Monday, February 5, 2018

A të kam thënë ndonjëherë se...

    Vetëm ti më njeh kur unë jam e fryrë, si Sena në ditët e sotme me shi. Je ti mikja ime, që ke qenë aty gjithmonë, pavarësisht se kur ka qenë hera e fundit kur jemi parë. Mund të ketë qenë dje; një vit më parë, ose që në vitin e largët 2003. Ti e di mirë kush je, ke qenë përherë aty për mua, kur unë kam pasur nevojë për ty. Je aty kur unë qesh. Ti më ke parë në ditët e mia “formidable”; kur pi e qesh pa fund. Nuk ka nevojë për fjalë, pasi ti di të lexosh mes shkronjave të mia. Më mbështet sa here unë bëj marrëzi dhe më mban ‘dorën’ sa herë unë qaj për një temperaturë të djalit.

    Nuk do të përmend emra, pasi ti e di kush je. Të kujtohet kur ecnim rrugës së Durrësit dikur? Kur qeshnim pa fund në trotuar, pasi sapo na kishin pushuar nga puna. Të kujtohet si njerëzit na shikonin me habit dhe kthenin kokën të çuditur? Nuk mund ta besonin se kishte njerëz ‘të lumtur’ në atë kohë kur në rrugën e Durrësit të zinte syri: pluhur, tuba, punëtorë llaci dhe makina luksi. Ata nuk e dinin se e qeshura jonë ishte një mburojë ndaj atyre që sapo na kishin mbyllur dyert. Po atëherë kur rrinim natën vonë në Qytetin Studenti dhe lexonim deri në mesnatë “Të mjerët” e Viktor Hygo-s; të kujtohet? Ti je aty edhe kur pinim kafe pa fund dhe bisedonim për cdo gjë në tavolinën tonë të preferuar në “Friends book house”. Por, je këtu dhe ti mikja ime e re; shqiptare apo e huaj. 

    Miket e mia të shumta, ju kujtohen ditët që doja t’i ulërija gjithë botës? Ju ishit me mua e nuk më latë kurrë vetëm. Më njihni aq mirë, sa e dini që miqësia për mua është si një lloj droge që nuk mund të bëj pa të. E, kur je larg nevoja për t’ju takuar ju, mikeshat e mia të mira, rritet edhe më shumë. Sidomos në ditët kur njeriu ka nevojë që dikush t’i thotë në gjuhën e tij: “Mos e çaj kokën!” 

Where friends meet. :)


    Vitet ikin e ne si pa kuptuar nuk jemi më ato që ishim dikur. Megjithëse ju e dini që nëse do të më jepej mundësia të isha dhe një herë 20 vjec, do të bëja po ato gabime që kam bërë dikur. Duke vrapuar nëpër shtigjet e shumta të jetës, as që i kemi vënë re thinjat që janë shtruar mire e mire në kokën tonë. Ndoshta dhe i kemi vënë re, por jemi kënaqur duke “gënjyer” veten ëmbël me një bojë të përkohshme në floktore. Por, punë e madhe për thinjat. Kjo është jeta në fund të fund, dhe nëse fati do të dojë që ne të kalojmë nëpër cdo etapë të saj, atëherë vërtet mund të themi: jetuam dhe lamë gjurmë. A nuk janë ata që do të lemë pas, gjurmët tona më të mira?! Atë që kemi kaluar e dimë, e ardhmja është në proces pune. Na jep çdo ditë nga një grimcë për të ‘shijuar’: qeshur e qarë.  

    E, sa më shumë vitet kalojnë, ndien dhe vlerëson ata miq që kanë mbetur ende në rrethin tënd. Janë ata të vërtetët që nuk kanë lëvizur prej aty. Ata që më një telefonatë apo mesazh të bëjnë të qeshësh pa e vënë re. Me ata mund të jesh i sinqertë, i hapur, i vërtetë. Me ata nuk ka gënjeshtra, mburrje e foto të bukura në facebook e instagram. Jo! Vetëm me ata ti je vetvetja. Dhe sa më shumë koha ikën e, thinjat e rrudhat vërtet shtohen - jo më me shaka - e kuptoj se keni një vend të rëndësishëm, në restorantin e trenit të jetës sime.

