In a peaceful neighborhood where families had lived in relative harmony for centuries, a stranger appeared one day. He was frail—his skin clung to his bones, his lips cracked from thirst, his clothes tattered. He looked lost, defeated, and desperate.
One kind neighbor, moved by compassion, opened his doors and invited the stranger in.
He fed him. Clothed him. Gave him shelter.
Weeks passed.
The stranger grew stronger. His back straightened. His eyes sharpened. His voice, once timid, now echoed with command.
Then one morning, he stood in the center of the house and said plainly:
“This is my home now.”
Before the kind neighbor could react, the man shoved him into a shed and locked the door. He controlled when the neighbor ate, when he had power, if he could go to the hospital, even when he could speak.
And then, the stranger began to arm himself.
He built fences and towers and defense systems, claiming everyone around him was a threat. He watched his neighbors from behind dark glass, calling it “security.”
Then one day, he saw something that enraged him: a neighbor had a knife.
It wasn’t a threat—it was all that neighbor had for protection. But the man, now bloated with power and obsessed with dominance, called his powerful friends.
“No one is allowed to have knives,” they agreed.
“Only you can be trusted with weapons.”
But the neighbor refused.
He knew the knife was his only means of survival against this blood thirsty man.
That night, under a silent sky, the man broke into his house and attacked his neighbor—claiming it was for everyone’s safety. But it was only for himself.
He thought it would be easy.
It wasn’t.
The neighbor rose from the dust and struck back with rage, precision, and fire.
For the first time, the man’s compound shook. He bled. And everyone watching saw:
He is not untouchable. He is not invincible.
There are cracks in every fortress.
There is a David for every Goliath.
And when Goliath falls, he falls loud.
Salima
Just me thinking out loud over here