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The truth is limitless in its range; if you drop a "T" and look at it in reverse, then it could hurt.

— Lupe Fiasco

My name is Q. I'm dead. That was five years ago. I died in Los Angeles. My body was found in a swimming pool, discovered by my friends. Now, let's skip this part and go to the part when I was still living in the true sense of the word.

October 17, 1975:

This was before I became the humongous star Jordan Spike D. Before my music career had a quantum leap. Before I found myself. Before this present day, people think that my death's problematic and hugely mysterious like a man with no shadow. On this very day, I was housing "Nicodemus" who was in return feeding me grapes and what he heard on the grapevine. I don't know if I should call what he was doing an immense act of returning a favour, a way of paying me for accommodating him. The first time I told this story, I was shocked. This story I have learnt to tell to uplift myself and others. Folks on hearing it were grossly affected by the consequences of the choices he made and the path I took. His name was Terrence, and he was a New York starving artist. He lived in a village in New York, next to Tribeca. And my name is Q. I prefer you know me by that mononym and initial, or by my stage name Jordan Spike D. I knew Terrence not briefly, and that not-brief knowing was enough to know his entire life ambition: TO BE HAPPY. He was often seen with his guitar or violin. Like I always do, I will be telling this story with verses that may render the story of the life and times of Terrence musical while I also tell the story of my own life.

One day you will wake

And realise that you once worried for nothing.

It will surprise you,

It will confuse you.

But most importantly,

It will change your whole life.

He was a good guy, quite good in the way average humans could be. Loved everyone as much as he loved himself. He just wanted to sing, nothing mattered the most to him than this ambition. This was what charged his feet to New York City. We had known each other through high school days, from the time we met at a planetarium as a result of school excursion. We had also agreed at a young age that life is a rollercoaster of experiences, and that sometimes the experiences can make you want to really go mad. We also knew that the madness comes in various shades. We were simply aware of the dangling vicissitudes and madness inherent in living at quite an early age. And we simply wished we would never stain our hearts with whatever shade of madness we may encounter. Everything we wished for had a foot in not finding ourselves in the circle of this damning madness. Terrence became my closest ally and friend when I realised we shared the same interests. Music appeared to be the interest we shared the most. To us music was food, was love, was life – and we just couldn't live without it. 

I do not know about other musicians

Like I do not know about other humans,

But music was our opium.

We had habits that dropped lyrics into our subconscious, habits that ensured we weren't running short of inspiration. Habits that left us burning with quality and quantity. The only problem was that we were yet to sign a major deal. And that problem seemed to bother Terrence more than it did me. So on this day, October 17, Terrence paid me a visit from New York. He had intimated me on his visiting Los Angeles any time soon, an intimation that happened via email correspondence. The only thing I didn't know was how soon he meant. I also didn't know he would come "Nicodemusly". That night, he arrived my Los Angeles apartment sweating and looking like a bag of disaster. We had parted ways five years ago after our three-man group disbanded. The other person was a drummer. Since then, we both tried to build our solo careers. Strangely, he had also arrived that night with a bag of grapes. Little did I know he was going to die in my hands. Little did I know everything was going to change that night, that I would begin to question myself and the meaning of the madness wrought upon me. He was wearing a brown coat and a shawl around his neck. As I opened my door and saw him standing with a weak smile, my heart sank. I really wasn't expecting to see him when I went to open the door. I thought it was Fred my restless neighbour. To be frank, I was shocked when I opened the door and saw Terrence. Come on, he didn't even tell me that he was already on his way to Los Angeles. Consequently, I shouted his name in surprise. 

"Is this you, Terrence?" I asked.

"Could it be anyone else?" he said with a chuckle. "Wanted to pay you a surprise visit. We haven't seen ourselves in years."

"Oh, come on, Terrence! No phone calls, no nothing. You should have informed me."

Terrence, laughing: "What part of I wanted to pay you a surprise visit don't you understand. Well, sorry if you are in shock. Come on, are you going to let me in or not?"

"Oh, sure, come in!" I said.

He smiled and allowed me to help him with his bags. He tapped his boots and followed me in. He looked exhausted and in need of rest, but I could tell he was trying to conceal it.

"Long time no see!" he said and closed the door. "I heard your newest song on the radio. It's a hit-worthy song. Congratulations."

"Oh, thanks!" I said and pointed him to the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable."

"You are good, something you and I have always known. You are musically a viper, Jordan Spike D." he said and dumped his tired self into my peach sofa. "Wish I were as good as you are."

