About two decades ago, when I was in Junior High School, I had a classmate who consistently provoked me. In a conversation with Kizito, a classmate, I complained to him about this classmate of ours.
“I hate this annoying classmate of ours”.
Kizito’s face blew in surprise.
He was alarmed.
“Never say that again,” he replied with the seriousness of a headmistress.
I asked him why? Because that guy was annoying. For one, he had punched me in the stomach for no valid reason.
Kizito asked me if I knew the meaning of hate?
He said, “When you hate someone, it means that you want them dead, to not exist”.
I paused. Well, that did make me feel sorry for saying that. I could not stand the guy, but I did not want him to die. In my need to express my dislike, I guess it had been translated by the use of hate as my desire to see him die.
Hate. The seed we plant in us and nurture till it bears fruits. Only it is a plant that sinks its roots deep into us and poisons us.
Hate. It is what we choose and justify based on the way others are. Luckily, there is always a reason to choose it.
Hate. It is what we pass on to our children, in hints, conversations and our crossing to the other side of the street.
Hate. It is why we fall sick. It is the poison we bury our soul in, so our enemy may die.