PRISON STORY: Emotional Letter to My Dear Fiancée That Never Reached

By Markson Omagor






Its evening, approximately 5:00pm and all of us roommates or rather wardmates of D3 are in. Our nights beginning at 4:00pm as usual. Here we are, men lying on their thin mattresses, usually mattresses of 2inches or a collection of not more than two folded blankets. The arrangement is that ‘beds’ are made to face either side of the walls with a narrow passage in between referred to as a corridor or rather a road.


When all are asleep or lain on their beds, one may get an artistic impression of a display of fish in a market place – smoked fish. And today they are involved in various activities. On my left is a group of three playing a guitar? To my right are three sleeping next to each other while the fourth, our cleaner, is washing plates and cups. At the extreme right are collections of men in twos and threes carrying out conversations.


In all life looks as normal as one may find anywhere else. Then am reminded of the first discoveries I made; that where there are people, there are humans. Now in an enclosure like this one, with men who have lived in this misery for over ten years, how can life look so deceptively normal?


Is this the feeling spirits of dead persons feel? That where they are, life is normal, that they are meeting ‘people’ they knew in the other world? That they discuss their experiences and relate to each other as normal? Do we communicate to our dead ones when we go to their graves? Do they see and listen to us? Do they wish, they would come back again to take the human form and live normally?


Here in prison people pray, they pray all the time, they pray for those they love, they pray that when time comes for them to get out, they will meet the loved ones and love them again real good! But do the people who are out there know of these prayers? Are they aware of events surrounding their lives that are shaped by these prayers? Is this what happens to us all the time? That our dead ones pray for us? That our lives are shaped by the prayers of those we do not see?



Yes most of the time I feel am dead but that I am aware of living, aware that l have those I love and whom I wish well. Whenever however, I see these ‘ghosts’ actually finish their sentences and strip off the yellow garb and walk out of the prison gates, I wake up and once – many times realize that am not dead, that am alive and will one time go back home. Actually this reality usually comes back as often as I receive visitors.

A person who incarcerates you, only failed to kill and to me they are worse than killers!




Then this evening emotions overwhelm me, and I decided to express them in a simple poem. I wanted Sarah to read it when this book comes out, but then yes, she can read it now


Imaginative Poem to my fiancée


This evening, a bright ending one with the sky clear and the atmosphere much better than it was the previous day, I eat the last drop of your rice.


The rice that you brought for me. The tomatoes got finished on Wednesday but posho got done a week earlier.


As I realize that the dry ration you brought is finished, I get a feeling of alerting you to my needs but because there’s no way I can reach you, I silently cry, just like a child cries to inform his mother that he has a headache, then the mother thinks he is hungry!


Does my mother know that the dry ration is over? Is she aware that her ‘son’ is crying? Does she feel it? Can she imagine that she is now nearly everything that I miss?


When I look again at the box that I use as my store, I see onions you brought me. Thank you very much, sweetheart!  


Related Articles

Back to top button