A Terrible Tragedy - By Kimberly Ali

Written By: Kimberly Ali

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Kimberly Ali captivates readers with her short story "A Terrible Tragedy," a compelling narrative contributed to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. The story delves into the life of Jaydah Charles, a young girl burdened by her father's mysterious death and her mother's subsequent arrest. As Jaydah embarks on a quest to uncover the truth, she faces the complexities of family secrets and the burden of her discoveries. This narrative invites readers into a world filled with suspense, intrigue, and emotional depth.

About the Work

"A Terrible Tragedy" immerses readers in a world where each revelation leads to more questions. The story's rich narrative is woven with themes of family, mystery, and the quest for truth. Kimberly Ali's storytelling is marked by vivid imagery and a suspenseful mood, keeping readers engaged as they journey alongside Jaydah. The story explores the emotional turmoil of a young girl caught in a web of secrets, highlighting her resilience and determination to uncover the truth behind her father's death.

A Terrible Tragedy

Original Submission by Kimberly Ali

Up to the attic, she went to find boxes from her childhood. Poor little Jay dah Charles was about to move away from her small yet crowded home country to an overpopulated city across the Caribbean Sea for her mother’s promotion at work. Lots of dust and cobwebs shone when she opened the attic’s trapdoor. She coughed, and up she went. She immediately found boxes labelled with her name, followed by a dash and each year of her life since birth.

This took Jaydah back down Memory Lane, where she’d spent every waking second with her father, who loved her dearly. The good, the better, the bad, and the worse. All of it. On March 2nd, 2015, her father passed away due to an overdose of pills. After his death, she thought her dad was secretly suffering from depression and suicidal thoughts, and was unhappy with life, despite playing the happy-go-lucky role as her father. It never sat right with her, how he allegedly took his own life that night.

Moving closer towards her boxes, she stumbled across a container with a piece of old, dusty tape with “Do Not Open” written with what seemed to be a thick red Sharpie. Being the curious 17-year-old she was, she had opened it, re vealing wedding pictures, and beneath were secrets her mother had tried to leave in the past. “Lawd, I over missin’ you,” she softly spoke, admiring her father in his tuxedo at his wedding. Behind the frame was a piece of paper. A note. She blew on the note to rid it of dust, and noticed it was a letter from her father ad dressed to her.

It read,

Dear my precious princess,

Your mother is not who she seems. You know that she would never hurt a fly, but she’s been acting strange lately. Don’t believe what anyone tells you about her. Find out for yourself.

I’m sorry for leaving you, my dear.

With love, Dad.

February 14th, 2015

Shocked, Jaydah kept digging through the contents of the container. What did he mean by “I’m sorry for leaving you”? Was he planning to pack up and leave, and her mother stopped him? What happened between her parents in 2015? And, on Valentine’s Day of all days?

The more snooping she did, the more answers she found, and thus, the more questions that bombarded her mind. The container was filled with a lot of wedding nonsense, and beneath it was a half-emptied bottle of poison—or, if you

will, half-filled—a butter knife, a butter knife? Why not a steak knife? Or a cleaver?—and a pill bottle that contained not even five pills. It was prescribed medicine. There was so much evidence. And yet, she didn’t want to believe that her mother had killed her father.

But let’s say Mr. Charles was murdered by his supposedly loving wife. Hypothetically. What was her motive? Money? Petty revenge? An argument? None of it made sense. Why did he mention that her mother is practically defence less against a fly?

“Aye child. Where yuh?” Denise Charles, her mother, called from the kitchen. Her voice got closer as she called for her lookalike. Yes, Jaydah was a carbon copy of her mother. She is the spitting image of her. Quickly, Jaydah packed up all the evidence and shoved the container into a corner. Her mother appeared that second. “Orhorr, das where you was.”

“You call me, Ma?” Jaydah swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to hide the apparent fear in her voice.

“Yes, hon. I make lunch. Come down to eat.”

“I’ll be there in a bit, Ma.”

“Don’t take too long. It go get cold.”

“Alright M-“

“Is your favourite!” she sang, off-key, halfway to the kitchen.

