The Girl Who Could See Who Secretly Hated Who😢 | African Folktales

Some stories are so strange that it is hard to believe it's real and this is one of such stories. If you like mysterious strange real stories then this is the channel that you need to be subscribed to. Let's get into today's story. All over the world there are some people who smile with you with their mouths but not with their hearts. Some people will greet you in the morning, ask about your mother, even pray for you in public while secretly hoping that your life falls apart. That is the thing about hatred. Real hatred is not always loud. Sometimes it hides behind kindness. Sometimes it wears good clothes. Sometimes it speaks softly and sometimes the person carrying it does not even know how much it has already poisoned them. Now imagine living in a village where everybody knew everybody. Where people ate together, walked together, celebrated births together, mourned the dead together. A place where faces were familiar and smiles were common. Then imagine waking up one morning and realizing that behind some of those smiles something that was moving. Something only you could see. A line, a red line is thin on some people, thick on others. Stretching from one human heart to another. A line of hatred and once you saw it you could never unsee it. Well this is the story of a girl named Adesola. A quiet girl. A respectful girl. A girl nobody feared until the day she began to see what nobody else could see and what she saw nearly tore her village apart. The village of sat on red earth and an expanse of land. In the morning the place woke up gently. The sound of roosters clearing their throats before dawn. The sound of pistols knocking softly inside wooden mortars. The sound of women tying wrappers around their waists. The sound of sandals brushing against dusty ground and over all of this the pale light of morning stretching slowly across thatched roofs and mud walls as if the day itself was still deciding whether to rise or not. That was the kind of village Ayetoro was. It was simple. It was warm. It was beautiful from a distance but like many places where human beings live close to one another it carried secrets under the skin. Adesola did not know that yet. That morning she stepped out of her mother's hut with a clay pot resting against her hip. She was slim and dark and soft-faced with the kind of quiet beauty that did not beg to be seen. She was not one of those girls who spoke just to hear their own voice. She listened more than she talked. She watched more than she asked. Even as a child she had always seemed to notice the things that people forgot to hide. She adjusted the edge of her wrapper and she began walking towards the well. Along the way she met old Babasoya sweeping the front of his compound. Eka ro baba, she said, bowing her head politely, greeting him. The old man smiled. Eka ro mummy, you are up before the sun again. She smiled back. Ah, my mother says water does not fetch itself. He chuckled. Your mother is a wise woman. At the next compound she greeted a woman frying her kara in a black pot of oil and at the turn near the Urokotwi she passed children. They were chasing one another with bare feet. Their laughter skipping ahead of them like thrown stones. Everything looks normal. Everything sounded normal until she reached the well. When she got to the well there were already a few girls there. They were fetching water. One was tying her scarf tighter. Another person was bending over to pull up a bucket. Two other people were whispering and laughing over something that had happened the day before at the market. Everything seemed normal. Adishola stepped forward to wait for her turn. And that was when she saw it. At first she thought it was a trick of the morning light. There was a pink red line. It was so faint that if she blinked too fast she almost missed it. It came from one girl standing near the well and it stretched towards another girl across from her. Adishola frowned. The line hovered in the air like a thread that was being pulled from somewhere. She looked again. It was still there. One of the girls laughed loudly and touched the other one's arm. You know the way friends do. But the red line remained between them. Adishola's fingers tightened around her own butt. What is that? She whispered to herself. Nobody answered of course because nobody else had seen that line. She blinked again because this was unbelievable. And then all of a sudden the line vanished but a cold feeling moved through her chest. She told herself to stop being foolish that this was just nothing. Maybe the sun her eyes had entered her eyes badly and she had seen something she wasn't supposed to see. Or maybe she was just tired. Or maybe she had stood in the heat for too long that day that something was starting to happen. But just as she bent the lift of her water she saw another one. This time it was thicker than before. It stretched from an older woman that was standing a little behind the others. The woman was smiling as