Years ago, I brushed my neighbor’s brand-new car — a man who happens to be a General in the army. He had bought the car barely three weeks before the accident.
It was a rainy evening, I was exhausted from work, and fighting sleep behind the wheel. By the time I reached home, I didn’t notice his car parked ahead. Before I knew it, I had scraped the side of his car badly.
This was close to midnight. No one saw me. I quickly reversed, drove into my compound, and checked both cars. Mine had scratches, but his damage was worse.
The next morning, I saw him outside fuming, surrounded by people. He shouted that if he ever found out who had done it, the person would “rot in prison.” I stayed quiet, guilt eating me up.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My conscience pushed me to confess. I went to him and said:
“Sir, I accidentally brushed your car last night. I’m very sorry. Please forgive me and let me know how I can fix it.”
He stared at me for a long while, then said: “Go. It’s fine. I had already decided to let it go since I didn’t know who did it. I’ll fix it myself.”
I thanked him and left, feeling lucky. But I learned something that day: sometimes, the truth really does set you free
