He was somewhere.
That was the first thought. Faint, distant, like hearing a
bell ring underwater. I am somewhere.
He tried to open his eyes. His lids were heavy, weighted.
The muscles around them strained, trembled, and finally—finally—parted.
Grey. Everything was grey. Grey light, grey ceiling, grey
air thick with dust and the smell of old straw.
He did not move. He did not try to.
He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for
something to make sense.
Where am I?
The thought was slow. Syrupy. His mind felt packed in wool.
Is this a hospital?
He listened. No beeping machines. No distant intercom. No
smell of antiseptic.
Just the grey. The straw. The creak of wood settling.
How did I—
The thought fractured. Slipped away. He was too tired to
hold it.
He lay still. Breathing. Existing.
He did not know how long he lay there. Minutes. Hours. Time
moved strangely in the grey light.
But eventually, the weight in his limbs began to lift. His
fingers twitched. His toes curled against the coarse blanket.
I should sit up.
He braced his palm against the blanket. Pushed.
His arm buckled.
Not because it was weak—because it was wrong. His centre of
gravity was too low. His muscles were too short. He had pushed from the wrong
place, with the wrong mechanics, and his elbow folded like wet paper.
He collapsed back onto the pallet, his breath escaping in a
sharp huff.
What—
He tried again. Slower this time. He rolled onto his side.
Planted his hand. Shifted his weight.
His body rose. Unsteady, trembling, but up.
And then his elbow slipped.
He lurched sideways, flailing, his hand catching the edge of
the low shelf beside his pallet. The pitcher there rocked once, twice—and fell.
Water exploded across the floor.
Cold. Sudden. Spreading in a wide, dark stain across the
packed earth.
Chris stared at it. His breath came in shallow pulls. His
heart hammered against his ribs.
Water. I knocked over water. It's just water. It's fine.
But his eyes were fixed on the spreading pool, and the pool
was still, and the pool was reflecting.
He leaned forward.
A face looked back at him.
Small. Thin. Brown skin, muted but unmistakable—the colour
of roasted coffee, of oiled wood, of his grandmother's hands. Wide eyes, dark
and wet. A mouth slightly open, trembling at the edges.
Who—
The face moved. He moved. His hand rose; the face's hand
rose. His lips parted; the face's lips parted.
No.
His breath stopped.
No. No, no, no—
The face in the water was his. His face. His reflection. But
it was not his face. It was too young, too small, too smooth. The face of a
child who had never shaved, never stayed up too late finishing a work
presentation, never smiled at his mother across a dinner table laden with
jollof rice and fried plantains.
A child's face.
His face. Now.
"Blood of—"
The words died in his throat.
His vision swam. The room tilted. His chest heaved,
contracted, spasmed—nothing. No air. No sound. His hands flew to his face, his
small brown fingers clawing at cheeks that were too smooth, a jaw that had
never felt a razor, skin that was not his skin but was now, somehow, the only
skin he had.
Air. Air. I can't—I need—
His heart slammed against his ribs. His eyes darted—ceiling,
walls, door, window, floor—looking for an exit, an answer, anything. His breath
came in short, sharp bursts, each one shallower than the last.
Breathe. Breathe, Taiwo. Breathe.
He could not.
And then the headache hit.
It started behind his eyes. A pressure, dull and insistent.
Then it spread—across his temples, down his neck, into the base of his skull. A
slow, grinding ache that pulsed with every heartbeat.
He clutched his head. His fingers twisted in his hair,
pulled at the roots. The pain was blinding, nauseating, too much—
And then, beneath it, something else.
A woman on a bed. Too still. Too pale. Hands that would
never hold anything again.
A voice, weary, matter-of-fact. "The mother didn't make it."
Mother.
His mother.
The image burned through him like ice water. He saw her—not
clearly, not fully, just a shape, a silhouette, a woman who had existed for
only a moment before ceasing to exist. He felt the weight of her absence, a
grief that was not his but was now, suddenly, horribly, his.
And beneath that grief, another grief. Older. Deeper. His
own.
His mother's face. His real mother. The one with the loud
laugh and the good cooking and the way of saying his name that made him feel
like the centre of her world.
Taiwo, come and eat.
Taiwo, have you finished your work?
Taiwo, my son, my son, my son—
She was gone. He would never see her again. She would never
know what happened to him. She would visit a grave that held an empty coffin
and pray to a God who had let her son die on a rainy motorway, and she would
never, ever know.
The two griefs merged. Became one. Became his.
A sound escaped him. Not a word. Just sound. The sound of a
man who has lost everything and is only now beginning to understand.
The headache receded. Slowly. Reluctantly.
