There is something deeply disturbing about accusing the person whose door you once knocked on whenever yours was closing. The calls came in distress. The requests were humbly answered. The emergencies were met. Yet familiarity eventually became entitlement, and the hand that repeatedly helped became the hand that was suddenly accused.
This is how ingratitude rewrites history. Yesterday’s rescue becomes today’s offence. A favour becomes an obligation. Availability becomes something to exploit. And when the benefactor finally establishes a boundary, the person who once depended on that kindness can suddenly portray the boundary as betrayal.
«“What shall I render unto the LORD for all his benefits toward me?”
— Psalm 116:12, KJV»
The question is worth asking because memory matters. Who answered when you called? Who stood near when others stayed away? Who opened a door when you had nowhere to turn? Who helped without humiliating you for needing help? If the answer is the same person you now accuse, then your version of the story deserves another examination.
There is a particularly dangerous arrogance in treating another person’s kindness as a permanent entitlement. The person who was always available becomes someone you expect to serve you indefinitely. His patience is mistaken for weakness. His silence is interpreted as admission. His generosity becomes evidence that he owes you more.
But kindness is not a contract for endless access. A person can help you repeatedly and still have the right to say no. A benefactor can become tired. A friend can establish boundaries. A helper can walk away without becoming your enemy. Refusing another request does not erase everything that came before it.
And accusation carries its own moral burden. Before publicly questioning another person’s character, remember the private history between you. Before describing someone as unfaithful to you, remember the seasons when that same person remained faithful to you. Before turning assistance into evidence against your benefactor, ask whether you have simply forgotten who was there when you needed someone.
The old proverb says the axe may forget, but the tree remembers. It remembers every blow, but it also remembers that the axe once depended on the tree for its handle. That is the tragedy of ingratitude: the person who helped you rise can become the person you attack once you believe you no longer need him.
Do not confuse the end of someone’s availability with the beginning of their betrayal. Sometimes the real betrayal is the attempt to erase the very history that made your present position possible.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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