We were a twin, me and my brother. He came first but he was too soft I took over the leadership role from him. My mom died when we were eleven years old. We didn’t know our father. From what we heard, he ran long before he could know he was going to be a father of twins. My uncle took us in and took over our upkeep. His wife initially was the problem but as time went on, she grew fond of us.

As I said, my brother was very soft. He didn’t speak out and always internalized his feelings. I thought it was because of the death of our mother. He would cry when he had to be vocal. When he had to say something to defend himself, he would rather choose silence and get beaten instead.

In class, I was the one fighting his battles. I didn’t have friends because of him. I refused to be a girl because of him. I stood behind him and even fought teachers because of him.

When we were going to JHS three, he failed almost all the exams so he was repeated. I was crushed. I remember rushing to our class teacher to tell him to repeat me too. I didn’t know what he was going to do without me and how I was going to do knowing someone might be bullying him.

One afternoon, we were walking home hand in hand. When we got to the main road and had to cross, he took his hand off mine and started walking across the street while a car was coming at a tough speed. I screamed his name but he looked back at me and kept going. The driver might have noticed too late. The brakes didn’t help. Everything happened so fast. My brother was knocked down by a car and died on the spot.

I cried like a baby. I wanted to join him. I was held and carried home by someone who knew us. I don’t remember him but I remember being carried on his shoulder.

That was the end of my brother in my life. When he was buried, I gathered his books, clothes and everything together and locked them in his ecolak. I kept the keys.

Ten years later, I was going through his things when I came across a notebook he wrote lyrics of songs. I flipped through the pages, the songs stopped at some point. He started writing about his days. The things that happened to him. I read some of the fights and how it made him feel.

For three days that was all I did until I got to a place where he mentioned my uncle’s name. The one we were living with. He wrote, “I don’t know why he keeps coming every night to sleep with me. Even when I use my dead mom’s name to beg him, he doesn’t listen.”

From there things started getting darker anytime he wrote my uncle’s name. “He said he’ll send me to join my mom if I tell anyone.” I can’t sleep. I’m scared.”

By the time I was closing the final page, I concluded my brother committed suicide. It wasn’t an accident. He turned and looked at me but continued going. That can’t be an accident. He was taking a short exit from his pain. I cried like I lost him just yesterday.

“I fought for him so why didn’t he tell me? He knew I would have fought this with him too,” I asked myself.

She Calls My Mom A Witch Because Of This…

I’m crying as I write this. I no longer live with my uncle. His wife died and left him broken. I have vengeance in my heart. If he doesn’t go before I meet him, I’ll be the one to shorten it for him. He’s the reason I’m alone in this world. I could have had a brother. He would have been a man by now. He would have had a beard, a simple man who loves his sister because I’m all he had. Look at me now.

—Jochebed

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