He woke up for the second night in a row with his eyes wide, as if he was struggling against the darkness to take in the details of the room. Sweat dripped from every pore in his body chased out by the terror he had just seen and his mouth was wide open like it should if he were screaming but no sounds came out. His chest felt heavy, weighed down by the screams that wouldn’t leave his lungs.
The night before, he had the same nightmare and had screamed. Mr Richard Ogundele whom he called Oga and his wife whom he called Madam were the first to arrive his room. Richard carried an antique sword that probably couldn’t cut through butter, his face showed bravery that was doing everything to mask the fear beneath. When he saw there was no intruder, it was replaced by relief and scorn so quickly the relief was barely noticeable.
‘Why did you scream like that?’ Richard had asked, after switching on the light.
‘I had a bad dream sir.’
‘Is that why you shouted like that? You woke everybody up, look at the children.’
Three of the Ogundele children had joined their parents at this time; Jumoke, the youngest, Richard Junior and Sola. The only child not present was Solomon. Solomon wouldn’t stir if a sawed-off shotgun went off in his room.
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The Scribe's Plaything. 