The Night I Died — But Still Came Home

It was an ordinary evening, just like any other. I came home, had dinner with my family, and then stepped out into the night. Our neighbourhood was quiet most of the time, but that evening carried a strange heaviness in the air — the kind that tells you something bad is about to happen, though you don’t yet know what.

Earlier that day, two men in our street had fought. One of them had broken the other’s brother’s arm, and the bitterness between them was still burning. Everyone knew there might be trouble again, but no one imagined how far it would go.

As I walked down the narrow lane, I saw a few men still working under dim lights. It was around 9 or 10 at night. The street was half-dark, half-lit — shadows dancing between the flickering bulbs. Then, suddenly, shouts broke the silence. The two men from earlier had met again, and this time their anger exploded. Within seconds, the fight turned deadly.

One of them pulled out a gun.

Before anyone could react, bullets started flying. People screamed and ran for cover. Two or three men fell to the ground, and the rest scattered in panic. I froze, not knowing where to go. I was only a child, barely seven years old. I remember my heart pounding so hard that I could feel it in my throat.

The shooting went on for what felt like forever, though it was probably less than a minute. When it finally stopped, the street fell silent — except for the cries of the wounded and the sound of footsteps fading into the darkness.

Among the chaos, there was another boy about my age. Coincidentally, he was wearing clothes almost identical to mine — same shirt, same colour trousers. He was hit by two bullets, one in the chest and one near his head. He fell near the corner of the lane. Because of the darkness, no one could see clearly who was who.

When my father arrived, he found the boy lying there, motionless. Thinking it was me, he lifted him in his arms, crying uncontrollably, and took him home. My mother began screaming when she saw the boy, believing her son was dead. The neighbours gathered; the whole house filled with grief.

I was still standing outside in shock, not understanding what was happening. My mind was blank. I saw my father crying over someone who wasn’t me. I wanted to speak, to say, “I’m here!” — but my voice wouldn’t come out. Maybe I was too scared, or maybe I didn’t understand the weight of the moment.

Then, one of our relatives who had seen me outside ran to my father and said,
“Stop crying! That’s not your son — he’s right here!”

My father looked up, confused. My mother rushed out and saw me standing at the gate, trembling. For a moment, nobody moved. It was as if time itself had stopped. Then they both ran towards me, tears streaming down their faces, and hugged me tightly.

That night, I saw something I can never forget — the line between life and death, hope and despair. A boy, innocent like me, lost his life, and his body was mistaken for mine. I don’t know his name, but I still remember his face. Sometimes I think, maybe in another version of life, it really was me.

Now, years later — in 2025 — I still remember that night as clearly as if it happened yesterday. I realise that life is fragile, unpredictable, and precious beyond measure. One second can change everything.

I was seven years old then. Today, I am grown, but that memory still follows me — like a quiet shadow that never leaves. I often think about my father’s tears, my mother’s screams, and how close I came to never seeing them again.

People say, “When your time hasn’t come, nothing can kill you.”
And they’re right. That night proved it. I was meant to live.

Maybe to tell this story.
Maybe to remind others that no one dies a moment before their destiny —
and no one can live a second beyond it.


💬 Moral / Message:

> When your life is written to continue, even death cannot stop you.
And when your time truly ends, no power in the world can hold you back.