Wherever we looked, we turned up nothing. The hours stretched on, and my anxiety and fear grew. I just kept wishing over and over they would appear or that we would get through to them by phone. We didn't search for them in a morgue, as I could not imagine or think of their death.
My neighbors heard me screaming and called the police. They found me in a pool of blood with a severed hand on the floor. My other hand was almost detached and could not be saved.
All of these achievements have come because of, not in spite of, my rural upbringing. Those tough lessons allow me to be of service—not just to women and children, but to an entire nation.
Our target was not the poor, who are buried like dead animals covered with soil. We liked the graves of the rich, covered by a raised, cemented slab.
Out on the street, I saw that someone had spray painted “Gay Journalist” in big letters across my car. I felt myself sink down into what would become months of depression.
We were so poverty-stricken that our village considered us social pariahs. We would go begging for jobs around the neighborhood and instead be chased away, beaten, and even spat on.
One night, we all slept hungry, and I came home the next day to find my mother crying. It was then that I decided that my hands would change our story, and ventured into boxing for money.
He's a newsroom mortician where the stories are deadly and funerals are feared.