she asked another person how is your husband now? I heard he has found work again. Her voice was sweet. Her face was kind. But that red line sharp and living stretched from her chest to the chest of the woman that she was speaking to. Adishola almost dropped her pot. The second woman answered warmly grateful for the concern of her friend. But still the line remained there. There was something in her that made Adishola's skin to begin to tighten. She hurried home so fast that the water she was carrying started to splash out of the side of the pot onto her own wrapper. All morning she tried to forget what she had seen. She tried to forget about this red line. She helped her mother to wash bitter leaves at home. She arranged the firewood for her. She peeled the arms. She did all the things she could do. But every few moments her mind ran back to the well. That line. That ugly glowing red line. By afternoon she had convinced herself that she had imagined it. Then she went to the market and she saw five more lines. A butcher that was laughing with another trailer while there was a fat red line between them. A woman was praising her neighbor's daughter while a thinner line trembled like a snake in dry grass in between them. A young apprentice was carrying his master's goods with his head bowed while a red line stretched from him like a silent complaint to his master. Adishola just stopped walking. Around her the market buzzed with life. Women were calling prices. Hey come and buy from me. Babies were also crying from somewhere. There were goats that were bleating around. Palm oil was shining in bowls under the sun. But all she could hear was the pounding inside her own chest. No. She was not imagining it this time. She was seeing something real. She was seeing it. That evening when the sky had softened and cooking smoke began to rise in blue ribbons over the village, Adishola went to see Baba Ore. Everybody called this old woman Baba Ore, even though she was a woman, because age had wrapped her in a kind of authority that sat beyond ordinary titles. She lived in a small hut near the edge of the village where the earth was quieter and the breeze moved through the leaves as if it respected her. When Adishola arrived, Baba Ore was sitting on a low wooden stool pinning some roasted corn with slow fingers. She did not look up immediately. You have been carrying something heavy all day, she said as Adishola entered. Adishola stopped. But how did you know? Baba Ore gave a small laugh. Your feet are walking here but your mind arrived here long before your body. Adishola sat on a mat. After a moment she said nothing but then the words began to pour out. She spoke of the lines that she had seen at the well, the lines that she had seen at the market, the strange feeling that came with seeing those lines. The way the people wearing those lines were still smiling and laughing like nothing was wrong. When she finished speaking, Baba Ore was quiet for a long time. A goat bleated somewhere in the distance. She was still quiet. Crickets had begun their evening song. She was still quiet. Finally the old woman said, not every eye sees only what is outside. Adishola swallowed. What does that even mean? It means that some people are allowed to see what other people are hiding. Adishola leaned forward. But why me? She shook her head slowly. That one only God knows. Is it a curse? Adishola said. No. Then what is it? The old woman looked at her now. She really looked at her. She said it is a burden. Only later you will find out if it can become a gift or a curse. Adishola's voice dropped. But what are those lines? Baba Ore placed the corn she was peeling aside. Then she looked at her and said, hatred. The words felt like a stone and Adishola stared at her. Yes, secret hatred, envy, bitterness that has stayed too long in someone's heart, a bad heart that is tied to another person. That felt cold even though the room around her was warm. All those people. Yes. Yes. Some carry joy. Some carry peace. But you see those lines? They are poison. Adishola looked down at her hands. What am I supposed to do with all of this? The old woman's face became serious. Be careful. That is all? Adishola asked. Well, that is not small advice, my child. Just be careful. Adishola lifted her head. Well, if I can see it, should I not say something? Ah, Baba Ore's eyes widened. My daughter, do not rush to open your mouth because truth is sitting on your tongue. People do not like being seen and they like being exposed even less. Hmm. That statement stayed with Adishola. People do not like being seen. Hmm. She stood up to leave just as the evening deepened. And as she entered the road with Baba Ore walking beside her, she turned sharply and through the half dark, she saw the thickest red light she had ever seen. It came from Olumide. Olumide was walking across the open path towards the center of the village, dressed in clean white clothes, his shoulders broad, his chin lifted, his steps slow and proud. He looked every inch the respected