"Who said you aren't?" I said, leaving his bags now.

"Maybe I was. Maybe you should paraphrase the question to who said I wasn't." he said and rubbed his eyes. "These days I try hard to convince myself that music is my calling. I even think a parrot can sing better than I do. I think I have just hit rock bottom."

"I don't understand what you mean." I said. "Let me get you some food; you must be tired and hungry." 

"Oh, please do!" he said, blatantly. "I can't hide that truth."

"You shouldn't." I concurred. "We have come a long way in our relationship that you shouldn't be ashamed to demand for food or help. I will be back, just relax."

"Alright, Spike D." he said as I left to get him some food. "You are like the best friend I have ever had."

I left him and returned in no time with an ample amount of food and a bottle of drink. He sat well when I entered with the tray. I dropped the tray on the centre table and pushed it close to him.

"Here, enjoy." I said.

"You are undoubtedly the best." he said to me and picked up his spoon. "How's life in Los Angeles?"

"Life's fine here."

"Well, I can see for myself," he said. "You are living the life, my friend."

"Well, I am thankful for blessings." I said. "How did you locate my residence?"

"Oh! Isn't it quite clear that you are living in a rich neighbourhood?" he said. "Well, locating it wasn't hard for me. I must say you are doing well, Spike D."

"Thank you." I said and stopped myself from asking a question that already sat on my lips. I watched him swallow hard and knew his hunger was really deep, the kind that no grown man should ever experience. I wondered how life could have been for him in recent years. I wondered if he had stopped recording music, if he had stopped hoping for better days. I knew well how Terrence loved music, how hard he worked on his lyrics and beats. What I didn't know was why he hasn't dropped any other single since his last, why he hasn't dropped any other since three years ago. He had wanted to start a conversation that revolved around the music industry, but I urged him to finish his meal first; I urged him to leave the discussion for tomorrow seeing that it was late and that he was already tired and exhausted. He agreed and ate quietly.


October 18, 1975.

Terrence and I, in the morning, greeted each other and had our respective teeth brushed. When we were done, strings of discussion began to drop from his mouth unannounced. He wanted to keep me abreast of the goings-on in his life, even the ones I would never solicit for. He looked like someone whose spirit had been wounded in severe ways, like someone who was a museum of unspeakable and indescribable hurts. It was during this venting period that he told me that he had grapes in the heavy bag I helped him with, and that the other light bag contained just clothes. It was during this time also that I realised he had been sick for many months. He suggested that I follow him to the sitting room so he could show me the content of his bags. I agreed and wondered what else, apart from grapes, he was going to show me. Remember, all these were happening just in the early hours of the morning. We arrived in the sitting room as quickly as he wanted, and I sat and watched him open his bags. He first opened the one that had clothes before moving next to the one holding grapes. I watched carefully and listened attentively.

"When was the last time you ate grapes?" he asked.

"Um, it's been years now." I answered.

"Amazing." he chuckled. "But it won't be anymore. Here's one."

I took the one he offered me before asking: "Why so many of them? It's quite a number you've got there!"

"Oh, sure! I need as many as I can get." he answered.

"Why?" I naively asked.

"Doctor's prescription." came his reply.

"That's strange." I said, dropping the grape given to me on the sofa. "Are you sick?"

"Deeply was. I am recuperating. I need vitamins, grapefruit vitamins."

"What kind of malady necessitates that?" I asked, confusion slapping the walls of my mind.

"Just be patient with me. I will tell you everything tomorrow." he said and begged me to eat my grape. I felt like I was being raped psychologically. I just couldn't stop the thrust of confusion hitting deep into my consciousness. He rose with a smile and asked me to help him take the bags to a better place. I shrugged and told him to take them to his room. He nodded and left for the room. I immediately ambled to my kitchen where I dropped the grape into a plate. I rested my back on the wall, and wondered briefly.


October 19, 1975:

Yes, the next day. And I was composing a song in my home studio when Terrence came with his seemingly never-ending repertoire of stories. He was saying something about his New York apartment next to a treehouse owned by a retired policeman, how he wished sometimes to exchange his rented bungalow with the treehouse.

"Are you okay?!" I shouted at him, kicking a tape his way. "What is wrong with you?!" 

He stopped cold, as if terrified like a child would. He stood and looked at me timidly.

"Cripes!" I said and stepped out of my studio. "Gosh! What is wrong with you, Terrence?"

"We need to talk," he said to me, quietly.

