"Save him! Please!!! Save him...he's all I have"

My future slipping away from my hands as I plead for a chance to get him back. Robbed and heartbroken I cling and cling to any hope unexplored for the chance to catch a glimpse of the future torn at its seams. My boy is dying. I need salvation. I need someone to save him.

"Please, he is all I have. Just save him". The man in the white overcoat looks at me blank-faced and emotionless expecting me to understand the rules of the game."Madam, you know the way things are here; the economy is harsh". He had barely finished speaking the last words drawing my spirit out of my chest, though still breathing, that my scream drowns his calm recitation of the inconveniences that render my quest for salvation near impossible. "Madam, its not our fault". "Sorry there's nothing we can do".

***

"Take it!!! Take everything!!! Take, take everything!!! Carry doctor. Its all I have!!! Just give me my boy; please! Just my son. I need my boy back!!!", my words interrupted by the uncontrollable wailing tearing at my cheek bones begging to be released unabated. "Madam...we are sorry"-my heart steadies itself for the final verdict, drying my half fallen salty tears mid air as life begins to retreat into slow motion, with the winds and even the chairs sympathising with my ordeal, without stretching forth their nonexistent hands to comfort me, comforting hands I desperately crave-"your boy has passed away"

"Chimooooooooooooooo"..."Chimooooooooooooooooo!!!". In a split second I feel my grief mix so perfectly with deepened rage as I stone every last belonging I have at him. "Doctor, you are wicked!!! Wicked!!! Wicked man". As the nurses restrain me, digging their inch long nails into my muscles, my mind boggles, questing exceedingly to understand the depth of sorrow I've been plunged into. At that very moment it was as if my heart was estranged, divorced from the default logicality my head had gone into. My life in pieces.

Gone...finished...alone...distraught...torn...lost.

"Mummy, mummy". At the sound of the call I can identify in the deepest of sleep, my heart leaps out of my body as my head once again runs into analysis to figure out the impossibility of the sound that has granted me loony hope. I must be dreaming for I am sure that is my very same son calling for me from the dead. As the call gets louder, my hope gets wilder and my chest beating faster, my body feels like the weight of a million stones drawing me back from the comfort of the tempting horizon my imagination might very well be painting me. I struggle to reach the room the call flows from-a struggle superseded by the ability to reconcile reality and fantasy. It can't be...

***

As I lie sobbing uncontrollably clutching my son endlessly, words fail me to explain the warmth swirling in my heart. My life revived and my hope renewed, my joy restored; my gratitude immeasurable. But if God refused to grant a plea I didn't even have the boldness to ask Him for and I am left childless in my old age, would I blame Him? And if my heart desires be ripped apart from me for my own brazen flaws, would He stop being God? Yes sure; He steps in when all hope steps out. But even if He slayed me...

I will yet praise Him. I never deserved any better. But I'm sure glad that I know He's there for me.

(Inspiration- "Onye: The Story". Watch video on MeTube).