The Day I Met The Man Who Killed Me

When you are face-to-face with the man who killed you what do you do? Fight or flight?

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What do you say to him, to the one who turned your life around and remoulded you?

Today, I saw the man who killed me for the first time, yet I can’t remember his face.

I had pictured him so many times in different ways. With three horns- one stout horn on his forehead, two on either sides with flames oozing out of all his visible orifices.

Or with an axe-like-head, one moon-like eye, wide mouth with pointed fangs and ears the size of pancakes.

Sometimes, I saw him in my dreams, short and dark with a long walking stick having a cobra-like head.

But when I saw him today, he is a man, a person like me, not a monster.

He killed me and he doesn’t even know it.

He took my life but never looked back, not even once. Not even today, after two years when I saw him for the first time.

And right there, everything I had planned to say to him just vanished.

All the questions I had played over and over in my head melted away.

Everything went still, they all held their breaths, waiting.

But I had no words.

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He stopped about ten feet away from me.

I saw his mouth opened and then snapped shut like a rat trap, then someone shouted from behind. It was my sister.

He turned back and started walking, he kept walking, with his head bent.

I wanted to run after him but I had removed my prosthesis, even if I didn’t I couldn’t.

My head did, but my body refused to comply, most of the parts had got their own mind since he killed their owner.

I willed him to look back, so I can see his face, to memorize it but he wouldn’t.

I kept staring at his retreating back until he disappeared into the old bungalow.


I wanted to tell him about my once sweet, simple family.

He snuffed out the light and kept us all in a dark, airless room where all we see are evil and chaos.

Every sound we hear outside is of mayhem and death.

Everybody who goes out would either not come back or met with a gruesome accident.

He made us so safe in our dark airless room.

We are prisoners trapped in our own heads with fierce, menacing monsters, living our worst nightmares over and over again. Click To Tweet

We are all trapped in that day, when he shattered my world without looking back.

We are stuck in that minute when he decided to nap at the wheel.


I wanted to tell him of how he turned my world upside down, murdered my sleep and replaced them with nightmares and days where realities mingle with dreams.

I wanted to ask him if he ever thought about me.

If he wondered how I lived, if I’m in pain, what happens to my dreams

Did he ever imagined me as himself, an unmarried woman with a broken, mal-union pelvis, one bad leg and a half.


If he ever thinks of the children I might never had, my unborn family and my crushed dreams, of all he snatched from me.

I wished I could ask him why he never once asked what became of me.

I wanted him to see that I’m a person like him, another mans daughter, who would have been another mans wife.

I wanted to hear his side of the story, to see it through his eyes. But he took that away from me too.

I said nothing.

I didn’t fight or flight, I just sat still and watched until he disappeared from sight. I never knew why he stopped or why his lips moved, nor why he didn’t say anything.

If I see him again, I wouldn’t know him.

However, I am grateful that the man who killed me would remain faceless.

The Day I Met The Man Who Killed Me: A True Life Story

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(C) 2015 Olufunke Kolapo

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