Deities of Deceit

Chapter Nineteen

Nimah Eze | Nineteen
A NEW BOND
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White Arjanians were subjected to the most heinous form of torture. It was called disciplining, punishment, corrective imprisonment, anything but what it actually was.

I had seen it myself a number of times, and was among the many to offer condolences, words of encouragement, prayer and what not. We had nurtured an excellent skill in offering comfort. Many times I saw their bodies and soul break, and many times, they all seemed to bounce back, go about their lives, laugh and live. It fed me this illusion of strength. We could overcome anything if we had community, and friendship, people to lean on, cheer us on, cry and laugh.

No one ever talked about the emotional scars. I saw the healed scars across their skin, the bright laugh on their lips, the kind words they spoke and decided it was strength. It wasn't, it was survival, a facade, a way of coping. I wouldn't come to know this until I was the one recovering from torture.

They came to offer condolences, they gave me prayer, they told me I was strong, and all the while I kept thinking how much I needed them to not be there, to be gone. I prayed silently for Ala to strike me with deafness so I couldn't hear their words of comfort. I knew it to be genuine, but it washed over me like raindrops over hard stone, none of it capable of sinking into it my wounded heart.

Everyday, while I was bedridden, I fantasized about death. Not in a way where I imagined taking my own life, but rather not existing. Whatever hope and dreams I had mustered over the years about freedom and liberation, all faded away and left me with a deep desire to not exist.

I was jealous, so immensely jealous of the bodies rotting in the ground, basking in the bliss of death. They'd never have to wish, or dream, or hope. They'd never have to try so hard only to be told to try harder. They were enough as they were. Enriching the earth while their souls were free in the afterlife.

Mama's love for me, or my siblings, or Iman who'd constantly send me apology letters all felt like a burden. I felt unwanted and undesired by the world. A castaway, a thing that could easily be discarded, a mistake. I convinced myself my existence was of no point and it left me with a great sadness, one that could not be remedied by the love of my family and friends.

It was three days after my public torture that I began to journey to her again.

For years, ever since I was a boy, I had stopped dreaming of the queen. I turned my back on the place that made me feel the safest. After Papa's death, it made no sense to still admire and idolize the woman who'd been responsible for so much of the pain.

However, I couldn't help but find myself craving that feeling of safety again. That feeling of having all my worries taken away and replaced with comfort. Life was too harsh and unkind, but in my dreams, with the queen, I was safe and protected. I needed the version of her I created in my head as a boy, and so, I sort her out again in my dreams. I prayed for her to come to me as she did when I was a boy, and soon I began traveling across the seas and the sky to her.

At first, it conflicted me. This was all her fault, yet I craved her comfort the most. I craved the oranges and udara I ate as a boy. I needed cuddles, smiles and head pats. I fought the feeling, the need to slip into my dream world of her. The guilt made me feel like I had betrayed Papa, Mama, Iman, my siblings and everyone in the resistance. I tried to fight going back, maybe once or twice a week I'd indulge. But each time I woke, feeling trapped in a body that couldn't move, I wanted back in.

Soon, my weekly visits turned into daily visits. I'd shut my eyes and go to her and everything was right again. I'd swim in the river, she'd hold me afterwards. We'd eat together and sometimes I'd braid her hair the way I braided Tolu's: into big wide corn rows.