The air was frigid, the darkness all-encompassing, and a silence so profound it echoed in my ears. Never before had I encountered such stillness, and I couldn’t comprehend its origin. Was this the aftermath? Was this the end? Doubts plagued my mind, as they often did, for I was a natural skeptic, molded by my upbringing as a Lagos girl. The relentless cacophony of city life, with its blaring horns, bustling marketplaces, and boisterous conversations, had been my constant companion. But now, in this moment, all was eerily tranquil. Why now?
Though I was fully conscious, I found myself trapped, unable to move a muscle. Paralysis had gripped me tightly, rendering me helpless, akin to a bird stripped of its wings. Was I trapped in my own body? Panic welled within me, and I yearned for the presence of my loved ones. Where was Bayo? Where had Margaret disappeared to? And what of my dear parents? Questions flooded my mind, and a sense of urgency consumed me.
“Okay, alright… I should call for help,” I reasoned, my gaze falling upon Bayo, who lay sprawled lazily on his bed, seemingly devoid of any plans for the day.
“Bayo!” No response.
“Bayo!” Still no answer.
“This Bayo sleeps like the dead. It takes three calls to rouse him, just like the spirits in folklore. Such a peculiar fellow!” Irritation tinged my voice, though I struggled to maintain composure in this dire circumstance.
“Baayo!” This time, I mustered all my strength, unleashing a piercing scream that could potentially awaken an entire nation. Yet, to my disbelief, Bayo remained unperturbed. Frustration gnawed at me, and a restlessness crept in. Perhaps my sister, Margaret, would be more responsive. She had recently celebrated her thirteenth birthday, an entry into adolescence marked by menstruation and a pimple as an unwelcome gift. To say she was a light sleeper would be an understatement; the slightest noise could jolt her awake.
“Margaret!” Silence persisted.
Once again, I called out to her, this time employing her affectionate nickname. “Mag-Ma, my lava!” Surely this endearing term would stir her from her slumber. But to my dismay, still no response.
“Heiii! Egbami ke!” I exclaimed, exasperated.
“Adesanmi Magaret Oluwafunke!” I shrieked with desperation. Yet, the only reply was a haunting void, unbroken and foreboding.
It was at that moment the gravity of the situation truly sank in. Darkness enshrouded me, permeating the atmosphere with an unsettling energy. It felt like the darkest night of my soul, a dreadful abyss from which escape seemed impossible. My immobile body lay sprawled on the floor, tears streaming down my face uncontrollably. I, Bimbo, a self-proclaimed slay mama, reduced to tears like an infant. Still, I fought to maintain an appearance of control, even as fear gripped me, tightening its hold with every passing moment. Meanwhile, my eyes strained, nearly bulging from their sockets. I summoned the courage to call out for help, to anyone who could hear my plea.
“Help! Please, somebody help me! I can’t move!”
Silence persisted, unyielding and suffocating. Then, a deep, distorted voice, resonant and menacing, shattered the stillness. “No one can hear you,” it bellowed, its tone sending shivers down my spine.
“Who’s there? Who are you? Why am I here? What have I done?” A torrent of questions poured forth, my desperation laid bare. Impatience grew within me, though the object of my impatience remained unknown. Anxiety gnawed at my insides, as I yearned for answers, seeking respite from this numbing existence. Paralysis, I realized, was among the cruelest of afflictions. How could one breathe, aware and alert, yet unable to command their own limbs?
A flicker of hope emerged as a thought flitted across my mind. Could this all be a dream? A nightmare from which I would soon awaken? The pieces began to align, the puzzle revealing itself. But before I could grasp its entirety, a chilling realization struck me.
“You cannot see me,” the voice interjected, its tone dripping with malevolence.
“Please, I beg you, reveal yourself,” I implored, my voice trembling. Fear constricted my throat, threatening to silence me entirely.
“I am invisible to you,” the voice continued, its sinister presence growing in intensity. “But I know you, Bimbo Thomas. I know the name of every living being on this earth. Yours, in particular, is etched in my memory.”
In that moment, I found myself pondering the weight of my family name, the pride it instilled within me. A momentary distraction from the encroaching darkness that surrounded me.
With a low, haunting whistle, the voice taunted me, reciting the nursery rhyme “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Then, it shattered the silence once more, its tone dripping with contempt. “I’ve witnessed this before, this very moment, like a never-ending déjà vu. What befalls you is a recess.”
“A recess? A recess of what?” I demanded, my voice tinged with a touch of rudeness.
“A recess of your soul!” the voice thundered, its anger palpable. It chuckled darkly, its laughter resonating with bone-chilling menace. “You wish to move, to speak, to see. But alas, you are trapped within the labyrinth of darkness, condemned to this eternal prison.”
Suddenly, a door swung open, shrouding the room in a veil of smoke. Fire blazed fiercely, and anguished cries and mournful wails reverberated from all corners. There was relentless weeping, merciless torment, and the clamor of destruction. I stood transfixed, unable to comprehend the horrors unfolding before me. “No, no… this cannot be,” I muttered, my voice choked with disbelief. Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to overflow.
“Oh, yes!” the voice declared triumphantly. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Welcome to the afterm—”
“Bimbo! Wake up! It’s time for morning devotion!” The voice of my mother penetrated the darkness, rousing me from my torment. I saw her leaning over me, clutching her Bible to her chest, her scarf nearly brushing against my lips. I could hear her mumble, “I don’t know why she’s sweating so profusely and drooling at her age. Iwo Olorun, shaanu mi o. Hmm.” She fell silent, her gaze sweeping over me, a familiar roll of her eyes accompanying the gesture.
“Wo! Dide jare!” She tapped me once more before moving on to awaken my siblings. It was 5 a.m., and the sky outside still held the cloak of night. I rolled sluggishly onto my bed, sitting up and releasing a heavy sigh. I glanced toward my siblings as they greeted me with a cheerful “good morning” before exiting the room. Speechless, I contemplated the surreal nature of my experience. So, it had all been a dream? A nightmare from which I had been freed with a mere tap? Rising from my bed, I retrieved my Bible from the drawer and made my way to join my family for morning devotion. I prayed with a fervor I had never felt before, withholding the details of my ordeal from my parents. But as I prepared for the day ahead, a faint whisper echoed in the depths of my consciousness.
“Bimbo, it’s time.”
