The Anatomy of Un-forgiveness

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of resentment, family conflict, emotional manipulation, un-forgiveness, and intense interpersonal tension, which may be distressing for some readers.

Ah, Christmas, the time when joy is supposed to fill the air, it’s a season of strategic operations, covert missions, and glorious chaos. Celebrations are my playground. While others revel in the festivities, I thrive in the shadows, orchestrating my own kind of anarchy. No form, no color, no tangible presence—yet, to those who are attuned to it, I bring an unmistakable thrill, a sense of excitement that pulses through everything they do. I operate through a network of skilled, relentless individuals who know that rest is a luxury reserved for the successful, and success is non-negotiable.

I am neither a person nor a thing, not something you can see or touch. I am the sly idea, the quiet whisper, the thing that burrows deep into your thoughts and never quite leaves. My mission? To infiltrate minds, sowing seeds like a creeping vine, strangling intentions not with ropes or chains—no, those are far too blunt. My tools are far subtler. A word here, a nudge there, I am the voice at the back of your psyche that says, "Don't let them get away with this.”Let me introduce myself. You might know me by now, my other similar names that maybe cause or effects are Resentment, Envy, and Hatred. I am unforgiveness.

My latest project, the “Hardly family”. Two generations tangled in a beautiful mess of bitterness, and I couldn’t resist. I’ve been controlling them for years, planting seeds, twisting hearts, and, just like any seasoned agent of discord, watching as they fall apart. It's a craft, really, a delicate operation but, as always Christmas is the grand finale.

It started with two sisters: Lila and Norma. A solid family bond—or at least, it was. Lila’s two daughters, Regina and Dina, had been raised by Norma after their Lila’s untimely death. It should have been a time for mourning, but I was already there, watching. I left them for one year, living peacefully together, adapting to their new dynamic. Oh, you should have seen the moment I struck.

Tim and Maybin, were my trusty pawns in this delightful drama. I positioned them perfectly, and sure enough, they spent a night in Regina and Dina’s beds. Was it reckless teenage rebellion or stupidity? Doesn’t matter—I don’t pay them to think (because, well, I don’t pay anyone).

Norma found them and exploded like a kettle left on the stove too long. She was a symphony of rage, all high notes and vibrato. “How dare you disrespect me in my house!” she yelled. “Your house,” yelled Regina, “or my mother’s house.” I didn’t even have to labor hard here. I slipped an idea into Norma’s head like a magician pulling a coin from behind her ear: “They wouldn’t dare do this if their mother were alive.” Hook, line, sinker. I manipulated my way into Norma, planting the idea that the girls had become disrespectful, that they were taking advantage of her. I showed her images of a house falling apart, of her being pushed aside. The seeds of resentment grew, oh, how they grew!

But I didn’t stop there. No, no. I had to make sure everyone got involved. The boys from the neighborhood, Tim and Maybin, became my ambassadors of chaos. They spent their time distracting and confusing Regina and Dina, feeding their egos to a catastrophic scale.

Then, when the girls were full of pride, I gave them the perfect idea: "This is your mother’s house, do what you want!" They flung the words at Norma like knives, and she, of course, took the bait, chewed it and swallowed it. Soon, the confrontation was inevitable. Poor Norma was packing her bags. I didn’t have to tell her to leave—it just happened, like a glorious symphony of brokenness. She left for Mazabuka, where she could simmer in her favorite marinade: resentment.

Norma settled into her new life, but let’s not pretend she moved on. Oh no. She was like a talkative parrot on a loop: “Imagine! my sister dies, and these girls just toss me aside like I’m nothing!” Oh, how delicious it was to see her stir the pot, speak the poison. I felt good seeing tears rolling down her cheek and seeing her blood pressure increase to 180/155. Her market friend Sheila, a gold-tier member of my system, added fuel to the fire: “You’re too kind, Norma. Those girls are ungrateful!” Norma, bless her heart, didn’t realize she was turning into my favourite kind of emissary. Bitter, lonely, and a walking advertisement for self-pity. Every time she opened her mouth to recount her woes, she was recruiting for “Team Un-forgiveness”.

But even in her constant narration, I saw cracks in her armour. The pain wasn’t just about her nieces. It was about the years spent in that house, the laughter, the unity, and the dancing. My grip on her would grow weaker with those thoughts and she would smile at the thoughts showing that everything had its limits.

Back in Mansa, Regina and Dina weren’t exactly poster children for emotional health. Dina would get defensive anytime someone mentioned Norma, spitting lines like, “She’s not my mom!” with enough venom to knock out a python. Regina, meanwhile, revisited an old grudge. “Remember when she whipped me for drawing in her college book? She hated us even back then.” I was jumping around in jubilation. 

