He said, “Achalugo, I am going to marry you.”

The words dripped like honey, thick and golden,

Luring you deeper into a dream not your own.

The car purred, sleek as a panther,

The perfume of leather and lies curling in your lungs.

---

He fed you meals too wealthy to question,

Poured wine that swallowed your doubts,

Draped you in silk that smothered your mother’s warnings.

“My daughter, not all that glitters is gold.”

But Achalugo, gold is all you saw.

Gold is all you wanted!

---

He said, “Achalugo, I am going to marry you,”

But when you woke up, the ring

already turned a shackle,

The mansion a cage with velvet bars.

The hands that once held your soft buttocks

Now gripped your throat in the dark.

---

The private jet took off without you,

Your phone was gone, your name erased.

In a land where no one spoke your tongue,

They auctioned you like a cow at the market.

---

“Fresh meat,” the buyers whispered.

Your beauty, once praised, now priced.

A bed became your battlefield,

A room full of eyes, all hungry, none kind.

---

He said, “Achalugo, I am going to marry you,”

But the bathtub turned red before the wedding.

They opened your body like a purse,

Took what they wanted, left you empty.

Your liver, your kidneys, your innocence

—gone!

all gone!

Ah! Achaluuuu!

---

The ocean waves carried your story

In the belly of a shipping container.

Somewhere, a mother weeps.

Somewhere, a sister asks, “Where is Achalugo?”

And the wind, ashamed, refuses to answer.

---

But the music plays on.

The movies still lie.

And another girl, with stardust in her eyes,

Steps into the same car,

Smiling at her own funeral.