Right after she called, Father invited her home. She looked shaken, just like the rest of us. I could tell she had been crying.
She showed us the bruises on her arm and her wrist. The one on her neck too, where Brother had strangled her to stop her from going to choir rehearsal because she might meet other guys. Because someone else might be interested in her.
Her phone screen was shattered from the fight. Brother had tried to post his own picture on her status, writing a caption that proved to the world he was her boyfriend. It never made sense to him that she did not boast about him the way he did about her, through his paintings and on social media.
His password was her name. The gallery he dreamed of building one day was named using the letters in her name.
They talked on the phone until she fell asleep, or at least, until she started faking falling asleep. The night he saw her online after she had told him she was out of data, something inside him snapped. To him, that meant she was cheating.
She was tired of the lies, tired of buying herself freedom with deception. So she told the truth. She wanted out.
She could handle love. But not obsession.
I was not there when Brother threatened to kill himself if she left. I was not there to see the darkness in his eyes when he tried to force himself on her. And I was not there when they began to fall in love.
None of us were.
Now, there are ridiculous headlines and endless conversations on the radio, on television, and in trotros. People laugh, make memes, call him names. Strangers talk about Brother like they knew him. I wish I could punch them in the face!
Nothing I do will bring him back. But if I could, I would tell the world…
My brother was not just some stupid boy who committed suicide.
He had a name. David. We called him Kwaw at home. He loved painting. He hated noodles and watermelons. He had wanted to be a lawyer ever since he read John Grisham.
He had a beautiful soul.
He fell completely, blindly, in love.
And that was his weakness.
Experiencing a little bit of what they call a “writer’s block”. I do have a ton of stories to tell, but deciding on which one is my headache now. All these stories have their hands raised up, shouting ‘Pick me! Choose me’. The goal is to keep writing, and to share. This one is from my archives, about 4 years ago. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Don’t forget to clap (50 x) Love you! 🙂
