The Royal Road to The Unconscious

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By Sanni Juliet Oluwadarapupo

Disclaimer: This is an “ink-blot”. The readers’ interpretation of what this symbolizes is more important than what it is, far greater than the writer’s opinion. What it means to you, is the story it tells. 

I went on a journey once. It wasn’t one filled with a garden of roses and a side path of lilies; it was one with a blazing forest with the deadliest thorns, the kind that would rip your clothes if you got too near and impale you if you breathed in too deep. I found beauty in that forest. It wasn’t the usual kind; it was the one that kept me on my toes, the one that told me to duck, and I did. 

I tested the waters because, where I come from, the prettiest girls are made from the fieriest fire. Now, Shedrach, Meshach, and Abednego might have escaped the heat and called on God, but to prove my worth, I will bear the brunt, embrace the heat, and duck when I need to. 

My dreams started on the fortnight of the seventh month. They were ambiguous, demanding, and scary. I couldn’t make sense of them, and neither could Pa Ezinma, even with his known prowess in interpreting the worst dreams, in telling which direction the rain would fall before the skies turned cloudy with drizzles in sight. 

It was simple. I had broken into the chambers of the high priest, taken his revered traditional beads, worn them around my neck, and danced all the way to the market square. I danced till the soles of my feet bled and my mother’s wrapper became one with the soil. The moon glistened against my bare skin, but I didn’t stop till the noise of my mother’s voice woke me up. A restitution was due, but I heeded not to it. The high priest who cleanses the souls of the sinners, would have cleansed this away but what harm could a dream do?

That, was exhibit one. 

The second came on the day our new king was crowned; the dreams came again. I had broken into the chambers of the palace and became one with the king. I defiled myself and broke the chains of my mother’s warning: “Ngozi, a woman’s virtue lies in her purity, ngbo?” This time, I hadn’t answered “Yes, Mama.” Instead, I continued till I could not. When I arose, my sheets had taken on a new color and stench, the familiar crimson red hue of blood but it wasn’t that time of the month. I had just finished a week ago. This was my body mourning my hymen’s loss. I could feel the pain. It was real; it had happened. It did not take the whole day for the King’s horsemen to find me. That was the day I became queen. My mother was filled with joy, but I knew things were fundamentally wrong. 

The night before I was to bring forth my son to the arms of life, I dreamt again. This time, I was face to face with the Creator: “He must die. The burden of your sins will be upon him. When you wake up, he must be no more. Your troubles have only just begun. You do not breathe life but chaos. Suffering flows through your veins. Let that demon in the embrace of your womb die before the end of tonight if you wish peace upon your village.” Just because I hadn’t restituted for stealing what wasn’t stolen? Where was the creator when my dreams led me to the arms of the King, a dream that had become my dreadful reality. 

Then I went on that journey. I visited the deepest parts of the forest. I wanted an answer. I had exiled myself in hopes of saving my son. The thickest thorns would not hold me back from the peace he would bring to me. 

The forest would not burn with my son and me in it except for those who dare step in. 

My unconscious has tampered with my consciousness, and the abyss that is my decline is the solace I hold on to. I, Ngozi, would live. And when Ekemefuna rolls from my bosom, life will adjust to welcome him.