His First Birthday in Heaven: Let This Be a Haunting Warning
Some souls are too pure for this world: too honest, too upfront, too trusting. Our brother Fika was one of them. He moved through life with radical transparency: when he was angry, you saw it; when disappointed, he told you. There were no hidden daggers behind smiles, no honey-coated poisons in his words. While others perfected the art of smiling to your face while plotting behind your back, Fika’s heart beat visibly outside his chest, raw, exposed, vulnerable to every touch and betrayal. His honesty made some people uncomfortable in a world that prefers pleasant lies to difficult truths. ‘What you see is what you get’ wasn’t just his philosophy, it was his entire way of being. And in a society that rewards deception, such purity becomes a death sentence.
We saw what he couldn’t. Long before the vows were made, we saw the storm ahead. We warned him. We pleaded. Not out of judgment, but out of love and a deep sense that something was terribly off. But Fika, in his sincere and open way, believed that love was enough. He believed people were who they appeared to be. So we stepped back.
He walked through life with an open palm, offering trust like an unguarded treasure. To him, love was simple: a promise was a promise, a smile was just a smile, and people were exactly who they claimed to be. But the world is not built for such purity. It eats it alive. We saw the predator long before the strike. We felt the chill of calculation beneath the warmth of false affection. We watched as his name was dragged through dirt for years, as his character was assassinated daily while he sweated and sacrificed.
We stood helpless as the very person who feasted on the fruits of his labor, without ever contributing a single penny until the end, went around poisoning his reputation. They consumed his sacrifices like a birthright, then spat venom into the ears of anyone who would listen. But love, when weaponized, is the most effective blindfold, it lets you watch your own destruction in slow motion and call it devotion. This is what true manipulation does: it isolates you, exhausts you, rewires your mind until you can’t recognize abuse as abuse. And when your usefulness expires, that same manipulation becomes the perfect alibi for your elimination.
And now, on his first birthday in heaven, we are left with the wreckage of a life unfulfilled, a brother not lost to fate, but to the slow, deliberate poison of manipulation. His death was not fate. It was the final transaction in a long con. This is not just grief. It carries the weight of unanswered questions. And his story must be a warning.
The Anatomy of a Life Erased
Love should not make you smaller. It should not sand down your edges until you disappear. Yet for over a decade, we watched as Fika, vibrant, full of fire became a ghost of himself. His laughter, once booming, turned hesitant. His confidence, once unshakable, grew fragile. The man who believed in the goodness of others was systematically drained of it. We warned him. We saw the signs, the isolation, the slow erosion of his spirit. But manipulation is a silent art. By the time the victim questions the hand around their throat, it’s already tightening.
When Fika finally woke up, it was too late. He didn’t die in a tragic accident. He didn’t fade from illness. He was alive one moment and gone the next, snatched away just as he began to reclaim himself. The timing was too convenient. The aftermath, too calculated. Grief was overshadowed by the cold efficiency of paperwork, policies, and payouts. A life was reduced to digits in an account.
There is no closure when death wears the face of suspicion. Only questions that claw at the walls of your mind: What really happened? Why was there no fight? Why does the timeline not add up?
The system does not care. It processes death like a transaction. But we, the ones who loved him are left with a truth that burns: Some people don’t just break hearts. They extinguish lives.
A Warning Etched in Grief
Today, Fika should have been blowing out candles, surrounded by laughter, by family, by his kids, by the future he deserved. Not reduced to a memory, a suspicion, and a policy number. Instead, we are left with a silence that howls, a legacy we refuse to let fade into the dark. So let this be our scream into the void for anyone who needs to hear it: Listen when the ones who love you see danger before you do. Intuition is the body’s first alarm, a primal whisper you ignore at your peril.
Run if love feels like a slow suffocation, if it demands your shrinking, your silence, your disintegration, real love does not feast on your destruction. And when someone profits from your absence, when the timing is too convenient, when the pieces refuse to fit, question everything, because not all deaths are accidents. Fika, your life was not in vain. We will turn this grief into a beacon, a warning for those still trapped in the jaws of wolves wearing love like a mask. Because the right love should set you free, but the wrong love does not just bury you alive. It buries you forever. Our brother did not merely suffocate in the dark; he was laid to rest by it. And now, we are the ones left digging through the dirt of unanswered questions, screaming into a grave that should have never existed.
Happy first birthday in heaven, our beautiful soul. Today, we mourn not just your death, but celebrate your endurance, your sacrifice. You bled to death, yet your blood still cries out. It shouts for justice. It shouts for truth. And we swear to you, brother, it will never stop shouting.
— Banchu (Nama)