23/04/2026
On March 8th this year, during the Ramadan period, I was in Lagos, working tirelessly at a menial job just to survive. I refused to sit idle or depend on anyone. As a second-class graduate from OAU, I’ve been searching for opportunities left and right, trying to make something meaningful out of my life—especially since I don’t have the advantage of family connections or political backing.
Then came that unfortunate day.
My roommate—who is also my friend—sent me a message that shook me to my core: our television, the most valuable item in the house, had been stolen.
Stolen.
By who? How? When?
Those questions still echo in my mind, unanswered. There was no trace, no clue—just loss and confusion. I chose not to point fingers at my roommate or our neighbors, but the silence surrounding the incident made it even more painful.
It wasn’t just any television—it was my Hisense A Series 43-inch TV. Something I worked hard to afford, now gone without explanation.
At a time when I was already struggling to find my footing in life, this incident hit me deeply. I was overwhelmed with grief. For days, I mourned in silence. I cried alone. The weight of that loss sat heavily on my chest.
I reached out to a close friend—someone I trust deeply—and he tried his best to comfort me. But the truth is, some pains don’t just disappear with words.
How do you forget such a moment?
How do you move past that kind of violation?
I couldn’t keep it bottled up, so I turned my pain into expression.
I wrote this poem.