Liked little girls. Much.
Indulged his whim. He had unfettered access to the cash of everyone else…so why not?
Misguided idiots, minds curdled from fear of Life itself, say “where is your human sympathy? Why don’t you talk about how kind he was, and how he laughed so robustly…or else be quiet?”
Why don’t you ask death to take you instead, so he can pick your barely 18 year old orphaned daughters to stick his aged, malignant penis into next?
He could start from the day of your funeral if you like. “Poverty alleviation” is what his supporters would call it. He would get a lot of votes from aid-banging your children.
When did sympathy and compassion ever stay the hand of death?
You have human sympathy. You will die.
I am nonchalant. I chose to talk about under-aged brides at a funeral. I will die.
When you arrest this death that knows not foe nor friend; good or bad; old or young, perhaps you’d let me know?
Perhaps at your own moment you would engage Death in a tete a tete:
“I always tore my clothes and wailed like a banshee at funerals. I never judged anyone. I am nice to the dead. For this I deserve one minute more to live!”
By your funeral we would have known what Death had to say in return.
By my own funeral you would know what death knew about my own end, that I didn’t know even while I spoke about these things.
The child f*cker.
He was going for more of the money that helped him enjoy his every whim and desire. He just needed to clear one vexation from his path.
Death came and left with him.
Life sighs, gets up…and trudges on with all of us pretenders in tow.
One of us. He touched little girls some.
He won’t be touching even himself now.
Death was here.
~ Temidayo Ahanmisi
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