Where am I?

I dragged myself home from a day that felt like rebuilding civilization. My roommate asked the usual question: “How are you?” And I responded with my national anthem: “I’m soooo tired.” 

I got inside, dropped my bag, and opened the drawer. One chocolate. Gone. Second chocolate. Gone. The third chocolate tried to act shy, but I said, “Don’t stress me today," and finished it. And some candy. Enough sugar to fuel a kindergarten for a week.

I collapsed on my bed and opened Instagram “for just two minutes.” I yawned once. Twice.

My phone slipped. I picked it up. My dopamine fought back. Then sleep carried me away like a newborn.

I heard the door close. My roommate. Leaving the house? Before me? Highly suspicious behavior. My eyes flung open. “Where am I??”

For a moment, I thought I was in Ibadan. Then I saw the heater and the white walls that looked like a typical hospital in Nigeria. Technically cream. My eyes were blurry. “Oh… Russia.” Right. I was not in Jiboye. My life in the past few months was not a dream. 

I grabbed my phone. 7:14. At first, my brain said, “Nice.” Then the other half yelled, “NICE WHAT??” I sat up like someone who heard their name on a list of people to send back home. Cynthia Ofori!!!

Seven WHAT? Why am I not on the road? Why am I calm? Why am I not sprinting to the bus stop like I'm being chased after? Many. Many. Many questions on my mind. I owed Adekunle a remix. 

I jumped out of bed to perform a miracle. Teleport? Time travel? Fake amnesia? Anything. How will I explain myself? 

Then I looked again. It wasn’t 7:14 am tomorrow.

It was 7:14 pm today.