Most people marvel at my level of tolerance, especially when it comes to triggers around me. Very few of my family members or friends have ever seen me truly angry or lose my cool.
I often get questions like, "Do
you even get angry at all?" or remarks such as, "All
my years working with you, Sese, I have never seen you angry! I will try my
best to ensure I see it!"
Those comments always make me laugh because if
they had known me as a child, they definitely would not think that way. Looking
back now, I realize I had very vengeful tendencies growing up.
So what changed me?
Well... this is the story.
And for those of you who read my blog "The
Teacher Who Changed Me," this story is about someone else
entirely.
Maria was one of the many nannies we had while
growing up and the first one we encountered after returning to Nigeria. She was
small in stature and almost my height even though she was much older than me.
We often played together and, with the same
level of intensity, we fought too.
Most times, our fights started because Maria
laughed at the worst possible moments. For example, I could trip while playing
and badly hurt my foot, and instead of saying "sorry" or
showing concern, she would burst out laughing.
That infuriated me.
With my injured foot, I would then make sure
she suffered the same fate. Sadly, that was our normal routine.
But the incident that completely changed the
trajectory of my life happened differently.
It was a Sunday, and for some reason, we were
unable to attend church as a family. My grandmother, Amma Shatu, was around,
and we were all seated at the dining table chatting and laughing together —
something that was not always common because, somehow, I had a special gift for
getting on her nerves.
Everything was going well until Maria stepped
out dressed for church and asked to borrow my precious Bible.
Now, this was not just any Bible.
It was the Bible my Sunday school teacher had given me — the one I cherished more than life itself. (If you have not read "The Teacher Who Changed Me," you should for proper context. https://lessonsfromnailah.blogspot.com/2020/05/the-teacher-who-changed-me.html)
Everyone in the family knew how sacred that
Bible was to me, so to even think she could ask for it felt absolutely
appalling to my 9 or 10-year-old self.
Before she even finished her sentence, my
answer was already waiting:
"No!"
My grandmother was horrified.
She looked at me like I was a tiny demon. Who
refuses to give someone a Bible to attend church?
She immediately scolded me, and if you know me
well, you know I absolutely hate harsh words and yelling. So naturally, I
became furious. In my mind, Maria had done it intentionally just to get me into
trouble.
After she left for church, I stormed straight into
our room, boiling with anger.
I sat on the bed replaying everything in my
mind when suddenly I looked around and realized... the stage had been perfectly
set for me.
Beside me were:
·
a razor blade,
·
Maria's clothes,
·
nail polish,
·
and lipstick.
I did not even give myself time to think.
My hands simply began to work.
Yes. I did it.
I removed all her clothes from her bag and
shredded them with the razor blade. I shredded those clothes better than any
machine I knew. Then, for extra effect, I artistically decorated her purse and
other belongings with nail polish and lipstick.
And because excellence matters, I even folded
the shredded clothes neatly back into her bag afterward.
The funny thing is that our house was always
busy with people constantly moving in and out. To get to the rooms, you had to
pass through a small hallway.
Yet somehow, on that particular day, nobody
passed through those doors while I carried out my masterpiece. I did not even
lock the room.
As a master craftsman, my work was complete.
The moment I finished, it felt like a rushing
wind left my body, and instantly, I felt better.
So I got up and continued my day, playing and
having fun as though nothing had happened.
It was not until Maria returned from church
and went to change before helping with lunch that reality came rushing back.
She was definitely not prepared for the
surprise waiting for her.
As soon as she saw the destruction, she ran
straight to my mother. Everyone was confused, and because I was already known
as an extremely daring child, I immediately became the prime suspect.
I was summoned at once.
My mother asked if I knew anything about it.
I lied immediately.
"No, Mummy. I do not know anything about
it."
Now let me explain something: my mother hated
lies.
In fact, she had made us a promise growing up
that no matter how terrible the offense was, if we told the truth, she would
not beat us. But if we lied? Ah... that was where the real trouble began.
I had just broken that promise.
Thankfully for me, there was little evidence,
so I was temporarily released.
But unfortunately, I had an extremely weak
conscience.
After some time, I quietly confessed to my
Auntie Jummy and begged her not to tell anyone.
She snitched immediately.
The moment I heard my name being called again,
I knew I was finished.
I was already used to being beaten, so I
mentally prepared myself for what was coming. I knew I deserved it — especially
because I had lied to my mother.
As I walked into the courtyard, I saw all
their faces.
My father looked shocked and deeply
disappointed, probably wondering what kind of possessed child this was.
My mother looked completely exhausted.
My grandmother wasted no time. She gave me one
sharp smack, and I braced myself for the rest to follow.
(Except from my dad — he never hit us.)
Then suddenly, I heard my aunt's voice cut
through the crowd.