Thursday, January 25, 2018

Një ditë në shtëpinë e Shekspirit; aty ku nis historia




Takat e mia mbi pllakat e kohës moderne, prishën qetësinë e atij vendi. Ishte si të ngrije të vdekurit nga varri për të mbajtur veshë. Ndaluam para portës së vjetër prej druri, ndonëse jashtë ishte ftohtë dhe flokët e borës po binin mbi supat tanë, asnjëri prej nesh nuk mori guximin të futej brenda i pari. Ishte një ndjesi e çuditshme të hapje portën që dikur, para gati 5 shekujsh, kishte hapur dhe Uilliam Shekspir ( William Shakespeare). Ajo portë e vjetër do të na çonte 500 vjet mbrapa në histori. A ishim ne gati për një gjë të tillë? Por mendimeve të mia nuk u la kohë dora e panjohur që hapi derën e vogël e na ftoi të futeshim brenda. Me një buzëqeshje të ngrohtë burri që na priti - i veshur me një kostum tradicional si në kohën e Shekspirit - na tregoi shkallët që duhej të ngjisnim. U ktheva dhe një herë e pashë burrin me veshjen e çuditshme, ai më buzëqeshi sërish, ishte sikur ajo buzëqeshje t’í kishte ngrirë në buzë. Nxitova drejt grupit që tashmë ishte ngjitur në katin e dytë. Sa e habitshme, po ecnim në të njëjtat shkallë si Shekspiri dikur, po shkelnim në gjurmët e tij, po preknim në pjesë të së shkuarës së largët. Aty koha ndalonte; aty nuk ishte më ti. Ne ishim një grup i vogël prej pesë vetash, që atë mëngjes së shtune morëm rrugën nga Londra drejt Stratford upon Avon. Nuk flisnim, vështronim në heshtje çdo gjë. Secili prej nesh ishte i zhytur në mendime. Na mrekulloi çdo gjë që na doli përpara: libra, tavolina e tij e punës, një qiri, një shtrat, një palë këpucë. Nuk lamë vend pa bërë foto, pasi donim ta merrnim me vete atë çast, ta shikonim e rishikonim atë që pamë aty atë ditë. Donim ta ndanim me të gjithë; donim ta ndanim me ju.  Mbi tavolinën e tij të punës qëndronte ende një libër i hapur, një palë letra dhe mbi stol dy palë doreza. Befas m’u kujtua thënia: ‘O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek’. Në oxhak kishte ende një turrë me dru. A thua se gjithçka kishte ndodhur jo më larg se dje. Ishte një çast që vjen vetëm një herë në jetë.  M’u kujtuan mësuesit e mi të letërsisë: kush e di çfarë do të kishin dhënë për një çast si ai? Në cilën prej atyre dhomave  kishte marrë jetë vallë ‘Romeo dhe Zhulieta’, ‘Otello’, ‘Makbethi’, ‘Hamleti’ apo ‘Mbreti Lir’.  Për çfarë do ta ketë frymëzuar pamja që binte mbi rrugën ‘Henley Street’? po kopshti i vogël përballë shtëpisë së tij? Pamë librat e shkruar në origjinal, penën e tij, krevatin, djepin ku u lind dhe govatën e vogël prej druri ku i ishte bërë banja e parë. Nuk kishin fshirë e humbur asgjë nga origjinaliteti që tregohej në fotot e varura në mur.



