I wake slowly, fingers slick with fever. An insistent beeping drips through the darkness like a stubborn drum. Where am I? Pinned between bedsheets and sunlight, staring through haze at a white ceiling dotted with IV tubes, I inhale dry air spiced with antiseptic. My body is heavy, as if gravity itself insists on holding me here. A small mirror on the bedside table reflects a pale face framed by sweat-slick hair and dark rings under bloodshot eyes. I lie still, trying to make sense of shapes.
I remember the flash of white light and the sound of metal screaming, then nothing but darkness. Now, as consciousness seeps back, the memory comes jagged, like shards of broken glass. I had been in the lab late that night, alone save for the hum of machines and the comfort of equations. A cluster of glass and steel now spins in my mind, then shatters: the accelerator coil bursts with a roar, the lab shudders, and I fly backward. Pain until nothing. Then darkness. I touch the side of my head gingerly. My fingers graze a warm bandage on my temple, dry and crusted at the edges. Beneath it, my skin feels snug and bruised but unbroken.
Somewhere a monitor clicks—an artificial heartbeat audible to me alone. The room is quiet otherwise. I try to speak, but my tongue is thick and heavy. Days, maybe weeks, have passed. This hospital is empty; whoever tended me must have left with the dawn. Outside, a new morning is breaking though I cannot see past the curtains. My mind is a tangled forest, but one clear path winds through it: I survived something terrible. I must have. I lift a hand; it shakes so much that the IV bottle swings. I steady it with my other hand and breathe in slowly.
I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. A great quiet falls over me, as if the world has pressed pause. I recall a proverb my grandmother used to say after I scraped my knee as a child: "Kɔtɔkɔ nko nnii n'asem." A crab does not speak of its pain; it just moves forward. I will move forward too, then. But with what? The tiny light in my palm is cold comfort. Who have I become?
A footstep echoes outside. The curtain pulls back. Light floods in, and a woman stands at the door, wearing white scrubs and kind brown eyes. "How are we doing, Mr. Mensah?" she asks softly, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "We've been worried about you." Her voice is gentle, almost maternal.
My chest tightens. I had not remembered admitting myself, yet she calls me by name. "Doctor or nurse?" I manage, voice cracking. "Nurse Ogun," she says. "I'm just rounding now. Your doctor will be here soon." I swallow; my throat feels raw. "Doctor? Dr. Kamau?" I murmur, gripping the bedsheet. He was with me in the lab that night.
Nurse Ogun kneels by my bed. "He was very worried when you—when everything happened. But look at you now, awake. Let's start with something simple: can you squeeze my hand?" She places my hand between both of hers. I tighten my fingers a fraction. Her smile lights up her face. "Steady as an Akonoba drum—quiet but sure," she says with a reassuring laugh, referencing the steady beat of the Ashanti drum. I can't remember learning that phrase, but somehow it comforts me. I try again, a bit stronger. "There you go," Nurse Ogun says warmly.
She lifts my left hand to check my pupil reflexes. "Pupil reflexes good, no apparent damage. You might have had a concussion, but it's settling down," she observes. She meets my gaze. "You gave us quite a scare. We didn't think… we didn't think you'd survive that accident." Her words hang between us. Survive. Yes, I survived. I am breathing, alive, aware. But into what future?
I lie back against the pillow, breath coming more easily now. The fear that gripped me is still there, fluttering in my chest like an anxious bird, but it is quieter. I glance down at my left palm. The tiny star-light is still there, faint but pulsing. I raise an eyebrow. "Nurse, do I really have—something glowing in my hand?" I whisper. Nurse Ogun leans in closer. "Glowing? What...?" she frowns, concerned. "It looks like the room light. You've been through trauma, Obasi. You might be seeing things."
I force out a breathless laugh. "Ghosts lighting candles in the corridor," I joke quietly. She gives me a nervous smile. "Maybe," she replies. She sets a small mirror in my palm so she can inspect my eyes herself. "Ghosts are low on our concern list today," she adds gently. Then she says, "Eat this."
Moments later, Nurse Ogun returns with a tray of fruit: bananas, oranges, mango. The air fills with the sweet, real scent of ripe mango. I pick up a banana, still encased in its thick skin. Its weight feels ordinary, precious in my trembling hand. I peel it slowly; the skin rustles against my fingers. I take a bite. The sweetness is a prayer answered on my tongue. In that small act of nourishment—taste, texture, strength returning—I feel the world come back into focus.
Sunlight slants through the window now, burning away the last shadows of the night. "Even the sky remembers me," I whisper, astonished. "The old sky I knew before this…" Nurse Ogun hears me and offers a gentle smile. "We all remember the sky in our own way, Mr. Mensah. It's good that you remember something."
Silence wraps around me, a soft comfort. I close my eyes, sating more than just hunger. My mind is a tightrope, strung between who I was and who I'm becoming. The initial terror is fading, replaced by a deep curiosity. What did I break? What did I gain? I wonder. All those nights chasing knowledge—pushing the limits—none of it feels petty anymore. The scale of everything has changed.
In the quiet, another proverb drifts to mind: "Ɔdɔ ne nsa na menya ne kɔ." Even a kind hand needs wisdom to wield it well. I smile weakly. She would be proud I'm moving forward, even if slowly. And with this strange little sun flickering inside me, maybe I'm more than just moving now. Something in me has broken open, quietly and completely.
I lie still a moment longer and think: The sky remembers me, and perhaps I must remember it too—carry its memory forward. I feel, strangely, both infinitely small and infinitely vast at once. This accident was not just chaos; it was a calling. The sun is climbing higher now—late morning. Nurse Ogun returns to check on me again. I close my eyes and let the calm wash over me. Tomorrow, I will have questions. And after that, answers will come. The world is still turning—and so must I, in time.