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Season 1 – Episode 5: "The Mirror in Nneka’s Room" – “The Last Reflection”

The rain fell heavily on the rooftop that Friday night, drumming a steady rhythm like a war cry from the gods. Inside the house, silence had returned, but it was thick and watchful. The strange mirror in Nneka’s room had remained covered with a white cloth since the events of the last episode. Nobody dared to go near it.

Mama Nneka had insisted they invite an elder from the village to “cleanse” the home. Nneka’s father, once a skeptical man of science, now agreed wholeheartedly. What they had all witnessed—the whispering reflections, the woman trapped in the glass, the chilling visions—was no longer imagination.

That morning, they fetched Dibia Obidike, an old traditional healer known across the village for his dealings with haunted objects. The man arrived barefoot, wearing a wrapper dyed with native patterns, his staff carved with Nsibidi symbols and decorated with cowries.

As soon as he entered the compound, he stopped and sniffed the air. “Your ancestors are troubled,” he said, eyes narrowing at the covered mirror through the window. “And something unnatural is using their silence.”

He entered the room without fear. Nneka and her parents stood behind him, tension mounting. The cloth was removed from the mirror, and once again, Nneka’s reflection did not move. It only stared.

“Who are you?” Dibia Obidike asked, but not to Nneka. He spoke directly to the glass.

The image’s mouth moved this time, silently. Then the surface of the mirror rippled like water, and a gust of cold wind filled the room. Everyone shivered. The elder held his staff tightly and began to chant in Igbo, invoking the spirits of the land, sky, and ancestors.

Smoke rose from his bag as he lit dried herbs and native chalk. The smell was sharp and earthy. He marked the four corners of the mirror with white powder and placed kola nuts at its base.

Slowly, the image in the mirror changed. It was no longer Nneka, but a young woman from the colonial era, bound in traditional beads and a white wrapper. Tears streamed down her face as she placed a palm against the glass.

“She was trapped during the war,” Obidike murmured. “Wrongfully accused of witchcraft and cursed to remain in the last mirror she looked into before death. That mirror… is this one.”

Nneka gasped. “So she’s been here for decades? Watching?”

The elder nodded. “And angry. You awoke her with your curiosity and fear.”

“What must we do?” Mama Nneka asked, her voice trembling.

“We must release her,” the Dibia said, now painting symbols across the mirror’s surface with ground charcoal. “But it will not be peaceful. Spirits that remain too long become bitter.”

He began to drum gently on a small handheld ikoro, singing a song of release. The room dimmed, and the mirror began to crack—not shatter, but split like ice. A woman’s cry echoed, part rage, part relief. Nneka stepped back, holding her ears.

Then silence.

The mirror turned black, then cleared. Only Nneka’s reflection remained—moving when she moved.

Dibia Obidike smiled, though weariness lined his eyes. “She is gone. Let her rest.”

That night, for the first time in weeks, Nneka slept peacefully. No whispers. No visions. Just dreams of sunlight and the rustling of palm trees.

The next morning, the mirror was taken into the forest and buried at the foot of an ancient tree. They marked the spot with a white stone and poured palm wine as an offering.

Love is a Dog from Hell by Charles Bukowski is raw, gritty, and unapologetically human.

Reading Love is a Dog from Hell feels like pressing your palm against broken glass and calling it poetry. Bukowski doesn’t sugarcoat love—he rips it open, exposes the nerve endings, and dares you to feel it all. This collection of poems is not about the polished, packaged kind of love. It’s about the feral, flawed, aching love we often try to hide from. The kind we don’t write Hallmark cards about.

What I found in these pages wasn’t comfort. I found truth. Ugly, beautiful, tender, violent truth. I found pieces of myself in his mess—his desperation, his longing, his loneliness dressed up as lust. If you’ve ever loved too hard, too wrong, or too late, Love is a Dog from Hell will break you open in the most necessary way.

9 Lessons I Learned from Love is a Dog from Hell:

1. Love is rarely tidy, and that’s okay.

Bukowski doesn’t give us love with a bow on it. He gives us the kind that bleeds. And in doing so, he reminds us: love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.

2. Loneliness doesn’t go away just because you’re with someone.

So many of his poems are soaked in the quiet ache of being misunderstood, even in a lover’s bed. Being next to someone doesn’t mean you’re not alone—and sometimes, it’s lonelier that way.

3. We crave love even when we know it might destroy us.

There’s a tragic honesty in how Bukowski throws himself into women, into chaos, into passion—knowing it might end badly. We do it too. Because sometimes destruction feels like the only proof we ever really felt.