I clenched my fists and frowned into them before exclaiming: "Alright, alright! You win! Let's go talk in the sitting room!"

He nodded and followed my lead as I walked past him. I was getting scared already with his erractic behaviour and didn't know what I was really feeling deep inside of me, whether fear or disgust. We entered the sitting room where I begged him to talk to me as I sat.

"I do not wish to bother you." he said, quietly. 

"Please straight to the point, Terrence." I said and looked away.

"I must tell you that I am dying." he said, watching me carefully.

"What? I didn't hear." I said and sat well.

"I am dying, Spike D." he said with a forced smile.

"You are dying? I mean, wait, are you composing a song? Come on, Terrence, you are too young to die." I said. "What is wrong with you?"

"I lost my health because of my greed and selfishness."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I have a lung disease and other ailments. Life's been good anyway; I have no regrets. I just don't know how much time I have left." he said to me, nodding his head. "Everything went wrong after I parted ways with my manager. I found myself depressed and almost homeless. I started drinking and smoking heavily. I took the habit too far, I know. Perhaps I needed someone's validation to stop. And you know it's quite bad to be black and also depressed in America."

"Keep quiet, man. Keep quiet, Terrence." I said. "You are confusing things here. I don't want to believe America forced you into drinking and smoking. Your manager was black too. You should have confided in me. Why did you refuse to tell me about it? Huh? I suspected something was wrong with your music career, but I wasn't so sure what it was. You could have told me through our numerous email correspondence. This is crazy, Terrence. This is just crazy. Plain crazy!"

"I know it is crazy," he said. "But it isn't crazy that I am dying."

"Don't say that again." I said. "By the way, what is the essence of the grapes?"

"I have a rare disease of the lungs called Jingula Tracheatis."

"So?" I asked.

"There is no cure for it yet, and grape vitamins are the palliative treatment."

"Hmm." I said. "When did you get the diagnosis?"

"Um, six months ago." he replied and rubbed off the mass of sweat on his forehead.

I shook my head before asking: "But is there hope?"

"That is all I have." he replied and shrugged.

"Where do we go from here now?" I asked, really concerned.

"No." he said quietly. "Where do I go from here now? Well, it's clear that one thing must kill a man. Isn't it?"

"That's crazy!" I said. "That belief has the propensity to ruin. So you gonna let all you've laboured for go to waste just like that? That's crazy, Terrence."

"I know," he said with a nod. "I understand perfectly well. But right now, there's nothing I can do to change the situation. I wish there was a way out." 

"This is bad. This is bad." I said and stood up. "I'll call my doctor now. Maybe he can help."

"I don't know what to say to that." he said. "But it's totally okay to do so."

I left him sitting with the grape in his hand as I went to pick my phone from my studio.


October 19, 1975.

My doctor and I had agreed that Terrence and his problem would be attended to today. So when I received a call from him, I knew he was coming or already at my door. I picked the call immediately.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello, doc. Are you on your way?"

"I am already at your door. Come let me in."

"Alright." I replied and went to open the door for him. He was wearing a white shirt and blue trousers. As soon as I opened the door, he asked:

"Where is he?"

"Um, I should be in the kitchen." I replied.

"Alright." he replied as I closed the door. "Tell him I am here already."

"Okay." I replied and went to fetch Terrence.

People are strange. 

They are constantly angered by trivial things; 

But on a major matter like wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice.

— Charles Bukowski

When I entered the kitchen, he was chopping carrots for his fruit salad.

"Terrence." I called. "The doctor is here to see you."

"Really?" he said and pouted. "Well, let him know I will soon be with him."

"Okay." I said and left him for the sitting room.


"My name is Doctor Armstrong." my doctor said. "What's yours?"

"Terrence." my friend replied.

"Alright. Nice to meet you, Terrence. I heard you have a rare lung disease."

"You are in the know." Terrence replied. "Aren't I in trouble?"

"Well, I must allay your fears. There is no cause for alarm yet." my doctor said. "How long have you known Q?"

"That's like forever." Terrence replied. "Our friendship has stood the test of time."

"That's impressive. It's good to have good friends."

"You are right. Absolutely." Terrence replied.

"Well, straight to your problem. You said the diagnosis you had revealed it is Jingula Tracheatis?"

"Yes, according to the doctor who carried out the diagnosis." Terrence replied.

"I see." my doctor said and began to fumble for something in his bag. "How long have you been here?"

"Three days." Terrence replied.

