Moonlight trickles into my room, pale as water. Though my body is still sore, I feel compelled by something older than pain. Tonight, I will seek answers in the old ways. I set up a small shrine by the window: incense burning, a bowl of water, and a lithe flame dancing on charcoal. I spread a faded cloth imprinted with Adinkra symbols—the Sankofa bird, the Nyame Dua (Altar of God), and the Nyansapo (Wisdom Knot). I kneel and light sage and frankincense; the smoke curls and coils around me like a river in still night.
Soft chants slip past my lips—lines my grandmother taught me long ago: "Fa wo so, wo ntaban bɛ sɔre, na wofie dua mu." Carry what you are; spread your wings only after they have grown. The words fill the room with warmth and grounding peace. My fingertips press onto the cool floor. The whole house seems to breathe with me. In the mirror, shapes shift in the smoke. I turn, heart leaping, but see only flickering incense and my own reflection, unsettled. Suddenly, a face emerges in the haze: an old man with eyes of swirling galaxies, as if starlight flows in his veins. He watches me with patient kindness. I can almost hear him whisper, "Obasi, you are the seed and the reaper."
I do not dare speak. Instead, I surrender to sleep.
I stand in a savannah of stars under a moon of gold. Low grasses ripple beneath my feet like galaxies at the edge of the universe. Endless baobabs burn with cool blue flames around me, their roots sunk deep into cosmic soil. Each trunk is carved with shifting glyphs—shapes and letters I once studied, now alive and ancient. In the distance, silhouettes of dancers move in circles under torchlight, but their bodies are woven from night itself and their eyes blaze like suns. Each step they take is a graceful orbit; each spin, a world turning on its axis. I feel both infinitesimal and infinite at once.
By a roaring bonfire stands a woman draped in red and gold cloth. A necklace of white shells rings her chest like prayer beads. She meets my gaze with a knowing smile. "Obasi Mensah," she says, voice echoing through the still night, "your heart is full of lightning, yet you fear the storm." In her hands is a calabash of water, its surface mirror-smooth and cool. She extends it to me. I lift the calabash; it feels lighter than air in my grip. I ask softly, "Who are you?"
She chuckles gently, like distant thunder dissolving into rain. "Names are like drifting stars—worthless unless you name them when they shine," she replies, stepping closer and radiating warmth. "Listen and remember," she whispers, "when the last star bleeds at dusk, only he who carries the first dawn can drink." She taps a finger on the calabash's cracked rim; silver water ripples outward. "Even a cracked calabash still holds water if you pour gently," she adds with a quiet laugh. Around us the flames leap into shapes of phoenixes dancing. I study the proverb in her words and the comfort in her eyes, but she says no more.
Elsewhere in this dream, I find myself walking along a black sand beach under a violet sky. The sea is silver silk at the shore. My footprints glow gold on the wet sand before fading. A creature of sun and fur crouches before me: a child half-boy, half-lion, with a living mane of sunlight. He fixes me with burning eyes and rumbles, "Listen carefully: if you trust only what you see with your eyes, the journey will drown you." His words crash through me like waves. Before I can answer, he bounds away in a flash of light, dissolving into a thousand golden motes swirling upward.
A sudden tide sends cool water swirling around my ankles. I turn to see an elder emerging from the ocean. His skin is midnight earth, cracked with silver lines that pulse like constellations. His hair is braided with threads of starlight. He kneels and cups the dark waves in his hands, letting droplets fall back into the sea. "Child," he murmurs, eyes kind and infinite, "the moonlight you hold came from my river." He taps the cracked bowl I still clutch. "Even a cracked calabash can hold water if faith is poured slowly." He smiles gently. As the droplets spill from his hands, the dreaming sky above bends and the vision dissolves like mist.
I awaken on the wooden floor, face warm and wet with tears. The incense has burned to ash. Dawn's pale light filters through the window, and I feel the cool morning air on my skin. In my hand is not a calabash of stars but the cracked ceramic bowl I held before sleep. It still contains the cold puddle of water I had poured. I laugh softly and cry with relief as I drink the water, tasting salt and wisdom.
The riddles linger in my mind: "last star bleeds at dusk," "carry the first dawn," "even a cracked calabash." They swirl like fireflies in my memory, tinged with the scent of smoke and the echo of far-off drums. I don't understand them yet, but I feel their truth in my bones. Outside, the house is quiet except for the waking day. I remember an Akan saying: "Asase yɛ akyirikyiri dɔn a wɔda wo tirim." (What path on Earth can escape a man with the sky in his eyes?) Perhaps my path is written among the stars.
I rise and step into the sunrise. I feel lighter, guided by those cryptic voices. As the sun spills gold across the land, I know that with each new dawn I will draw closer to understanding. Outside, the morning air tastes like possibility. The night is gone, and in this new light I carry their wisdom as a map forward.