man people thought he was. But from his chest came a thick red line. It was not a thin tunnel. It was very thick. It was burning red and it stretched straight towards Ayoke's compound. Ah, Adishola froze. She froze where she stood and Baba Ore noticed her face. What is it, my child? Her answer without taking her eyes off the man. Him, she pointed. He was one of the most respected men in Ayotoro. He was not the king, but in a village like that, power did not always sit on a throne. Sometimes it sat in a man's voice, in the way people moved aside when he approached, in the way younger men copied how he tied his cloth, in the way traders laughed too quickly at his jokes. He had nyambans, he had goats, he had land. People called him generous because he sometimes settled disputes and he gave money during festivals. But Adishola had always thought that there was something hard in his face, something that stayed there even when he smiled. Now she knew she had not imagined that either. The next few days became very difficult for her because everywhere she went she saw these red lines. Some were thin as thread, some of them were thick as rope and the worst of them kept coming from Olumide. If Ayoke's name was ever mentioned, the line from him would glow. If Ayoke's son's name ever came up in a conversation, wow, the line would grow brighter. And Ayoke's son had been spoken of often lately. The young man was very hardworking, humble, the kind of person that elders like to praise in public. Ah, he will go far, they used to say. He has sense, some of them would say. He has his father's discipline. And every time that such words were spoken, Olumide's mouth would smile, but the red line would look like fire fed with kerosene. Adishola began to watch him. She watched him in the market. She watched him at the council meeting. She watched him outside the mosque. She watched him when he went to naming ceremonies and she was there. She watched the way he congratulated Ayoke's family with one side of his mouth while that line told another story entirely. One evening, she followed him from a distance. The sky was beginning to turn orange. Children were being called inside. Pots were beginning to boil on the fire. The whole village was sleeping towards night time. That night, Olumide walked behind the council hut, but he thought that nobody was following him. Then he stopped, and she heard him saying something like this. I think it's something like, let them keep praising that family, he muttered. Soon, they will know shame. Ah, her breath caught in her chest. He kicked the stone hard enough for it to scatter dust. They think that they have won. No, they have not won, not this time. Meanwhile, the line from his chest pours so brightly that it made Adishola to step back. She did not know yet what he was planning, but she knew enough to be afraid. That night, she could not sleep. She lay on her mat listening to the sounds of insects outside and the slow breathing of her mother beside her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw red lines crossing the village like wounds from one person to the other. The next day, Kule found her near the stream. Kule had been her friend since childhood. He was tall, easy with his laughter. You know the kind of boy who made people feel safe because he never tried too hard to be noticed. He was carrying a bundle of firewood on one shoulder. Ha, you look as if you have seen a ghost, he said to Adishola. Adishola forced a smile. Well, maybe I have. He sat on the wood. That was not a joke. She said nothing, but she just sat down. He stepped closer to her. You have changed. No, I have not, she said. Well, you barely speak these days. You look at people like you are afraid of them, even when they are smiling. I looked away. Maybe smiling is not enough. Kule stunned her face. What happened? She almost told him everything. Not because she meant to, no, but because carrying it alone was becoming too heavy for her. Well, she said, I see things, she said quietly. Ah, what kind of things? Well, things inside people. Kule frowned. Adishola. She shook her head. I, yeah, I know how it sounds, but then he lowered his voice. Then help me understand. Well, she turned and looked at him fully. His face was open, honest, worried, and for a moment she checked him too, but there was no line, no red line, her shoulders losing the middle. So she told him part of it, not everything, just some. She didn't tell him Baba Aray's words, but she just told him enough. And when she finished speaking, Kule was quiet. And then she said, and you think Olumide means him? I do not think, she said. I know. Kule ran a hand across his jaw. If that is true, you cannot go around saying it without proof. So I should wait, she asked. I did not say that, Kule said. He is planning something, then you need to find out what he's planning. So that became her new project. She didn't just want to know what the lines meant, but what they were warning her about, especially with Olumide. So over the next two days, she