From all indicators, this seemed like a dream, one that had the potential to turn into a nightmare if she did not wake up.
Amana opened her eyes to the same meadow. Purple flowers to her right that stretched out as far as the eye can see. A stream, maybe a small river, could be heard flowing nearby. She was barefoot. She glanced around, looking for someone, perhaps something. She took a step to have a better view, and almost instantly felt the vines from beneath her feet coming to life. They tickled. She hated them. Startled, her hands flailed in the air, attempting to jump as high as she could, but it was too late. The vines were already wrapped around her ankles, anchoring her to the ground. She is trapped.
Amana had been having these ‘waking dreams’ for quite a few months now. She had also learned how to snap herself out of them somehow. She couldn’t explain it, but she always did – except this time, everything she tried failed. Several prior attempts to loosen the tangled vines from her calves had proved futile: the more she tried the tighter they got. The skin on her ankle and calf was now so painfully tender. She massaged her calf as she made another desperate attempt at yanking the vines off.
‘They have a life of their own,’ she muttered to herself, trying not to panic.
‘Why can’t I wake up from this nightmare?’ She wondered.
Her fingers sought out anything they could hold on to, and using her right hand, she dug painfully between the vines, causing friction on her skin. Her eyes began to water. Desperation had etched its way into every crease in her body. ‘This is definitely not what dreams are made of?’
She yanked one of the vines that was halfway through her thighs.
‘Not what dreams are made of,’ a dry, sarcastic chuckle emanated from the bushes behind the baobab tree. From where she was standing, she could see his silhouette. It was moving towards her.
‘Wake Up, Amana’ She desperately whispered under her breath, but it was too late. The 6-foot man was already past the baobab tree. The vines were still very much intact. In fact, they seemed to have fattened since the booming voice from a few seconds ago.
‘Don’t come any closer’ There was a tremor in her voice. She stood there, too overwhelmed to move. Her breathing became deeper and more rapid, and her heart stumbling over its own rhythm.
‘Or you’ll… what?’ He fired back. ‘I don’t eat girls, especially teenage girls. I prefer Adults.That’s an acquired taste.’ He stopped to look at Amana. Her eyes darted around maniacally, looking for escape. The horror on her face made him regret his statement.
‘I was joking. Please don’t cry,’ He paused, ‘Also don’t try to run, you’ll only hurt yourself even more,’ He added, pushing his cloak back from his forehead. He made an attempt to hold her hand but stopped himself. He noticed Amana’s eyes were still transfixed on him with terror, unable to look away.
‘I swear, I mean you no harm,’ He insisted, raising his arms in surrender. ‘I promise I only want to help. Besides, it seems like you need an extra pair of hands if you’re to escape this nightmare.’
Silence. An uncomfortable, unnerving silence that echoed through the forest.
‘So? Can I help?’ He said this with a grin. He had one of those rare reassuring smiles.
‘Sure, what choice do I have?’ Amana thought as she shrugged her shoulders in resignation.
#
Amana was an only girl out of 8 siblings. Her 7 brothers, all specialists in their crafts, ranged from fishmongers to blacksmiths, therefore her family never lacked.
Her parents seemed to get along just fine for their time. She lived in were simpler times: standards were lower and everyone seemed a lot happier. Her mother, Amali, was a midwife. When she was not busy bringing life into the world, she was breathing life into their home. She came from a village just over the ridge. She married the weaver at the age of 19 after her husband was killed during a cattle raid.
‘I have never seen anyone more beautiful,’ Amana’s father would often tell his friends in his drunken stupor.
Her father, Akida, a weaver by trade, could always be found with sisal fibres on one hand, a tobacco pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth, and a bottle of cheap liquor at arm’s reach. Amana considered all these three items his tools of trade. Even with his concerning drinking habits, rivalled only by their village chief, Beka, he was the best father a daughter could ever ask for. Despite all his shortcomings, he truly loved the two most important women in his life.
