It was quiet, or at least, I thought it was as I processed my thoughts. Kids were playing on the road, some naked and some still in their school uniforms. A few shops and a popular restaurant, where several people from Il'ola came to eat, were nearby. It was just a stone's throw from my house, and the place was always noisy and crowded, but it felt like they weren't there. The noise of the kids, the traders from the shops, or the incoherent noise of the customers from both the restaurant and those trying to negotiate a price with the traders—I didn't hear anything. It was just like watching TV without volume.

I was still trying to understand what happened a few minutes ago in the bush path. Ade had just left for his game as we exited the path. He wanted to follow me home, but I told him not to worry. Of course, he was concerned and thought I was sick or something. Well, maybe I am, but I insisted anyway and told him we would meet in school the next day. He finally agreed, and I continued walking alone.

I thought of the nightmares first and then the voices. Could they have a connection? What exactly is wrong with me? Or was I just going crazy? I wouldn't argue that last part right now. I thought of these troubling questions as I walked home, trying to make sense of it. My thoughts drowned out everything around me until I found myself in front of my house.

I heard that deep voice, and I knew he was inside, probably in the sitting room where I would certainly run into him.

I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and entered the house.

I was greeted by a strong but sweet-smelling cologne. I thought it was for a visitor because my father didn't use cologne like that, and I heard his voice like he was deep in a conversation with someone.

I wouldn't get my hopes up, though. People rarely visited here since mother's death.

There was a small waiting room just before the sitting room. I stood there for a second, trying to make sense of what was going on in the sitting room. I didn't hear any other person's voice except my dad. He was deep in a conversation with himself.

And that was just one of the habits he picked up these past few months. He has been talking to himself more than ever, laughing all alone, and sometimes cooking for an imaginary person. It is getting worse day by day. Sometimes, he would talk all through the night with whoever he was talking to.

I pushed the door open and entered the sitting room. My dad seemed to be the one wearing the cologne, and there was food on the table. Two plates, in fact! The jollof rice even looked good, and I knew my dad was a bad cook. The house was very clean, and I knew that would be Aunt Biola's work. But everything was a little extra. The chairs were neatly arranged, and the rug was so clean. It was almost as if the rug was just bought from the market. Even the TV we don't really use was clear of dust for the first time in weeks.

I proceeded to the sitting room and greeted my dad. He stopped and turned his gaze toward me. For a moment, he looked like he was going to scream at me to go away or something, but instead, he welcomed me with a smile.

"How was school today?"

"It was fine."

There was a long silence after, and I felt it was my cue to go inside. I turned to leave, but my father's snap stopped me.

"Stop there. What did I tell you about greeting?"

I was confused. I just greeted him. Or has he forgotten so soon?

"I just greeted you, sir."

"I'm talking about our visitor," he was really furious now.

I took a quick glance around the sitting room, but there was no one except the both of us.

"But, but...," I stammered, trying to find the right words. None came.

He sprang up from his chair and dashed toward me.

"I have always warned you to greet an older person when you see one," he said as he moved towards me.

"Dad, please, I'm sorry."

I blocked my face with my arm, waiting for him to hit me. But nothing happened. I brought my arm down to see what was going on. He was facing the chair he just stood up from, talking to his imaginary friend.

"No, it's wrong. He really needs to learn a lesson," he said, and I still surveyed the room for anyone, trying to find sense in all this, but I didn't see anyone.

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He paused like he was waiting for a reply.

"I understand, but he needs to know."

Another pause.

"Alright. But he still needs to greet you. I don't care what you think," he said as he turned back to me.

"Now greet our visitor."

"Sir?"

"I said greet our visitor," he snapped so hard that I shook in fear.

"Good evening," I bowed awkwardly at no one.

"That's better. I don't ever want to remind you to greet anymore. Is that clear?" His voice was firm.

"Yes, sir."

"Now get out of my sight," he returned to his seat and resumed his conversation.

I picked up my bag, which had fallen from my shoulder earlier, and headed for my room. The moment I entered my room, I dropped my bag, and closed the door. I rested on the door and took a long deep breath. I was so confused with everything that's been happening. But my father's sudden transformation is even more disturbing.

