The Ship Anchored In My Dream - A Short Story by Angela Amalonye Nwosu
- By Angela Amalonye Nwosu
- Published January 9, 2009
- Fiction
-
Rating:
Angela Amalonye Nwosu
Angela Amalonye Nwosu has worked as a teacher, a book editor, a romance writer, a freelance journalist, and a literary critic. “Feminique,” a column she maintained in the Sunday Vanguard (a prominent Nigerian newspaper) for four years, was devoted mainly to issues concerning women. She has published a collection of poems, Waking Dreams. Nwosu currently lives in Denver, Colorado.Â
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Everybody was running toward the sea. People ran in different states of chaos. Some ran in their sleeping clothes while others ran in their office coats. There were young women who ran in their wedding gowns and some who held on to bouquet of flowers. Lovers ran apart, friends became foes. Everyone wanted to reach the finishing line. Some market women carried their wares in baskets and some office women threw away their high-heeled shoes in order to run faster. Everyone was running, even the people of God. Most of these holy people ran, chanting heavenly slogans. Some of them ran with thousands of colored chaplets hanging from their necks. Some ran brandishing holy books while proclaiming paradise, heaven and nirvana. Others ran speaking in tongues. In that state of complete disorder, the language of tongues sounded more like rush-of-adrenalin gibberish. While some people ran with empty hands, others clutched little bundles of memory. Some mothers ran with their babies and some children ran yelling for their parents. Because they were running so fast, even the sky and the trees also seemed to be running.
I was dizzy and embarrassed. First, I only had on boxer shorts, which was very unusual. I did not like baring my desert-like chest, because years of perpetual struggle and hunger had left a story of ribs on my chest. Secondly, I had a sickening feeling that I might be mistaken for one of those laboratory skeletons used in biology class. Although I was dizzy from the sudden madness, running was not exactly new in this part of the world. Anything could trigger a life and death race. A single scream could lead to a war dance, even a street fight could trigger a mighty stampede. In this part of the world, one had to learn how to run in order to walk properly, because running was deeply etched into the national character. Only a few weeks ago it was reported in the newspapers that a young passenger in a Danfo bus had to make a quick exit through one of the narrow windows. On seeing him, many people joined in the race, even when they did not know the cause of his flight. Much later, after a lot of damage had been done, the young boy said he had to run because he was the only normal person in the bus. A few furious runners wanted to know how he got to that conclusion. He said that the bus had no steering and that the chairs were made of loose sand and that the other passengers spoke in drawls. The furious runners got very mad because they thought those were normal things in the city. Most Danfo buses never had complete parts, not to talk of good seats, and most people ate or smoked igbo because that was the only way to hang on to reality. They abused him, saying he was one of those whose souls had been lost to dark memories. But there was something dangerously different about this present race. It was as if Armageddon had become a grain of confusion pouring down from the bowel of hell.
In my blind confusion, I screamed a question at the stampeding crowd, “Where are you all running to?” But no one bothered with me. I was shoved here and there as if I was an unnecessary hindrance. As I battled with different thoughts, it suddenly occurred to me that another strange fish might have been washed ashore. Only about four months ago, many city- dwellers had cause to thank God and genuinely bless the city of aquatic splendor. Why? A strange-looking whale had been washed ashore; it had more colors than the rainbow and looked like ten different animals all at once. Some people said it was chameleonic as it changed to whatever it was called. A marine biologist was contacted, but before he could get there, the whale of many colors had become mere pieces of broken bones. That night on national television, many city-dwellers openly described how they partook in the manna from the sea. One woman boasted that her own share would serve her household for three months. Another man regaled the viewers with his wonderful trip across the border. There, he had sold parts of the wonder-whale to forest doctors who boasted that the fish could cure every ailment, including yet-to-be-known ones. Could it be another fish?
