the fireflies that fly in a room

as I stepped into the empty apartment, the echo of my footsteps grew into a haunting reminder of my solitude. for the first time in my life, I was alone. no adoptive family to shield me, no comforting presence to anchor my identity. the walls, bare and unforgiving, stared back at me like the faces of strangers.

i wandered through the rooms, tracing the outlines of a life yet to be lived. the air was heavy with the scent of new beginnings, but i couldn’t shake off the stench of abandonment. my parents, alive and well, had chosen not to claim me. the world, with all its thorns, seemed determined to remind me of my disposability.

each day, i woke up to the silence, a deafening roar that threatened to consume me. i searched for solace in the mirror, but the reflection stared back, a stranger’s face with eyes that seemed to ask, “who are you?” i thought of my adoptive family, their love, a fragile lifeline i’d clung to for so long. but now, i was adrift, lost in a sea of uncertainty.

the city outside was a riddle of faces, each one a reminder that i didn’t belong. i felt like a ghost hovering on the periphery, invisible and insignificant. yet, i yearned to be seen, to be heard, to be known. i roamed the streets, searching for answers in the eyes of strangers, but they passed me by, indifferent to my presence.

in this wilderness of solitude, i stumbled upon fragments of myself. a glimpse of my smile in a windowpane, a whisper of my laughter in the wind, a hint of my voice in the silence. i began to piece together the puzzle of my identity, to reclaim the narrative of my life.

And so, i wrote my own story, a tale of resilience and defiance. i etched my name on the walls of this empty apartment, a declaration of existence. i was no longer just a ghost, a whisper, a shadow. i was alive, a flame flickering in the darkness, refusing to be extinguished.

…

i stood before my landlord, a stern-faced woman with a calculating gaze, and handed her the envelope containing my rent. she counted the notes with a deliberate slowness, as if to emphasize the transaction’s significance. i felt a thrill of pride, knowing that this payment marked my independence.

as i entered my apartment, a sense of ownership washed over me. i locked the door, feeling the soft click of the latch like a seal on my newfound autonomy. the space, once a mere idea, was now my sanctuary.

i approached the window, pushing aside the blind to reveal the city’s tapestry. the sunlight danced across my face, casting a warm glow on my skin. i breathed in deeply, feeling the air fill my lungs, and exhaled slowly, letting go of the weight of my past.

with each breath, i felt a sense of empowerment coursing through me. i was no longer a guest, no longer a temporary presence. this was my domain, my haven. i could be myself, untethered from the expectations of others.

as night descended, i lay on my bed, surrounded by the silence of my apartment. the darkness was almost palpable, a physical presence that enveloped me in its embrace. i felt the weight of my identity settling into this new space, like a river flowing into its natural course.

in this solitude, i discovered a sense of peace that eluded me for so long. it was as if the walls of my apartment had absorbed the turmoil of my past, leaving only the gentle hum of my existence. i closed my eyes, letting the stillness seep into my soul, and slept, wrapped in the embrace of my newfound freedom.

as i drifted off to sleep, memories of my childhood began to resurface. i remembered the days when my first adopted mother would wake me up with a turning stick, insisting that i learn the value of hard work. she believed that i was lazy, and that only through punishment could i understand the importance of diligence. i recalled the sting of the stick, the ache in my bones, and the tears that followed.

my mind wandered to the night i decided to change my name from Oluwaseyi to Oluwadamilola. i had convinced myself that my name was the source of all my misfortunes, and that a new name would bring me better luck. i remembered the conviction in my voice as i announced the change to my family, hoping that a new identity would bring a fresh start.

and then, there was the night i decided to take control of my life. after my last surgery, i had the opportunity to visit my biological parents. i knew that if i returned to my foster home, i would be trapped in the same cycle of pain and neglect. So, i made the bold decision to stay away, to forge my own path.

as these memories flooded my mind, i felt a sense of nostalgia wash over me. i had come a long way since then, and yet, the scars of my past still lingered.

just as i was lost in thought, i heard my wife’s voice calling out to me, “Babe, you have a call.” i got out of bed, stretched my arms, and walked to the kitchen to light up the cooking gas. the soft whoosh of the flame ignited, casting a warm glow on the countertops. i smiled, feeling a sense of peace and contentment wash over me. i was home, finally.

as i gazed into the flame, i felt myself being transported back to our humble 1-bedroom apartment, formerly a 2-bedroom that my parents had to partition to make ends meet. i remembered the countless hours i spent helping my mother sell cooked rice at the front of our house, the aroma of her delicious food drawing in customers from all around. people loved her cooking, and i loved being her assistant, learning the intricacies of entrepreneurship from a young age.

my mind wandered to the days my siblings and i would roam the streets, searching for plastic bottles to fuel the fire that cooked our meals. we’d gather sticks and twigs, bringing them home to my mother, who’d use them to prepare our dinner. it was a struggle, but we made do.

my father, on the other hand, struggled with his own demons. after losing his job, he turned to excess alcohol, cleverly stealing my mother’s hard-earned money to buy sachet drinks. his dreams of providing for us seemed to slip further away with each passing day. i remembered the joke he made about buying a car, one that we’d always have to push on our way back from church, if it even made it that far. my brother quipped, “it’s better walking than entering a workout station with four legs!” we’d all laugh, but deep down, we knew the truth — our father’s dreams were slowly fading away.

the flame from the cooking gas danced before me, casting shadows on the wall as memories continued to flood my mind. i snapped back to reality, the sound of my wife’s voice calling me back to the present, “babe, your call is waiting.” i took a deep breath, letting go of the past, and walked towards the phone, ready to face whatever the future held.

as i stood there, lost in thought, i remembered the nights my father and i spent inside our former rented apartment, counting money and cutting foam blocks into smaller bits to make pillows. my mother had started the pillow-making business, and soon, everyone in the household joined in, cutting foam into smaller pieces. but then, the bishop’s letter arrived, instructing that the mission house we lived in be converted back into a church. this was a devastating blow, coming just after my father and his cousins lost a significant portion of the foam business to a fire.

my father had described the fire as ghastly, claiming it had destroyed several houses and everything in them. the loss was catastrophic, and it marked the beginning of his downward spiral. we had to relocate to a suburb area, where things went from bad to worse. my father, unable to cope with the decline of the foam factory, stopped going to work, his retirement sudden and unceremonious.

each night, i’d watch him drink himself into a stupor, his mind consumed by thoughts of what could have been. but my mother, ever the pillar of strength, took charge, using her cooking to keep the family afloat. She’d wake up early, prepare food, and sell it at the front of our house. my father, initially skeptical, soon saw the potential and began to help her with the early morning runs.

as i reminisced, the flame from the cooking gas seemed to flicker in sync with my memories, casting shadows on the wall that danced like the ghosts of our past. my wife’s voice broke the spell, “babe, your call is still waiting.” i took a deep breath, letting go of the memories, and walked towards the phone, ready to face the present.