It’s so chilly right now. Deafening echoes rage from the clouds, and the lightning slices through the louvres setting my room ablaze with white light. As I curl up on my bed in horror, eyes shut tight, the wild breeze sweeps over the horizon outside my window, levitating debris cluttered around, and lifting the rooftop of the old building opposite my house. I hear cries of people running for shelter, screaming names of their toddlers with a familiar tightness in their chests, as the wild storm rages.
I cling to the wall, grasping my shroud tight in a bid to shield myself from this cold torment. Even with my eyes shut, I can feel everything in the room recede from me. My louvres are shattered, and my curtain must have been flung open judging from the gusts rushing in. I hear rustlings of the pages of the books on my shelf. They must have wings by now. For a moment, I began to doubt if this was real. Perhaps the day of reckoning is here, and the universe is collapsing. The end is here, I can’t believe it. I haven’t even done much yet—my bucket list is still full, it’s not yet time. My fingers are trembling now, I feel the apocalyptic scene smother me in a choke-hold, pressing me harder against the mattress. But as I finally dare to open my eyes, I am thrown into disbelief. How can my carpet remain this pristine amidst such chaos. And my books … I turn my head to the window. The louvres are unscathed. How? It was storming. I think I’m having my hallucination episodes again. I’m losing my mind, I need to see my therapist.
I’m up from my bed now, pacing around my room. I need to stop imagining things. I step out onto the balcony, still pacing up and down. I have to pass the time somehow, I might go crazy if I stayed too long in my head. I feel a little wrinkle in my belly. Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine. I’m fine. It wants to rain. Wait, is my hallucination about to get real? The clouds look like dark thick cotton hanging close to my roof. Like I can touch it if I want, but when I stretch my hand, it seems farther away. I see the branches of a tree a few metres away dancing to the tune of the breeze. I look up, as if looking for answers to the complexities of my emotions in its scale-like leaves. But I just stare, filling in the view. Although it neither betters my mood nor demystify my unrest, for a moment, I am not thinking about me. I am marvelling at how the leaves rejoice at the hope that it’d rain soon. They’d get wet, look greener and richer. It’s a good feeling I guess. But only that hope is a dangerous thing. Like Red told Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption.
‘Hope is a dangerous thing.’ It can suck a man dry, hurt him to his marrow. And these leaves? It’d probably rid them of their veins and suck life from their stalks. Marrow reminds me of John Keating. Skip. This is not about movies. I have been standing on the balcony for a while now watching as the stems of this tree contrast gradually against the sky, and the leaves surprisingly wilt, their head hanging down, appearing pale.
It didn’t rain. Or to be honest with you, it did. But it did in a way that would’ve been better if it didn’t. A few sparse drizzles and that was it. The kind that leaves the leaves wanting for more.
With disappointment hanging from their stalk, I feel a little bad for them. A little bird perches high up on a barren part of the tree. I don’t know why it perches up there, solitary for a half hour now. I am tempted to iron out several possibilities, put two and two together and say something about it. But I won’t. I don’t want to make any assumptions for now. Oh, it just flew.
Out of the blues, in all this dryness, it starts to rain. I bet the leaves and branches had lost that tiny bit of hope already. Or perhaps they hadn’t. It’s charming how they’ve sprung into life again. Like they hadn’t already been disappointed.
Again, I am reminded of Shawshank Redemption. Hope might be a dangerous thing. But sometimes, it’s the most beautiful thing and nothing else comes close. While restrained to the confines of Shawshank prison walls, Red consoles his downcast friend, Andy Dufresne, advising him not to think outside the walls. They were both on a life sentence. And Andy had spent about two decades, while Red was now an institutionalised man. He had spent most of his life—near four decades behind bars. Later in the film, they both come to the realisation that hope is not so dangerous after all. I don’t like spoilers, so I’ll keep the details. You’ll love the movie. Give it a try.
And once again, this piece isn’t about movies. I’m not even sure what it is about. Maybe me, my hallucinations, the tree or the lonely bird that perched up there while the world and time passed on. I’m thinking ‘hope,’ but that might not make a good title. I’m still trying to distract myself by fixing my eyes on these leaves. But maybe there’s hope for me too. My hallucinations have to stop. It’s downpouring now, and these Casuarina equisetifolia scale-like leaves look much greener than they used to be. I stand, my hands gripping the railings barricading the balcony, and watch as rain droplets fall from their stalks.
Oladele Irinyenikan
