What is the use of history
if it teaches me to hate my brother
because his father once fought mine?
What is the use of knowing
where our fathers stood
if knowing their footsteps
makes us forget where we are going?
They tell me,
“Go back to your roots.
Remember who you were.
Return to the ways of your fathers.”
But I ask
which ways?
The ways that made them great,
or the ways that wounded them?
The wisdom they carried,
or the errors they refused to see?
For our fathers were not gods.
They loved,
they fought,
they built,
they conquered,
they suffered,
and they were sometimes wrong.
Yet sometimes we dig up their graves
not to learn from their lives
but to inherit their quarrels.
We take old wounds
and give them new names.
We take ancient divisions
and teach them to our children.
We take the ashes of yesterday
and breathe upon them
until they become fire again.
Tell me,
is this what history is for?
Is history a road
or merely a mirror?
Must I return to every place
my father once stood
simply because his footprints remain?
If my father walked into darkness,
must I call darkness my inheritance?
If he made a mistake,
must I make it sacred
because it is mine?
Perhaps history is not a command
to become our fathers again.
Perhaps it is a warning
to become wiser than they were.
Perhaps the purpose of remembering
is not to live yesterday twice,
but to understand yesterday
so that tomorrow does not repeat it.
Let me know where my father came from,
but also show me where he went wrong.
Tell me his victories,
but do not hide his failures.
Give me his language,
his songs,
his stories,
his courage
but let me leave behind
the hatred that buried him.
For I do not want to inherit
only the bones of my fathers.
I want to inherit their wisdom.
And if history is truly a guide,
then let it hold my hand
while I walk forward
not drag me backward
to the mistakes
my fathers were trying
to escape.
This was written by our contributing writer, Uchenna Ottah.
Image Source: Pexels, Kaique Rocha
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