"How often do you have difficulty with breathing?" my doctor asked.

"Well, occasionally. Thankfully."

"Okay. Come over here." my doctor said to him, holding a medical apparatus in his hand. "Let me examine you."

Terrence walked to where he was and consequently obeyed the instruction to lie supine on the sofa.

"What's next?" Terrence asked.

"Open your mouth." my doctor said. "In my hand is a laryngoscope. I am going to push it slightly down your throat."

"Jeez!" Terrence exclaimed.

"Well, not now though. First, I will use this tongue depressor to depress your tongue. I must let you know that there's no cause for alarm."

"Alright." Terrence said and stayed calm.

My doctor, with enough carefulness, depressed his tongue with the tongue depressor and proceeded to use his laryngoscope. And silent my friend laid. I watched my doctor and my friend from where I stood. My fervent wish was for a health turnaround. For a clearer view, I took about three steps closer to the doctor. I folded my arms upon my chest and watched as he examined carefully. Back in the day when we were still young boys, we often boasted of how we have never had to lie on our back for medical reasons, how we don't frequent hospitals like some people do. Looking at my friend Terrence reminded me of those good old days. But times have changed; and our lives have changed with it too. I was still watching seriously when my doctor asked him to rise. My friend rose and immediately had a thermometer thrust into his mouth. 

"I need to read your temperature." my doctor said. "Just keep the thermometer in there, it doesn't hurt."

"Will he be fine?" I asked my doctor.

"We treat, God heals." he replied and smiled. "We will see where we can go from here."

"Okay." I said and turned to my friend. "You will be fine, Terrence. Doctor Armstrong is one of the best doctors around here."

Terrence just nodded and gave me a thumbs-up with his two hands. He looked relaxed; at least so I thought.

"You will need to keep a close eye on your friend." my doctor said to me. "I am yet to confirm what his problem is, but it is clear to me he isn't quite well. He has a fever. Help him to take some of the drugs I will prescribe."

"Okay, doc." I said and watched him take out a pen from his shirt pocket. He sat down and began to write on a piece of paper. He scribbled some things on the paper and asked me to help Terrence get the drugs. I agreed and took the paper from him. He bent and stretched his hand, collecting the thermometer in my friend's mouth. He looked at me briefly before saying:

"Bring him to my clinic in three days time."

"Alright." I said. "I will."

"Fine. So, now, I need to take my break."

"Okay. I will endeavour to bring him."

"Hope I will be fine." Terrence said.

"You should." my doctor said with a smile. "I will see you on Thursday."

"Alright." we both said. I shook hands with the doctor and saw him off.


October 20, 1975.

It was still early morning when Terrence started gisting me about a myriad of things. Things I do not know if they were true or just his sickness playing on his chimera of imagination. He said while he was in New York that he heard a fat ibex climbing a mountain had fallen to the foot of the hill turning into a man, and that the man was his manager who he had already parted ways with. He said it was no wonder to him when he heard it, that after all he has never seen someone so stubborn and difficult like his former manager. He also said he heard his girlfriend Etoroabasi, whom he was planning to marry, already has children for different men; that no one wonder since she moved to Nigeria she always told him "It's no problem, I understand" each time he complained about his busy life preventing him from calling all the time. He also said someone told him that his village people have a hand in his fate, that they had used black magic to confuse his destiny for selfish gains. He said so many things that remembering them all would be like trying to swallow a whole egg. The captivating, complex and mercurial nature of his stories made them somewhat believable. I even remember him saying he always had a dream as a child where he often flew around in circles for hours before crashing into the radius of the imaginary circumference; he said this could be the reason why he keeps meeting ups and downs in his life. Well, he said so many things and was eager to say more had I not stopped him. But, to my utmost surprise, he started laughing at me and pointing a finger at me. He rose from the sofa and fell on the floor, laughing seriously. I didn't understand what was funny and so felt he had gone mad. I told him to stop, but he kept laughing and pointing at me.

"Terrence." I said to him, "Don't you think I don't have time for this sheer display of madness? Moreover, a listening party will be held in my house, so I have to commit myself to preparations. I won't let you waste my time with this display of madness. When you are done laughing, please get up and come give me a hand."

But he kept laughing, albeit almost quietly now, rubbing his stomach and hitting the floor with his feet. However, I shook my head and left him for my studio.


October 20, 1975; 4:25 p.m.

