Simultaneously, the painful lives, like Anita's, you had just experienced rushed through your head.

There was Jason, small and petit. He had a mole on his nose and it was a feather that tickled people's fancy. Fingers always pointed towards him. Whispers, not out of earshot, echoed around him. "Ugly fool! Mole! Rasin!" Caricatures of Jason were always drawn on the blackboard every morning. Topping all that, he was regularly slapped or punched on the face. On a Sunday morning, his father called incessantly. "Jason, Jason, we are getting late for church!" No footsteps walked to the door. The man knocked again. "Jason! Are you in there?" No answer. He ran into the door with his shoulders and the hinges flew off. Jason was not in the room but he was inside the bathtub. The water was red.

There was Jide, also regularly laughed at. His parents were poor and he was only in Facabo high because he was a citizen and merited a scholarship. He was beaten for knowing too much; for blocking people's shine, for stealing the scholarship slot from Mike's sister. He was always smacked from behind after answering a question and when he craned, all he saw were smirking faces. He stopped answering questions, stop writing well in exams.  Slowly, like a snail, he retrieved into his shell, burrowing himself deep and deep, until he could no longer breathe.

Jane was bullied because of the weight she inherited from her obese mother. She had low self esteem, and didn't even need a push to leap off. The breeze was enough. You wouldn't blame her, she was fragile and fragile don't heal. The night of her birthday, with her whole obesed family downstairs; waiting for her to come out in her birthday suit and blow the candle. It took Jane effort to fit all her flesh her gown—White and flowing like a wedding dress. She straightened her bed and laid down. She picked the razor from the night stand slit her wrist. She laid back.

Kigbu's father was poor. The people who bullied him were poor too but kigbu's father was wretched. One evening, when the sun refused to set, his bullies forcefully removed his shoes and threw them inside a well. His father, who had found solace in the bottle, made things worse. He threw things at kigbu and called him names. Kigbu would have continued, would have managed to continue. Kigbu was strong and needed more than the breeze to push him. He needed a push and it presented itself. 

His relationship had been a dare all along. A dare? How? He had told her everything about his life.

He had told her things that couldn't be said twice. He wrapped the poison in paper and used a Fanta bottle to grind it. when it was powdery, he added it to his food that evening. His stomach twirled. He suffered profusely until his last breath

Then there was Mary, she was laughed at because of the hunch heaped on her back. After numerous nick names: Camel; Huncho; and unbearable moments, she could no longer take it. That night before she walked to the station to fit her head on the railway for the train to crush, she wrote to her parents, told them that they were wicked for falling in love to produce a monster as her. They should have killed her of as a baby. She was good artist. She drew a middle finger then signed it to the world.

Then there was Ada, formally known as Kunle. Her obvious features told she was a woman but if one observed the abstract; her shoulders, or her bicep, they would think otherwise. Their speculation was right. Ada's deep voice seconded it. She walked into a restaurant to get food and people's eyes darted towards her. Some even tapped their friends to see. They craned, saw, and amazement ran across their faces. But unluckily, her gaze always fell on the ones who had pure hate in their eyes. All that she was used to.

A man stood up and obstructed her way. He didn't touch her yet. "What are you doing here?" He looked around to get approval from the dinner crowd. Few heads nodded. A girl in the same community as Ada brought out her phone to tape the assault of one of its own.

"Please, I need no trouble, I just want to get food."

"Then go else where and get food. Leave this restaurant. It is for normal people. Find the one that is for your type of people."

The man pushed her and she fell on her buttocks. She stood up and retaliated. A mob, consisting of the man's circle, pushed her outside, and beat her. When the touts hanging around understood what was happening; they were beating a crossdresser; they took over. 

It started with slaps, many of it, from different angles. Then something harder than a palm hit her head. She felt liquid trickle down her face. She touched it and saw blood.

"Disgrace to God! Disgrace to your parents!"

Her clothes roughly left her body and hands squeezed her breast with premeditated force to burst whatever implant was there. She was tackled, and stumped on. "Woman, you get womb!? You get womb? Eh, answer me, you get womb?" The ruffian held her leg apart and stumped on her stomach as he asked repeatedly, "You get womb?" Another voice from the mob said, "Match am! Kill am! Na disgrace!"

It was not until she was breathless that the mob ebbed away. Pain echoed through her body. She laid there, time of no necessary essence to her, and thought completely nothing. Few kicks landed on her already broken ribs. She couldn't tell through scent because all she perceived was blood, but from the temperature and pressure of the liquid pouring on her face, she knew it was urine. For roughly one hour, she laid there and nobody stepped forward to help her. People who heard what had happened ran to the make videos. After a while, they, too, left and never extended aid. Deep down, they felt it was right— right to cure the world of one Crossdresser. So, it was a good thing. Not even words of sympathy came her way.

It became dead silent. Her vision was blurry and her left eye was completely swollen. She heard Shuffling feet approach. It was more than three pairs of legs, and the steps drew closer. Hushed conversation, louder than she heard it, echoed.

She felt liquid pour from her legs to her head. The smell was too strong to miss. Diesel! Before another thought formed, she was on fire. Andrenaline  pumped through her veins and gave her the energy to yell. So much adrenaline could do for a weakened body on fire. Her voice died down and the fire burnt silently, save the ghostly sound the flame made.

There was Iminu, a nineteen year old fresher who jumped off a building and shattered. There was Kiluio who overdosed on drugs. There was Markin who boxed himself with a generator.