CELL 24. By: Sharon Dikedi.

Locked up in Cell 24, within the Quaternabey Dungeon for a homicide committed by a faceless criminal; I
wondered how I was mistaken for the offender of this horrendous crime.

I had wished, that my newlywed and I had not visited the Starlite Hotel for our honeymoon which would later serve as a crime scene–on that day that tragedy struck, two years back. I had walked into my hotel room shortly after seeing the Receptionist to inquire why a fire alarm had come on and he had assured me that it was one of those on-off occurrences, saying that the alarm came on in error; he apologized. To my utter amazement, right at the centre of the room between a low table and the bed, I found my newly wedded wife lying on the floor enveloped in a pool of her blood.

My heart beat shot high and sweat ran over my temple down to the neck; I bent over to feel her pulse–no
pulse; she lay dead cold on the floor. I screamed to the high heavens with a sharp cry of pain and
anguish and quickly called for the paramedics. She was confirmed dead. The police arrived; all the
routine examinations were conducted after her body was moved in a body bag to the morgue and
investigation commenced immediately.


I would later be arrested by the police on suspicion that I had committed the homicide. While I nursed
the pain owing to the demise of my beloved wife, I fought in vain to prove my innocence. I was charged
to court and sentenced to serve life imprisonment.


My lawyer fought hard and tried to prove my innocence but all effort did not save me from my new
habitation–cell 24 within the Quaternabey dungeon.

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I feared the worst, within this cell, littered with coach roaches, perching around the open toilet seat, on
a left corner and grey-colored rat’s running from end to end–it seemed to me that was a routine
exercise for these rodents.


At prison, the day would normally set-off with alarms coming on for all inmates bound wrist, ankle and
neck with iron chains, to be led out to an open field, where all held captive would work; we would dig
rock outcrops, fill-up depressions, mow down deep-rooted trees and lift 40kg-like loads under the
intense heat from the sun.


Days turned into weeks, weeks into months and months into two years and all hopes that I would walk
out free someday faded out. I made a resolve to live the rest of my life in cell 24 and only thought of one
way out of the cell—suicide.


What heightened my anguish was that my in-laws sent me messages of death wish–“may you rot in jail, may you rot in hell and all sorts”; they never believed anything I said; they personally, especially my pot-bellied Father in-law, testified against me at the witness stand that I was a killer and should not be allowed to escape death sentence; my sister-in-law was a little reasonable in these accusations and had Warned the press who had interviewed her, that until there were additional visual evidences, they
needed to let me live. I was lucky with the efforts of my lawyer to get away with a life sentence.

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One midsummer morning, I stood with a bread knife held to my stomach–I smuggled this cutlery from
the kitchen just two nights before; with the knife clenched by both hands,

I raised this metal object up in
the air ready to plunge it into my stomach; then I heard the creaking noise of the prison door;
immediately, I dropped the knife; the prison warder and my lawyer walked into cell 24; and my lawyer
screamed:
“Oh my Gosh! What were you trying to do?”
My lawyer had come to inform me that I had been set free; the recorded CCTV images had been
retrieved by a very good detective and friend; the culprit was tracked down and arrested. I walked out
of cell 24 a free man.

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The culprit was an ex-boyfriend to my late wife who had vowed she would not
marry anyone other than himself. He stalked both my late wife and I and had connived with the
technician who happened to be his friend; as a technician part, of his duties was to keep custody of
CCTV images–he was also jilted by his girlfriend.

He had lied to the police that the images were not recorded–that made me to appear in court without
an evidence for my innocence.

Written by: Dikedi Sharon C.

Photo Source: Google Chrome.

Author: stacyspeaks

Creativity feeds my soul.

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