The fever came hot like fire from a burning wood. I shivered and sweated at the same time. How can a man be hot and cold at once? I was in a state of discomfort.
“Mama… water,” I croaked, my throat dry from thirst.
She pressed a cup to my lips, her eyes worried.
“My son, you want to kill me o. Which kind of sickness is this one na?” I heard her cry.
I wanted to answer, but the strong hands of sleep dragged me under. I struggled to open my eyes again, but I was no longer in my room. I found myself walking by a wide, empty shore in an unknown land. Maybe an island. I just couldn’t tell. The waves rolled in slow motion. The sea was whispering my name.
“Chuka…” I spun around. No one. Just endless water and a silent whisper.
“Mama…” I muttered.
Someone was shaking me. I woke to Mama's hands on me, shaking me.
“Chuka! Chuka! Thank God. You were jerking. Don’t scare me like that.” She cried aloud. “Your father have called the doctor, he's on his way here”.
That evening, the doctor arrived with his medical instruments. He ran some tests on me and said,
“It's just severe malaria, Ma. Hallucinations may sometimes come with the fever. Just give him the drugs, water, and he needs enough rest. He’ll be fine.”
Mama nodded like she agreed with the doctor. But immediately he left, she bent close to me and asked.
“Son, tell me the truth. What did you see?”
Out of breath and weakly. I hesitated and answered.
“A shore, mama. Water was everywhere. And the sea, it... It seemed to be calling my name.”
Mama shouted, like a typical African mother. “I said it. It's not ordinary o. They are calling you… They are calling you from the other side. We must pray.”
I scoffed faintly.
I knew the gimmicks of an African mother. And Mama was an expert in it. To add to it, she was so spiritual, too.
“Mama, it’s just malaria,” I whispered.
“Just malaria, he says. You believe them too?. My child, in our part of the world, not everything is medical.” She turned and left the room.
I didn't read meanings into it. Not until that night, I dreamt the same dream again. This time, I stood on the same shore, with a man I was familiar with - my late grandfather.
He lifted his hand and beckoned to me. “Come.” Behind him, the water shone like glass.
My feet itched to move, but fear gripped me. On my bed, my body shook. I could hear voices around me. It was Mama's voice. She was praying. I could literally feel her hands on my head as her voice thundered.
“You will not take my son!”
The doctor’s voice overlapped. “Calm down, madam. He just needs the medicine now.”
I turned to stare at my late grandpa, still beckoning to me. But Mama's voice was like a strong force pulling at me, holding me back from going to meet Grandpa. Suddenly, it felt like I stumbled between the waves and the bed. Then a heavy darkness buried me.
I woke hours later to sunlight pouring into my room. My head was lighter. Mama sat by my bed. Her Bible was open, and her lips were moving weakly but steadily in prayer. My fever had calmed, and I was at peace.
That afternoon, the doctor returned and was amazed at the speed of my recovery.
“He’s a lucky boy. The medicine worked quickly. Complete the dosage, and he’ll recover well.”
Mama nodded politely again, like she concurred with him. But when he left, she turned to me.
“Chuka, you and I know it wasn’t only the medicine. If it wasn’t for my prayers and God, they would have taken you o.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “Not everything is medical o.”
I didn’t argue. My dream was still fresh in my mind. The sound of the waves still lived in my ears.
I couldn’t tell if it was science or Mama's prayers, but whichever one it was, I was grateful to be alive and not on that shoreline with Granpa.