The visitors, music lovers and fans, had arrived at my place earlier than I imagined; my very object of surprise was the number already seated. I had decided to use my expansive parlour and so hired seats even before Terrence came visiting. I was impressed by the euphoria in my expansive parlour-turned-hall rendezvous. People were chattering excitedly and laughing boisterously. I was also happy that such a number found it worthy to attend. In fact, it wasn't long before the hall became crowded. I was happy, clearly happy. I immediately set about to wow my audience with songs from my new album. I had just picked the microphone to thank the audience for their presence when Terrence appeared through the door, tumbler in his hand. He looked tired and half-dead. He moved a foot and staggered into the rendezvous. His appearance and sudden entrance made people give out a shout of surprise and fear. There was blood on his lips and the cup had a sickly content. He balanced himself stiffly and managed to smile. Blood suddenly poured out through his mouth, dripping continuously afterwards. People shouted more now and those sitting rose from their seats. Terrence moved a foot, staggered and slumped on the floor. The tumbler immediately smashed into smithereens on the tiled floor. It was clear to anyone who knew how death smelled that he was dead. People shrieked and dashed for the door, going there without stopping for whatever reason. Before I knew it, and before my very eyes, the rendezvous was a deserted place. The only people left behind were me and the lifeless body of Terrence sprawled on the floor. I was gutted; I didn't just know how to react. Everything had happened so suddenly and frighteningly. I started with utter disbelief. It wasn't clear to me what had killed him. But with the sickly content of the cup that changed colour on reaching the floor, it would be safe to assume he drank some poison. But why? Why would he? Confused and infuriated, I rushed for my phone to inform the police about the sudden, mysterious demise of a friend. With no waste of time, they arrived. Paramedics helped to clean the floor till it was sparkling like nothing ever happened on it. I was asked to follow them so I could make a detailed report. Well, though with fidgeting and muttering, I followed them to the police station. And that was how I got detained for something I knew nothing about.

It was plain crazy, believe me. I was accused of killing Terrence. If not for the help of witnesses who narrated how everything happened and my doctor and lawyer, maybe I would have rotted away in jail. Now let's skip to the other chapter of my life which is about how I finally died. I don't know if you would consider it sensational or something short of it.


January, 1981

Having won a couple of notable awards, it would be safe to say I was enjoying a meteoric music career. Yes, I agree. I totally agree. I should be happy, right? Yes, I was. I was until a note raised its ugly head in my apartment. A note written by Terrence before his death. A note I found at the left side of the bed he slept on while staying at my place. The note looked like something that was written in a hurry, something that begged and willed his hand to get it done as fast as possible. The note begged me to kill myself, that I should fake it. That I should give the experiment a try and see how extremely successful I would become afterwards. That he would have done the same if he had enormous potential like I do. That appreciation of my music would quadruple. That I should imagine if Tupac had faked his death. The note ended with the warning that if I refused to do so I might find myself dying like him; that I might find myself dying from depression and frustration. With fear and grief, I folded the slim paper and flushed it down the loo. I just didn't feel he was in his right senses when he wrote that. I just didn't think it was a plausible thing for anyone to heed. So that was it, I flushed it and continued to live my life. Continued to live my life until six days later when I felt I had a hunch. Just suddenly, it started appealing to my mind like a streak and cold coke on the taste buds. Suddenly, I found myself buying the idea wholeheartedly. Deep inside of me, I felt it was going to work like magic. So with haste in implementation I informed trusted friends about my plan. At first, they were shocked and objected. But I persisted and painted the idea so well they finally saw a masterpiece in it. They agreed eventually. Yes, they agreed to film my drunk self drowned in a swimming pool with their phones. They would look empathetic and swaddle my body in ankara material. Then they would inform the press and the news would grow its wings and fly too far and wide. And that would just be it. I would then go into hiding until my music success had skyrocketed in a posthumous way. Then I would cash out and enjoy the dividends; that was just the backbone of the plan. We smiled and shook hands, and decided to implement the idea in February.


February 14, 1981.

