I am not dead.
Sometimes I come back from nothingness, a blank period of time. I don’t know how long the blackouts last. Other times, I am pulled out of a palpable dream, a virtual reality of some sort. The dreams are uneventful, and in them, I don’t see colour. Everything is either white or a shade of grey. Bright. I am always waiting for something in the dreams. Nothing ever seems to happen until I’m unexplainably out of it—into total darkness, numb in every sense, except for my hearing. It’s like playing Hide-and-Seek, and I am hiding in a closet, hearing my big brother’s voice counting. Only this time, I can’t feel my breath, and it is the darkest place yet.
I like the darkness better. The darkness is closer to the ones I care about: my wife, my little boy, and my family. The sounds are live, and reality is within my grasp. This is not the afterlife. Islam has taught me about it, but I don’t know if I will get out of this alive.
The dreams are lonely. I’m either sitting in a garden, a train station or some other places I can’t comprehend. I am waiting while other people mindlessly go on with their normal activities. No one talks to me, and I don’t seem to be able to talk to anyone either. Everyone is a stranger. There is nothing remarkable about them. I don’t remember any of their faces when I am out of it. How can a dream be this insipid, a stifling of subconsciousness and imagination?
When I am in the darkness, I talk to myself to stay sane. To remind myself that I am still me. First, I started by trying to remember the names of people I know and what they look like. I tried to remember every single detail of my house. Now I try to remember memories, and I tell myself fond stories of the past. I try to imagine how things are going without me; what has changed, what hasn’t, and what’s new. I can’t stay quiet when I am in the darkness. I am worried I will be lost in nothingness if I do.
Faty said she is bringing my little boy later. I am scared of slumbering into nothingness or a dream. This is the seventh time I’m coming up to the darkness. I am afraid of not coming back next time. I don’t want to miss anything, especially today. I’d give anything to hear his sweet infant giggle again.
I believe I have been a good dad and a good husband. This gives me some fulfilment. Ever since Faty came into my life, it has turned around for the better. Sometimes I feel like she is a miracle I don’t deserve. Even my performance at work has been better, and I am beginning to get the recognition I deserve. One could say I was on a winning streak before this.
The nurses and doctors don’t say much about my condition. I wonder how long I have been here. It’s like they’re contented by the beeping of the machine. A slow, steady dial tone that perhaps is a reassurance every second that I’m still in here.
“Everything looks normal on the monitor” is the usual line nurses give the doctor. Their tones bear no emotion.
I stopped asking myself why they’re not even trying to bring me back after my second time in the darkness. When I first heard my wife’s voice, reading to me. Then she thanked God for the machine’s beeping. Maybe that is all anyone could do.
“Hang in there”, she kept saying, perhaps more to herself than to me.
It seems everyone is waiting for me to come back. If only I could remember how I got here, it might help in getting myself out of it. But I don’t even remember the details of what I look like. I only remember a vague image of myself from the memory of my picture hanging in our living room. I wish memories weren’t recalled from an eye-view perspective. From memories, I can recall the things I’d seen, scents I’d smelled, sounds I’d heard, and the feelings I’d felt, but not how I looked. There has never been an out-of-body experience, even for a moment, to see me from the outside. I should have stayed in front of a mirror more. Maybe I would have spent enough time to make staring at a mirror a significant memory for me to remember.
***
Faty loves me. This one thing I know. She is full of life, energy and laughter whenever I’m around her. Her love checks all the boxes. It fits all the descriptions people tell me I’d see and feel when someone loves me.
She is as amazing as the first day I met her.
I remember the last time I made her dinner. It was on our third anniversary. She said she loved how I set up our homemade romantic dinner. It was set up without candles. She doesn’t like them, and flowers aren’t her thing either. The table was properly dressed with new cutlery and glasses that I bought. I made her favourite plate. Egusi soup with bitter leaves and beef, just the way she likes it. I hoped it tasted as great as always to her. She looked gorgeous under the golden chandelier. I was elated to see the present she got me. Her gifts are always the best. I got her a pretty necklace. I don’t know much about jewellery, but the salesgirl assured me my lady will love it.
I was looking at her, sitting on the other side of the table, in admiration. The shade of her lipstick was elegant. Her lips separate to show some teeth when she smiles dazzlingly. She took small bites with the tips of her fingers and chewed with her mouth closed. She never loses her impeccable table manners.