                
Ndala një çast dhe mendova se ne nuk kemi ditur apo nuk kemi dashur të ruajmë asgjë. Gjithçka e kthejmë në hi, në pluhur e me ndonjë rast të rrallë edhe në gur. Shtëpia e gjyshërve të mi është ndërtuar pas luftës së dytë botërore, por nuk kishte kurrë strukturën e asaj shtëpie të ndërtuar më shumë se 5 shekuj më parë. E njëjta gjë dhe shtëpia ku u lind im atë. Madje asnjëra prej tyre nuk ekzistojnë më. Në e thëntë fati të le gjurmë në rrugën që kam nisur, askush nuk do të gjejë dot kurrë rrënjët e mia. Pastaj mendova se sa shumë qendra historike kemi pasur e që për hir të modernitetit i kemi shndërruar në kafe e restorante; i kemi bërë me pllaka shkëlqyese dhe ju kemi humbur origjinën. Vështrova me kujdes çdo tra e çdo gurë të asaj shtëpie, doja të gjeja sekretin e Shekspirit, burimin e atij frymëzimi të madh e ta merrja me vete. Po ai nuk ekziston në gjërat materiale; ai fle përjetësisht me atë që e mbart që në ditën që lind. Sekreti i një pene të madhe lindi dhe vdiq bashkë me Shekspirin.



Hapat i hidhja ngadalë dhe mendoja se ndoshta po shkelja dhe mbi hapat që Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, apo Isaac Watts kishin lënë si vizitorë dikur shumë kohë më parë në atë shtëpi.



Një ndjesi e papërshkruar më shoqëronte nga dhoma në dhomë. Më dukej sikur dikush më pëshpëriste në vesh: ‘’Të jesh apo të mos jesh, - kjo është çështja.“ Shkelja lehtë nëpër dërrasat e dhomës, të cilat sa herë ndërroja hapat  ‘’betohem” se lëshonin një tingull të lehtë. Ngrita me dyshim kokën dhe pata përshtypjen se po më vëzhgonin. Nuk pashë asgjë tjetër përvec atyre vizitorëve të shumtë që megjithëse ftohtë, nuk i kishte ndaluar asgjë për të shkuar në Straford upon Avon.


Besoj se për grupin tonë të vogël vlen të thuhet: “Të shohësh dhe të mbash mend, e të bësh pjesë të jetës tënde gjithçka me vlerë që gjetëm aty’. Kur morëm rrugën për t’u larguar nga ajo shtëpi pamë që në katin përdhes zjarri ishte i ndezur, ndërsa tavolina qëndronte e shtruar: për mua, për ty, e për të tjerë që do të shkojnë në atë vend pas nesh… Jashtë vazhdonte të binte sërish borë.


Thursday, January 4, 2018

English version


“Why The Brain,” she asked.
“The brain is not a university, but a money machine. People need a diploma and not all of them have the brain for it, so they buy a piece of paper. It’s crystal clear, everybody knows and no one wants to see it.”
“But, they are tomorrow’s doctors.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“People are gonna die,” Sarah screamed
“That’s not my problem too,” she said again with a smiling face. 

Albanian  version

 Pse “Truri”? Cfarë bëni aty? 
– Më premto që nuk do të shkruash asgjë, ndryshe nuk kam forcë, ata do të marrin djalin.
– Po më kërcënon sërish.
– Bëhu serioze, janë njerëz të rrezikshëm.  
– Më trego gjithcka, dua të di, nuk shkruaj asgjë. Ja fotot, fshiji po deshe! – tha dhe i vuri aparatin fotografik mbi tavolinë. “S’ka më as para. Sa keq!” mendoi.
– “Truri”, nuk është universitet, por një makinë parash. Ata që kanë para paguajnë për një “copë letër”. Jo të gjithë janë të zgjuar, jo të gjithë mund të shkojnë në universitet e të marrin një diplomë për të qenë. Pra, ju duhet të blejnë ‘mend’. Sot, ata janë bërë juristë, mjekë, inxhinierë pa bërë asnjë ditë shkollë. Të gjithë kanë firmën e universitetit “Truri”.  Këtij vendi po i thahet truri Sara, kjo është gjitha. Një shoqëri që ka njerëz të pashkolluar ose keqshkolluar, por që ka shumë diploma që nuk vlejnë, është e destinuar të mbetët në errësirë, të paktën për shumë kohë, derisa të bëhem unë e pasur, ose politikane; dy rrugë ka, - tha dhe qeshi.
– Alba, ata mjekë, inxhinierë mund të vrasin njerëz.
– Ky nuk është problemi im.
– Ti cfarë lidhje ke?
– Unë jam gjithmonë aty ku ka para.


