Memories, Unfulfilled.

I see kids.
They have brown skin and coarse black hair and barely formed teeth. Their gums are the biggest part of their mouth.
They’re running across a field, laughing as they do, calling names that I can’t hear.

The air leaves my lungs in wheezes.
Hard, hard, hard, I can barely stay upright.

I see an ice cream shop.
Cones and flavours and toppings.
I think that I would like some chocolate.
“No, mummy. I want vanilla and strawberry!”
The voice is high-pitched and comes from near my waist.
I look down to see brown eyes staring at me, the mouth pouts like mine in a Snapchat filter.

I scream myself awake.
My throat protests afterward.

“Rice and goat meat and peppersoup and a scoop of beans. Dry beans, please.”
I see the men eye me appreciatively.
Pregnancy looks good on me, not even a waddle to my steps.
“I asked you to sit down, mama. I don’t want you stressing over this or anything else.”

The sleep vanishes from before me.
Perhaps hallucinations appear with advancing age.

My revelations do not seem like they belong to me.
They are alien to me.
The memories of things yet to happen.
Yet, I wonder.

“Perhaps you’re carrying twins?”

I spit juice in the face of a coworker.
Yellow stains her white shirt, revealing the pink bra underneath.
I am ashamed.

People see visions of cars and celebrities and heaven and hell.
My head is clouded with adorable laughs and toothless gums and chubby arms and naked chests.
Tis a torture I live through daily.
A memory that will never happen.

It is a sentient signal of my disability.

The End.

Ach, I think this is the saddest I have written in a while.
This was jointly inspired by Silas Kachigero and Ayobami Adebayo.

Photo belongs to Nila Ragican on Pexels.