When Blood Turned Against Blood

This is a story about a family that never truly united a family that allowed assumption, pride, and silence to destroy their bond forever.

In the Onikoko family, one name stood out more than any other: Ajadi.

From childhood, Ajadi was known throughout the extended family as a boy with two sharp edges. He was brilliant, quick-witted, and intelligent beyond his age but he was also stubborn, hot-tempered, and feared. Whenever trouble happened, Ajadi’s name was usually the first to be mentioned, whether he was guilty or not. Over time, the family stopped asking questions whenever his name came up. They had already judged him.

Ajadi was a woman’s child in the Onikoko family. His mother, Agbemi, was a full blooded Onikoko woman, but his father came from the Odegbemi family. That single fact quietly placed Ajadi on the edge of belonging never fully rejected, but never fully embraced either. Still, during festivals and holidays, both families came together like one. They ate together, laughed together, danced together, and pretended unity was real.

At the center of that unity stood Agbeke, the family matriarch.

Agbeke was not just a grandmother; she was the heart of the family. Her compound was the gathering ground during holidays and festivals. She sold food at the local market and always had some cash at hand. To the children, her house meant warmth, full stomachs, and stories by moonlight. To the adults, it meant tradition and family pride.

Every festive season, everyone returned to Agbeke’s house.

One particular holiday brought along two boys from another aunt on Ajadi’s mother’s side: Jamiu and his younger brother, Imole. Jamiu was old enough to fend for himself, while Imole was still small and always stayed at home.

Jamiu made a living hawking fish around nearby streets. Every morning, he carried his tray and left early, returning in the evening to give the money to Agbeke. At least that was what he was supposed to do.

But Jamiu had a habit.

He was a known thief, though quietly. He often spent the money outside, eating, playing, or gambling with older boys, then returned home with lies ready on his tongue. Most times, he blamed customers. Other times, he claimed bad luck. And because he was soft-spoken and good at pretending to be innocent, many people overlooked his behavior.

Ajadi, on the other hand, was loud, blunt, and fearless. If he was angry, you knew. If he was happy, the whole compound heard it. That difference alone made people trust Jamiu more even when they shouldn’t have.

One day changed everything.

That morning, Ajadi did not go out. Everyone saw him clearly. He stayed in the compound, helped his mother, played with younger children, and never left the house. Jamiu, as usual, went out to hawk fish.

But that day, Jamiu returned late empty-handed and nervous.

When asked about the money, he didn’t hesitate. He spun a lie so bold that no one expected it.

He said,

“Ajadi met me on the road. He beat me and collected all my money.”

The compound went silent.

Agbeke panicked. Without asking where it happened or how, she rushed to Jamiu. Milk was brought. People gathered. Sympathy poured in. His torn clothes intentionally dirtied sold the lie even better.

Everyone believed him.

Why?

Because it was Ajadi.

No one asked Ajadi where he was. No one asked witnesses. No one remembered they had seen him all day. The family had already written his story in their minds long ago.

When Jamiu’s mother heard the accusation, she didn’t come for truth she came for revenge. She marched straight to Ajadi’s mother’s house, shouting, accusing, and insulting. Before any explanation could stand, she had Ajadi arrested.

No questions.

No investigation.

No family meeting.

Ajadi was dragged away in shame.

When Ajadi’s mother finally heard what happened, she was shocked beyond words. She ran out, shouting that Ajadi never left the house that day. Other relatives supported her. They had seen him. They knew.

But it was too late.

Pride had taken over. Accusations had hardened into stubborn silence. Instead of apologizing, the elders chose to defend their mistake. Agbeke, the same woman who once united the family, remained quiet torn between truth and ego.

That silence broke everything.

Arguments turned into grudges. Grudges turned into permanent distance. Visits stopped. Festivals were no longer held at Agbeke’s house. Holidays ended. Laughter disappeared. A family once called united scattered like dry leaves in harmattan wind.

Years later, the truth came out.

Jamiu confessed not out of remorse, but during another argument when anger loosened his tongue. By then, the damage was irreversible. Apologies came too late. Trust had died.

Ajadi never forgot.

He grew older, wiser, and quieter but something in him hardened forever. The family that failed to protect him lost him emotionally. Though alive, the bond was dead.

And that was how a single lie, backed by assumption and pride, destroyed generations of unity.

Not because they weren’t family but because they refused to act like one.