watched even more carefully. She listened to old women when they were talking. She listened to men that were arguing with each other. She noticed where Olumide went when he thought that nobody was looking. And slowly, a story began to rise from the ground. You see, years ago, before Desola was old enough to understand village matters, there had been a dispute over a family talisman, a carved object, small but important, tied to inheritance and honor. Olumide had always believed it should belong to his side of the family, but it had ended up with Ayoke's people after a council ruling. Many people thought that the matter had died and was settled, but it had not. It had simply gone underground. Now Ayoke's son was being praised, being admired, being lifted in the village, and Olumide, who had never healed from that, was boiling again. Desola soon learned even more. Something had gone missing from the shrine hut some years ago, and whispers were moving through the village that when it was found, blame might fall on Ayoke's family. It was a setup, and she felt it. The line from Olumide had not been warning her of an insult, it had been warning her of a trap. Tear pressed against her lips. This was no longer about bad feelings. This could ruin lives. So she made a mistake. She confronted Olumide too soon. She found him one afternoon behind a storage hut where dried cassava was being kept in sacks, and he was alone there doing his thing. The air around him was still, even the leaves were not moving. Olumide turned when he heard her steps. He looked mildly surprised, then amused. At this he said, what does a child want with me? She swallowed hard. You need to leave Ayoke's family alone. The smile on his face did not disappear at once. It faded slowly. I do not know what you are talking about, child. Yes, you do, she said. That was when his eyes narrowed. You carry too much boldness for somebody your age, and you carry too much hate for somebody people call honorable, Adesola said to him. And that was what did it. The red line burst right between them. Olumide stepped towards her. He had that dangerous calm that older men sometimes use when they want to put fear in people. Be very careful, he said. Adesola stood still, though every part of her wanted to run. I know you are planning something, she said. Oh, do you? Yes, she said. Then bring your proof, Olumide said. His mouth had hardened by this time, or you go home and stop speaking on matters that are bigger than your head. Adesola's voice shook. You want innocent people to suffer because your heart is dead, she said. That made him even angrier. Real anger burst out from him. Not the controlled kind of anger. And then the line from his chest flared so violently that Adesola gasped. Adesola's voice rose. Who are you to speak to me like that? By this time, because of his raised voice, a few people who were going about started turning their head to check out what was happening. They started peeking through corners to see who was shouting. Their voices were quiet and just to hear. Adesola realized too late that others had heard enough to start wondering what was happening. He heard his voice again, but he made it worse. He said, if you are wise, you will keep your eyes on your own life. Then he walked away. By evening, the whole village was whispering. Some people said that Adesola had insulted Olumide. Some people said that she had accused him of wickedness. Some others said that the girl had become a strange person, doing strange things. Some said maybe a spirit had touched her mind. Adesola felt the village shifting around her. The same people who had always smiled at her now looked at her with careful eyes. That night, she sat alone behind her mother's hut and cried. She didn't cry loudly, just enough for her body to shake. Kunle found her there crying. He sat beside her without saying anything at first. Then he said, you should have told me before going to him. I know, she said, he will not forgive this easily. Kunle said, I know, Adesola said again. Kunle was silent while he thought. Then Adesola turned and then she saw something that made her heart stop, a red line. It was faint, but it was there. It was coming from Kunle. She pulled back. He saw the fear in her eyes and he said, what? What is it? But she could not talk. She just stared at him and she stared at the red line. This red line stretched from him towards the far side of the village, towards the very compound that was caught in the middle of all this trouble. Ayoke's family. You too? She whispered. Kunle followed her eyes, even though he could not see what she was saying. What do you mean? He said. She shook her head. I thought you were different. He looked hot now. Look, Adesola, what are you saying? That line, I see it on you. Understanding slowly crossed his face. Then to her surprise, he laughed once, not because it was funny, but because it was painful. So you see even that, he said. How? Then it is true, Adesola said silently. Kunle looked down at his hands. When Ayoke's