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Itís pitch-dark here. The blackness exerts such excruciatingly strange pain, so painful that I needed seeing some light but my eyes wouldnít open. My eyelids are lead-heavy or even glued together. The darkness remains real; I canít wave it away. I canít even visualize light, at all. The vague pain keeps rising, rising, from within with such distinct vagueness.
Everywhere is dead-silent. Even the sound of silence is absolutely absent. Dark silence cries out! A shouting silence, an absence, that hurts, paralyses, that even burns, deeply. Any whisper will be helpful, timely, therapeutic.
My throat is very dry, desert-dry. I am impotent, paralyzed from the hairs of my head to the nails of my toes. I am shut in, feeling no external pressure, completely anaesthetized , oblivious of anything but the inner self. I must be lying motionless in mid-air, a dead-still air; I feel so light, extremely light to be existent!
I thought I screamed. I know, but the entire range of the sound was absorbed, completely, or stopped by, say, a cotton wool or gauze stuffed in my oral cavity. No sound. I canít hear. I think I need some help here, some relief.
I tried catching a breath but couldnítÖ I donít want to choke to death. My chest is too heavy for a mortal to bear. A strange tightness wraps my upper trunk. The need to breathe persists, not getting better or worse. I feel like a quadriplegic invalid immersed in an ocean, slowly, helpless sinking to an unreachable floor, being at the mercy of gravity. My nostrils are totally sealed up. My heart is extremely burdened. I feel a wave of nausea, something heavy within. Oh! I wish I can let it out, but I canítÖ I canítÖ .
I canít breathe! I didnít realize this before now. Am I going to die? But my heart has not been beating all along, or am IÖ ? God forbid, I donít want to die? No, no, I am not dead!
Wasnít I supposed to undergo a kidney transplant or, maybeÖno, no! I need a surgery! I need a transplant! Thatís all, I need aÖ no, not this!
Heeellppp! SomeÖ . No sound.
I know I must be lying down, lifeless, maybe cold in rigor mortis, on the surgeonís table, in the village mortuary, in our traditional coffin, or Ö my God, I donít want to be buried; something will happen if my prayer group prays. But, didnít God tell us that my ďsickness is not unto deathĒ, that is Ö if they pray? Or , didnít they? Or, maybeÖ .
They never prayed , no, not even once.
The evening sun hesitantly crawled to sleep among the towering forest trees in the distant horizon of tropical Africa.
Ö Mother Earth carefully cuddled him.
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