I know Kendrick Lamar made being a certified hater cool over the last year, and that’s great. But let’s run it back to when people had us all wrong—when they thought we carried hate in our hearts like a sickness, that we were miserable simply because we refused to forgive.
I still stand on the idea that forgiveness is a Western concept. It has nothing to do with me.
Before colonialism, our justice systems were built on balance, reciprocity, and accountability—not the moral obligation to forgive. Colonial rule, especially through Christianity, weaponized forgiveness to pacify the oppressed, discouraging resistance and justifying harm. Traditional justice was replaced with laws that framed vengeance as barbaric while upholding colonial power. Even today, reconciliation efforts prioritize forgiveness over real justice.
Do your findings.
Forgiveness, as they define it, was never ours. Our justice is about restoring balance, whether through compensation, exile, or vengeance. Some people call it harsh, but that’s because they’ve been taught that enduring harm makes them virtuous. Over here, we don’t suffer for the sake of morality—we restore what was taken.
I know what you’re thinking. Did she just make forgiveness political in a post about holding grudges? What a lunatic.
I know, I know.
But walk with me.
I’ve mentioned before that learning forgiveness was one of my therapy goals. And just to be clear, I have no problem with not being forgiven for any wrongs I commit. I’m not a hypocrite about forgiveness. What I am, though, is someone who firmly believes you can absolutely hate someone without some deep emotional turmoil attached to it. You can hate them for what they did and keep hating them, without it affecting your day-to-day life. Sometimes, I even forget why I hate someone in the first place—all I know is that I don’t want to breathe the same air as them.
I used to question myself when a relative told me I must care on some level because I spent most of my life living with the person I hate. The person in question? The “angry man” I’ve written about before. I hate when people try to make me doubt myself because, realistically, why would I not hate a man who, over the course of two decades, was physically, emotionally, and mentally abusive? Why would I want anything to do with him? I remember talking to this relative because they, too, had witnessed violence, and I still can’t believe I sat there listening to them undermine my experiences—just because it didn’t measure up to whatever they lived through.
Why am I bringing up the angry man?
Because I walked right past him a week ago, and what surprised me wasn’t seeing him—it was my body’s lack of response. My heart didn’t pound. My mind didn’t echo with all the horrible things he had ever said about me, and more importantly, about my mother.
He looked old, weathered, and completely lame. This was a man whose voice used to startle me. A man who made me believe that every time I saw a couple fighting, the man had to be beating the woman. A man who made me familiar with my own anxiety and depression. A man who made me feel like being alive wasn’t worth it.
God, what a loser.
When I was 17, I had a duffel bag packed. Every week, I set aside 20 bucks so that one day, I could get on a bus and never look back. As long as I wasn’t in that loud house, where I ended up didn’t matter. Would I have made it far? Probably not. But then we got the news that we were moving to Harare, and running away wasn’t going to work out. So, the hate in my heart grew, and by December 2019, I reached my limit. I talked my shit and never uttered another word to that man again.
Saw him in 2021, and my anger bubbled all over again—especially after I found out he was calling me a moloi (witch) for watching a Harry Potter marathon.
Moloi? I have to laugh.
The call was clearly coming from inside the house.
But what does one even say or do in such a situation except keep it moving? Especially after seeing what a bozo this grown man is. I don’t have to actively think about him or keep tabs on his life to know that I hate everything about him. My grudge is still very much there, even if my body and mind no longer feel fear and anxiety at the sight of him.
And that’s the thing—people love to preach about how grudges weigh you down, how they drain you, how you have to let them go for your own peace. But I’ve let go of nothing, and I’m just fine. My days are not darkened by my hatred. My laughter is not less joyful, my meals are not less satisfying, my sleep is not restless. The grudge does not rot inside me; it simply exists, as unbothered as I am.
I’m good.
There’s this idea that healing and forgiveness must go hand in hand, as if moving forward requires wiping the slate clean. But I think the fuck not. I have moved forward, and my grudge has moved with me. It doesn’t haunt me—it just sits there, firm and unshaken, a quiet reminder that I do not owe peace to those who have done me harm. I can be whole and still refuse to absolve. I can live fully without ever pretending some things are worth forgetting.
There’s nothing wrong with holding a grudge and taking it to the grave if you must. Keep being yourself, even if that means being a certified hater.
Being the bigger person is out.
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