niece came back to the village last year, he started quietly. I began to care about her. Adesola blinked. She never knew. Or maybe she guessed. I don't know. But when I saw the way people around her were being used and dragged into all bitterness, I became angry. Not because I wanted to harm her, but because I wanted to protect what is good. I wanted to protect my own heart. It is not that I hate Adesola's niece. It is that she's hurting me and I am hurt. Adesola said nothing. Kunle lifted his head. He said. Not every wound in the heart wants to kill, Adesola. And that landed deeply. She looked again at the line. It was red, yes. But it was not like Olumide's line. It was not burning with cruelty. It was not like heavy with pain. It was heavy with love that had nowhere to go. And in that moment, Adesola understood something new. She was not just seeing hatred. She was seeing troubled hearts. She was seeing hearts that were twisted by envy. Hearts that were damaged by silence. Hearts that were carrying love until that love had curdled into jealousy. She was seeing different wounds from people's hearts. But the same color. The same red. That was when Kunle leaned closer. There's something else I should tell you. That was when he told her that he had once seen Olumide near the old shrine hut at night. And at that time, he thought nothing of it. But the next morning, the missing sacred object was discovered gone. And that was when the whispers began. I did not speak about it because I was not sure. But now I am sure. And that was the missing piece. Two days later, word had gone to the council about what had happened with Olumide and Adesola. And the village gathered under the great tree where they used to settle hard matters because they had to settle this. Men sat on the carved stools. Women stood in clusters with their wrappers tight, tight. Children hung near the edges pretending not to listen while listening to every word that was being said. The air felt hot even though clouds had covered the sun. Olumide arrived dressed with care. He looked offended. But he looked dignified. Round. Adesola almost lost courage when she saw how easily he wore innocence. But then Baba Ore arrived and she sat down with the elders. She did not speak. She only nodded once at Adesola and that was enough. Olumide sat down and he spoke first. He said, this girl, this girl has allowed youth and imagination to lead her into disrespect. A few moments rose in the crowd. She has accused me without proof. Adesola's heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it in her throat. An elder turned to her and said, speak. The whole village seemed to lean in and Adesola stepped forward. At first, her voice was very small. Then it started growing stronger and she spoke of what she noticed. She didn't speak about the red lines. They would never understand that. But she spoke about the change that she always notices in Olumide's face whenever Ayoke's was praised. The mutterings that she had overheard and she also spoke about the old disputes over the talisman. She spoke about the missing sacred object. She spoke about the trap that she felt was being laid. Kunle leaned forward and confirmed what she had seen near the shrine hut. Olumide denied everything and he denied it loudly. Very loudly. Then Baba Ore stood up and died. The old woman's voice was not loud but it was authoritative. I am old enough, she said, to know what bitterness looks like when it has been fed for too many years. And then she turned to Olumide. You lost a woman long ago but it was not your life. Yet you carry that wound like a king carries his staff. You use it to beat innocent people in your heart every day. Olumide's face hardened. That is a lie. That is a lie. But Baba Ore did not blink. Then let us search the place where this girl has lived. And he hush fell on the crowd because suddenly it was not just words anymore. So men were sent to go and do the search and the villagers waited. Adesola stood still. Her pants were sweating. They were wet. And as she looked at Olumide, she saw the red lines around him shining brighter than ever. Thick and wild. And she knew. She knew that he knew that they were about to find the talisman in his house. And that was when the men returned. One of them held a wrapped bundle in his hands. And when they opened it, the missing sacred object was right there. Hidden exactly where Adesola said it would be. A sound moved through the crowd. It was a sound of surprise. It was not one sound. It was many sounds. It was sounds of shock. Sounds of disbelief. Sounds of disappointment. When he smiled, but no words came out at first. Then he exploded. Of course he exploded. They stole from me first, he screamed. And there it was. The truth. Not the full truth, I admit. But enough truth. His face had changed by this time. You know that careful smile? It was gone. The proud calm he had? It was gone. All that was left was a man that was stripped open by his own rage. He was still shouting. They took what should have been