A Dream Or An Overdream? Poem by Joseph Cimanuka

A dream or an overdream? Out of it, I am a student, single, and living with my parents. In it, I am a traveller, a stranger living next door to a middle-aged couple. The husband is also a traveller. I dwell beside them without their notice, as though I have entered their world without leaving a footprint.
One day, the woman sees me through the window of my house and comes near to introduce herself. It is a silent introduction; hardly a word passes between us. The only words I manage to utter are, "I am your new neighbour." After that encounter, I become her friend. Whenever her husband is away, she invites me into her house. Yet there is something strange about her. She is a witch, and she is less young than my mother.
One day, while we are together, I suddenly feel the body of a serpent pressing against my chest. Ouch! Before I can understand what is happening, the woman transforms into an enormous anaconda lying heavily upon my bony chest. I cannot breathe. I tremble. I become speechless. Fortunately, there is a hunting spear in the room. I seize it and drive it into the serpent's heavily scaled body. The creature struggles, then begins to lose its breath. At last, it dies. I sigh heavily, drawing endless air from the depths of my lungs, as though I have just returned from the edge of death.

But outside, the world is suddenly filled with cries. People mourn the woman with whom I had been involved. Somehow, the death of the serpent is the death of the woman. I do not understand how or why. She is buried, and the villagers gather for her funeral. I attend the burial too.
Yet death does not silence her.
She appears to her fellow women and tells them things I cannot understand. She appears to me as well, but I cannot remember what she says. Her appearances become a habit, and the villagers grow afraid. At last, the village elders decide to seal her tomb, as though a grave can imprison a spirit that refuses to remain dead.
The scene of the burial and the apparitions finally fades. I decide to return home to my own people. But when I arrive, I hear that the woman's travelling husband has returned. He refuses to accept that some of his deceased wife's children are his. He asks the neighbours about them, and they tell him that I am their father.
I am summoned to take my children.



But I do not know that I have children. I do not know their names. I do not know how many there are. I know nothing about them. Still, like a lion answering a call, I resolve to go and collect them.
I am given two children: a boy and a girl. They are already attending primary school. I do not know their names, their exact ages, or even their classes. I can only guess. Perhaps the boy is five and in the first class; perhaps the girl is six and in the second. One thing I know: the girl is older.
I begin the journey back to my people with my two newly discovered children.
Then, on the way, their dead mother appears again.
This time, she is not alone. Other dead women whom I do not know sit in a line upon a bamboo stick, and together they confront me. The woman looks at me and threatens, "I am going to kill you."
She repeats it three times.
"I am going to kill you."
"I am going to kill you."
"I am going to kill you."
I am terrified. I tremble in my clothes and plead for my life.
"Please, do not take my life. Please... do not take it. Who will take care of these children? "
After my pleading, she agrees to spare me. But she gives me three instructions, and her words carry the weight of a command:
"Look after these children carefully.
Give them a good education.
And go back to school for your Master's degree in Literature."
Her words seem strangely important, even within the confusion of the dream. I agree.
Then I continue my journey home with the children.
Yet their mother never tells me who they truly are. She gives me no names, no history, no explanation. So I decide for myself.
I name the boy James.
I name the girl Naomi.
They are now mine.
And as I walk with them, I begin to understand that perhaps the dream was never merely a dream. Perhaps it was a burden disguised as a vision—a strange journey through death, responsibility, education, and an unknown future.
A dream is good.
But an overdream is a burden.



Joseph Cimanuka all rights reserved