Hesitating, poor little Jaydah Charles made her way down the attic ladder and the grand staircase. She was shaking. Her breathing scattered. Sweat dripping from her forehead. Her knees buckled. Was she about to eat a meal crafted by a potential murderer? No, no, no. This is her mother we’re talking about. There is nothing to be frightened of. But her heartbeat accelerated, her breathing staggered, her nerves gnawed at her. Her legs stopped listening to her. Her head was spin

ning, working overtime. Eyes blacked out. She couldn’t do it. Thud. Down the last bit of stairs and onto the carpeted floor. She fainted.

“Jay-Jaydah!” her mother screamed until she could no more. Her eyes widened. Tears fell from the faucet her eyes had become. Petrified, Denise quick ly rushed her now unconscious daughter to the closest hospital. Her breathing quickened. Denise began hyperventilating in the waiting room. Luckily, the nurses were observant and were there with her. She was fine. Her daughter was trauma tised, but poor Denise didn’t know that yet.

After being admitted, the doctors ran a variety of tests on Jaydah. After having calmed down, they gave Mrs. Charles a rundown on her child's vitals. “Mrs. Charles,” the doctor continued, “your daughter faint away due to being stressed out. She will be fine. Her breathing and heart rate are steady, and she go wake up in the next few hours or so.”

Denise thanked the doctors gratefully.

“Don’t overwhelm her with questions when she wake up. It will send her into a shock again. Wait until the hospital discharges her.”

Meanwhile, Jaydah is in her unconscious state. “Kiddo, what happened?” a voice spoke.

“What? Who’s you? Where am I?” Jaydah questioned.

“Jay, it’s me. Yuh fadda.”

“No, no. It can’t be. Yuh dead an’ gone.”

“Listen,” Mr. Charles continued, “Ah here to tell you who went an’ killed me, child.”

“Was it Mummy? I know it was.”

“Honey, no. She would never.”

“But.. that don’t make no sense… I fou-”

“Honey, I don’t have much time,” his voice began to fade, “It was-“ “Daddy? Dad. No! Doh leave me again!” Jaydah began sobbing within the dark, empty realm of her mind. Everything faded to black nothingness. Her breathing quickened and slowed in the exact moment.

Almost instantaneously, Jaydah had awakened, confused, and ultimately, feeling mixed emotions. There were many dried tears on her freckled cheeks. “Daddy! Doh leave me!” She quickly realised that she was out of the pit of dark ness and in a hospital room.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow. Meh head,” she winced, “What happen?”

A few minutes had passed, and a voice from the hallway spoke. “She awake, Mrs. Charles.”

The woman, shocked and breathless, rushed to her daughter’s side, and there it was. Jaydah screamed, remembering why she fainted in the first place. Tears flooded her freckled face. Her mother. Murdered. Her. Father… Potentially. Her mother, who had waited for her at her extracurricular club meetings, tirelessly in the sun after school, with the entitled moms she could not stand. Her mother, who always helped her clean up her mess when painting. Her mother, who always made her favourite food when she was feeling down. Her mother, who tried her best to help Jaydah with her challenging mathematics homework. Her mother, who started crying with her when they couldn’t figure it out. Her mother, who would never hurt anyone. Her mother, who loved her with all her heart, soul, and being. She wanted to believe her mother did not hurt her father. Truly. But all the evidence was there. In the container. Stashed in some corner of the attic.

“What’s wrong, Jay?” Denise asked, frightened.

“Mummy,” she managed to say through tears, “I saw Daddy.”

“What you mean you see him? Jay… He gone.”

“I know, Ma! But he was here! We talk an’ ting!”

Lots of crying ensued. So much that poor hospitalised Jaydah’s brain was overloaded with thoughts of all kinds of accusations towards her mother. With off the-cuff phrasings on how she would begin to tell her mother. With empty spaces. With memories and questions. She didn’t know where or even if she could start.

The doctor and nurses left the room for the sake of privacy. Denise em braced Jaydah in the warmest, safest, most loving hug while both attempted to stop crying. Denise reminded Jaydah of her favourite memories of them during Jay’s childhood. Like magic, Jaydah began to open up to her mother, ignoring whatever consequences awaited her. Fortunately for her, Denise didn’t scold her. She, instead, was about to tell her what had happened to her father, when a grub by, hungover police officer, and likely his partner, a more put-together hungover officer, stormed into the room.