Tuesday, January 2, 2018

The Sin - chapter one


I love the world all the same, and all the same the world has trampled over me!’ Vera vented these words that cold December day after Fata had invited her over for coffee. Those were dark times, times of great pain, times of unfettered sin and mourning. Moments when no one knew who they were, what they did or where they were headed. Vera lived on her own then. Only in her sixties, but looking aged beyond her years. Life had abused her.
That summer, Vera had moved into her new home, on the fifth floor of the block of flats where Fata had been watching her days trail away for years. Vera was her new neighbour. At first, Fata eyed Vera with suspicion, and, to some degree, did not bear her any sympathy. She was nothing more than a small-town woman settling in the city. Her city was no longer the same. ‘They’, the newcomers, were setting their own rules, and Fata didn’t like it. She had grown up there, but the place was slowly succumbing to a maze of disordered property developments, and God only knew how this was going to end. After the fall of communism, Tirana was like a stubborn old lady, trying hard to keep going.
And for this Fata blamed ‘them’, one of whom was Vera. Maybe that was why she was dismissive of Vera in those early days. When she happened to run into Vera on the block’s flight of stairs, Fata could hardly bring herself to utter ‘Good morning’. But there was one thing she could do well: keep an eye on Vera. Nothing Vera did slipped past her. Vera seemed proud. A weary sort of pride, concealed well under the wrinkles lining her forehead.
She was a quiet woman and seemed to keep to herself. She didn’t call on any neighbours, and Fata never saw anyone visit her. Sometimes she found herself eavesdropping at the door. This mysterious woman had more than aroused her female curiosity.
Eventually, when Fata saw her on the stairs, she spoke amiably to Vera. When Besmir, her youngest son, emigrated to Greece with his wife, Fata was left on her own. The loneliness led her to speak to Vera. She changed her behaviour. The death of her husband, her children moving away, everything changing at the same time, everything in that city seemed to be suffocating Fata. Most of the time she was the one who kept the conversation going; Vera spoke sparsely, as if what she harboured inside her soul was a wound she didn’t wish to probe. Until one day.
‘I gave Elma to someone. Why do I say “gave”? I sold her, and for what? For a ridiculous price: a hundred thousand leks less than a hundred euros nowadays. What am I saying? Rich of me, her own mother, to talk of prices! Has that horrible beast that used to live inside of me still not perished? Yes, I did, I did sell her.’ This is how she started her confession, leaving Fata speechless.

