This life could be the life no one would wish for. 

What happened that night never happened. 

Luta sat in solitude, sun beaming on his forehead, his temple hosting beads of sweat, slipping after a slide all on his already stained shirt. 

He wiped his lips dry. Crumbles of bread were at his feet. His brown eyes showed a reflection of deep regret, hurt, anguish and anxiety. 

He looked like a drag in the hole. His hair had overgrown and it was falling back on his face, twisted into locks.  His beards overgrown, leaving invisible lumps under his chin; ones which could only be felt. 

He felt the chain on his wrist and with time, he was able to get hold of the total chain. 

He looked around, walls high and wondered how he got into this ditch. 

The last night, he felt freedom was certainly the last night. It wasn't what the world felt happened, happened. The twist in the story made it look like a new story entirely. 

What the world heard was the gunshot, the end of the last pawn. 

But no! The killer who looked exactly like Luta did pull the trigger, not at Luta, but at the pillows. 

His hands were against his lips, his eyeballs charming. Holding Luta to his feet, Luta could feel his spine shifting out of shape, terrified with the end of the gun laying on his shoulder which felt like blocks. Indescribable heaviness. 

He termed the man a familiar stranger. The man in the hoodie told Luta to follow all his steps and in a minute, he was taking Luta's shirt. 

A puncher came off his bag and it made holes on Luta's shirt. He forced  Luta to put it on in a hurry, then pushed Luta on the bed and whispered,

"Act dead." 

Luta was on the bed at once. He knew what it was about. He knew this person was trying to save his life. He knew this person was him; another man in his skin. The complications were open to no debate. 

Luta was on the bed, his tongue waggling. After a few seconds when he noticed no movement, he opened up his eyes and saw the guy in the hoodie covering his face. 

"Act better!" The guy with the hoodie on shrieked. 

Luta repositioned and in less than a minute, he felt a wet fluid on him. 

It was fake blood. Camera shots went on and light raced across the room in a flash. 

That was all from the guy in the hoodie. He looked like the dangerous Luta and was never ready to reply any question. 

He moved Luta out that night in a hoodie, giving him where to meet him and pushed him on with a ticket, the first bus moving to Accra the next morning. 

Luta got tied to a murder case the first month he hit Accra and that had him back to a dungeon the country had tagged prison. 

That was where another phase of his life started. The very place he was exposed to a new phase of life. After 6 solid years, he gave up any trial and hopped to be part of a breakout plot. 

Behind the walls of this dungeon, he had learnt all that was to life; the new side of life he got shown. 

Then he learnt to keep to himself all that was to bitterness, regrets on his lips with bitter memories of his good life turn sore. 

He got raped on his fourth night in the so called prison. 

That night, he had prayed for dusk like never before. His hands hurt from extensive farm work and his feet weak after he had stood for almost eternity. 

He got seized minutes after blackout, hands against his lips. 

His weakness had been studied and soon, he was over-powered, and touched repeatedly before he was pushed against a wall. He had grown men have their winnie break through him till he gave up on the struggle. 

He was left after he had given up on the struggle and laid there till lights came on seven hours later. He was left to watch the faces of the men who were in the room, acting innocent. 

Every night, they came up to him, until one night.