“Police! Away from de girl,” he demanded.

“Wait! She’s—” Jaydah tried to explain.

“Denise Smith-Charles, you’re under arrest on suspicion for the murder of John Charles.”

“Sorry Deedee. Jus’ my job. Cyah do nuthin’,” explained the officer’s partner, who seemed acquainted with Jaydah’s mother.

Her mother just shook her head in defeat while the officer took her away. Jaydah wanted to run after her, but her legs were numb. She couldn’t move. It was as if time slowed at that moment, then froze her in place. What an unfortunate world we live in.

The officer’s partner stayed with Jaydah to ensure she was safe, and told her that an anonymous tip was left at the station a couple of days ago. First off, who is this man? How does he know her mother? Secondly, who would want to frame an innocent woman? Who would kill an innocent man? Why? What’s their motive? She needed to prove her mother’s innocence.

Jaydah was eventually discharged from the hospital and was placed in the care of that seemingly trustworthy police officer. She later found out that he was her uncle. Her mother’s older cousin, Sachin Balmiki. With his help, she set out to save her mother, whom she loves deeply. Who was wrongfully framed for such a life-altering crime.

For the next three to four weeks, she investigated anything that could po tentially lead to her mother’s rightful freedom. This included a lot of research, looking through every box in the attic, inspecting her mother’s room, visiting her once a week for 45 minutes to check in and find out more information, conversing with the neighbours, the family, and anyone who may have known about her fa ther’s death. And, trust me, many people knew. Jaydah might have proven to be an excellent detective due to these unfortunate circumstances, and could become one in the future. If not for her easily-overwhelmed and easily-burnt-out nature.

Let’s continue from the fifth week, in Jaydah’s room, in front of a painful ly cliché murder board with the red string and thumbtacks. Moving each thumb tack to a different picture and location, trying to untangle the mess her mind cur rently looked like. Aha! Tha’s it! she thought. She quickly rearranged the tacks

with her thoughts in line. Something’s missing… What was the reasoning behind everything? Why would he do something like this… she pondered.

“Oh shoot! Ah gonna be late,” she realised as she checked her watch. Late for what, you ask? Her appointment to see her mom. At the police station, which was relatively near her neighbourhood.

“Mummy, I miss rel you,” Jaydah said, smiling as she saw her mother. Both sat on opposite sides of the table.

“Hello, darling. Things are,” she hesitated, “alright for now. But, wha’ yuh fine?”

“I think I figure out who went an’ murder daddy, and frame you. Yuh know ‘Robert Hosein’?”

Denise thought momentarily, searching through her memories for a ‘Robert.’ Her eyes widened. Opened. “He’s my high-school ex. We din’t have a serious relationship back den, but I think he did like me inno.”

“Wait. He’s the guy you dated before Dad? Yikes. Man is ah freak show.” “Jaydah. We doh bad-talk people,” she continued, in a silly tone, “but yes, he’s a strange man. A strange man who treated me like a queen, mind you.” “Nevertheless, I think he was getting back at you for dumping him, and then he was probably out for Dad, out of pure jealousy. Dais wha’ I feel.” “Is true, Jaydah. He did always envy yuh father. In every aspect of school: academics, sports, popularity, his relationship with teachers, everything. John al ways surpassed Rob.”

“Mummy, what else you know about him? Robert, I mean.”

“Well,” she paused, “he was always involved in crime—smoking, an’ vio lence on a whole. He used to break biche, vandalise the compound, cuss out teachers, an’ wha’eva. It was a mess. Dai why I break up with he. It was too risky,” Denise explained.

“You have 10 minutes left,” interrupted a supervising officer.

They decided to properly check in with one another in those 9 minutes and 56 seconds, and say ‘goodbye’ until they saw each other the following week. “Bye Ma, love you forever an’ ever.”

“To the moon and back, my shooting star.”

One of the officers returned Denise to her holding cell, as Jaydah set her mind on doing more intense research for hours on end, instead of doing her homework, finding Robert Hosein, and making him turn himself in to the police. And that, she did.

