Daggers of Love

Peter's Perspective

Love is usually seen as something beautiful and joyful, but it can also bring pain. It can hurt deeply. It's like a sharp blade-it can heal or destroy. I was about to feel the worst side of it.

"Please, that's enough," I begged, my face swollen and bleeding. "I didn't hurt her. I swear."

The people attacking me didn't care. They believed a lie. I'm not even sure they care of what they believed, all they wanted was to get the job done.

"Our relationship was real. Everything that happened between us was with love and consent. I could never hurt her," I said, trying to defend myself.

The leader of the gang laughed coldly. "You must be dreaming," he said. "What makes you think someone like her would be with someone like you? She's rich. Her family has power. You're nowhere near her level. Wake up."

He raised his fists to punch and I braced myself.

I had been wrongly sentenced to 20 years in prison for something I didn't do. And the nightmare didn't stop there. Her parents had made a deal with a gang inside the prison-people who were paid to make my life hell.

Since I got here, I've been beaten almost to death. I've landed in the hospital nine times. The pain hasn't stopped. People see me as a disgrace. Even I started to believe it. Many times, I thought about ending it all.

"You think she'd choose someone like you?" the gang leader asked again as they surrounded me. "Guys like you don't belong with girls like her."

I tried to make them see the truth. My voice shook. "Please... we loved each other. I didn't do anything to hurt her. I'm telling the truth. You have to believe me."

They didn't care. "That's not the story we heard," he replied. "They said she asked for help with her studies, and you took advantage of her. We were paid to punish you. And that's what we're going to do."

He looked at his men and said, "Let's deal with him, and I want to see more blood."

That moment was the beginning of a long and painful journey. My family and I have always lived in a tough world. We've faced many struggles.

We were not rich, but we also weren't poor. We lived a normal life, with good days and bad. Lagos was where we stayed-a busy, fast-moving city. It wasn't our hometown, but we tried to make it home.

My family is known for being smart, especially on my father's side. But being smart didn't protect us from the harshness of life.

My grandfather was very intelligent. He used to tell us how everyone admired him in school. He wanted to be a surgeon, but things didn't work out. Instead, he became a primary school teacher.

Even though he had the right qualifications, he couldn't get a job in the medical field. He shared stories of rejection letters and lost hopes. The world didn't give him the chance he deserved.

My father followed a similar path. He was brilliant in school and always topped his class. He wanted to be a scientist. But even with all his efforts and high scores, he couldn't get into university until he used personal connections.

One day, I asked him, "Why is education so important when it only brings us pain? We work so hard-reading, studying, staying up late-and still, it feels pointless. What's the use if everything depends on who you know?"

He looked at me with understanding and gently patted my cheek. "I know how you feel, son. Education is supposed to help us, but the world we live in has made it difficult. That's not how it's meant to be. But it's the reality we face."

He continued, "Even though it's hard, promise me you'll do your best to change things. Try to be different."

Despite his high grades, my father struggled to get a job. Others with lower scores did better, just because they had connections. After many disappointments, he gave up on his dreams. He worked as a dispatch rider, and later bought a small bus to work as a driver. That's how he took care of us.

We lived in a world where success came from who you knew, not how good you were. It was frustrating.

After the beating that night, I lay in the prison clinic, staring at the ceiling. My face was bruised, my ribs ached, and my mind kept replaying what happened. The nurses barely spoke to me. To them, I was just another criminal, another broken soul not worth their time.

I couldn't cry. I couldn't scream. All I could do was think-and thinking in a place like that is dangerous.

How did I get here?

I remembered her. Her smile. The way she laughed. The way she made me feel seen, like I mattered in a world that tried so hard to make me invisible.

Her name was Angelica

She wasn't like the others. She came from wealth, yes, but she was kind. Thoughtful. She never looked at me like I was beneath her.

We grew close. We shared secrets. We shared dreams. I thought what we had was real. It is true what they say "The deepest cuts don't come from enemies-they come from the ones who held your heart while plotting your downfall."

But real love should protect, not destroy.

The day I was arrested, I thought it was a joke. I laughed at first-until I saw the look in the officer's eyes. Cold. Certain. They didn't ask questions. They didn't give me a chance to explain.

Her parents had money. I had none.

Their word meant truth. Mine meant nothing.

I was dragged like a criminal, treated like a monster. The media called me a predator. They printed lies before I even got a chance to speak. My family tried to fight for me, but the case was already bought and paid for. Justice never stood a chance.

The betrayal hurt more than the handcuffs.

Back in prison, I was alone.

Days turned to weeks. I kept to myself, avoided trouble when I could, and endured what I couldn't. The guards were cruel. The inmates crueler. Some nights, I barely slept. Other nights, I prayed not to wake up.

But in the darkness, I started to change. Not in the way they wanted-broken and bitter-but in a deeper way. Something inside me refused to die.

I started to write. On scraps of paper. On old books. On the walls of my cell, when no one was watching. I wrote about my pain, my fears, my dreams. I wrote about freedom, about truth.

It was the only thing they couldn't take from me-my voice.

My name is Peter Campbell, and though I was locked away, I refused to disappear.

This is no longer just my story.

This is a war between truth and lies, love and betrayal.

And I will not let the world forget who I am.