INKSPIRE

This is his seventh year on the Job and he hasn't seen anything like this, John stood still,  carefully examining the photos taken earlier at the crime scene, with the help of his colleagues he tries to piece the puzzle together. "what's more intriguing is how he delivers a cut- yet leaves no trace of blood"  "He? I mean, aren't you jumping into conclusions?"  "Have a look, there is almost no sign of struggling, only a person with great strength would hold his victims down long enough to deliver such precise chop to the neck." John argued. None of the victims' bodies has been recovered yet, and he doesn't think it was possible until the 'Butcher' is apprehended. What could his motives be? a  question left unanswered.  He takes a closer look at the decapitated heads lying breathless on the slab; each has its left eye ruptured intentionally.  "I know that every serial killer has their signature, mostly left on their victims...

                    In the small village of Katsina, where the sun kisses the earth with an intensity that can either nurture or scorch, I strive to capture the extremes of life through my lens.  My name is  Amina, and I am a budding photographer in a place where survival often drowns out the dreams of the dreamer. Every day feels like a battle against the stifling hold of tradition, relentless pressure to abandon my passion, and the fear of invisibility that clings to me like dust on my sandals.  As I care for my ageing mother, her weakening health mirrors the fading light of day, and the weight of potential failure bears down on me with each passing moment. One scorching afternoon, on the brink of giving up, I wandered to the outskirts, where the baobab trees stood sentinel-like. It was there that fate matched my path with Halima's, a renowned painter seeking solace in the quietness of our village. The despair in my eye...