As I pondered the question, people continued to shove me about, bumping into one another. Since I still did not have a reason to run, I managed to keep walking. I kept walking until something fell on me. Running feet eventually trampled both the something and me. Then I raised my head and I completely forgot the embarrassment of the boxer and the fish question. I just began to scream wildly as I beheld the object that pinned me down. It did not seem affected by the upheaval as it smiled at me. It was Uke, a creature without form or description. It had died many years ago – that is, even long before my ancestors were born. I think its parents killed it when they found out it was a child of tragic omen. Dazed, I allowed it to drag me through the human crowd to a tent made with the chalk of knowledge. It was a special kind of chalk, the type that gave one a single powerful eye. My heartbeat sounded like a frenzied drum. The noise from my heart mingled with that of the mad crowd and I was filled with a fear that had the red color dancing round it. At that point, thinking that my end was imminent, I began to frantically search for an end-of-life prayer. But in spite of my fear, I managed to ask Uke what it was doing with the living. Uke told me that the noise roused it from the grave and that a lot of dead people were actually in the race.
“Why?” I asked. It gave me a strange answer that I did not understand.
“Most of the dead people are distorted fragments, searching for their whole reality. So they think that if they join the race, they might find the pieces that would lead to wholeness.”
“But where are they running to?”
“Does it matter where? Anyway, I smell a great calamity in the offing. But why not eat some of the green chalk to find out more?” With that advice, Uke vanished and I felt lighter than light – like an alien ship gliding through space.
Still confused, someone’s head hit mine, but he did not stop to apologize. I did not think he could have stopped because he was submerged by another group of runners. More people began to emerge from nowhere. A group of angry traders from the East emerged from a wide gully. They carried a coffin and a huge metal crucifix, which sometimes resembled a big gun. This group ran and sang at the same time:
Who say we no get fada
We say we get fada
Our fada na ’oly Gos Fada
It seemed to me at that point that the reasonable thing to do was join the singing traders, but they suddenly disappeared into another gully, and thousands of runners who seemed to have fallen from the sky fell into the gully with them – all singing of their ’oly Gos Fada. As if that was a playful interlude, a group of bugs and rodents circled the clouds like an airplane. They boasted of how wonderful their existence was: they have no need for employment or worry about money or care about population control – they rule the world. They began a meaningless song that filled the air with mockery:
Cockroach and rat are in the car
Rat being the driver
Cockroach and rat
Rode in the car
Smoking cigarette
For a few minutes everyone froze. They held their buttocks as if trying to prevent big explosive farts, then they began to laugh and eat mushrooms. Wait! Was I dreaming or what? Minutes later, the freezing moment passed and everyone resumed running. I was about to give up on the national madness when a young girl bumped right into me. She had a tiara on her head and she was eating one of the boastful bugs. This time I got an apology, but I did not know if it was for the bumping or the edible cockroach. When I asked her why everyone was running, she gave me a sharp look of surprise.
I was dizzy and embarrassed. First, I only had on boxer shorts, which was very unusual. I did not like baring my desert-like chest, because years of perpetual struggle and hunger had left a story of ribs on my chest. Secondly, I had a sickening feeling that I might be mistaken for one of those laboratory skeletons used in biology class. Although I was dizzy from the sudden madness, running was not exactly new in this part of the world. Anything could trigger a life and death race. A single scream could lead to a war dance, even a street fight could trigger a mighty stampede. In this part of the world, one had to learn how to run in order to walk properly, because running was deeply etched into the national character. Only a few weeks ago it was reported in the newspapers that a young passenger in a Danfo bus had to make a quick exit through one of the narrow windows. On seeing him, many people joined in the race, even when they did not know the cause of his flight. Much later, after a lot of damage had been done, the young boy said he had to run because he was the only normal person in the bus. A few furious runners wanted to know how he got to that conclusion. He said that the bus had no steering and that the chairs were made of loose sand and that the other passengers spoke in drawls. The furious runners got very mad because they thought those were normal things in the city. Most Danfo buses never had complete parts, not to talk of good seats, and most people ate or smoked igbo because that was the only way to hang on to reality. They abused him, saying he was one of those whose souls had been lost to dark memories. But there was something dangerously different about this present race. It was as if Armageddon had become a grain of confusion pouring down from the bowel of hell.
