A few days back, we escaped from prison.
One of our chiefs, had locked us up in a Guantanamo Bay kind of detention camp.
It was a huge population of us, subjected to hard labour and inhumane treatment. Very sad and heart drenching experience. Hard even to see so much suffering on the faces of fellow inmates.
It didn’t seem like help would find us. The camp was in a jungle, hidden under a thick canopy of mahogany trees.
One afternoon Dintle and I escaped through a tiny opening on the fence. A laborious escape.
We ran for our dear lives, but alert that our lives were in danger.
We hid behind shrubs, some too small to do any hiding at all.
Not a word was shared between us. It was a solo and emotionally draining journey.
The thought that troubled me through this escape, was the chief who locked us up in a Guantanamo Bay Prison style camp.
He comes across as a level headed being. Kind and reasonable. An arguably progressive man. I worried, in this dream, whether I was dreaming, and whether this really is the man, I have admired from a distance.
The sound of hoofs hitting the hard gravel road, distubed my thoughts and swallowed our hope.
We could see him from a distance, riding a blood red horse, its face and underbelly decorated in splashes of white.
On his right hand, the chief, held a solid and long black shambok.
He was coming for us.
We held our breath.
We were dirty, new sweat dripping down old sweat marks…
The horse came to a stand still, the chief looked around as if to ask,
“Where are they?”
I have never been that scared, never had I encouraged my heart to hope, like I did that afternoon, under the unforgiving harsh African sun.
My heart hasn’t ached in a dream, like it did the afternoon of our escape.
Did we escape? I don’t know.
I was crying when I woke up. Scared. The dream stayed with me for a week and each time it crossed my mind, I panicked.
Thankfully it was just a dream.
A bad dream.
Eish but I hope I don’t meet the chief until the dream leaves my thoughts 😅.
I might run for my life.