Over a few hours, she found it very simple to gather information on Mr. Hosein, as he was everywhere, for all kinds of warm, touching, very kind-hearted, humanitarian things. For instance, he was a well-respected CEO of a well-known IT Company, called ‘RobTech’. He had what seemed to be a million degrees and certifications. He’d received many awards for projects at his job. He donated er

gonomic desk chairs to newly opened office buildings and firms. He attends chari ty events and regularly donates to many foundations nationwide.

“Shit. That weirdo turned into a well-raised, well-read, well-known, well off guy,” Jaydah said, as she scanned his credentials, qualifications, and titles. He had his own Google ‘About’ section—the first thing you see when you search his name.

There was no way she could prove he committed such a heinous crime with a reputation so grand. It was astounding how one person could be so mind blowing. Still, if there were an award for the ‘Most Stubborn Teenager,’ Jaydah would have received it almost immediately.

“Uncle Sachin, I need sum help,” she requested.

“With?” he responded.

“Mummy said how this guy from her past likely frame her wit’ the crime,” she paused, “His name is Robert Hosein.”

“You do your research?”

“I did, buh ah couldn’t find anything incriminating. He’s too professional.”

“So, what do you want to do about it? Interview him?” he said, jokingly. “Can I?!”

Her uncle sighed in defeat. He set up an interview with Robert Hosein. Jaydah wrote three pages of questions about his questionable choices throughout high school, his character development in university, his present affairs, and obvi ously, his seemingly healthy relationship with his high school heartbreaker, Denise Smith.

While there is no reason Mr. Hosein would ever accept the invitation to meet a random eighteen-year-old in an all-girls’ catholic secondary school, or even acknowledge it, Jaydah has a few tricks up her sleeve. For one, Jaydah was the Ace of the Holy Faith Debate Team. She picked up badminton and tennis in Form One, occasionally played chess, was at the top of her English A class, and as a Form Six, was respected by almost every teacher to roam the halls of her high school. We can make an educated guess here why she’s always so exhausted. She’s a burnt-out gifted kid. He’s bound to be impressed.

A week of obsessively checking her uncle’s emails had passed, and there was still no reply from Robert. Each time she checked, she sighed in defeat, dis appointed that he had not gotten back to her on that interview. But that’s to be ex pected, isn’t it? Eventually, Jaydah returned to school as a Lower Sixer in the sec ond semester. The norm for this school was the popular girls bullying everyone for being different, the student athletes being relatively kind, the teachers trying to put in their marks for midterms, and the small group of students trying to save their grades by submitting their reports, like, yesterday. Ah, yes! High school!

Wait. What’s with that crowd surrounding the Principal’s office? She wondered.

“Oh my god? Jaydah, you eh hear?” a familiar voice spoke.

“Alicia? What’s happening?” Jaydah responded.

“Dais a rel good-looking man dey,” she fawned, her heart in her eyes. “Ion kno’ who he is, though.”

“Jaydah Charles, to the Principal’s office,” a voice heard over the p/a sys tem.

Jaydah sighed and proceeded to the office with the walk of shame and probable confusion.

The secretary greeted her and asked that she sit in the small, cramped, waiting room until Mrs. James, the Principal, was ready for her. While waiting, the dean questioned Jaydah about her reasoning for over a month’s unexcused absences. It was, indeed, awkward. More minutes passed by. Jaydah counted each second on the clock in front of her.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the door finally creaked open. Only enough for Mrs. James’ kind, wrinkled face to show in the space between the door and the frame. “Come in, Ms. Charles. There’s someone here to see you,” Mrs. James smiled. It was one of those cute whole-faced smiles your grandma gives you, not a creepy smile some random old lady, with her creepy basket of cursed trinkets and a poisoned apple, from down the street would give you if you ever came across her. Mrs. James had always had a soft spot for Jaydah.

As Jaydah walked into the office, she noticed a tall man with broad shoulders looking right at her. He wore an impressive, expensive black suit with a pale blue tie. His jacket was without a crinkle or thread out of place. His shoes were shiny. Glossy, even. It could reflect anything. It was practically a mirror. Mirror shoes. Yikes. Expensive mirror shoes.

Once she realised, a heavy, eye-opening, jaw-dropping gasp left her mouth.

