I thrust my hands in-between the irons of my cell: I was standing all through the night, murdered by a pang of grief. Memories of our love story were flooding in my mind: exploding.
The first night when I saw her at Bintumani, she was tender, innocent, pure and exquisite. Prior to that night, I’d not really believed in love at first sight, but her presence, her driven-personality captured my heart. I was nailed and dappled by admiration. She was in a heel, well-composed and well-articulated. She was the host of the Award Dinner I’d attended. Her hair was perfectly braided, oiled and greasy. Her skin was glistening in her blackness. So to say, she was really beautiful— very beautiful indeed. I went off the rail for her— I was intrigued to know her, to know what she does, to know everything about her. “I’d been humbled by love,” I said to myself.

As bashful as I was prior to that night, a new confidence was borne in me, determined and frivolous. On the far side of the stage, I was gazing through the audience to her, she must have noticed me too, with the way she was staring at me. I wore a grin smile, revealing my dimpled cheeks. Like every gentleman could’ve done, I maintained eye-contact and waited for the perfect opportunity to speak to her. As much as my enthusiasm was growing unbearable embers in me, my anxiety was also spreading its tongues within me. Love, something so magical and miraculous, has a perfect way to...