Preordained #ProjectNigeria

23- Some Wounds Never Heal

Maduka's POV~

In the dreams of my past, I am always helpless. Which shouldn't be a surprise, because the worst of my dreams occurred when I was seven years old, small and so trusting of the whole world.

I had woken up that fateful morning and wandered into my parents' room to complain of a slight stomach ache. Usually, their door was unlocked because the front doors were locked, and I was always welcomed to greet them every morning if I rose up before them to polish my father's shoes.

"Good morning, Mama and Papa," I greeted at the door.

Neither of them stirred.

"My stomach is paining me," I groaned.

No movement.

I walked into their small room, my small rubber slippers shuffling on the concrete floor. Soon, I would be needing a new pair because my feet were growing, and Mama said I would soon be taller than Papa.

I was their only child, and after seven years God had finally smiled on us and my mother had taken in. She said the baby would be here soon, and it excited me to place my ear against her swollen torso and feel my sibling kick.

I found it strange that their eyes were still closed. Papa said his arm around Mama's torso, and Mama lay with her back against him. I touched my mother first; she usually took it lightly whenever I disrupted her sleep. My father, on the other hand, would frown initially before sighing and seeing to my needs.

"Ma," I groaned, shaking her arm and playfully pinching it with a small laugh. Soon, she would open her eyes, smile at me, and call me naughty before asking me to join them in bed. She felt cold, and a bit stiff.

Didn't they use the wrapper to cover themselves last night? Mama said it was bad to sleep without clothes because it got cold early in the morning.

She made no sign of feeling my touch, and so I shook her arm harder.

Still no response.

Maybe they're too tired, I thought to myself. Deciding to take the risk, I touched my father's arm as well and whispered, fearfully, "Papa. Good morning. Don't be angry I'm waking you up."

No response. Not even a sigh. He felt cold, too. I felt something was wrong, and so I shook harder. It was like shaking stone statues. They didn't seem to be bothered.

"Mama. Papa. Wake up. I'm hungry. My tummy is paining me. Wake up."

No answer.

My heart began to pound against my ribs. I didn't feel the ache of my stomach any longer; instead, I felt it drop.

I continued to call them, shaking them as much as I could.

I didn't know I'd been screaming until our neighbour, a youth Corper named Kunle who lived in the small bungalow next to ours, broke into our home and raced into the room to find me kneeling next to the bed on which my parents' corpses lay.

It doesn't matter that I've had this dream countless times. This doesn't fail to make me sit up in bed in the middle of the night or early in the morning drenched in sweat, eyes wide. And to top it up, this effectively ruins my day ahead.

I go through my Saturday morning, feeling dull and yet restless. Jide has travelled to Dubai for business, and so I have no company. I try to tidy up my house, but it's clean already. The Power Holding Company of Nigeria has decided to bless us this Saturday morning with electricity, but I have no interest in using it to entertain myself.