Haunted by the Roadside Dead

 

What began as a desperate way to survive has now turned into a living nightmare.

For years, my husband had a dark secret ,one he kept hidden from everyone, including me. Whenever he came across accident scenes on the side of the road, especially  at night, he would stop. Not to help. Not to call for assistance. But to take.

Wallets. Phones. Jewelry. Anything of value left behind by the deceased.

At the time, he justified it. He said the dead no longer needed these things. He convinced himself it wasn’t harming anyone. But some things, we’ve come to learn, should never be touched.

It started slowly.

He began waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, his eyes wide with terror. At first, he said it was just bad dreams. But the nightmares became more vivid, more real. He described seeing people standing at the foot of our bed—silent, staring, sometimes covered in blood. People he claimed to recognize from the accident scenes.

Then came the voices.Whispers in the dark, calling his name. Some nights he would scream, begging them to leave him alone. Other nights, he would sit upright in bed, as if listening to someone I couldn’t see.

Sleep became impossible. Fear took over our home.

His behavior changed too. He became withdrawn, anxious, and constantly looking over his shoulder. He refuses to drive at night now. He says the roads feel “crowded,” even when they’re empty.

Desperate for answers, we spoke to elders and even sought spiritual guidance. Some believe the spirits of the dead are restless, angered by what was taken from them. Others say guilt has finally caught up with him, manifesting in ways his mind cannot escape.

Whatever the truth may be, one thing is certain he is no longer the same man.

And as I lie awake beside him each night, listening to his restless breathing and sudden cries, I can’t help but wonder…

Did he bring something back with him from those roads?

Or is this the price he must pay for disturbing the dead?

How I Became a Breadwinner at Just 14

 At an age when most children are worried about homework, friendships, and dreams for the future, my reality was painfully different. At just 14 years old, my childhood came to an abrupt end when my mother passed away. Her death didn’t just leave an emotional void it left a responsibility too heavy for young shoulders to carry.

My father had never been part of our lives. He was a stranger in every sense of the word. With no parental support and nowhere else to turn, the burden of survival fell on me. I became more than just an older sibling,I became a provider, a protector, and a parent.

At home, things were far from stable. My grandmother, who was supposed to step in and guide us, was battling her own demons. She drank every day, leaving the household in chaos and neglect. There was no one to cook, no one to care, and no one to ensure we had even the most basic necessities.

Hunger quickly became a familiar feeling.

Desperation forced me to make choices no child should ever have to make. At school, instead of focusing on my education, I turned to gambling with other students, hoping to win a few coins just to buy bread for my siblings. After school, while others went home to rest or study, I went to taxi ranks, washing taxis for small change anything to keep food on the table.

Every day was a fight for survival.

I carried the weight of adulthood in silence, hiding my struggles behind a brave face. There was no time to grieve my mother, no space to be vulnerable. My siblings depended on me, and failure was not an option.

But behind that strength was a child who was hurting, exhausted, and overwhelmed.

This is not just my story it’s a reality for many children forced to grow up too soon due to circumstances beyond their control. It is a reminder of the silent battles happening in homes where children become parents overnight.

No child should have to sacrifice their childhood just to survive. Yet, for some of us, survival was the only choice we had.

She Gave Everything to the Church… But They Gave Her Nothing in Death

 For years, she was the pillar of her church a woman of unwavering faith, sacrifice, and devotion. She didn’t just attend services; she lived for them.

Even when life became harder, she never stopped giving.

When she went on pension, most people would think about resting, fixing their homes, or finally enjoying the fruits of their labor. But not her. Instead of renovating her house or securing her comfort, she continued pouring everything she had into the church.

Her pension money became their support.

Month after month, she would take her grant, buy only the bare essentials to survive, and hand over the rest to the church. She believed in something bigger than herself. She believed her sacrifices mattered. She believed she was building something eternal.

But when she needed them the most… they were nowhere to be found.

When she passed away, the very church she had supported for years did not show up. No assistance. No presence. No dignity. It was as if she had never existed in their lives at all.

No prayers echoed for her.

No hands reached out to help bury her.

No gratitude for the years she gave everything she had.

Her story raises painful questions about loyalty, faith, and exploitation. How does someone give so much and receive so little in return? How can a community built on love and compassion turn its back so easily?

This is not just a story of loss it is a story of betrayal.

A reminder that sometimes, the places we trust the most can fail us in the most devastating ways.

And as her family mourns, one truth remains painfully clear:

She gave them her life…

But in death, they gave her nothing.