The only thing we have learnt from experience is that we learn

Host: The evening light slipped through the window blinds of a small bar tucked in a forgotten corner of the city. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, rain-soaked asphalt, and the faint hum of an old jukebox that hadn’t been turned on in weeks. The neon sign outside flickered — blue, then red, then nothing — like a heartbeat struggling to remember its rhythm.

At the far end of the bar, Jack sat with his elbows on the counter, a half-empty glass of whiskey trembling between his fingers. His grey eyes stared at the amber liquid as though it contained the sum of all his mistakes. Jeeny leaned beside him, her coat draped over her shoulders, her hair still damp from the rain. She looked at him with quiet persistence, the kind that felt both tender and unbearable.

The television above them played a muted news segment — images of crowds, flags, protests, and the familiar cycle of chaos repeating itself in yet another corner of the world.

Jeeny: (softly) “He said, ‘The only thing we have learnt from experience is that we learn nothing from experience.’” (She turned toward him, her eyes deep, steady.) “Don’t you find that tragic, Jack?”

Jack: (grunts, without looking up) “Tragic? No. Predictable.”

Jeeny: “Predictable?”

Jack: “People don’t change, Jeeny. We adapt just enough to make our old mistakes look new. History’s a rerun with better graphics.”

Host: The rain tapped against the window, a soft drumming that felt like memory trying to knock its way back in.

Jeeny: “You sound tired of the world.”

Jack: “I am. We’ve had centuries to learn — wars, empires, genocides, revolutions — and yet we walk the same road, over and over. We burn, rebuild, forget, repeat. Achebe was right. Experience teaches nothing because no one listens.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe experience does teach — we just choose the wrong lessons.”

Jack: (smirks bitterly) “And what are the right ones?”

Jeeny: “That pain means something. That memory matters. That every broken cycle still holds a seed for something better — if we dare to see it.”

Jack: “You sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s stopped believing in redemption.”

Host: A flash of lightning broke the window’s reflection, and for a brief second, their faces were illuminated — his, weary and lined with cynicism; hers, alive with defiance.

Jack: “You really think people learn, Jeeny? We said ‘Never again’ after the Holocaust. Then came Cambodia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Darfur, Gaza. Every decade, a new name for the same disease. You call that learning?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not the same disease. Maybe it’s a symptom of forgetting.”

Jack: (leans closer, voice low) “Forgetting is the disease.”

Jeeny: “Then fight it.”

Jack: (snorts) “Fight human nature?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because that’s what being human means — refusing to surrender to what we are.”

Host: The bartender quietly polished a glass nearby, pretending not to listen. The sound of the cloth against glass filled the brief silence — rhythmic, almost meditative.

Jack: “You talk like the world still deserves a second chance.”

Jeeny: “Not a second chance. Just another look.”

Jack: “That’s the same thing.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. A second chance assumes we failed the first time. Another look means we haven’t given up trying to understand what went wrong.”

Jack: (sighs) “Understanding doesn’t stop bullets.”

Jeeny: “No. But it might stop the next one.”

Host: Her voice cracked just slightly on the last word. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for a fleeting moment, something inside him stirred: the faint, forgotten ache of belief.

Jack: “You ever notice how every generation thinks it’s wiser than the last?”

Jeeny: “Because every generation is both wiser and more foolish. We gain knowledge, lose empathy. Build machines, forget each other.”

Jack: “So, what — you think progress is just a trade-off?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the mistake isn’t in progress itself — it’s in thinking that experience alone will save us. Achebe didn’t say we’re doomed; he warned us not to confuse living with learning.”

Jack: (leans back, thoughtful) “Living without learning. That’s our curse.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s our test.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, sheets of it cascading down the glass, blurring the streetlights outside until they looked like melting stars. Inside, the light dimmed; the world felt smaller, yet more intimate — as if truth required darkness to be seen clearly.

Jack: “You know what scares me most? That we do learn — but only how to survive, not how to change.”

Jeeny: “Maybe survival is the first step toward change.”

Jack: “We’ve been surviving for thousands of years. When do we start living?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “When we start remembering.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air like a slow echo, settling into the cracks of the room. Jack looked down at his hands — scarred, strong, but trembling.

He thought of his father, a man who’d fought one war only to raise a son who lived through another — and how both had said the same thing: “This time, it’ll be different.”

Jack: “My dad used to tell me that pain was a good teacher.”

Jeeny: “He was right.”

Jack: (shakes his head) “No. Pain just reminds you what you lost. It doesn’t tell you how to stop losing it again.”

Jeeny: “It could, if you listened.”

Jack: “And how do you listen to pain?”

Jeeny: (touches her chest) “With the same part of you that still hurts.”

Host: He looked at her, and for a brief, fragile moment, something gave way — the armor, the cynicism, the dull ache of endless repetition. The rain softened again, falling now like a whisper, as if the world outside were listening too.

Jack: “You think that’s what Achebe meant? That we learn nothing because we don’t feel what we’ve learned?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Experience without empathy is just memory without meaning.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Then maybe we’re not doomed to repeat history — maybe we’re just too numb to recognize when we’re living it again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The jukebox suddenly flickered to life — a low hum, followed by a crackle of static. Then, as if summoned by fate, an old song began to play — something half-forgotten, full of sorrow and sweetness.

The music filled the bar, wrapping around them like a fragile truth.

Jack: (softly, almost to himself) “So the lesson isn’t in the experience itself…”

Jeeny: “…but in how deeply we let it change us.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then we start again. Every day, every generation — we start again.”

Host: The light from the neon sign outside sputtered back to life, casting a faint glow across their faces. The rain slowed, the world exhaled, and in that moment, they weren’t teacher or student, cynic or dreamer — just two weary travelers sitting in the quiet aftermath of truth.

Jeeny reached out and placed her hand over his.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what experience really is, Jack — not knowledge, but the courage to begin again.”

Jack: (whispers) “Then maybe we’re finally learning.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — through the glass, past the rain, out into the city where the same mistakes, the same small miracles, played out endlessly.

But tonight, in that flickering bar, something shifted — not in the world, but in two hearts.

And sometimes, that’s how history begins to learn.