Anaesthesia

Posted by Dan Akinlolu in Stories - Uplifting on 21-6-12

In the beginning, when there was no time, our land was in total ruin and desolated for full disobedience and condemnation. The line between the living and the spirit was thin and transparent. But soon enmity emerged, and the contest was bent on destroying man – the most visible, the most articulate.

Then we needed the wise one to heal our land, that has refused to yield seeds, and our flat-breasted women, with no milk for the new-borns, and our lazy warriors, with blunt daggers. But who will go and bring the wise one?

The priest cast his beads across the polished ivory board. He pointed to me, “Go and bring the wise one! You’ve been ordained!”

All eyes turned to me. All worshipers pointed their withered fingers at me and in unison they thundered, “Go and bring the wise one!”

I fell on my knees before the divine oracle.

“These are seven cowries,“ the priest said, then gave them to me, “meaning seven lives to cross the mountains.” Then bid me to swallow them.

He again plucked three strands of hair from his beard and, with three nuts from the skin bag, he said, “One is the voice of wisdom; one the voice of courage; and the last, voice of beauty.

“As you go into the world it will remind you of one thing … your legacy. For through one man death came into the world and, through another, life is given.”

Immediately I swallowed the seeds of life, the kettledrum thundered a calculated rhythm and threw me into an ecstasy. It was a reversal of human, into the world of spirit. My head swirls, my eyes are shut in the darkness of eternity, as echoes from the abyss of the earth shoot across the sky in a flash of lightening. I am lifted off the ground, still holding my head that was tossed by a raging storm.

I am transformed to shadow king of the labyrinth, with braided hair smelling of myrrh and frankincense. My head is ornamented with gold chignon, bangles, earrings and nose clips, all shimmering in the moonlight. Necklace, with strings of jewels, studded with carnelian and sardonic, adorned my ebony neck.

A voice thundered from the breast of the sea saying, “This is anaesthesia, the scientific cycle of death and birth.”

I could feel the shadow dancers, all stripped to their waists, kicking the desert dust, sweating from rigorous dance. They danced to bid me farewell and search for the wise one.

I nodded in hypnotism. Then a strange delicate tune caught my ears. Delicate musical notes and complex harmony drew me closer to the dancers that were born from the mirage into a weird climax.

I refused to open my eyes. I didn’t want to see weird things around me. My teeth gnashed hysterically under a power beyond my control. Then I grew the third eye. It emerged from my temple. The desert cracked and three genies emerged from the crevice. One legged genie with hazel eyes, two legged genie with eyes made of chrysanthemum, and three legged with sapphire eyes.

They wanted to touch me. I screamed …

… I woke up sweating. I wasn’t sure of myself. It was a dream. It was too real. There was a soft snore beside me. I turned, and saw James Crawford, a patient from Las Vegas, lying on a surgical stretcher.

I was still in New York Hospital. With a splitting headache, I rose to my feet and staggered to the ward’s window. The snow settled peacefully outside.

“I must go home,” I whispered.

“They want me at home,” I concluded.

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