Our conversations are effortless, like we are meant for each other. I like her, and I like the idea of her. She has her flaws; they’re exasperating, but I can live with them. Like her superstitious paranoia. Like her need to control everything.
“Love mustn’t be like how other people describe it”, my dad used to say, “that’s how they felt it”. It mustn’t be like how movies and books depict it. While love grows as quickly as a weed in the hearts of some, it grows like a palm in others. It may be in your own unique way, but you’d know when you feel it. So don’t second-guess it, looking for perfection or what it is said to be. Like everything, make the best of it.
Through her eyes, I can see a personality I’m fond of. A person I’ll always recognise. No one can make me as happy as she does. This ought to be called love; it has to be. She was no longer talking from the other side of the table. I think I was staring at her too much, thinking about all that with a smirk on my face. She beamed curiously.
“I love you,” I said.
This I also know.
“I love you too,” she replied.
I can still feel the expression of affection in her face at that moment.
***
I hear Faty’s voice approaching, her masculine yet gentle voice; nectar to my ears. Unmistakable. I wish I could open my eyes and see her and my little boy again.
“Put the card on the table for daddy to see when he wakes up, Honey. Tell him what the card says”.
“Happy birthday to the best daddy in the world”.
My boy can speak? My little boy can speak! How long have I been out? I have missed his first step, his first word… Everything. My God, the things I’ve missed!
“Say goodbye now and wait for me outside with your uncle”.
“Goodbye, daddy”
Goodbye, little one. My boy! My big boy!
“Goodbye, little brother, I’ll miss you… I’ll always miss you. Inna lillahi wa inna illaihi raju’un”
Why is my brother sobering and saying goodbye? What is Faty going to tell me? What is going on?
***
“Happy 36th, Sweetheart. You’re officially closer to 40 than 30. I know you’ll love that; you love getting old. Hey, listen… Remember the night you proposed to me? You said: ‘I’d give anything to make you mine’. And I said I’d do the same …”
Of course, I remember. I was a wreck who was trying to get his life together because of you. Your father and everyone saw me as a man who was up to no good. Only you believed in me. You were the only thing I was one hundred per cent sure I needed in my life. Proposing to you is the most important thing I have ever done.
“… I would have given everything to keep this going if I could. But… But five years… Five years is a mighty long time to be in our situation. And I have given everything I have. I have sold our house. The car wasn’t worth much after the accident. I’m four million naira in debt. I have nowhere else to borrow. Your brother sold his car. He’s also in debt, only God knows how much. And only God knows how long it will take us to pay everything back. His family is miserable. Everyone else has given far more than they could afford. And now… now we simply don’t have any more to give… I don’t have any more to give.
I have lived the worst days of my life these last five years, but today is the worst of them all. I’d give anything to see those big eyes of yours open again. I’m not ready to say goodbye, but this is all I can do. I signed the papers, Sweetheart. I signed the papers to turn off the life-support machines. I see so much of you in our little boy. He’s smart and brave, just like his daddy. We will miss you… by God, I’ll always miss you.
“Sorry to bother you, Ma’am. The doctors are here. I think it’s time. Whenever you’re ready.”
Forgive me, Sweetheart. I love you. And I’ll always remember you.”
Five years? Five years. My God! How did this happen? I am a slave to this machine. What good am I? I can’t help myself; I can’t help anyone. Helplessness is the worst kind of being. I took everything away from you, my dearest. I should be the one asking for forgiveness. If what you have done in these years is not enough, then it is not God’s will for me to wake up again.
“Are you ready, ma’am?”
Forgive me, my dearest. I’ll always love you… Till we meet again. I am scared. It’s time I started reciting the Shahadah.
***
I am not dead, and this is not the afterlife. My nostrils feel the warmth of air again. My lungs hurt, gasping for more air. I hear the chaos in the room. The doctors are calling for one thing or another. I don’t hear the machine beeping anymore. I feel my eyelids rising; everything is a blur. My focus is gradually coming back. It sits on the card planted on the side table that says: “Happy birthday to the best daddy in the world”..
Ibrahim Oga is a Nigerian writer. He has published works in Channillo, Libretto, and Random Photo Journal among others, and is the author of Ibrahim Oga’s Belvedere newsletter. He is a winner of the Brigitte Poirson Literature Prize 2025 (Short Story, 1st Runner-Up).
