What do they say about writers that commit suicide? I have a story.

Amidst the trials of the world, insincerity has become the watchword. If you must eat good food, then tell a good lie or risk being squeezed to nothingness. This little closet of mine was just home, a simple apartment where I created mansions in my writings. You could equally say I was a loner. The career I’d always longed for as a child has put me between just coke and smokes. They soothed more than human company.

This same career had cost me a fortune in the past but rather than breaking, it invigorated me to write till I heard the captives have gotten freedom. That pushed me to stay alive. I loved to live in my loneliness where books were just companions and the sheets were partners that I caressed on a daily basis. The pen was a Love Machine. What was it that folks offered that I couldn’t create with mere objects? I knew I lived just right and we’d rather not judge right? There’s only one merciful creator we all trusted.

Back into the worst day of my life, the fourth day of March 1995. There was an uproar in the city after a story of mine got published in the City’s paper headlines. In the course of life, I’d learnt how much the world despised truths especially those minorities who were being trampled the most. That day, after a closed-door meeting of those top ranked robbers in guise of leaders, I wrote particularly on those who were found wanting, and further leaked secrets other people were afraid to share. The world didn’t appreciate that in anyway.

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