The fight between our families was older than me. This problem has been there before I was even born, yet it affected my childhood. In Umuaka, everyone knew about it. People whispered, but never too loudly. The feud was like a shadow that followed us everywhere.
I learned early who I could greet and who I couldn’t. I knew the paths I was not supposed to take. My father carried the weight of the quarrel like a burden. He always reminded me, “Nnaemeka, never forget. They cheated us. A wound may close, but it doesn’t mean it has healed.”
The story was simple. Years ago, our land and the Obiesie family’s land shared a border. A tall palm tree grew right on the edge. My grandfather loved that tree. It gave plenty of fruit, which meant oil and money.
Once upon a time the Obiesie family declared that the tree was their property. They went on to say that the roots of the tree had penetrated into their land. What had turned from a small issue to a bitter fight. Lawsuits. Insults. Silence. For a long time, these two families did not communicate with each other. At weddings and funerals we also did not mix. Children were told not to play with each other. I was taught not to disobey that rule. Life, however, has a way of testing people.
The rain that year was more than anyone could remember. The rain lasted for days and it did not let up. Goats were drowned. One of the roofs fell. At night, the thunder was so loud that it shook the house, and my mother’s scream woke me up.
The stream near our home had overflowed. By morning, half the village was under water. Mud walls collapsed. The air smelled of wet earth and fear.
That was when I saw them.
The Obiesie family.
The flood had nearly consumed the house that was right next to the river. Part of the ceiling had gone. The kids were holding their mom tightly. Their dad Obiesie was in the water up to his waist attempting to rescue whatever was left.
I looked at my father. His jaw was tight. His eyes were hard. I thought he would turn away and close the door. Pride was his shield.
But my mother touched his shoulder and said his name softly. “Chukwuma.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he turned to me. “Nnaemeka, bring the rope. Tell your brothers to help me push the canoe.”
I couldn’t believe it.
We paddled out, the canoe rocking in the water. The Obiesie children cheered when they saw us. My father stretched out his hand. “Come,” he said firmly.
One by one, they climbed in. Their mother followed, tears in her eyes. Then Obiesie himself came last, his face heavy with shame.
We sat in silence as the canoe moved back. Two men who hadn’t spoken in decades now sat inches apart. The silence was heavy, but it wasn’t anger. It felt different.
That night, we gave them shelter in our outer hut. My mother cooked yam porridge. For the first time in years, both families shared a meal. It was awkward. Quiet. But it was a beginning.
At first, the children played shyly, unsure if it was allowed. Then they started chasing each other around the yard. The women shared the kitchen. Slowly, the men began to talk—not about the past, but about the flood, about rebuilding, about the village.
Three days later, when the waters went down, the Obiesie family prepared to return to what was left of their home. Before leaving, Obiesie walked up to my father. His voice was low. “Chukwuma, all these years, I held on to bitterness. That palm tree was never worth the fight. I am sorry.”
Everyone froze. I waited for my father to flare up or laugh. But he didn’t. He stood there quietly, then placed his hand on Obiesie’s shoulder.
“I too am sorry,” he said. “We lost too much time.”
Something lifted that day. The shadow that had hung over our families for years finally broke.
Life changed after that. Our families started greeting each other. At the next festival, we sat under the same canopy. When Obiesie’s daughter married, my mother joined the women who sang her into her new home. When my father later fell sick, it was Obiesie who came to sit with him, holding his hand like a brother.
That was when I learned something. Forgiveness is not about who is right or wrong. It is not about who gets the palm tree. It is about letting go of anger. It is about setting yourself free.
Disaster is what we need sometimes to recall the real things that matter. The flood made us recognize the people around us, not as foes, but as fellow humans vulnerable, delicate, requiring support.
If I were to reflect, I would definitely see my father’s rescue by boat as his turning point to a peaceful life. And that decision, indeed, brought not only the family but the village a big recovery.
Now, when I walk through Umuaka, I see children laughing together. They don’t know about the feud. They don’t know about the palm tree. All they know is freedom.
And maybe, that is the best proof that forgiveness is worth it.