The fault is not in our stars
The extraordinary story of Stephen Olusesi
Stephen Olusesi never quite fit the mould of a typical child. At three, he was asking questions that made adults pause: Why do people lie if they know it leads to trouble? If the world was created, who created the creator? At five, he devoured history books the way other children devoured cartoons, fascinated not by dates but by the cause-and-effect of human decisions. By seven, he had read Shakespeare, not just read, but understood, debated, and even challenged it. His teachers, at first, thought he was just precocious. But it wasn’t just intelligence; it was the way he saw through things, how he stripped away assumptions like peeling back layers of an onion, exposing uncomfortable truths beneath. At ten, he stunned a local debate competition when he argued against the idea of fate, challenging the notion that history was ever inevitable. His argument was simple yet profound: “If the stars controlled us, then why do we make choices? Why do we regret? Why do we dream?”
Word spread. Invitations followed: schools, media appearances, even conferences. People wanted to hear from the boy who spoke with the clarity of a philosopher and the conviction of a revolutionary. And so, at twelve, he found himself here, on the stage, under the lights, in front of hundreds of people at the annual ‘Elevate Conference.’
The theme of the conference? “The Fault is Not in Our Stars.”
As the crowd settled, I took my seat opposite from him, relishing the weight of the moment. He sat there, legs crossed, hands resting lightly on his lap, his face calm but his eyes sharp, scanning the audience like a scientist observing a grand experiment. The hall hummed with anticipation, the rustle of shifting seats and quiet whispers filling the space. Some leaned forward, eager, eyes bright with curiosity. Others sat back, arms crossed, expressions sceptical; what could a twelve-year-old possibly teach them?
Stephen Olusesi sat still, his hands lightly resting on the armrests of his chair, his feet barely touching the floor. But there was something about his presence; it was calm and intentional, like someone who had no care in the world. He exhaled softly, scanning the room. He had seen this before: adults who dismissed him, students who admired him, sceptics who wanted him to stumble. But he wasn’t here to impress. He was here to challenge them.
I smiled at him and then at the crowd. “Stephen, you’ve been called a genius, a philosopher in a child's body. But let’s start with something simple. Do you believe in fate?”
Stephen leaned back slightly, a thoughtful glint in his eye. A faint smile played at his lips as he let the weight of the question settle in the air. Then, with a quiet confidence, he replied,
“Well, to answer the question you didn’t ask, because that’s the more interesting one, I think we need to separate age from understanding. People assume wisdom comes with years, but really, it comes with curiosity, with the willingness to question, to challenge, to learn. I know I’m young, but I was given a rare privilege: growing up in a home where reading wasn’t a chore, where asking questions wasn’t just allowed, it was encouraged. In my family, wondering why was never met with ‘because I said so.’ It was met with, ‘Let’s find out.’ And that makes all the difference.”
He paused, letting the thought sink in before adding with a wry smile, “So if I sound like a philosopher, it’s not because of my age or my brain, it's because I never learned to stop asking ‘why.’”
Stephen let his words settle for a moment, scanning the faces in the audience. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he continued, seamlessly shifting gears.
“As for fate,” he said, his voice steady, “it’s the most convenient excuse ever invented.” A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. “It’s comforting, isn’t it? To believe that everything is written in the stars? That our successes or failures are predetermined?” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “But history doesn’t agree.”
I leaned in. “History doesn’t agree?”
He nodded. “Look at Rome. It didn’t fall because the gods decreed it; it fell because its leaders became decadent and its people complacent. They simply stopped caring. Look at the American Revolution. It wasn’t destined; it happened because people decided they had had enough.”
He paused, scanning the faces before him. “The Berlin Wall? It crumbled because people pushed, not because the universe whispered, ‘it is time.’”
He leaned forward slightly, his hands gesturing as he spoke. “Fate is a comfortable illusion; it absolves us of responsibility. If we fail, we blame destiny. If we succeed, we say it was meant to be. But here’s the truth: the world doesn’t move unless people push. As Cassius puts it in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, ‘The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves.’” Then, with a knowing smile, he sat back.
“So, do I believe in fate? No. I believe in choice. The real question isn’t what fate has in store; it’s what we’re willing to do about it.”
A girl in the front row raised her hand. “But what about things beyond our control? What about being born into poverty, into war, into circumstances we don’t choose?” Stephen’s expression softened. “You're right; none of us choose where we start. But we choose how we respond. Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, once said that everything can be taken from a person except one thing: the freedom to choose how they respond to their circumstances.”
He let the weight of the words settle. The real question isn’t what the stars have planned for us; it’s what we’re willing to do with the time we have.” The room fell into a hush, the kind that meant people weren’t just listening; they were thinking.
Another hand shot up. "So, are you saying that if we fail, it’s our fault?"
Stephen smiled, but his voice carried a quiet intensity. “Not always. Life isn’t fair. Some people work ten times harder for half as much. But here’s the trap: the moment we believe we have no control, we stop trying.”
He gestured toward the audience. “Think about it; how many people give up before they’ve even started because they assume the odds are against them?”
I nodded, then asked, “So what’s the solution?”
He sat forward again, his fingers laced together. “Well, there is no silver bullet. But we need to take action. Engagement is key. Refuse to be a spectator. You don’t like how something is? Change it. Challenge it. Build something better. Every moment we spend blaming fate is a moment we could have spent shaping our own future.”
Silence. Then, applause—scattered at first, then swelling into something undeniable.
I turned back to him with a grin. “Stephen, you’ve just given us a lot to think about.”
He chuckled. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
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Happy 50th edition!
"Every moment we spend blaming fate is a moment we could have spent shaping our own future.”
Thank you, Sir.
I always look forward to reading these insightful and thought-provoking digest articles. Thank you so much!