In my blind confusion, I screamed a question at the stampeding crowd, “Where are you all running to?” But no one bothered with me. I was shoved here and there as if I was an unnecessary hindrance. As I battled with different thoughts, it suddenly occurred to me that another strange fish might have been washed ashore. Only about four months ago, many city- dwellers had cause to thank God and genuinely bless the city of aquatic splendor. Why? A strange-looking whale had been washed ashore; it had more colors than the rainbow and looked like ten different animals all at once. Some people said it was chameleonic as it changed to whatever it was called. A marine biologist was contacted, but before he could get there, the whale of many colors had become mere pieces of broken bones. That night on national television, many city-dwellers openly described how they partook in the manna from the sea. One woman boasted that her own share would serve her household for three months. Another man regaled the viewers with his wonderful trip across the border. There, he had sold parts of the wonder-whale to forest doctors who boasted that the fish could cure every ailment, including yet-to-be-known ones. Could it be another fish?
As I pondered the question, people continued to shove me about, bumping into one another. Since I still did not have a reason to run, I managed to keep walking. I kept walking until something fell on me. Running feet eventually trampled both the something and me. Then I raised my head and I completely forgot the embarrassment of the boxer and the fish question. I just began to scream wildly as I beheld the object that pinned me down. It did not seem affected by the upheaval as it smiled at me. It was Uke, a creature without form or description. It had died many years ago – that is, even long before my ancestors were born. I think its parents killed it when they found out it was a child of tragic omen. Dazed, I allowed it to drag me through the human crowd to a tent made with the chalk of knowledge. It was a special kind of chalk, the type that gave one a single powerful eye. My heartbeat sounded like a frenzied drum. The noise from my heart mingled with that of the mad crowd and I was filled with a fear that had the red color dancing round it. At that point, thinking that my end was imminent, I began to frantically search for an end-of-life prayer. But in spite of my fear, I managed to ask Uke what it was doing with the living. Uke told me that the noise roused it from the grave and that a lot of dead people were actually in the race.
“Why?” I asked. It gave me a strange answer that I did not understand.
“Most of the dead people are distorted fragments, searching for their whole reality. So they think that if they join the race, they might find the pieces that would lead to wholeness.”
“But where are they running to?”
“Does it matter where? Anyway, I smell a great calamity in the offing. But why not eat some of the green chalk to find out more?” With that advice, Uke vanished and I felt lighter than light – like an alien ship gliding through space.
Still confused, someone’s head hit mine, but he did not stop to apologize. I did not think he could have stopped because he was submerged by another group of runners. More people began to emerge from nowhere. A group of angry traders from the East emerged from a wide gully. They carried a coffin and a huge metal crucifix, which sometimes resembled a big gun. This group ran and sang at the same time:
Who say we no get fada
We say we get fada
Our fada na ’oly Gos Fada
It seemed to me at that point that the reasonable thing to do was join the singing traders, but they suddenly disappeared into another gully, and thousands of runners who seemed to have fallen from the sky fell into the gully with them – all singing of their ’oly Gos Fada. As if that was a playful interlude, a group of bugs and rodents circled the clouds like an airplane. They boasted of how wonderful their existence was: they have no need for employment or worry about money or care about population control – they rule the world. They began a meaningless song that filled the air with mockery:
Cockroach and rat are in the car
Rat being the driver
Cockroach and rat
Rode in the car
Smoking cigarette
For a few minutes everyone froze. They held their buttocks as if trying to prevent big explosive farts, then they began to laugh and eat mushrooms. Wait! Was I dreaming or what? Minutes later, the freezing moment passed and everyone resumed running. I was about to give up on the national madness when a young girl bumped right into me. She had a tiara on her head and she was eating one of the boastful bugs. This time I got an apology, but I did not know if it was for the bumping or the edible cockroach. When I asked her why everyone was running, she gave me a sharp look of surprise.