Amali is a small and delicate-featured woman. She is pretty in an imperfect, approachable sense. She is not the type of woman who would stop you in your tracks, but you would certainly love to know her. Her apparent vulnerability hides a strength that she herself is unaware of. There is a warm understanding relationship between them, undemonstrative in their companionship, but really crazy about each other.
Amali went on to have 4 children with her husband. He, a widower himself, had four kids from his previous wife, who died during childbirth. He would often say to Amali, ‘Perhaps if even half the midwives in this village were as good as you my love, maybe my Siti would be here,’ and almost instantly, as if realising what those words do to a woman, he’d add, ‘but then I’d have never met you my darling. Life really is fickle, my dear Amali.’ He would say this through a barrage of hiccups. Amana always had a theory that it was grief that bonded her parents. They both understood what it meant to care for someone and lose them. Although her mother never talked much about her ex-husband, Amana reckoned he was a good man who did not deserve such a violent death.
Amali had found her husband’s body a few days after the cattle raid, his face trampled up by cow hooves with deep cuts to his side and leg. His body curled in a foetal position; he looked so peaceful in the puddle he was laying in. It wasn’t clear what, between the animal stampede and the masked raiders, had killed him.
#
The dream man glided over the thick vines. His heavy cloak settled over the bed of the weeds, bending them to the point of uprooting, only to snap back up once he passed. His aura was firm yet comforting, confident yet gentle. He had a way of making her feel at peace even though she had just met him.
Time passed quite fast in dreamland; bringing a new meaning to ‘split second’. Somehow, it always seemed like she had covered more distance than she should have in a very short amount of time. Time transitioned very quickly, too quickly.
While trying to decipher time, it occurred to her that she had not asked where they were headed. They were in the middle of the lavender field, all blooming amidst the grass, her bare feet enjoying the carpeted ground and the smell of morning dew.
‘Delphiniums?’ she thought. Those were Jelani’s favourite flowers.
‘No, they aren’t Delphiniums,’ He responded. ‘Yes, I can hear thoughts,’ he added, pre-empting her next question
The lavenders brought back a memory of herself and Jelani, her step-brother walking through the mountains on their way to visit their late grandmother’s grave – whom she was named after – a few years back. Jelani would often stop to pick a delphinium on their path and give unnecessary details about them, including what times of the year they were in bloom. Everything he knew about flowers came from their grandmother. Jelani often spoke very fondly of her.
‘She was a force of nature. Passionate in her likes and dislikes,’ he’d often say.
He described her as awfully strong for her age. She was known for her vivid imagination when telling her stories and the insanely huge amount of time she spent sleeping. Nostalgia was always the theme when they trekked that path across the mountain. Amana still didn’t get the obsession they both had with nature, but she didn’t mind it because she loved being in her brother’s company.
‘Don’t you find it a little intrusive listening to people’s thoughts?’ She snapped out of her memory.
‘Uuum, no. That’s all I know. It’s normal for me. It would be too quiet if I didn’t.’
‘Damn, he’s good,’ She thought
He smirked under his cloak at the thought. ‘You need to pick up the pace’
‘Yes, about that. Where are we going?’ She asked. One could not tell if she was concerned or just curious.
‘Huh? Oh, just up ahead. There’s something I want you to see before you go back home.’
‘Okay. But what is this place?’
‘We call it ‘The Writers’ Room’’
‘Do you think we’ll be there before dawn?
‘You have somewhere else you need to be?’
They held each other’s gaze for a moment and continued towards the dimly lit house on the edge.
‘What do you write there?’
‘Fate.’
‘Fate?’ She stops and stares at him as if awaiting an explanation
‘Fate.’
‘You’re serious?’ She stops and stares at him as if awaiting an explanation. ‘Whose fate?’ She continues. ‘Why fate? Wait, you mean fate is written? Isn’t that a universe thing? Like stars aligning and things like that?’
‘I will answer all your questions as soon as we get there.’
‘Why do you need me there?’
‘To write.’
‘Write my fate? Isn’t that, I don’t know, a little counterintuitive? Anticlimactic, at the very least. Well, for me at least.’