February trickled in, the month I couldn't wait to see. However, I told my friends Valentine's Day would be the best day. I felt it would make more sense for the assumption to be that a jealous lover had killed me in a pool party. My friends agreed with me and so the acting went into full swing. At first it was quite funny, but we persisted until the right scenario was created. So the remaining thing being informing the press, I picked my things and went on self-exile to the remotest of places. From there, I told them they should "do their due diligence". Quickly, our plan was implemented. Before I could finish my lunch that afternoon, pictures of me and my dead body had circulated online. The media outlets, even those that refused to promote my songs when I was struggling as an artist, carried the news of my death. Some said they couldn't believe I was gone like that. Everyone, even my enemies, wept for me. My family said they must follow my sudden death up; that the culprits must be brought to book. Everyone who knew my artistry felt sad; even those who have never heard of me used my picture as their profile picture on their social media accounts, they obviously didn't want to be left out in the mourning of this dead musician almost everyone was talking about. I took my time and read as many tributes as I could. I never knew my own death would also affect me. I suddenly found myself weeping for myself. I really didn't understand why I was crying. That night, I felt like I was really dead. I felt like I wouldn't wake up the next day. Consequently, I switched on my lights and slept with them.

Somehow, I felt I wouldn't be able to live with the faked death thing. But as time passed, I found the courage to live despite the discomfort haunting me from time to time. From time to time, I disguised myself; especially when leaving my house. I wondered how much longer I could take this torture I brought upon myself. However, I decided to give it sometime and see the kind of effect it would have on my career.


February, 1985.

I don't know how it happened, but all I know is that I managed to live up to four years with my tightly-knitted plan and acting. It's quite unbelievable, isn't it? Well, here we are in the early first half of the year. I still can't believe I lived without my music career for four years. Well, before I vanished I had released an album titled Judas . The tracks were quite experimental with infusions of rap, Afrobeat and trap. My manager had said the album could be my best, but I couldn't picture the possibility in monetary terms. I just knew I had done my best. So now that I am "dead", I was yet to see the huge outcome. Well, I still contact my manager who of course had objected to my crazy idea. We still share profits from sales by the terms of agreement on the contract. However, he claims it hasn't been easy dealing with my faked death and disappearance. He said he wished I didn't just do this to my music career, that he wished I hadn't gone this crazy. Well, I didn't bother much because I still made enough money to take care of myself and my lavish lifestyle. But something happened; something unexpected and amazing. Just when I began to lose hope over the possibility of my music becoming a commercial success after my death, something beautiful happened. I was just watching television one night when it was announced that the Grammy committee had decided to award my swan album a posthumous award plus a special lifetime award for my contribution to music and culture. I was shocked beyond words. I sat half-stilled and wondered if this was really happening. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was totally excited and overjoyed. I picked my phone and tried to reach my manager, but he wasn't picking. I called my friends to inform them about the new development and they said they had just seen the news. I was totally happy for the recognition I was getting, albeit posthumously. I knew what this good news meant in monetary terms. I was totally excited. So I emailed my manager telling him how he had to ensure he represented me together with my family. I made him understand that the money must be shared like I was still alive. I briefed him about the sharing in succinct terms and logged out. And so when he returned from the award ceremony with my family and relatives, I demanded to be settled like l was supposed to be settled. But my manager simply coughed and laughed. I didn't really understand what was funny. He said a fraction of the money had been used to set up a Jordan Spike D Legacy Foundation and that my family now has other plans for the prize money. He said so many things that left me fuming with rage. I slapped the desk in front of me. I told him what they were planning was unacceptable to me. I told him I was coming back to life, that nobody has the right to spend my money without my consent. But he laughed again and told me that my friends and family said the money was for the tears and weight they lost for the sake of my death; that it would be in my best interest if I didn't interfere in the affairs of the living. I was shocked, totally shocked. I couldn't believe my ears. And so, with my plans to control the prize money falling by the roadside, I found myself in a hospital where I was undergoing rehabilitation and experiencing intermittent episodes of depression. Now I am wondering if the music world would ever forgive me if I decide to "live" again; maybe I need to lie that I was kidnapped or marooned on some nameless island. Maybe that would help. Well, I really don't know what to do. Somehow, this avalanche of outcomes has swallowed me whole.


Marvel Chukwudi Pephel, also known as Poet Panda, is a Nigerian biochemist, writer and poet. He has contributed research papers to the field of Biochemistry as Nwachukwu Godslove Pephel. As a poet, Pephel's work explores themes of love, life, nature, and social issues, with a unique blend of creativity and scientific insight. His poetry is characterized by its lyrical style, depth, and emotional resonance. His work is a testament to the intersection of art and science. He is a fan of the surrealist painter Salvador Dali, and writers Helen Oyeyemi, Ray Bradbury, Irving Washington, Edgar Allan Poe, Frank G. Slaughter and Philip K. Dick. He calculates what he calls "Creative Functions", an experimental but effective way of writing short story endings before their beginnings.


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