When you lose someone you love, a part of you is lost. I have seen it in my short illustrious career in the police’s Special Crimes Unit. Every time I tell someone that their lover, spouse, child, or parent is dead, I watch them shatter before me. Some of them vent their anger on me, or on the police, the government. In another life, I must have been the Angel of Sorrow.

Growing up, my bedroom would be invaded by phantoms, battalions of my father’s doppelgangers that besieged the whole room and stood guard over me like a besieged city and platoons of my mother’s ghosts; I guess her soul had never rested in peace.

A month after breaking my heart alongside my virginity, the man responsible for the crime committed the same heinous act with my younger sister. We were living in Mombasa at the time, on a beach house at the very edge of the Indian Ocean overlooking its warm waters.

I was beatified the same day Sister Irene ‘Nyaatha’ Stefani became ‘Blessed’. While Blessed Irene Stefani began her journey to sainthood, I began mine to slut-hood. The only thing I share with Blessed Irene Stefani is Roman Catholicism and seven-frilled habits.

I have big, wide and beautiful/lovely/lustrous eyes, like pearls, as the Quran says in Surat Al-Wāqi`ah 56:22 – 23. My breasts are round and firm.  And I am a houri (virgin). I am what martyrs for Allah will get in paradise.

There is an acute shortage of virgins over here, guys. The forces of demand and supply are really fighting, and I don’t think the war will end any time soon. And who lied to you there are virgins over here anyway?