“I heard you wanted to meet with me?” asked the man.

Jaydah noticed a familiar face standing behind the man. It was her uncle. Had she known he would show up at her school, she would have never requested to interview him. But now that he was here, she had no choice. She had to ask him now, or she might never get another chance. Jaydah suggested going to a quiet cafe near her school to conduct the meeting. He obliged.

Her uncle guided her out of the office, with his hands gently placed on her shoulders, through the corridors, outside of the school gate, and into his car. For that entire journey, eyes followed them, gasps filling the awkward silence between them. Muttering. Gossiping. Staring. Giggling. High schoolers were mean, specif

ically, the Catholic girls’ school students in her class. Jaydah would never hear the end of it when she returned. Despite her achievements, she had never liked being the centre of attention. Especially when it leaves so much room for doubtful dis cussion, and blatant shit-talking. This may also be the reason why she’s always

tried so hard. So that no one would have anything bad to say. Yet, here we are. “Check she, nah,” a classmate noticed.

“Yeah, who she feel she is so.”

“Wuz wit’ de police escort ’n’ ting? She feel she special or sumting?” Hearing these words shook Jaydah to her core.

“Y’kno she mudda is ah murderer. I wouldn’t doubt it if she was too.” “Yea, she mudda kill she fadda, apparently.”

Tears began welling in her eyes. She’d had enough of this. She wanted to break down and cry. She wanted to scream. At the top of her lungs. Emptying them of every last hint of oxygen. Regardless of whether she did or not, it wouldn’t change anything. Academic validation wasn’t enough to keep her afloat. These days, she barely gets any. She wanted to disappear. Disintegrate into dust and get taken with the wind.

Hearing how the students had treated the girl he was to look after, her un cle almost spoke up, but was interrupted by a teacher. “All of you. Back to class now.”

“Lame,” said a student.

“You,” the teacher pointed at the student, “Principal’s office now.” Jaydah was relieved.

“You okay, Jaydah? Don’t let them get you down,” she smiled gently and continued, “I don’t think your mother would ever hurt anyone.” Tears kept falling out of her eyes. Her teacher believed her mom was in nocent.

“She’s right, y’know,” Robert confirmed.

Since this happened, no one—aside from Sachin—had ever believed her. Not even her self-proclaimed best friend, Alicia. Wait. How does he know she’s innocent? He frame her, ent? Teary-eyed, the three made their eventual way out of the compound.

One silent and awkward twenty-minute drive later, they had arrived at Noche Cafe, a nearby, slightly popular coffee shop. After an intense round of ‘rock-paper-scissors,’ Sachin was dubbed ‘The Chosen One’ to order the drinks. The other two looked for a quiet, private spot to chat for the meanwhile.

“Now, why would you want to meet with a random teenager who is sus pecting you of murder?” Jaydah started.

“Wait, wait, wait. Murder? You think I, a man of such high prestige, would kill somebody?” Robert replied.

“Why you think I wanted to meet with you?”

“So I can advise you on starting a tech company?”

Sachin returned with the drinks and noticed both seemed confused and tense. He explained Jaydah’s situation to Robert in hopes of understanding and cooperation.

“Okay, yeah. I could see why you think I’s a murderer,” Robert continued, “But that doh mean I kill yuh father out of jealousy, eh.”

“So, is you, in truth, who kill him?”

He facepalmed himself. Yes, the wording of his statement led her to ac cuse him logically. However, he’s a technology whiz, not a proficient speaker of his mother tongue.

Sachin cleared his throat. “Bobby Boy, from this point forward, this meet ing will be recorded. I encourage you to tell the truth, and only the truth.” “Bobby Boy?! You eh call me that since primary school, boy.” Looking at her list of questions, she began, “How do you know John Charles, my father?”

“We met in secondary school when I was dating your mother. I was the polar opposite of him, and he always attempted to ‘correct’ my behaviour,” he paused briefly, “Even so, I got to know him, and he was a pretty OK guy, no com plaints here.”

“Wait, you two were friends?”

“Until your mother and I decided to break up. It was a mutual agreement. I don’t harbour any ill intentions towards Denise. I was happy for them when they eventually got together. The perfect couple.”