‘No, your fate was written a long time ago. Now you write somebody else’s.’
‘Who wrote that I should be born from a drunk and a widow? That’s just sad,’ she said dismissively.
‘Your grandmother. She was a lovely woman. Sad that her story had to end the way it did.
#
Amali watched the shallow breathing of her sleeping beauty. Like all children, untainted by the world around them, Amana looked so peaceful when she slept. She admired her innocence of the world and how unaware she was of its cruelty. Amali always hoped that her daughter would have a better life than hers. She prayed every night for the universe to conspire in her favour.
‘May she never know pain,’ She’d often whisper to the wind always. Amali stretched over her sleeping daughter and picked up a quilt from the opposite chair, being very careful not to startle her. This moment reminded her of baby Amana, always fussy, even in her sleep. The slightest movement and she would spend the entire afternoon comforting and begging her to sleep.
She’s lost in this memory, only brought back to reality by Amana trying to get more comfortable. She drapes the quilt over her like an important artefact and steps away, looking back at her one more time as she steps outside in the afternoon sun, heading to the market.
#
‘You come from a very long line of writers, Amana.’ The cloaked man breaks their silence.
‘Fate Writers, you mean.’
‘Exactly. Your grandmother, before you, was with us in this very building. So was her mother before her.’
‘You mentioned, my fate was written by my grandmother. Can I know what it is?’
‘Yes, you can. As soon as you finish your writing.’
‘But how can I know the fate of people I don’t even know?’
‘You’ll just know. Write whatever comes to mind.’
Amana couldn’t believe that the fate of the universe was written in some poorly lit house in the middle of nowhere. It didn’t seem fair that wars have been declared, battles won, people murdered, villages wiped out by diseases just by a stroke of the pen and even worse by unknown and ordinary people like herself.
This must be what it means to have the weight of the world on your shoulders, she thought to herself.
This must be how it feels to be the village chief, so much power, yet so helpless. No wonder Beka can never quit drinking. This situation made her pity their village chief. Or maybe that’s what it feels like to be head of the family, like her father. When everybody is dependent on you, the stakes are higher. There’s no margin for error and even when you err, no one gives you the grace or understanding that you need. Maybe that’s why he finds solace at the bottom of a bottle. If solutions cannot be found while sober, perhaps being drunk will make picking the wrong choice less daunting.
#
Amana had been writing for hours now. Everybody around her was busy writing. She imagined that like her; they were all writers of ‘fate’. She wondered what kind of stories they were writing. Who gets married to who? Who achieves all their childhood dreams? Who never goes through the feeling of inadequacy, depression and self-pity?
Most importantly, who snaps out of it all and goes on to live a fulfilling life? How many people get the happy ending they had hoped for or even better? Whose mother gets to see her son back from war? So many questions went through her mind. The faceless people they were writing about. Perhaps they also made up their faces like she was or perhaps the faces she thought she was making up were, in fact, the real people.
Nothing in this room seemed real anymore. It all seemed like a fantasy. Some sort of alternate universe where highlights of everyone’s lives were on full display.
‘Who writes the ugly parts then?’ She brings her beautiful thoughts to a halt. The divorce, the abuse, the sexual assault, the suicides, tortures, depression, psychotic breaks, deaths, burying one’s children, incurable diseases.
Who gets to write the not so coveted parts of people’s lives?’ she wondered.
‘That would be the people in that room,’ the cloaked man answered almost instantly. He seemed to always be around whenever you needed him and never a moment earlier, ever the mystery.
‘Why are they secluded? Why do they get the best views too?’
‘Because writing of bloodshed takes a toll on anyone.’ He said, as he adjusted his cloak to get up from his desk at the corner of the room.
‘With all the carnage they write about,’ he continues, ‘The least they can have is the view of a blooming garden. It makes up for everything.’
‘Is it that they’re doomed to write the ugly parts of history and the future?’
‘Not exactly!’
