I wouldn’t make it but I made it anyway.

𝘈 𝘭𝘰𝘵.

I remember a night like this—mid-year 2021.

My brother and I stayed together then. There was that twilight, that reluctant crawl into a new day. We were up late, trading gists as if words could fill our hollow stomachs.

Sometime around 2 a.m., he stirred—sat upright, eyes vacant. On the edge of consciousness, he let out a long, weary exhale that collapsed into a whisper—

“Omoooo…”

And he slipped straight back into uneasy sleep. All of it took barely two seconds.

I smiled—a silent, violent grin, the kind laced with hidden wounds only the night could witness. If there was any strength left to pray, all I could mutter was—

“God…please.”

And the hot tears betrayed me.

But understand this:
Omo Sapa is a pimp.
He fucked us both in every style, every angle. The pain was inevitable—a quiet apocalypse. But I turned that silence into fuel.

Moving on. Evolving. A lot.