"Stop it," she said to my grandma. "You
people beat her too much. That is why she is becoming more stubborn."
Let me introduce this aunt properly.
Her name was Princess Rahila Bulus Kinging
(aka Baby) — may her soul continue to rest in peace. She was my father's
immediate younger sister, the first daughter and second child in a family of
ten. She was also one of my mother's closest friends from secondary school.
Though she was physically small, her words
carried enormous weight in the family.
The moment she spoke, every hand went down
(sort of like Jesus and the adulterous woman).
Then she turned to me and said:
"Go and wear your shoes. You are coming
with me”.
She wanted to visit my maternal grandmother
and needed me to show her the way.
She did not need to repeat herself.
I disappeared immediately and was already
waiting inside the car.
On the drive there, I was unusually quiet.
Normally, I could be chatty, but this time, I sat silently waiting for the
lecture or scolding I knew I deserved.
But she said nothing about the incident.
Instead, she spoke to me normally.
On our way back, we stopped at Monak Stores to
buy a few things, and she asked me to pick whatever I wanted.
I stared longingly at the chocolate bars —
usually my absolute favorites — but respectfully declined.
She noticed my hesitation anyway and quietly
bought some for me before we left.
I thanked her, but I still could not eat them.
I kept waiting for punishment. Or at least a
serious lecture. Or something.
That night, I slept with one eye open because
surely, they would eventually come for me. Such an atrocity could not possibly
go unpunished.
But nobody came.
The next day passed.
Then another.
Still nothing.
I could not believe it.
How had they simply let me go?
Safe to say, after that day, I never allowed
anger to control me in that manner again.
At such a young age, I realized how dangerous
my anger could become if I did not deal with it quickly. That day, Maria's
clothes took the hit, but it could easily have been a human being.
That realization frightened me.
So I began to pray earnestly that God would
help me control my anger and never let it control me. I genuinely loved people
and never wanted to hurt anyone, but I knew that if I did not work on myself, I
eventually would.
One day, while reading my Bible — one of my
favorite hobbies at the time — I came across a verse that deeply stayed with
me:
"A gentle answer turns away wrath, but
harsh words stir up anger." — Proverbs 15:1
I held tightly to that verse.
I asked God to teach me how to use gentle
answers instead of destructive actions whenever anger arose. Slowly, I began to
work on my words, my reactions, and my responses.
Over time, I realized something powerful:
When anger approaches, I help determine the
outcome.
I can either allow it to consume me or choose
to redirect it by the way I respond.
The choice is mine.
Over the years, I also learned something
important about anger: it is often pent-up energy seeking expression.
That is why people react differently when they are upset.
Some people hit things. Throw objects. Wash
clothes aggressively. Jog. Clean. Cry. Walk around. They do anything just to
release what they are feeling inside.
For me, depending on the situation, I write.
I write exactly what I am feeling in that
moment — every painful thought, every harsh response, every word I wish I could
say to the person. Then, instead of sending it to them, I send it to myself
through WhatsApp or email and let it sit there.
Writing gives me a safe space to express my
emotions on paper rather than pouring them onto another human being who may
never forget the words I said. Physical wounds may heal, but certain words can
scar people for life.
By the next day, I usually reread the message
and ask myself if it is still worth sending.
Most times, I am incredibly grateful I did
not.
Because honestly, those words written in anger
are usually horrid. And by the next day, the situation often no longer feels as
terrible as it did in the heat of the moment. I can then express myself more
calmly, more clearly, and far more graciously.
So there you have it.
My aunt showed me mercy when I deserved
punishment — and even bought me gifts on top of it.
That unexpected kindness was enough to make me
rethink my behavior completely.
Not everything requires shouting, punishment,
endless lectures, or quarrels. Sometimes, genuine love and mercy can create
deeper and more lasting transformation in people.
And for those of you wondering what happened
to Maria — do not worry, she benefited from the situation too. My parents
replaced her entire wardrobe with brand-new clothes.
Maria never mentioned the incident again. She
also stopped laughing when I got hurt.
So honestly... she probably owes me a thank
you. (Shhh.)
In conclusion, anger itself is not a bad
thing. It is simply an emotion, just like sadness, joy, fear, or disgust.
God gave us emotions for a reason.
What matters is not whether we feel anger, but
how we respond when we do.
Who is in control at that moment?
The anger?
Or us?
Self-control is our ability to govern
ourselves despite the triggers around us. It is part of the fruit of the
Spirit, and the Holy Spirit can do incredible work within us if we allow Him.
So there you have it, people — my journey with
anger and the aunt who showed up for me when I least deserved it.
Have you ever struggled with anger issues
before, or am I alone in this?
If you have, what helped you overcome it?
Please spill the tea in the comments. I would genuinely love to hear your stories.