As she opened the door to the doomsday room, she could feel the air of despair, hatred and fear – the dark cloud hanging over each one of them; the blood spilling from their pens, the misery on the arch of their backs and the suicidal thoughts reflecting on their foreheads. Then, almost in a flash, it all washed away when the seasons changed in the blooming garden and order seemed to be restored again.
‘Shouldn’t I be awake by now?’
‘Well, it’s only been an hour in the outside world. Your mother hasn’t returned just yet but if you wish to leave, you can. I can show you the grounds if that’s something you’re open to.’
There was an awkward silence between them. Amana couldn’t understand how he managed to say and see so many heavy things and yet like, a good host, he still performed his duty.
‘You told me I can read my fate…’
‘Oh yes, right this way,’ ushering her to a door with a plaque written in bold: Amana (I)
Amana was startled for a minute then remembered she was named after her grandmother. From the stories she had heard, she knew Mama Amali was a feisty one.
‘The most jovial woman who ever walked the land,’ her mother would say. She did not remember much about her except for her traditional face tattoos. Her book had a blooming rose on it, her favourite flower, with her name etched onto the stalk. Although she knew what her childhood was like, she was still impressed by how accurate her grandmother was in narrating it in writing.
Buried deep within its contents, the cloaked man’s only way of getting her attention was to force her onto a chair he pulled up while she was engrossed. She read of her stepbrother’s death, her favourite of the seven.
‘But he’s just too young,’ she whispered as she fights back tears. He dies by drowning in just a few years from the present day. The years following Jelani’s death, her mother fell into depression, her father’s drinking worsened. Losing a child can break anyone. Her other brothers left home and never return until five years later to bury their mother.
Grief consumed Amali, and her health slowly deteriorated over the years. Amana watched as her mother grew older by the day, the light in her eyes dimming. The weight of grief started to show in her fragile frame. New-borns no longer excited her. She did not hum to her favourite tune in the bathroom while bathing. Jelani’s death took everything from her and then some.
The anticipatory grief of losing her mother now controlled Amana’s life. She could see all the signs. Her father seemed oblivious to his wife’s health. Both of them lost in their own worlds. Grief was now a permanent resident in their home, always sitting in the corner, waiting to be of service whenever needed.
For Amana’s father, losing his wife was the final straw. Amana found his lifeless body one morning cradling his wife’s favourite scarf. Death was in their home one more time. Only this time, it seemed to have been summoned and not dropped by. He died by a potion from the local alchemist. Amana’s father had begged the alchemist to help him end his misery. The two had been friends since they were young. They got circumcised together. There’s nothing they haven’t shared with each other.
‘What you’re asking me for is not cough syrup, Akida. It will kill you,’ The Alchemist told Amana’s father.
‘I know what it does, Asani, but I can’t keep living like this…’
‘You think this will help?’ The Alchemist interrupted him, ‘C’mon, we’ve been through this before.’
‘You haven’t known grief until you have watched the people you love die in your arms.’ Amana’s father looked down, unable to maintain eye contact anymore.
‘I keep replaying the day Amali died like it was yesterday. Her peaceful face was so calm, it seemed unfair she couldn’t show it to the world anymore. How much do you think one man can take before he accepts defeat? Before it all overwhelms him to the point of no return. Aren’t you tired? Can’t we stop this and give our hearts a rest?’
‘I am not crazy Asani,’ He continued, ‘I have thought this through. This is my solution. It hurts so much; I can’t even begin to explain it.’
The Alchemist looked at his friend, desperately trying to convince him of the unthinkable. He couldn’t believe he was convinced. He could see how his eyes glistened with unshed tears. It was the way they dropped that gave away the sadness he otherwise masterfully hid. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist as he pulled the last of his stash and offered it to his oldest friend. He understood exactly how he felt because he too was battling his own demons.
#
‘Why are you letting me read this?’ She asked as she wipes her tears.
‘You asked, Amana. I’m not one to stifle curiosity.’
