A writer's journey

A Writer’s Journey They say life is full of ups and downs—but for the first thirty years of mine, it felt like all I did was soar. Wealth, happiness, health, love—I had a taste of them all. It wasn’t by my strength or smarts. No. It was the grace of God… and the woman I was lucky enough to marry. Sometimes I wonder what good deeds I did in my past life to deserve someone so beautiful, loyal, kind, and patient. A true partner. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not deluded enough to say I’m the most handsome man on Earth, but I’ll shamelessly say this: if I ever claim to be the second most handsome man alive, no one dares challenge me for first. I married her when I was 25. She was just 22. Young, radiant, full of hope. On our wedding night, we crossed a sacred line—well, I won’t call it forbidden fruit, but you know what I mean. Nine months later, our greatest treasure arrived. … Picture this: A man pacing like a soldier on night watch, eyes fixed on the labor room door. He knows how many nurses have walked in and out, hears every grunt, every cry from within the room. His face is a map of worry, exhaustion, hope… all at once. That man was me. I hadn't left that hallway in two days. Every nurse that passed was interrogated like a suspect—until finally, I heard it: the cry of a newborn. I barged in, eyes wide, heart racing—and there she was. My daughter. My pink jet. My joy. That night, I wrote her first poem. A little welcome into the world. For the next five years, we lived in bliss. Not extravagantly rich, but rich enough in what truly mattered—peace, health, love. A nice home, two cars, and the two most precious women in my life. That was more than enough. … Let me tell you about where I live—Buleria, a once-great nation in the Abrina continent. Once called the Giant of Sabrina, now it’s just a name with no weight behind it. Violence has spread like wildfire. The North? Taken over by bandits and terrorists. Cities once full of laughter now whisper with fear. We don’t sleep here—we rest with one eye open, ears tuned for the slightest sound. While the rest of the world wakes to alarm clocks, we’re jolted awake by gunshots. Still, this is my country. And strangely… I’m proud of it. Jobs here? Scarcer than unicorns. My wife, Selena, works for one of the top oil companies. Me? I’m a writer. A journalist by hobby, a poet by passion, a screenwriter by soul. If it involves words, I do it. … “Treasure! Go tell your mummy to hurry up, we don’t have all day!” I called to my daughter as I adjusted my suit. She ran off, her tiny feet pattering like a kitten’s, to rush her mum once again. Moments later, the queen of my heart stepped out. Tall. Elegant. A black beauty with the poise of a goddess. Six years in, and she still had me speechless. One smile, one kiss—and I melted. So I did what I do best. I recited a fresh poem, right there on the spot: --- **"Once again I'm here To sing praises Of your stunning beauty. Let me not bore you with stories— You're endowed with everything A man ever wished for, in a woman. Like fine wine, You grow in beauty, Stronger, more intoxicating With every passing day. Let me stop here for now Lest I incur the wrath Of the daydreamers, Whose hearts you’ve long stolen. Never mind, I'd go to war for you, If need be... But I'm a born-again Christian. I’d kill for you, But I'm a law-abiding citizen. I have nothing else to do But to spread the story of your beauty Like the traveling bard I was born to be. Seen a beautiful girl today? Look in the mirror— There she is."** --- She blushed. My daughter pouted—jealous of the attention. We sandwiched her in a warm hug and laughed like fools in love. Then, off we went—to my friend William’s wedding. … It was a good party, a full day of celebration. But by 6 PM, we knew it was time to leave. We said our goodbyes, hopped into the car, and headed home. But peace never lasts long in Buleria. We approached a checkpoint—and immediately, something felt off. About twenty men, dressed in army uniforms, were stopping only private vehicles. Commercial ones passed freely… after sliding bribes into greedy hands. And those uniforms? No name tags. “Get down! We want to search this car,” a bulky man barked. His breath reeked of cheap alcohol. We obeyed. Selena held our sleeping daughter as we stepped out. They led us aside, claiming it was just a search. But it wasn’t. Suddenly, guns were raised. Their smiles faded. The tone shifted. In seconds, we were forced into two separate buses… and just like that, we were taken. Kidnapped.