mine. They praised them. When that praise should have come to me. They called them honorable. I stood here and watched. He was breathing hard by this time. Nobody interrupted him. Because now the whole village could see what Adesola had seen. They could see it in another way. A heart that had blotted in secret. An elder quietly said, so you choose to become the thing that wounded you, right? Olumide's shoulders dropped at this point. Just like that. As if the anger that had kept him standing for years had finally spent itself. Ayoke began to cry softly. It was not a dramatic cry. It was the tired crying of someone who finally understands why peace had kept sleeping from her doorstep. Kule looked away at this time. Baba Ore closed her eyes briefly. And as for Adesola, Adesola looked around the square with all the village people. The lines that she used to see before were fading. Fading slowly. You know, like fire that was running out of strength. Olumide's thick line dimmed first. Then the smaller ones around a few other people began to weaken and to dim. Well, not all of them were gone. Not all at once. But they all changed. As if truth had entered the village like fresh air into a room that was shut. Olumide later asked for forgiveness. Not with pride. Not with excuses. But with humility. The elders did not praise him for it anyway. But they allowed him to bow his head and to speak. Because in villages, as in life, justice and mercy often sit side by side, even when they do not like each other. By evening, things started to feel different. In fact, things started to feel lighter. A small feast was arranged days later, after the matter was settled properly. In that feast, there was pounded yam. And of course, there was soup. There was palm wine as well. There was drums. There was dancing. Children ran in circles under the firelight. Women laughed with less effort. And men spoke more honestly. And Ateshola, she sat a little apart at first, just watching all of this. Kunle came to sit beside her. You are looking again, he said. And then she smiled. Yes. What do you see, he asked. And then she looked around the gathering, and then she said, I see faces glowing in the orange light. I see sweat shining on people's foreheads. I see tits flashing in laughter. I see tired mothers. I see restless children. I see old men nodding to the beat of the drums. And for the first time in many days, I don't see any red lights. Tonight, she said, I see people breathing easier. And that was when Kunle nodded. And after a moment, he said, me, what about me? She looked at him. There was no lines, no red lines. Only a young man sitting beside her under the village lights, looking hopeful and embarrassed at the same time. And that was when she laughed softly. You, she said, I see you clearly. He smiled and he looked down. And above them, the sky had opened wide and dark, scattered with stars. The drums continued to beat in the background. The village people continued to move, and life went on as usual. But Adesola was no longer the same girl who had walked to the well with a clay pot resting on her waist. Now she knew something that many people grow old without learning. She knew that hidden hatred does not stay hidden forever. She knew that envy can eat through good clothes, eats through public respect as well. She knew that pain left untreated can turn a human being into a weapon. And she knew that sometimes the truth comes out quietly, not with thunder, not with lighting, not with shouting, but with one person willing to see clearly and refusing to look away. So if you ever find yourself in a place where everybody is smiling, do not only ask who loves you, ask who resents your peace. Find out who is growing uncomfortable when your name is being praised. Try and know who keeps old wounds like punished gold, because not every danger arrives with their teeth showing. Some dangers will greet you warmly. Some people who hate you will call you friend. And some people will clap for you in public, will secretly pray for you to fall. And that was what Adishola learned. And that was how she saved her village. And that is why the elders say this, that when the heart is not clean, even a smile can become a mask. In the midst of that peace, something suddenly caught Adishola's eyes. You guessed it, yes, it was a thin red line. It was faint, it was weak, but it was definitely there. It was definitely a red line. Adishola frowned and slowly she followed the line and her stomach dropped because the line was coming from her, from her own chest. Her breath stopped. She saw the line stretching from her towards the crowd, towards someone in the crowd. Adishola lifted up her eyes to see who it was. And that was when she understood something that frightened her more than anything she had ever seen before. Hatred did not only live in other people. Sometimes it begins quietly inside you. Thank you so much for watching. Like and subscribe and check this video next. And until I see you in my next video, make sure you stay kind.