*
The best of the young had emigrated to Greece by that time, the luckiest ones to Italy and even as far as Germany. The girls, believing in love, had only sought to run away, not knowing where to or with whom. People had made a run for it.
Artan, who everyone called Tani, had lured Vera’s daughter. He knew his prey all too well. He had approached Vera, unobtrusively at first, offering her everything under the sun. Her only customer, he dropped by every day to buy the cheap snacks Vera kept on her stall. He needed none of what she had to sell. He only bought things as a favour to Vera, who felt happy. With the little money she got, she put food on the table for her daughter, Elma, and herself.
Tani started giving gifts, increasingly expensive gifts, so expensive that even Vera began to feel wary. Nothing was given for free in this world, and this angel of a guy was asking for nothing in return.
He had already become more than just a regular customer for her. From time to time, he would stop to exchange a word or two with Vera. Tani was the only person ever asking about her health. She had no one else besides Elma.
One day, he brought her a box, embellished on the outside, carrying an exquisite battery-powered watch. Vera had never set eyes on a watch like that before.
‘It’s for Elma. As soon as I saw it, I thought of her. Only she could carry off a watch like this,’ he said as he observed Vera’s befuddlement.
‘Vera, I think I am in love with your daughter. She’s all I ever think about. I can’t get her out of my mind for a single instant,’ he told her.
She knew it. He would have never got so close out of interest in her. Vera was old now. The wrinkles on her face displayed her suffering, her great pain. Every time she looked in the mirror, they seemed to speak to her: ‘Look at us! We appeared when Elma went to school and Iliaz, her father, was not there. And this new one? It showed up when Elma took ill, and this deeper one, when you heard that Iliaz was no longer alive.’
‘I need your help,” he told her. ‘I am too shy to speak to her myself, but I know that, if she were to agree to share her life with me, I’d be the happiest man in the world.’
Tani pulled a wad of money out of his pocket and left it on her stall counter.
‘Treat yourself and Elma to something nice!’ were the words he spoke before he took off.
The lump of money, left there so casually, clouded her vision. That was what made her endlessly repeat the phrase: ‘I sold her.’
Never had she glanced upon that much money. There were so many things she could buy with it. A TV set … Yes, yes, that would be the first thing. And then she would buy some new clothes. There was a red dress that had been winking at her for days in that pretty shop across the road from where she stood most days with her meagre stall. Finally, with the money she now had, she could walk in there. All that time she had been too afraid to lift her eyes and gaze at all that splendour, but now she had money, they couldn’t possibly turn her away.
‘Hold on!’ she cautioned herself. That money seemed too much for a girl’s hand in marriage, but she didn’t stop to ponder for too long. The lure of pleasure offered by that pile of green notes was immense.
She gathered the trash from her ugly stall. It was two pm. Lunchtime. Too early to leave, but she didn’t want to stay there among the dust any longer, in the wind that slapped her at any given moment with the leaves from the yellowing trees that had just drawn their last breaths.
Elma was waiting at home for her. She too had returned early that day. From school. She was still just a child. Her pale face and wavy hair pouring down her shoulders only served to intensify that image. Young, fresh looking; she had yet to turn eighteen. Although she liked to dress up, she had no money to buy anything. She made do with hand-me-downs from friends, and that made Vera feel awful. She couldn’t afford to buy anything for her.
That day, Elma was wearing a pair of black leggings some elastic things clinging to her body and a long shirt. The black belt that she had wrapped halfway down the shirt, right over her stomach, looked as if it were squeezing the breath out of her. Her figure stood revealed. Vera didn’t approve of the outfit, but that was how ‘fashion’ demanded it.
The music she often listened to was ear-piercing. The old Mimoza radio, left over from bygone times, played at full blast. It was beyond her how that radio, with the two exposed wires sticking in the socket, was still in working order. One day, her daughter might just meet the disaster that was waiting to happen there. Elma had no idea that, quite inadvertently, she had become engaged that day, or at least been pawned off to someone as in the olden times. Vera didn’t know whether her daughter would agree to this, but she had to agree. She had to understand that this was the right thing to do. Tani loved her. He would be able to offer her wealth that Vera never could. And Jeton? She cursed the day that boy, as if out of thin air, had suddenly come into Elma’s life. “It’s just a passing crush,” Vera tried to convince herself.

