09/06/2025
ðŸ˜ðŸ˜ðŸ˜ðŸ˜
Hello Mr. Principal,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I doubt it will.
See, I was supposed to report back today Monday. With chalk dust on my cuffs and a smile on my face.
But I won’t be coming.
Not because I’m sick.
Not because I quit.
But because I died,
In the hands of those who swore to protect me.
I went home to Homabay.
Just to greet my mother, feel the village breeze, and remember who I was before lesson plans and school bells.
But they came for me.
Not thieves.
Not bandits.
But men with badges.
They said, "Come with us, just a small matter to discuss."
But their vehicle roared like war.
Their mission had no mercy.
They didn’t come to ask.
They came to silence.
They say I hit the wall.
They say I confessed with my skull.
But you and I know, walls don’t kill unless hands help them.
I died in a cell, Mr. Principal.
And not even a whiteboard was left to tell my side of the story.
My only weapon?
A keyboard.
My only sin?
Telling the truth in a country that fears it.
So tell the students not to wait for me.
Tell them that Mr. Alberto won’t be back.
Not because he failed them.
But because this country failed him.
From now on, I’ll be marking papers in silence.
Six feet under. While justice plays hide and seek above ground.
Sad indeedðŸ˜ðŸ˜ðŸ˜
