By Daniel Kakuru
They started by shaving his beard, as if stripping him of manhood itself. Cold razors, colder than their hearts, scraped away the dignity he wore like armor. They mocked him in Runyankore, calling him a “slow learner,” as if to add insult to their brutality.
Then came the hands, coarse and ruthless, like fresh tarmac, crushing, twisting, electrocuting. His testicles became their target, their entertainment.
“Stunted p*nis, gigantic b*lls,” they jeered, believing they could measure his worth by what hung between his legs.
Their laughter echoed through the basement, amplifying a darkness even more terrifying than their cruelty. It wasn’t just physical torment. It was a ritual of degradation. A reminder that in the dungeon of power, humanity is the first casualty.
The commander, a man whose moustache outgrew his conscience and whose belly outweighed any shame, watched with perverse satisfaction. A spoiled brat of privilege, born into power he never earned. Playing God with soft hands that have never known real pain. For him, chains are a first language, not an aberration.
But Mutwe endured. He imbibed the pain. His heartbeat whispered of days yet to come, when chains break, and the basement’s darkness is lit by justice. For now, he remains a story unfolding inside the dark. And dark is no place to hide a man like him.
Tomorrow, the wounds may scar over. But the shame they tried to bury, that calculated state-sponsored humiliation, will rise like smoke. The world will come to know the price of power. Especially when that power belongs to a privileged son of the regime, a man-child clutching the keys to a nation’s silence.
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