Their memories weren’t just memories anymore—they were malignant growths I’d carefully cultivated. They saw every interaction through the lens of their anger, like wearing sunglasses that only let in negativity. But beneath the armour of pride, I sensed hesitation. Regina, always so sure of herself, sometimes had moments when I could almost hear her voice crack. Dina “remember the black dolls aunty Norma bought us for Christmas, that year was a wonderful year.” Dina, fierce in her denial, made a silent gesture; she did not want to remember the black dolls. But even the deepest wounds leave scars, but good cannot also be erased.

The strategy

Then came the invitation. A Christmas Carol Service preceded the Christmas party at Mr. Malunga’s place, the government bigwig. It was the perfect opportunity for a final showdown. Norma and the girls would be there, together again, but there was no chance of peace. I made sure of that. When Maria, Mr. Malunga’s daughter, brought the invitation to Norma, she casually mentioned that Regina and Dina would be there. Norma’s response? Pure gold. "I don’t even know what I’d do if I saw those girls," she muttered, her voice thick with toxin. Oh, I was salivating at the thought of how this would play out.

And then I did what I do best: I sent my chaos into the market, ready to spread more poison. "What? They chased you out?" one of them gasped. "I wouldn’t even go to that party or the Christmas Carol Service if I were you," another added, stirring up even more resentment. Everyone in Norma’s life was ready to hate the girls as much as she did. Perfect.

As Regina read the invite, her heart fluttered. It had been years since she’d been part of something like this—a Christmas gathering preceded by a Church service, warm and full of laughter. Dina, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow, a mix of curiosity and skepticism crossing her face. "Christmas, huh at Uncle Malunga, I feel uncomfortable with Norma there, I wont enjoy myself?" she mused, her voice almost a challenge. The invitation hung in the air between them, a quiet possibility of no or yes all because of the person of Norma. Norma was the object that stood between them and enjoyment.

The Carol Service Ambush

Then came the Christmas Carol service, now, I usually avoid churches—too many angels, and prayers for my taste—but I had a solid plan to keep my victims simmering in me. Don’t mistake my mission, I orchestrate plans in churches too. My faithfuls were also church members hiding within the flock of God and fulfilling my mission.

Enter Bishop Mubanga. This man was not much trouble for me because I had already sent my script of a message and he loved it. As he stood on the pulpit he announced his message had changed. Within the hearts where I sat, I got nervous, and startled. He started “my message is a nuisance we all face “un-forgiveness”.” I tried to stop him by whispering in his ears that the media team didn’t have his script. He nodded but under his breath he said “you think I have not seen you trying to distract me.” He quoted in a high pitched voice that hit me - a double edged sword “Mark 11:25: If you forgive men their sins, your Heavenly Father will forgive you.” It was like watching someone pour water on a fire I’d spent years stoking.

Norma fidgeted. Regina and Dina exchanged nervous glances. I clenched their hearts, whispering, “Don’t listen. He doesn’t understand your pain!” Bishop Mubanga shouted “Now get up all and embrace those that you have not forgiven.” Big, small, short, tall men and women began walking out of their seats.

And then, the unthinkable happened. Regina and Dina stood up. They were walking toward Norma. I panicked, throwing every distraction I could muster. Look! A child crying! A phone buzzing! But nothing happened. I dived to block them but they reached Norma and hugged her. Hugged! My carefully constructed web of bitterness unraveled like a woolen sweater with a hole. Tears flowed, apologies were exchanged, and I… I lay on the floor, bodiless, helpless, and furious.

I slunk away from that church, dragging my sorry baggage of nonsense with me: pride, pettiness, self-pity. It was over. The Hardly’s were reunited, and I had lost a battle to this Jesus character. Christmas carols filled the air as the Hardlys celebrated together, and I was left to brood in some dark corner, plotting my next move. But for now, the Hardly family was off-limits. Curses.

As I lurked in the shadows, I couldn’t help but listen back to Bishop Mubanga’s conclusion. “Congregation, forgiveness can undo the prisons we have built around us?” For a fleeting moment, I wondered what it would be like to feel the warmth of reconciliation. But no, that wasn’t my job. It never had been.

The fight wasn’t over. There were more families, more grudges, more hearts to twist. But for once, a tiny seed of doubt planted itself in my core. Could I lose again? Could I ever truly win?

For now, I was just waiting. Waiting for the next fracture, the next rift. Unforgiveness never rests.