The Rise of Damola

Chapter 36- For richer, for poorer

~BUNMI~

It's that awful feeling again. I'm lying down, and I feel myself floating, like I'm suspended in water without any sense of weight. This sensation is unsettling but not unfamiliar. I've been here before, in this strange limbo between consciousness and oblivion.

Around me, I hear the soft hum of the machines, the rhythmic beeping that's almost soothing if not for the fear it carries with it. I can't see them, but I can sense the presence of people moving in and out of the room. Doors open and close with a quiet click, and footsteps echo softly across the floor. It's like I'm listening from a great distance, as though I'm trapped beneath a layer of thick glass that muffles everything.

Some of the voices are familiar. I recognize them but can't quite place them. It's frustrating, like trying to remember a dream that slips away the moment you wake up. I hear snippets of conversations, the rise and fall of speech that comes in waves, sometimes breaking through the haze. There's laughter at times, but also hushed, serious tones that make my heart race even though my body remains stubbornly still.

In the sea of sounds, my mother's voice stands out. It's a lifeline, something I can hold onto in this swirling sea of confusion. But hearing her cry breaks my heart. Her sobs are like daggers, each one sharp and piercing, echoing in my mind. I wish I could reach out and comfort her, to tell her that I'm still here, even if I can't show it. I wish I could hold her hand and squeeze it just to let her know that I'm fighting, that I'm trying to come back.

But I can't. My body refuses to obey me. I can't move a single muscle, can't open my eyes, can't speak. It's as though I'm locked inside myself, a prisoner in my own mind. I try to scream, to force some kind of response, but nothing happens. The silence inside is deafening.

I hear my mother telling me to be strong, to hold on for us both. But who is she referring to? Is it just me and her? Or is she talking about Damola too? Did something happen to him as well? The thought sends a shiver through me, a cold dread that coils in my stomach.

In the background, I hear people offering congratulations to my mother, and it confuses me even more. Why are they congratulating her but also offering condolences? The words swirl around me, a blur of contradictions that I can't piece together. It's as if I'm caught in a twilight zone where nothing makes sense, where joy and sorrow are intertwined.

The small chatter I overheard on one occasion provided a brief window into the world beyond my current state. It was like listening to a distant radio broadcast through layers of fog, but I managed to decipher bits and pieces. I learned that something had happened to Damola, something serious enough for his assets to be frozen.

The news sent a ripple of anxiety through my otherwise still body. Who had been speaking? What had they said? Had it been true? I couldn't piece together the details, and that uncertainty gnawed at me. Damola, who had always been a constant presence and support in my life, was now facing a crisis of his own. The thought of him being in trouble, facing his own challenges without my support, filled me with an urgency to wake up and be there for him.

The questions multiplied, each one more insistent than the last: What had happened to him? Was he okay? Was it something he did, or something done to him? I longed to reach out to my mother, to ask her for answers, to find out what was going on in the world that felt so close yet so impossibly distant. But I was trapped, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to comfort myself with the answers I craved.

The frustration was overwhelming. It was like being in a cage, with all my thoughts bouncing around inside my head, unable to escape. My mind was a constant whirlpool of concern and confusion, where my imagination painted pictures of what might have happened. Each scenario was worse than the last, each possibility more distressing.

I could only imagine how worried my mother must be, juggling the weight of my condition and whatever had happened to Damola. Her strength was my source of hope, but I felt helpless in my inability to support her in return. I wished desperately to wake up, to be present, to console her, to ask her everything that had been assaulting my mind since I slipped into this state.

The desire to know, to understand, to help Damola and my mother was like a fire inside me, pushing me towards consciousness. I knew that when I finally broke free from this, my first priority would be to reach out to them, to piece together the fragments of the life I had left behind.

Until then, all I could do was wait, listen, and hope that they were okay, that things would be alright, and that I would eventually have the chance to find out the truth and help in any way I could even though each day felt like the other, a blur of sensations and muffled sounds, except for the "red days," that's what I called them. Those were the days someone would come in and talk to me, their words piercing through the haze in my mind like a bright signal. I don't think they knew I could actually hear them.

On one of these red days, I heard a familiar voice—a voice that stirred something within me. It was Habiba, my best friend. Her voice was laced with emotion, each word trembling as it passed through her lips.

"Hi, Bunmi," she began, her voice choked with guilt and regret. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know this was their plan. If I did, I promise I would have left the group. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. Please forgive me. Everything has gotten out of proportion, and I hate myself for it."

As she spoke, I could sense the weight of her words, the pain and regret she carried. I wished I could reassure her, to let her know that I understood, but I was trapped in this silent prison, unable to respond.

"I've stopped eating," she continued, her voice breaking. "I can't even look at myself in the mirror. I regret it all so much. I feel like the worst friend on the planet, and I am so sorry. Please, Bunmi, not for me, but for yourself—you have to wake up, okay?"

Her desperation was evident, and I could feel tears welling up inside, even though I couldn't express them. The thought of Habiba suffering, feeling responsible for whatever had happened, was almost unbearable.

"I heard they said if you don't wake up in two days, you might have to go under the knife again, and I really don't want anything to happen to you or to Damola. Please, wake up," she pleaded, her voice dissolving into sobs.

The urgency in her words struck me like a bolt of lightning, filling me with a desperate need to communicate, to reassure her that I was still here. I tried my absolute best to force something, anything, out of my throat, but no sound came. My body remained unresponsive, a frustrating testament to my current state.

Eventually, Habiba dried her tears and quietly left, leaving me alone with the echoes of her confession. The room felt emptier without her, but her words lingered, fueling my determination to fight against the darkness that surrounded me.

Time passed, and I felt myself teetering on the edge of consciousness. Suddenly, I opened my eyes to a flurry of activity around me. Doctors and nurses were bustling about, holding clipboards and speaking in urgent tones. One of them leaned in, shining a flashlight into my eyes, and I squinted against the brightness.

Beyond the medical staff, I could see my family through the glass window of the room. My mother was there, clutching my father's arm, her face a mixture of hope and disbelief. My siblings were jumping up and down, their excitement palpable even through the barrier that separated us.

I didn't fully grasp what had happened, the details still blurred by the fog of my recent state, but I knew it was a life-changing night for my family. The relief and joy etched on their faces spoke volumes, telling me that the worst was behind us, and that I was finally coming back to them.

The realization filled me with a sense of overwhelming gratitude and determination. I didn't yet understand the full scope of what had occurred, or the challenges that lay ahead, but I knew one thing: I had to fight. For my family, for Damola, and for Habiba, whose words had been the spark I needed to push through the darkness.