Reminiscing on his past, he almost shed a tear.

“It was the view I had of Johnny Boy, that made me turn my life around, and actually get serious about success. And I heard he had the greatest success of his life eighteen years ago.”

“What that was?”

“You.”

Jaydah opened her mouth to ask a question, but Robert continued his thought.

“Your parents asked me to meet you the day you were born. One of the first to see their eternal sunshine born to this gloomy world. You didn’t like me very much, though,” he laughed. “When your father passed away, I wanted to go check on Denise as soon as I’d heard, but I didn’t think she’d want to see me. Since then, I’ve been keeping tabs on you. Not as a stalker, but as a godfather of sorts.”

“So that’s why you accepted this meeting. Hmph. You coulda visit.” Jay dah was salty from this moment forward. “Anywho, next question. You know anyone who coulda frame Mummy? Anyone who had problems with her growing up? Or in general?”

“Well, I don’t think you’ve met him, but Denise despises her older broth er, your uncle. His name is Ethan Smith.”

“I have a next uncle?!”

“Denise always told me about how horribly he had treated her at home. He was the ‘favourite child’ and constantly caused trouble for your mother. Your grandparents believed him over her any day.”

“I’m disowning this uncle.” She said for comedic purposes, rolling her eyes. “Hold up. Uncle Sachin. Why you never mention him? Ent you’s he cousin too?”

“I forget he. He was never nice to me growing up so my mother decided to keep me away from he, specifically,” explained Sachin, turning to Robert, “You know anything else that could help us catch whoever is behind this?” “Das it really. Kiddo, you should go talk to your mother.”

Uncle Sachin stopped the recording and thanked Robert for cooperating today. Robert handed a business card to Jaydah and said, “My personal number’s on this. Call me if you need anything.” Robert called for his driver and left the cafe.

By now, it was three in the afternoon, and Sachin and Jaydah were on their way home. On this drive, they encountered a protest of sorts. Their street was crowded with people holding signs and eggs. Eggs? Why eggs? What was happening? Why the protest? The people looked angry, chanting, “Leave from here.” Who was it directed towards?

“There she is! Her Majesty finally reach.” A random protester called out. With that, came eggs flying through the air and landing on Sachin’s car. The eggs cracked on his windshield, letting out the yolks and whites. Dozens and dozens of eggs hit the vehicle, all at the same time, without stopping. The crowd quickly surrounded the car. He couldn’t safely drive off without hitting someone. They were trapped.

The protesters chanted. The group was split from the get-go. Group A sur rounded the car. Group B toilet-papered the house, broke in, and trashed the place. Furniture was thrown and broken. Picture frames smashed. Windows shattered. Broken shards of glass scattered all over the floor. Blood from their fists stained everything they touched. The newly-upholstered couch, torn to shreds. The fridge raided. Plates and glasses smashed on the ground. The sink running. Upstairs, they fled to destroy the rest of the house. The TV in Denise’s room was thrown out of the window, landing on the front lawn, inches from the rest of the pro testers. As you can imagine, mass destruction throughout the house.

What were they looking for? Who were they looking for? God forbid they find the attic.

In Group A, a person with a speakerphone began their speech. “We will not suffer anymore. Since the day that criminal was arrested, we’ve been victims of murder and thievery ourselves. She’s been investigating each and every one of us, like we’s the sickos who kill she fadda, and what we get in return? Stress. The loss of important heirlooms. The loss of freedom and peace. How we know she din’t frame she mother? How we know she din’t kill she father? How we know either one of them is innocent?”

“Uncle Sachin, I never suspected them. I only ask them what they knew. That was it. You was there,” Jaydah pleaded in a panic. And why did they attribute my informal conversations to being stolen from? How that making sense. “I know, Jaydah. I need to call for backup.” He replied.

The ‘leader’ of the protest continued chanting, and so did the rest. “Leave from here.”

“Leave from here.”

“Leave from here.”

They closed in on the car, banging their fists on the windows. The vibra tions from this protest swelled in Jaydah’s head. Her hands were on her ears, in an attempt to block out the noise. Her brain pulsating with the banging. Disorientat ed, she gasped for breath. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t speak. Tears spilled from her eyes. Her heart racing, her breathing staggered. This immense stress and forced guilt caused her to scream with so much anguish and sorrow. Her lungs flattened, and Jaydah had more difficulty breathing. Coughing and crying, will it ever end?

