The Human Child
In my dream, I am a child again, no more than eight years old. I’m back at home, in the village, standing in the yard behind the family house. Everything burns with colour. The sky is a rich indigo. The grass is as green as my mother’s emerald ring.
But the woods at the edge of the property are a monstrous black. The baka trees seem to be creeping forward, eating up the ground as they move towards me. I want to run into the house and bury my face in my mother’s skirts, but my feet are rooted to the spot. The sky is growing darker now, and all the colour is leaving the world.