He gasped, sucking air into lungs that had forgotten how to
breathe. His hands were still clutching his head. His face was wet.
What—what just happened?
He had no time to answer.
The pain returned.
It struck like a hammer blow. Behind his eyes, across his
temples, down his spine. He doubled over, his forehead pressing into the wet
straw of the floor, his small body shaking.
A man at a tavern table. Rough hands. Sticky ale.
"A boy, you say? Healthy?"
A pause. Then: "Good. Good. I know a merchant who needs
cheap hands."
Coins. Seventeen of them. Silver. Sliding across wood.
Seventeen marks. That was his price.
He was three years old.
The rage hit him like a physical force.
It was not his rage. He had never felt anything like it. It
was hot and cold at once, a fire that burned and a frost that numbed. It was
the rage of a child who had been measured in silver and found wanting. The rage
of a boy who had been handed over by the man who should have protected him,
should have loved him, should have been his father.
Father.
The word became a curse. A condemnation. The face of the man
was still absent, still a void, but the shape of him was clear: hands reaching
for coins, for drink, for anything but his son.
Seventeen marks. Less than a good horse.
That's what I was worth.
That's what he decided I was worth.
The rage crested. Broke. Receded.
Chris slumped against the pallet, his breath ragged, his
body trembling.
He had a moment. Barely a breath. Just enough to think:
How many more—
And then the third wave came.
It did not strike. It enveloped.
All of it. Everything else. Eight years of memories,
compressed into a single, unbearable moment.
A kind voice, old and patient. "Stand straight, lad. You're
to be young Lady Elena's personal butler."
A girl with winter-sky eyes, looking at him once and never
again.
The Cromwells. Merchants. Wool and timber. Respectable
people who did not ask where their servants came from.
This world. Aldorian. Two suns. One moon. Magic that existed
somewhere else.
This room. This pallet. This chest holding two tunics and a
broken comb.
Cold mornings. Empty stomachs. Work that was never done,
never thanked, never acknowledged.
Loneliness. Constant, quiet, bone-deep. The loneliness of a
boy who existed in the margins of other people's lives.
His name. Chris. No surname. No family. No future beyond
service.
His purpose. To serve. To be useful. To be furniture, air,
nothing.
All of it. Every moment of neglect, every day of invisible
labour, every night of silent hunger. All of it, at once, flooding a vessel
that was already too full.
Chris screamed.
Not a word. Not a prayer. Just sound—raw, animal, torn from
the deepest part of him.
He screamed until his throat was raw, until his voice broke,
until there was nothing left.
Then he lay still.
The grey light pressed against the high slit window. The
dust motes drifted. The water from the pitcher continued its slow seep into the
packed earth.
Chris lay on the floor, curled on his side, his small body
shaking with silent, exhausted sobs.
He did not know how long he stayed like that. Time moved
strangely here.
But eventually, the shaking stopped.
His breathing slowed. His grip on his own arms loosened. He
opened his eyes and looked at the room.
The narrow pallet. The wooden chest. The fallen pitcher. The
spreading stain of water on the floor.
This is my room now.
This is my life now. This body. This name. This work. This
world.
This is what Èṣù gave me.
He did not know if it was a gift or a punishment. He did not
know if there was a difference.
He pushed himself up. His arms trembled. His legs were weak.
But he found his feet, and he stood.
The room tilted. Settled.
He looked down at his hands. Small. Brown. Real.
He did not curl them into fists. He just… looked at them.
I am Chris.
My mother died when I was born.
My father sold me for seventeen marks.
I have served the Cromwell family for five years.
I am eight years old.
I am alone.
The thoughts were not his. They were his now.
He let them settle. Let them become true.
A knock at the door.
Light. Quick. Impatient.
"Chris." A girl's voice. Young, sharp, efficient. "Cook
needs kindling. Are you awake?"
Mira. The lady's maid. Eleven years old, crisp apron,
sharper tongue.
He opened his mouth. His voice came out rough, hoarse—but
steady.
"Yes. I'm awake."
"Then get up. The bin is almost empty."
Footsteps, retreating.
Chris stood in the centre of the small room, alone with the
grey light and the weight of a life he had not chosen.
The fallen pitcher lay at his feet. He bent, slowly, and
righted it. His reflection rippled in the remaining water, then stilled.
He looked at himself. Really looked.
This is my face now.
This is my body now.
This is my life now.
He turned away from the water.
His feet knew the way to the woodpile. His hands knew the
weight of the bin. His body remembered what his mind was only beginning to
accept.
He did not know if he would ever stop feeling like a ghost
in someone else's skin.
But he was breathing. He was standing. He was moving.
That would have to be enough
For now.