Amana lowered herself until she was sitting on her haunches, trying to make herself as small as possible, then, almost in a whisper, she asked, ‘But you know this will stay with me for a very long time. Why give me this burden?’ As she rocked gently back and forth, not even aware she was doing it. ‘It is sad I know, that’s why nobody can know their fate. It’s not advisable.’
‘But you let me know.’ The more she talked, the more her voice cracked.
‘That’s because you won’t remember ever being to this place when you wake up. You’ll only wake up feeling rejuvenated. With more zeal for-’
‘You mean you wipe my memory?’
‘I would never be able to do that. You just won’t remember once you are past the veil. This reality cannot exist in your timeline. Should you remember, it will disrupt the balance of things and tough decisions have to be made.’
‘Has someone who’s been here ever remembered?’
‘Not that I am aware of.’
‘What happens if I start remembering?’
‘They send me to restore order’
‘How do you do that exactly?’
‘Restoring order?’
‘Yes’
‘Oh, it means you die.’
‘I die or you kill me?’
‘What will make you feel better?’
Amana began thinking of a way to remember this mystical land, to love her mother ferociously, and for her father to reciprocate his love. How to strengthen the bonds between herself and her brothers. She wanted to remember to check in with Jelani, and hug him a little tighter. Study his facial features and memorise the sound of his voice. She wanted to remember her mother with a smile on her face, and a bounce in her step. She wanted it all, but didn’t know how to have it.
‘You can never have it all. You can have options but never everything you wished for,’ the cloaked man interrupted her thoughts.
“Are you telling me there’s a way to remember this?’
‘Yes, you can remember,’ he paused, ‘By staying back here, but that means we erase you from existence. Nobody will remember ever knowing you. It however doesn’t change their fate and that of their generation. You will be at liberty to visit them in their dreams but you can never go back.’
‘That doesn’t sound like an option at all!’ She retorted.
‘Everything has a price, Amana’
‘So, I go back and never remember any of this. I won’t remember the things to come, the famine, the hunger, the injustices, poverty or even the love I want to give, intentionally or otherwise, or I stay and they forget about me?’
‘You are a good person, Amana.’
‘I’ll try and remember that.’
They both chuckle at that unwarranted joke and head for the fields. They both knew that she won’t remember this conversation once she crosses over.
‘Will I ever see you again, cloaked man?’
‘Perhaps in your dreams, I’ll try and visit whenever I can.’
‘It’s now time for you to wake up. Amali should be back by now.’
‘A whole day?’
‘It’s only just been a little over an hour. Also, your brother wants to pour a bucket of cold water on you. If I were you, I’d wake up.’
Amana woke up from her sleep to the sound of kids playing outside and Jelani’s mischievous face staring down at her. She wriggled herself free from the quilt, kicking it as she tried to find her slippers from under the couch. Her knuckles brushed against something cold and unfamiliar, which jerked her more fully awake.
Epilogue
The Cloaked man noticed grey clouds on the horizon, a weather condition he hadn’t seen in a Millenia. Through the veil, he could see Amana trying to stop Jelani from going fishing that afternoon. Their father, drunk and oblivious in the stall next to them, is focused on how to weave together the prettiest basket for his wife. Their fights don’t seem to faze him anymore.
‘You tell me why I can’t go and I will sit here with you and Baba until you tell me when to leave,’ Jelani said.
‘But I can’t tell you why. I don’t even know why. It’s just a feeling,’ Amana responded, now frustrated because she wasn’t winning this argument.
‘Well, then I have to go because we are having fish for supper and I am the fisherman of the family.’
Jelani did have solid points, so she stood there as she watched her brother disappear towards the river. Amana was left there feeling heavy and rooted to the ground. She looked around, her eyes adjusting to the afternoon light, and thought, ‘This is it.’
She snapped back to reality after his father called out for her. She threw on a smile, blinking away her tears as she went to see what he wanted.
‘She’s remembering!’ The Cloaked man says, tripping over his cloak, rushing towards the ‘Doomsday’ writers’ room. Amana’s story had to be rewritten.
