I am jolting in and out of a teary reverie by the clocks plea to be put out of its misery, to be brought to life, out of its coma, the hands stuck, pointing to the right, back and forth, incessantly, within a mini-second. Literally a mini second. I looked at the clock and it said 3:30. I did not know if it was am or pm, i did not know the day of the 3:30 the clock told me about, i did not know the significance of the 3:30, i did not know the story it told nor the story it had failed to tell even till this moment. I knew nothing for the clock was stuck at 3:30 and in reality it was 7:30. In harsh reality, this clock on the wall, set aside for one purpose in its life, cogs and screws and hours of manpower or machine. power from whatever foreign country it was supposedly developed, failed miserably. Failed miserably to tell a story, failed miserably to acknowledge the stories around it, failed miserably to acknowledge the world as it was as at then, as at 7:30pm and not 3:30. This clock failed to acknowledge in all its entirety, to acknowledge everything, acknowledge my world crashing before me. Failed to envisage this pain. It failed and it just stared back at me basking in its failure like it

‘Do you want to see them now oga?’

I could not understand her words. See who? But for some reason i knew my attention was needed away from the clock and its failure at achieving a purpose. I knew i was to follow her for i had no other place to go, I knew no where else to go. I knew there was more to it all, but my mind barely scratched the surface and i did not want to try. With only a nod of my head as what she interpreted as a ‘Yes’ to her question, she turned around and with no knowledge or know-how i was on my feet, and it was thrilling amongst my undiagnosed sadness to see my feet move without effort or consciousness, a thrill swallowing my fear of the unknown, of where i was, why i was here, or where i was going. So i followed her, i wished she would have walked slowly, at my pace, at the pace you would walk leading a drugged line of convicts undergoing prison transfers. I wished she would walk with patience and some attention. But she did not, because she did not care, she did not hear my thoughts nor even dreamed to imagine my thoughts or my disposition. Why should she? I knew something grave was lurking ahead but she lead me to it like working towards marking another box in a checklist.

I recognised my green kaftan on me and therein a sense of familiarity and comfort. Comfort arising from this green garment that shared some history as against every other thing around me. A fickle discovery of my identity. Something i needed as i walked behind her. To enable me gather my thoughts together, and imagine a glimpse of what awaited me before encountering it. We were there sooner than i thought. She turned around, left me in a cold room without adieu, ticked another box in the checklist.

I knew to walk further on my own. I was a child not one curious from imagination or adventure, I was one curious of the truth that I most likely already knew but was yet to accept. The truth that I wanted so much to be a lie. I wanted to hold on to every bit of doubt or lie and discredit whatever claim that had brought me here. I wanted this to be just another tale for jokes and conversation fillers. It has to be.

‘Are you Mr. Jibril?’

A man unfamiliar to me, sharing no history with me and there he was, a single figure, to put me out of my misery. He was not an organisation or a table of men and woman clad from the light, employing my fear of the unknown as respect. No he was just a single man with no resemblance to even a strand of my past. He was an independently mind violating figure based on his existence at this very moment. There was a certain coldness and plainness to his voice asserting my identity before i could answer. He already knew who i was, and i him. He was the harbinger of what was to come and i was the abandoned one awaiting him to accompany me with his grave news.

And there it was, white cloth, unfamiliar to me, sharing no history with me. Taking the shape of what was clearly a woman and a child. Yes a child. The room got colder, much more colder, was my kaftan gone?. My feet were stuck, was my understanding of gravity failing?

‘Are you Mr. Jibril?’

I heard another voice say yes but no one else was around and by that logic i knew i had answered but it all seemed so disconnected, far away like one behind the curtains of a play. So far away and yet so close. My eyes still fixated on the white cloth, fixated on the fact that it tried to but hid so little and yet told so much. I finally came to terms with why i was here and as if by sheer luck or just by a calculated time frame bearing out of his experience with such situations, the man knew to uncover who was underneath the cloth. As if to finally let me out of my misery and set me free. This was one truth that i knew would set me free but i never wanted the truth, i wanted the lies and the doubt to persist.

I wanted them to be home when all this was done, i wanted so bad not for it to be her, not for it to be them. I had told her i would be back home early today, we were meant to see the season finale of her favourite show together, the name escapes me but i promised i was going to be home early. The day was by no way special but

I knew to say yes, i knew to say yes because i had no other option. I knew no other way. i knew to say yes because i feared what was to come but i knew it had to come. By some chance i already knew what it was, in my gut, i knew what it was, but yet as if blinded by the darkness of the depth of my heart, i did not know what it was, as if locked away in the deepening darkness of the sea, that was my mind.