Monday, November 27, 2017

The Sin



‘I could never forget that night they left for Italy,
not even now that death is circling around me in this small
hospital ward, where fate decided I should end my days,’
Vera continued her story to Fata, and she was all ears.
‘Perhaps, in a bit, when my soul takes leave of my body,
I’ll get to meet her, right? But she will definitely be in
heaven – what awaits me is hell. I miss her to bits. Oh, the things I need to say to her!’ Elma held her tight, as if she was never going to see Vera again. And she didn’t. Tani offered the tips of his fingers
for a goodbye handshake, and, with his head to one side, reminded Elma it was getting late and they had to leave. They took one piece of luggage. Tani said that was all they needed, as they’d be buying more clothes in Italy. There, they’d dress like the Italians, so their old clothes wouldn’t be of any use. All Vera knew about the journey was that they were leaving by ferry that evening and, once in Italy, in Bari, Tani’s friend would meet them. They would live with the friend until they were settled into jobs, had a place to live and had resident permits. Tani wasn’t that keen on work; Vera knew Elma would be carrying most of that weight. Elma was scared of the water and, as if to spite her, the sea that night was stirring, waves crashing fiercely against their ferry, as if to warn her not to go. She spent all night locked in her cabin, barely holding her food down. When they landed in Bari, she had lost all colour in her face. Her eyes had circles so dark they looked as if they were bruised from a beating. The awful night she’d gone through had left its mark. The ferry docked. The anchor
touched the blue waters of the sea. Elma finally set eyes on land again. She’d been missing the shore for the past twelve hours, enough to feel like a lifetime. At the security check, they had to behave normally, even more normal than usual. No one should suspect their visas were fake. They tried to appear casual, hoping to fool the Italian policeman. In Durrës they’d had no problem – the policeman barely noted their names down before letting them through. He would have never realised the visas were fakes. Sometimes, the policeman didn’t even understand the documents passengers handed to him while going through the security check. They finally checked out clear at the Italian side too. When the security officer stamped their passports and let them enter Italy, Elma’s freedom was over.
Tani’s friend was waiting by a Fiat on the other side of the road, sporting a black leather parka; Elma never understood why everybody wore those. She had never met him before, but it wasn’t hard to see that that was the guy. Tani’s friend leaned against the car while also trying to wipe the dust off it. It was clear it hadn’t been washed in months. In the other hand, he jangled a set of keys. He drew intensely on a cigarette which, if he didn’t stop polishing, would soon be searing his lips. He was smoking the wretched thing right down to the butt. Elma was far too tired to care much more about her first impressions of Bashkim, or Baçi, as everyone called him. All she wanted was a bed to lie in and pull her bones together, as the sea seemed to have rattled them to every corner of her body. They set off. Her eyes could not focus on the astonishing views that unfolded along the road. What she had left back home was completely different, way too different. There was no comparing it to what she found here. The road lay along the seashore. She’d never had any good feelings about the sea. Fear, if anything. She’d never seen the sea this close up before, let alone live a night on its body. Did it not feel pain when their ferry was cutting through it towards Italy? Of course it did, or it wouldn’t have
unleashed all those waves onto us. They were the sea’s endeavours to show its pain, to tell those people it hadn’t agreed to this. They were stepping over it, spoiling its peace. I’m so stupid, she thought to herself, then went back to enjoying the beautiful view that erased away all her thoughts and words. There were elegant palm trees lining the shore, swishing to and fro in the wild wind. She had never dreamed of such beauty. Tani and Baçi were chatting away in a low voice. Elma didn’t bother trying to make out what they were saying. Their conversation was half-Albanian, half-Italian.
‘Wake up, Elma, we’re here,’ Tani said.
They’d been driving a long way, almost all night. It was
dark, although dawn had shown its first signs. So there it was, another day signalling its arrival. She couldn’t remember a thing, she’d had a bad sleep and her neck was aching. She froze. The sea and the magnificent road had made way for a house that barely stood up. Baçi lived there. The house looked like a wreck, but all she wanted that moment was a bed and clean sheets she could lie on. She felt like she could go to sleep for eternity.
‘We’ll stay here a few days, just till we find work and get a place of our own.’ Tani shook hands with his friend once more as a sign of gratitude and invited Elma to thank him too. She smiled and nodded in approval, as her man told her to. Even if she wanted to do otherwise, she couldn’t. She was on the outskirts of Milan, in a small neighbourhood of that big city. Baçi’s wife, Nora, received them in the doorway. She was no taller than a metre fifty, with a chubby figure and short black hair. Nora was wearing a red top and a pair of white trousers. The attire only accentuated the bulges of her body.
She had three young children who ran about in the small, dilapidated house. The plump woman was unaffected by their mind-numbing shrills. Compared to the outside, the interior of the house was not so bad. Nora showed them the room they’d be staying in. In that house you could hear even the slightest sound, but still Nora made a point of shouting. And later, Elma had to hear Nora’s complaints.
‘I hope they’re not staying any longer than the two weeks you said they would,’ she was saying to Baçi.
‘Be quiet or I swear I’ll kill you!’ he screamed.
‘You can’t touch me, or I’ll call the police. Do you remember what happened last time?’ she threatened him.
‘All right, all right, they’ll go. Things’ll be just like I promised.’ Baçi managed to calm her down in the end. The yelling ceased. No one peeped anymore. Elma found the whole thing weird, but Tani slept, pretending not to hear. Helpless as she felt, she lay down and tried to sleep too. She tossed and turned, the old metal frame creaking with every move. She couldn’t sleep in that so-called bed.
The feeling she had the moment she stepped into this house wouldn’t leave her alone. Everything seemed out of place: clothes thrown in all corners. It seemed like a maze with a secret she couldn’t uncover.

