THE ORDINARY WORLD – PRELUDE TO HER DREAMS
It was March. The heat lay over the city like a heavy, invisible shroud. Year after year, the climate worsened, yet the streets remained alive, humming with traffic and chatter, as if no one dared slow down.
A silver Toyota Highlander threaded its way through the press of cars, the engine humming patiently as it turned into a quieter residential street. It rolled to a stop before a cream‑coloured duplex. The horn sounded twice—short, sharp bursts—until the iron gate swung open. The car eased forward, tyres crunching over the gravelled drive.
The rear door swung wide, and three children tumbled out in quick succession: first a lanky teenager, then a boy not yet in his teens, then a small child clutching his satchel. They scattered inside, voices fading into the afternoon heat.
The driver's door opened more slowly. A middle‑aged man stepped out, brushing the creases from his shirt as he glanced back through the open window. In the rear seat, a girl still dozed, her head tipped to one side. His lips tightened.
'Lamani—must you always be asleep?'
She stirred, lashes lifting as though she had never slept at all, and slid out of the car with unhurried grace.
A young girl appeared at the doorway, slipping inside silently. The door clicked shut behind her. Lamani lingered in the hallway, her eyes sweeping the living room. Her siblings were already sprawled on the sofas, bags and jackets strewn carelessly over the floor. She did not speak. Her gaze drifted away as she turned and climbed the stairs. The door to her room closed behind her with a soft thud.
Her room was neat and orderly, but it held no warmth.
Her schoolbag landed on a chair, forgotten. She let herself fall onto the bed, limbs heavy, eyes half‑lidded—an indifference in her expression far too deep for her age.
A breeze wandered through the half‑open window, lifting a stray wisp of hair and cooling her damp skin.
I'm tired, she thought, a dull ache in her chest.
Sleep crept over her once more. She did not resist it. Darkness welcomed her like an old friend.
…
By evening, the smell of spices and simmering stew filled the air. Lamani washed and made her way down to the dining room. Her family were already gathered, bowls and cutlery clinking softly as the housekeeper served their food. She took her place without a word.
Her siblings chatted in low voices, laughter threading through their tiredness. Then her father's voice cut across the table, calm but edged with authority:
'Quiet.'
The voices stilled. Chairs creaked as they shifted, waiting.
'I have something to tell you all,' he said, resting his hands on the table. 'I'm getting married.'
For the third time, Lamani thought, lifting another spoonful to her mouth.
'Dad, are you serious?' Tumane, her older brother, leaned forward, frowning.
'Yes,' their father replied evenly.
He glanced around the table. 'Does anyone have something to say?'
'Congratulations, Dad!' Tiwa and Tobi chimed in unison, bright and eager.
Her father's gaze settled on Lamani.
'Lamani, don't you have anything to say?'
She finished chewing, then met his eyes briefly.
'No. I don't.'
She set her spoon neatly beside her empty plate, rose, and pushed her chair back into place.
'Thank you for the food,' she murmured, her voice even, and turned to leave.
Silence trailed her up the stairs. In her room, she perched by the window and stared out into the gathering night. She knew her father's surprise at her bluntness would burn silently in him, restrained by the guilt he carried.
A third marriage. It meant nothing to her.
Her mother—his first wife—was gone, leaving Lamani and Tumane in a fog of unanswered questions. Had she died? Had she fled? No one said.
Then came the second wife, Tiwa and Tobi's mother, and with her, the years that had carved scars into Lamani's body and mind.
Her father's guilt was rooted in those years. He had watched the second wife's cruelty and done nothing—until it took third‑degree burns, two fractured ribs and a concussion to force his hand. Only then had he sent the woman away.
The wounds had healed, mostly. But Lamani could not help wondering what kind of woman this third wife would be. Would she be gentle? Or, better still, would she simply look through her, as though she were invisible?
That was all Lamani ever asked for: to be left alone.
Days later, after school, the siblings arrived home to find a stranger waiting in the lounge.
'Good afternoon. I'm Dara, your father's wife,' the woman said, rising with a smile. 'I do hope we can get along.'
Tiwa and Tobi beamed at her instantly. Even Tumane offered one of his rare smiles. Lamani stood still for a moment, watching them, her face unreadable. Then she turned away and started up the stairs.
'Lamani.'
Her father's voice halted her. She turned. He had entered the room unnoticed, his expression shadowed.
'I expect you to show your mother the respect she deserves. I don't want to hear of you refusing, or neglecting, or anything. Am I clear?'
'I understand,' Lamani said softly, then turned away.
She yawned as she climbed the stairs. No matter how heavy his guilt weighs on him, guilt only goes so far, she thought.
That night, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The urge to sleep had grown stronger in recent weeks, a tide she could barely resist. She had spent too long fighting it, clutching at wakefulness. She no longer cared to try.
The walls blurred as drowsiness enfolded her. The air grew cooler. Her breath softened.
And then, quietly, as though slipping through a door no one else could see—
Lamani was gone.