“Leave from here.”

“Leave from here.”

Over and over again, with no end in sight.

“Leave from here.”

“Leave from—”

The ‘leader’ started again. “I think a life for all of our lives is fair. Lewwe kill she for how she stress out our friends and families, and kill we hopes and dreams. Let’s kill her and become a safe neighbourhood once more. I think this is a fair price to pay. An eye for an eye, a leg for a leg. A shot to the heart and she’s gone for good! Wha’ allyuh say?”

“Kill she dead,” the crowd repeated for what seemed like an eternity. The ambush on Jaydah’s mental state worsened. The words resonated in her mind, never to be forgotten or lost to time itself. What did she do to deserve this? It wasn’t long before she passed out again.

It wasn’t long before more police cars arrived to the scene, and started dispersing the crowd. They came prepared with armour and shields, quickly arresting anyone who obstructed their movement towards the car and the house, and anyone directly involved in vandalism, assault, breaking in and entering, and threats of murder. As soon as he got the okay from the other officers, Sachin took his niece to the hospital.

“Jaydah,” said a mysterious voice, “Jay…”

“Huh?” asked Jaydah, “Where I is?”

“Hun, yuh in a coma… again. What you went an’ do so?”

“Wait, who it is speakin’ to me?”

“Yuh fadda, dregs”

“Daddy? What happen now? You goin’ an’ tell me who kill yuh? Or you rather fade away again before you could even have the chance to help meh?”

“Lawd, Jaydah, doh act so,” her father replied, “I hear you went an’ talk to Bobby Boyo. Wuz your next move?”

“Ion know, Daddy. People was trashing de house, and sayin’ how they wanted to kill meh for harassin’ dem. I thought we was a village. Where de community gone?”

“Well das in the past now. Doh beat up. Ah wah tell you about Valentine’s Day before I ‘fade away’ like yuh say.”

It was February 14, 2015. The perfect Valentine’s Day. John was up early with balloons, breakfast in bed, a dinner reservation for Denise’s favourite restaurant, and their daughter at Grandma’s house. Everything was perfectly planned. Denise awoke to the smell of pancakes, chocolate

covered strawberries, and a hot coffee with a few too many spoonfuls of French Vanilla creamer. The house was decorated with rose petals scattered on the floor, heart balloons lining the walls, and a bouquet of white roses on the kitchen counter.

After being married for seven lovely years, being together since secondary school grads, they were still devastatingly in love with each oth er. They were inseparable. It was like they never left the “honeymoon phase.” They were the happiest couple in the area.

Knock. Knock.

Who was at the door at ten in the morning on Valentine’s of all days? John kissed Denise’s hand to see who was disrupting their perfect day together.

“Aye Sachin. Wuh yah doin’ here? Where de missus?” John asked, surprised to see him.

“Johnny Boy, listen, ah need a favour,” Sachin responded, seeming desperate to get him out of the house, “Is rhell urgent.”

“It could wait til tomorrow? Me an’ Deedee doh get days like this so again. Even Jaydah by she gran’mother.”

“Nah man. Ah need yuh now.”

Denise walked down their grand staircase, also surprised to see her cousin at the door.

“Dee, ah stealin’ yuh man to go an’ do sumting for mummy. Sorry to ruin yuh ‘perfect day,’” he mocked.

Denise looked at her husband, saddened that he would think to leave her on a day like today. She asked that he stay safe and return home to her soon.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, showcases diverse voices from around the world. This prestigious event invites writers to submit their poems, short stories, essays, and creative works, providing a platform for both emerging and established authors to share their unique narratives. The competition celebrates creativity, offering participants the opportunity to reach a global audience and engage with a community of fellow writers and artists.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Kimberly Ali for sharing her intriguing short story "A Terrible Tragedy" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her skillful storytelling and compelling exploration of family secrets invite readers to reflect on the complexities of truth and relationships. We wish Kimberly continued success in her writing journey and look forward to more of her captivating narratives.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.