4. Vulnerability is power, not weakness.

Bukowski doesn’t hide behind metaphor. He bleeds on the page. And in his rawness, he reclaims power—not by pretending to be invincible, but by being undeniably human.

5. Lust is not love, but it’s often mistaken for it.

The bodies in his poems come and go, but the hunger behind them rarely changes. He shows us the difference between needing someone and truly seeing them—and how easy it is to confuse the two.

6. Loving someone doesn’t guarantee they’ll stay.

One of the hardest truths in this collection is how often love is one-sided or temporary. Bukowski doesn’t romanticize that. He just sits with it. And sometimes, that’s all we can do too.

7. Art is born from the mess we try to survive.

Every broken relationship, drunken night, or lonely morning becomes fuel. Bukowski teaches us that beauty isn’t in the perfection—it’s in surviving, and then turning survival into something worth reading.

8. Some people aren’t meant to save us—they’re meant to show us who we are.

The women in his poems aren’t saviors. They’re mirrors. Often cracked, sometimes cruel, but always honest. And that reflection is sometimes the most painful gift.

9. We write to remember, not to move on.

There’s no closure here—just memory. Raw, unfiltered, unapologetic memory. Bukowski shows us that writing about pain doesn’t always heal it. Sometimes, it just lets it breathe.

Bukowski’s Love is a Dog from Hell doesn’t give you hope wrapped in a bow. It gives you honesty that tastes like blood. And sometimes, that’s the kind of hope we need—the kind that reminds us we’re still feeling, still hurting, still alive.

The Essays by Michel de Montaigne is a collection of reflections on various aspects of human nature and life, penned in the late 16th century. Montaigne explores topics ranging from personal identity and human behavior to friendship and the nature of happiness. Through a candid and introspective style, he shares his thoughts, experiences, and observations, blending philosophical inquiry with personal anecdotes. His essays offer a rich tapestry of insights into the human condition, advocating for self-awareness and critical thinking. Montaigne’s work is notable for its exploration of individual subjectivity and its enduring influence on modern essay writing.

Season 1 – Episode 1: "The Mirror in Nneka’s Room"

Nneka had just turned 17 when she and her mother moved back to her late grandfather's village house in Umuelechi, a sleepy settlement in the heart of Anambra State. The house, once grand, now stood aged — its red earth walls cracked and the zinc roofing rusting under the weight of time. Yet, despite its eerie quiet, her mother insisted it was “home.”

They arrived one dusty evening in a rickety bus, greeted only by the rustling of dry palm trees and the stares of silent villagers. Nneka, slender with chocolate-brown skin and shoulder-length kinky hair, wore an oversized hoodie and jeans that clashed with the traditional aura of the place. Her mother, wrapped in a faded Ankara wrapper, was visibly tense.

The interior of the house smelled of old wood, kerosene, and something faintly sour. Nneka’s room had a high ceiling with cobwebs dancing above. What stood out most was a large wood-framed mirror, almost too large for the small bedroom. It leaned slightly against the wall, its glass untouched by dust.

That night, as she unpacked, Nneka noticed the mirror’s reflection didn’t quite match her movements. A half-second delay, then an odd flicker. She blamed it on exhaustion. She shut the curtain, clicked off the bulb, and lay down on the raffia mat — the only bedding she had for now.

By midnight, the air turned cold. Very cold. A faint knock echoed through the house. Nneka sat up, heart pounding. She turned to the mirror — and saw herself still lying down, asleep. Yet she was fully awake, upright.

She screamed.

Her mother rushed in with a kerosene lamp. “What is it?”

“The mirror—Mama, look!” she cried.

But the mirror only showed one image now — a frightened girl and her mother, holding each other.

The next day, Mama covered the mirror with a white cloth. “Your grandfather warned me about that mirror. It belonged to a dibia. I should’ve burned it.”

Nneka was shocked. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was afraid,” her mother whispered. “Your father’s spirit told me it must stay, for now.”

That evening, Nneka heard whispers coming from beneath the cloth — hushed voices in an old dialect she didn’t understand. She recorded the sound on her phone and sent it to her cousin in the city who studied linguistics. Hours later, she got a one-word reply:

"Run."

Instead, Nneka stayed. She wanted answers. That night, she removed the cloth.

The mirror shimmered like water. Her reflection smiled — but Nneka hadn’t. The reflection then turned and walked away… into the mirror.

In its place, another figure emerged. A pale-faced child with hollow eyes and no legs, floating, mouthing words silently.

Nneka slammed the cloth back on and ran out of the room.

Mama met her in the hallway, holding an old book. “It’s time you knew what we’re dealing with,” she said.

“We are mirror-bearers, Nneka. The curse is in our blood.”