye
Darkness engulfed my world
Promises broken
Olù-da-yọ̀-nù has grained my salt

Spare me your poignant quotes
Hold your vow of optimism
For not all halves have the hope
To become whole again

Image source :

Smile That Drains

Smile That Drains

Darkness latched on my soul
Emptiness slithered through my mind

Raging fire in my innards
My breasts treambled

The tempest so keen
Body daunted with unliveliness

A purge of emotions
The surge of sadness

Open the floodgate
Allow the tide of tears

Mud the eyes with cries
Until the sky of heart is blue

‘You can not do that’
The voice echoed in my head

It’s a world of fakery
People of filter

Land of charades
Humans ducked behind masks

It’s the season of screens
A lot hidden behind the scenes

Blurred reality
Picture perfect

So I smile

Cringing bones
Blood dripping through tired veins

But I smile

Destruction torn the tissue apart
But I tinselled with smiles

Smiles that drown

Innermost distressed
Outermost glistered

Bruised spirit
No scratches on body

I smiled
Smile that drains

Treacherous tears broke out
Freedom unleashed

I picked my pen
I wrote —–

Smile that drains

To all faces brightened with smiles but heart submerged by the untold,this is sending light and love to you. Speak through your pain. Write through your pain. Get the control of your heart. Seek freedom. Be free.

Image source:

How Hard is it to say I’m Sorry




The rehabilitative power of the clause ‘I’m sorry’ has often times been discussed by all and sundry. It is, however, amazing that apologizing is difficult for most people in the world today. Some have confessed to ‘I’m sorry’ being the most challenging sentence to utter.
If we have agreed that no one is perfect and that the clause helps to build not only a healthy romantic relationship but also strengthen platonic ones,why then does it take a lot to say I’M SORRY?
Recently, I had stumbled on a tweet where the writer had inferred that the circle of negativity was to be broken by replacing I’m sorry with Thank you. This provoked the thought as to if the sentence really breeds negativity.
As kids,saying I’m sorry after a mistake was not really difficult. It comes off easier than intended. Sometimes,it comes out deeper than the magnitude of the mistake or crime committed.
In my view, the problem sets in with adulthood. It usually starts as a subconscious act of being defensive. The truth is most act so defensively without even intending to do so. The reluctance in accepting responsibility of our wrongs, shifting of blames or making excuses for our faults are the roots of the complexity of saying I’m sorry.
The subconscious defensive act soon grow to the stage where man perceives himself as ‘always right’ ‘ever perfect’. At this stage, it’s often so difficult or entirely impossible to say “I’m sorry”. This is because at this point, one seems to have some misplaced sense of superiority over others and thus absolutely difficult to accept faults.
On some occasions, an egomaniac reflects on the statement to be an attestation of weakness. The thought is that the statement hurts self esteem and wound one’s self confidence. Individuals like this can not distinguish between personality and act. They believe strongly that accepting to be wrong creates a dent on their personalities. Not saying it is thus a way of saving their faces and keeping their reputations clean.
Insecurity is another reason why people hesitate to say it. One might start thinking there might be a reoccurrence ,as saying the statement makes one susceptible to more accusations.
In few cases, an individual might think ‘if I have to say I’m sorry before you forgive me,then you don’t deserve my apology’. In this sense, he believes someone who is perfect enough to deserve an apology should be able to forgive without it.
Is life worth living this way? Should relationships be sacrificed for thoughts borne out of pure ego? Definitely NO.
First,the thought that the statement denotes weakness should be erased. Everyone should see the positive side of the sentence. Its power to disarm others of anger, its ability to quench the fire of bitterness. Its capacity to strengthen and preserve love.
The statement is a statement of positivity and maturity. An utterance of dignity and intellect.
I’m sorry for making the complications look so simple. Sincerely, saying I’m sorry isn’t as hard as it is often proclaimed. Let go of dysfunctional thought surrounding the complexity. There you go! it becomes easier to say.