My downfall from being a university lecturer to a drug trafficker was paved with love and betrayal. Be careful who you marry.
The cops look at me pryingly, point fingers at my character, and don't view me as a credible enough victim.
Pro-Jacob Zuma protests in South Africa resulted in killings, shootings, and lootings.
The #BreakingCodeSilence movement estimates there are 100,000 teens being held against their will at over 1,000 facilities in the U.S.
They took me to the showers, with the collaboration of the acting officers, stripped me naked, and beat me while dousing me with ice water.
The second wave of COVID-19 had devastated the country. It seemed to kill almost everyone who caught the virus. I was frightened and feared the worst.
I opened the door slowly, and as I stepped inside, I saw John's leg behind the closet. Before I could run away, he caught me. He started beating me and cutting my dreadlocks.
Inside jail, I began to look for ways to improve the lives of my trans companions: I took care of the HIV patients, who did not have help.
The screams and gunshots were deafening, so we kept running for a secure place. I ran barefoot because I did not have time to look for shoes.
I live without my wife because of that chaos. After I became a victim of violence, I have felt sad, lonely, forsaken, and hated.
Thanks to my educational training, I managed to save a girl whose parents exposed her to the sex trade.
We heard loud gunshots. We knew it was just a matter of time before the attackers found us.