Samantha Williams

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When I kidnapped myself, and send a ransom demand to my scumbag father, I did not expect he’d pay.
But guess he did!

I am now happy in my new home away from home; a high-rise apartment building I bought with the ransom.
Occasionally, I tune in to home TV stations and see my picture on the screens: ‘Melissa Young Aluoch, daughter of the media mogul and entrepreneur, Wilson Aluoch, is still missing despite the twenty million shillings ransom being paid…’ says the newscaster. 

With an abusive father, in all senses of the word, twenty years, I walked out last month. No one would have guessed – even my oh-so subservient mother – that the decision I had made was a decision too late. She never listened to me anyway.

Now, I am a citizen of another country – I not gonna say which one for security reasons – with a new life and identity.

They call me Samantha Williams over here.

Deaths of Right (Part I)

War cries rage amid Allahu Akbars, machine-gun fire roars like a raging river, bombs engorge smoke rings as they shoot into the sky, turning to dark smoke in one moment and belching flame and crackling with lightning the next. As I look around, all I see are stray limbs and dead creatures—once fine young men, no longer recognisable—others splayed like rag dolls on the morning dew.

Visitors of Warmth

This night, Pope John XII the Young shagged me rhythmically as if having sex with an African was a mystical ecstasy. When he looked into my eyes, I wondered what it really felt to listen to people’s sins, and no one listened to yours. When he emptied his holy seed in me, he rolled onto his side panting. I almost called his personal doctor, afraid his heart was attacking him.

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