Saturday, September 9, 2017

If you are reading this letter now, I'm not here anymore. He killed me last night, and the night before, and... #writing

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Letra e një gruaje të vrarë

Nëse ti po e lexon këtë letër tani, do të thotë se unë nuk jam më. E di, parandjej; ndaj dhe po të shkruaj. Mos e gjyko “Arditin”, ai nuk ishte i keq, por jeta, shoqëria; nganjëherë edhe vendi e bënë të tillë. Gjatë kohës që ishim në Selanik nisi të pinte. Gjërat u përkeqësuan më shumë kur u kthyem nga Greqia. Kriza na i mori të gjitha, nuk kishim më as punë, as para; as gjë prej gjëje. Me të mbërritur në Shqipëri, filloi dhe bixhozin. Edhe ato pak kursime që kisha arritur të bëja në Greqi i harxhoi në lojëra fati. Pinte shumë, oh, sa shumë që pinte!
E mora një natë në telefon, Johani - djali i vogël - ishte sëmurë, kishte shumë temperaturë, e unë kisha frikë. Shokët e vunë në lojë: "Shko, shko se të kërkon gruaja!" Që prej asaj nate ai i bë edhe më i dhunshëm. Më goditi fort! Atë natë nuk pata vetëm një sy të nxirë, por edhe një brinjë të krisur. M’u dhimbs Johani. Qante e bërtiste: babi mos! Ai djalë ka parë shumë gjëra që nuk duhej. Është vecse një fëmijë pa fat.
Kujdesu për të; kur unë të mos jem më! Ai është djali yt në shpirt. Nuk arritëm të bënim kurrë një ceremoni për pagëzimin, por Zoti lart e di arsyen; ndaj do të na falë.
E di, e ndjej që Arditi do të më vrasë. Mos më pyet si? thjesht e di; ndaj dhe po të shkruaj këtë letër. E thashë dhe në polici. Gjithë ç’kërkoja ishte vetëm ta mbanin larg prej meje e, ata nuk e bënë. Qeshnim me mua sa herë shkoja në komisariat, me sy të nxirë, me buzë të çarë. "Po kjo kurva, erdhi prapë?!" i dëgjoja policët që flisnin me njëri-tjetrin. Erdhi një ditë dhe nuk shkova më as atje.
Shoqja ime e mirë, mos u mërzit, nuk të kërkoj të qash, dua ndihmën tënde kur të mos jem më. Mos u habit as kur të shohësh €200 në zarf, nuk janë shumë e nuk do të të mjaftojnë. Janë për kostumin e maturës së Johanit, e di që do të shtosh edhe të tjera deri kur të vi ajo ditë, ndoshta me aq para nuk mund të blesh as këmishën. Dua vetëm që ai të mbajë veshur dicka prej meje, qoftë edhe sikur corape të mund të blesh. Tregoji atij që kishte një nënë që e donte shumë, ka dhe një baba që ndoshta do të jetë në burg, ose ndoshta për mungesë provash do ta lirojnë. Johani është 7 vjeç tani, nuk i kupton këto gjëra. Kujdesu për të, tani që unë nuk jam më!

Shenim: Johani dhe Arditi jane emra te sajuar nga autorja.