It was hard to even remember what he was like before mother's death. But I knew he wasn't like this. It all started after mother's death. He didn't take the news well and was in his room for days. Our family that came tried to help. They made him even try to eat for a start since he didn't eat or drink days after her death. With a lot of persuasion, he eventually drank water. Just water. He rejected everything they brought to him. Except water. He stayed in his room all day till mother's burial. He didn't speak to anyone or say anything. Not even to me. My uncles and aunts did their best, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't going to bring her back. I cried every day until I was too weak to cry anymore. I managed to eat something, but the food tasted worse. Everything wasn't right. I just wanted my mother back.

When my father came out of his room on the day of the burial, I barely recognized him. He looked exhausted, and his eyes were swollen. He had also grown lots of beards, and his face was begging for a shave. The outline of his cheekbone was so clear he looked like an x-ray image with a lot of hair. You could have mistaken him for an ex-convict. It was hard for him as she died right beside him on their bed. She died in her sleep after a short illness. But even the day of the burial, he didn't speak to me. He just got dressed and left with his brothers to make sure everything was ready. But I wasn't sure I was ready. This was my mother. A person I've loved and cherished all my life, just gone all of a sudden. I managed to go even though some of my aunts told me to stay back if I wanted to. But I wanted to see her one last time.

The pain of watching my mother's coffin taken down six feet beneath the earth's surface was the worst feeling I've had in my life. It was then it hit me that she was truly gone. She was never coming back. I hoped the coffin would open up, and mother would come out and tell us she's okay. But that didn't happen. Sand, and more sand, was dug into her grave until she was finally buried away. Forever. It was so hurtful that I'd never seen my dad weep the way he did that day. And that would be the day he changed forever.

He talked to me after the burial, though. He gave me a short speech about how people come and go and also apologized for not being there this whole time. Then weeks after the burial, he started getting angry so easily. Anytime I did something wrong, he hit me and called me names. I didn't understand the new change, but it continued. The day it hit its peak was when he told me he regretted the day mother brought me in.

My family, including me, knew they weren't my biological parents. At my former school, I was taunted about not having parents. I didn't know then and thought they were just trying to make fun of me. Until I heard some teachers talking about it, and I got curious. I asked my mother when I got home and she didn't deny it. She sat me down and told me not to worry too much about what people say. She said she found me in her farm as a baby all alone. She was confused but took me in anyway. No one came looking, and since she never had a child of her own, she raised me together with my father. They showed me nothing but love. Something that my real parents may not have offered me. She told me to forget what people say, and she would keep taking care of me and do her best to make me a great person. She also withdrew me from that school and put me in the school I am now.

Even though I appreciated the love and affection they've shown me, I always thought about what my real parents were like. I always dismissed the thought immediately, though. I felt that if they loved me, they wouldn't have dumped me. For me, my true parents were the ones that showed a baby they didn't know love.

So when my father made that statement, I was mad. I cried for days. I didn't know why my father was acting this way now.

Soon, he began talking to himself, and then his brothers started to worry. They offered to help, but he turned them down and told them never to come back again. He even claimed they were responsible for his wife's death. His behavior was frightening. Soon, all our relatives left and never came back. They were the last set of people to set foot in this house. Except Aunt Biola, of course. Father appointed her shortly after our relatives left. He never acknowledged her, though. In fact, it was like he didn't know he appointed someone. He never greeted her or talked to her. To him, she didn't exist. And what's even more disturbing is that Aunt Biola has never spoken to him either.

Soon, Dad continued talking to himself more, and it got worse. Laughing to himself, cooking for an imaginary person, talking all night. He also didn't stop hitting me either.

I slumped onto my bed, knowing I was on my own. No one was going to help me now. My uncles have stopped calling, and Dad isn't getting better. Ade has been supportive, no doubt, but there was only so much he could do.

It was already a few minutes past six, and the dim light of the sun was the only source of light in the room. It was like the sun was sending me a message. Its light shone directly on my old boots, the ones I used for football. I stood up and took them from my shoe rack. They were already dusty and peeling off at the front a little.

I had felt so much pain this past year. I just wanted to do one thing that could bring me happiness. That is football, my favorite game. It's the only thing that could make me forget the pain. At least for now.

I took my brush and went to the toilet to wash the boots. It's time I followed Ade's advice.