Lost in the ruins of his heart

The time was 12:00am by the time l looked at the silver-coloured clock that hung above me.

Night had crawled in one earth's ground; the cold absence of a human voice made my room more like a graveyard. l couldn't sleep; yet l tightened my eyes, trying to fall asleep. the night would have been a lovely one if not for the horrendous dream l had.

l woke up into a cold world of terror and viciousness. l peered around but there was nothing, not even a building. l shifted my gaze towards the sky and it was dark red, the colour of blood. just immediately, there was a panic growing in the pit of my stomach, making me ill. The first drop on my cheek made my lower lip quiver uncontrollably. it was blood, not water; my entire body was soaked in blood. My heart beat so hard that l didn't understand why it didn't break through my ribcage. Horror meshed with my brain and was transmitted, wave like, to my toes. Tensed in every limb, my dress stuck to my vibrating body. I started running, in no direction in particular; shadows drifted eerily, ghost like in the uncommunicative darkness. Then, l came to a halt, because my trembling legs couldn't move any longer; my tensed toes were pinned to the ground. My eyes were peppery with hot sweat and despair flooded my mind. Then l saw a figure detach itself from nowhere and move like an errant ghost towards me. I felt a shiver dance down my spine, and l looked at my hands, and, behold, l was holding a gun; my hands trembled with the gun l held. Then I turned towards the figure, but it wasn't there anymore. l pointed the gun fearlessly into space as a sudden boldness enveloped me.

"Drop the gun!" a deep voice ordered from the back.

Immediately, l saw some police cars surrounding me. Then the rain ceased, the bloody rain and the stars emerged from under the black skin of the night. l turned towards the policeman that stood right behind me, with the gun in my possession. Then a gunshot was fired; the bullet pierced through my forehead, sending me flat on the ground.

"William!" a voice brought me to reality.

l rubbed my eyes and stared at the door. Mama was standing, hands akimbo, her loosely-tied wrapper around her waist.

"Good morning, ma," l said in a low tone.

"How can you still be sleeping by this time?"

Her voice was a pitch higher.

l looked at the wall clock; it was 9:00am. "l'm sorry ma," l said getting of my bed.

She frowned and shook her head like a parent whose child had given the wrong answer to a simple homework question and then she left the room.

l sat down on my bed, reflecting on the dream l had earlier. "it was a dream, just a dream," l assured myself.

The morning was exquisite; the sun was caressing "it's citizens" with warm, loving fingers. l smiled, seeing that it was already the second month of the year. Papa had said that 2010 did not favour him and l had hoped, within me, that this year would be better. l walk towards the window; the warm breeze that swept into my room, rattling it's shutters, presented a wonderful atmosphere. l stared at the small- screen television that sat elegantly before me and then, at the wall. the conspicuous pictures of Mama and Papa adorned one side of the wall. My bed bed at the left end of the wall, which was the size of a sports car, took much of the space in my small room.

l heard a scream from downstairs and l rushed towards the window and looked down the two-storey building.

it was Blessing, our housemaid, who behaved like someone who was possessed; at least, that was what Father said when Blessing fought the bus driver that lived under our flat. she screamed just because father's Toyota Camry had made a peep peep sound when she touched the steering. Five years in the city, yet she behaved like a village champion; her scruffy appearance wouldn't tell otherwise.

Even though Mother usually called Aba a village because of it's dirtiness and bad roads, l had often wondered how Blessing's village would look like since she referred to Aba as a paradise.

l inhaled slowly as the pungent fumes of kerosene mixed with the aroma of curry and nutmeg from the kitchen floated into my room. l had always preferred Mother's food to that of Blessing. Blessing's food was never tasty; maybe my tongue tasted differently whenever l ate her food because Father would always applaud her after each meal she cooked. l looked at the wall at my right; the picture of Mother and l, which we took three years ago, hung hopelessly; it was the picture that papa always teased me with, saying that I looked like a dog in a baby suit. The cake was almost taller than l was if not for the pair of big shoes Father bought me as a birthday present which l insisted that l must wear before taking any picture to avoid burying my face behind the cake; the shoes Blessing had called a bulldozer.