I awoke in darkness, old tendrils of whispered dreams dragging me deeper into that cold embrace, telling me sweet tales of burden dropped, a sweet release from pain if I would give in. I pushed myself violently awake and I was still in darkness, the winds howling songs of madness.

No it’s was not totally dark, a Blue Moon was in the distant it's lights pale and sickly, it was a peculiar sight, for it rested on the earth.

I touched myself I was me once again. My skin felt familiar, I breath in deeply the air tasted of salt and my heart beat strongly in my chest, I bit my lower lips and felt pain,I observed the rest of my body, I wore my ragged jeans, my high school soccer team t-shirt and a pair of flip flops, yeah....yeah, knock me for my stylistic choices but they were damn comfortable.

A smile broke in my face and it quickly turned to laughter.I just had the most peculiar dream, a dream of old Gods and monster, of shroud like wings like the deep darkness of the ocean floor, and supreme pain from &%!!:##??:..

what a crazy world, I laughed until it rang hollow, I fell on the sands laughter still booming unconsciously from my mouth, I ran my hands down the sands and they were sharp, I gathered them in my hands and they were white, like little crystals...

Just like how the needle of the compass always point north at rested, I knew my memories and pains were not a manic dream, and I had lost my everything, I had become bereft.

I knelt and carried the sands and let them flow through my hands, repeating the gesture, seeking peace in repetition. “baba I am so sorry, I am so sorry!”.

My thought wandered, I slowly tried to disentangle my messy mind, I followed baba advice and try to sort them from the start, a place of my earliest and most familiar memory and like an entangled thread loosened it.

I inhaled and pierced the veil of my memory to the start of my life, as far back as I could remember. My parents died too young for me to remember them.

That was before.

Now the brief nine months I spent with them was a beacon that shone in the labyrinth of my memories, whatever shrouded those memories from my young mind had been torned down.

I remembered a love so selfless and genuine, it conforted my soul, I could remember it all, the deep laughter of my father, the warm milk from my mothers bosom, the happiness that filled their eyes when I laughed, and the blood that ran down the knife when they died, murdered.... I could remember it all.

My tears dropped from my eyes and fell on the sands, the sands greedily swallowed it up and birthed black sands by the handful, the peculiar activity was enough to push me from my despair and arouse my curiosity, that and the whip of baba voice

“ Get up”.

Do you know one quirk about a perfect memory that no one tells you?- it’s that your memories come to life, if you could encapsulate every moments you spent with someone, your mind will fill in the gaps, and those memories will act on their own memories.

For you would have given them life of a sort. My mother was scowling at baba, my dad an arm around her waist as he nodded gently at me, my baba huffing in disdain as he turned away. And a shadow that....&%$..&%#....

“will you make me repeat myself?”

I snapped at attention from years of following orders from baba.

Baba huffed, “ Do you remember when you got into your first fight?”..

I unconsciously replied, “ yes I lost a tooth and could not sit straight for three days after you thrashed me to an inch of my life for losing against three older boys!”.

“you mean three fat waste of year’s. But that’s beside the point, remember why you fought!”.

I frowned, my memories playing out like reels of film, when I began primary school I had only one best friend, a mousy little dude - Robert, who read a lot, and had a dark sense of humour.

His father a drunk chooses to come to my baba every now and then and regale to him tales of woe of his apparent unfair lot in life.

Robert usually followed. A small shadow behind a stumbling giant, he sat down by his fathers and when the drunk was lost in his tale, usually slips a book and a pen from under his shirt and just disappeared inside the covers, his pen scratching unknown words onto paper.

Curiosity drew me to him one day as I sat next to him, hands cupped at my chin and I observed him, there were hint of bruises on his face, his clothes were worn out but meticulously clean.

I must have been too close to him that day, for his nose twitched__the only sense that drew him away from his escape, alerted him that someone was beside him.

“aahh..” he unceremoniously fell to the floor, his notes fell from his hand and scattered on the floor__they were not properly bounded.

His surprised expression made me burst into laughter, like a startled deer caught in the headlights of an incoming car.

I stepped closer to help him up, carefully avoiding the papers all over the floor I stretched my hand to him, he hesitated then took my offered palm, his hands were cold and shook a little, I smiled to him while introducing myself.

“ I am Adebayo, what’s yours?”.

His mumbled “Robert," he looked away at his papers on the floor, apparently trying to dismiss our conversation.

Like a persistent cold I held on “hmm.. Your names not native”

He frowned a little, then sighed“ my father used to work with the British over at the creek, he named me after his boss”. he chuckled “ then he was fired two weeks later”.

I looked at him in surprise, even at my age I could detect the undertone of venom in his laughter, his head bent over as he meticulously arranged each notes he picked from the floor,

Scratching my head “ is that why he drinks all the time?”

His answers took a surprisingly long while to come, “no, he drinks because he hates to think”.

Not knowing how to pick apart that nugget of wisdom, my attention was pulled towards the notes with scribbled writings “ what are you writing Robert?” he didn’t reply just increased his pace and snatched the gathered copies from my hands

“your writings ugly by the way, like a chimpazee high on palm wine”

He tightened his shoulders “No its not”

“let me show you mine” I took his pen by force, saw an empty sheet and wrote on it, my tongue stuck out. Baba had been studious with my writing, many old letters, chants of the gods, spells and history of our people were supposed to be copied down by me, and they were all to be hand written.... Suffice to say at five years old, my penmanship was bold and flowed from words to words.

Robert was watching my hands earnestly, surprise evident in his face, he looked at me and suddenly burst into laughter. Frowning I glanced up at him, noticing him looking at my stuck out tongue.. I got angry at him and tackled him to the floor, paper floating around us I was still testy about my penmanship.

We wrestled, a tangle of arms and legs until we both got tired, we looked at each other and laughed. At that moment he became my best friend. I stood up first chest heaving.

“ I write poems”. Robert whispered to me as he struggled to stand.

“No. Now I write poems” he looked at me confused.

“ you recite, I write. Deal?” I bent my index finger to him.. “deal” he reciprocated the gesture and we locked fingers.

"Now" I said my cheeks filling with heat, "why is your poems only about your sister?"

He looked at me startled, and in a natural tone he said "what else can they be about, she is the only good thing I know."

That's how I first knew my crush, Kumbi.

The fight with the bullies happened a while later at school, Robert had been ganged up by three of the upperclassmen they were teasing him about the poems, I had been rushing to him for our daily recitals during the short break when I saw him encircled.

I pushed my mounting anger down and turned away, the quicker I hurried to get the teacher, the less damage they could do, I stopped in my tracks when I heard the sound of tearing paper and Robert sobs.

I stopped, eyeing a piece of broken wood on the ground, it was the simplest of thing to pick it up, one of them saw me coming and alerted the rest, they jeered at me, I walked to the closest, he was the biggest in the trio.

“ Are you here to join him Ade?”... He rested a meaty hand on my shoulder... My reply was a stick to his torso, he fell down howling, clutching his stomach as he vomited his lunch, I dropped the now broken stick and charged at the two boys.

I gave a good fight if I say so myself, I was a few years younger after all. I was beaten but I did not fall, I stood in front of Robert, even when he dragged my shirt telling me to let go, to run away, I did not, they needed to pay for making him cry, and I would make them pay.

That memory came to me in a rush, Baba voice followed,“ you sit there mewling like a child, while pushing away your surroundings, I did not remember raising a whimpering cur."

Baba beards curled in fury. “ now listen”

I did... and I heard the shrieks of pain, I thought was the howling of the wind, it was coming from the Blue Moon that rested on the white sand.