If you’re reading this; it’s too late.

“My name is Mueni Mumbe, a mother of one, I have been a member for 3 years. I started using so as to cope with a situation I was in and today marks the second year of my sobriety…

Homeboyz radio plays on the stereo as the knife relentlessly kisses the whetstone over and over. The floor is strewn with dirty clothes, his knuckles sore from the previous night and the base of his nose fuzzed with white powder.

A busted lip raw with clot, a sore black eye and head throbbing from fatigue your frail body stands over the kitchen counter. Steam fogging the inside of your spectacles as you stir the soup, remarkably still able to stand the heat thanks to the disconnected A.C. The baby on your left hand squeals and attention is directed to her, she’s been crying a lot today, barely recognizing your puffy face. You swore never to put her through any more adversity and this is you trying to make amends.
Lined codeine on the coffee table, a Manchester United jersey well past its glory days sits on the swing seat, a shirtless man looks for something in the dim-lit living room.
“I placed 500 bob here, where is it?” he rages.
This line has been played out, so you don’t flinch but then he gets louder. You put the baby in the stroller and dauntlessly walk towards him. Your once gentle demeanor hardened and obliterated by months of tribulation you, for the first time, stand to him and tell him you want out.
As his irate face contorts gradually, you squint and notice an empty sheath peeking on his waistband, your eyes switch to his hand and you begin to back off, there and then, everything goes from 0 to 100.
On the floor a body bleeds out.
999 tukusaidiaje,” the dispatcher says.
A crowd gradually gathers outside.

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