The Dream

By R.J. Byrd

I wake up hot. I’m sweating. I’ve never been this hot, even when I lived at home in the valley, which is basically a desert, and my room was always the hottest. I open my eyes and look up at a metal ceiling. What the hell? I quickly sit up and take in my surroundings. I don’t recognize anything. I’m in a room that connects with the rest of a small house, or shack, I should say.

“What are you doing sleeping in the middle of the day?” I hear a shrill voice ask. I look over and see an old black woman looking at me critically. “I’m aware of your condition, but you still need to take care of your obligations. Now let’s go, or we’ll be late.”

I have a condition? I slowly get to my feet, and suddenly, I’m dizzy. I sit back on the bed for a second and then realize something else. My stomach has grown exponentially since last night, and I’m also black, a dark cocoa color. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore! I get back up and walk over to the old woman. I let my hands roam over my pregnant belly, still shocked at my transformation. She takes me by the hand and leads me outside. I’m too confused and tired to complain. When we get outside, I see more shacks like the one I just came out of.

I see a few people milling around, and an old, dirty van rolls by. The sun beats down on us and does nothing for my fatigue. I slowly begin to realize… I’m in Africa! Everything fits. The vans, the groups of shacks, the style of dress, the heat…Africa. I’m a pregnant, poor African woman.

I’m officially high.

I have no idea exactly who I am or who I’m with. I figure this is all some crazy dream; I need to stop eating before bed. I may as well just sit back, enjoy the ride, and wait for myself to come to.

I take in my surroundings. It’s a sad sight. Tiny shacks are practically stacked on top of one another; it’s dirty, and there are no paved roads. As we’re walking, I see a jeep drive by with men in uniforms and big guns. I look away when I catch eyes with one of them; they give me a bad feeling. After a few more minutes of walking, we rounded on what I surmise is a clinic. It has a Red Cross symbol on the outside.

We go inside the small building and see a few other people sitting on chairs, looking hot and miserable, waiting to be seen. The old woman walks up to the front and talks to a woman behind a small counter. “Come on, Deka,” she says to me. So, I’m Deka, huh? Cool name. “You have to hurry; other people need to see the doctor too.”

I walk over quickly, and the receptionist or whoever she is takes me to a small backroom where I see a doctor, who is caucasian, sitting on a chair in the corner.

“Deka, how good to see you again,” she says, sounding sincere.

“Hello…Dr. Truman,” I say, reading her nametag.

“How have you been feeling?” she asks me, gesturing for me to sit down. I do, and it’s a relief; I’m not used to carrying around the extra weight. She starts to check my blood pressure. I say I’m fine because I assume that’s the best answer, vague but polite. “Have you been taking your pills?” she asks me. I just nod. This room is so small. There is only one tiny window near the ceiling where the sun is blazing through, heating up the room like a sauna. There are numerous cracks in the dirty white walls, and the floorboards are loose.

“You really must be serious with those pills; I know how hard you work to get them. Slacking off will only increase the chances that your baby will be born with HIV, too.”

That caught my attention. HIV. I have HIV!? I think I wanna wake up now. I open my mouth to speak when gunshots suddenly ring out. I hear screaming and panic outside. I stand up, and before the doctor can say anything, I run out to check on the old woman. I see everyone on the floor, huddled near the walls. The old woman is in the corner. More shots, more screams. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I can feel my whole body shaking. In the back of my mind, I dimly think that this can’t be good for the baby either.

Through the open door, I can see men in jeeps firing guns randomly in the streets. They wore uniforms of different colors than those of the men I first saw when I was walking here. Unable to stop myself I walk out and look at the chaos. Bodies and blood, screaming and bullets. This is insane.

“Deka! Deka, you crazy child, come here!” I hear the old woman say to me. I turn my head to look at her, and just then, I feel something. An alarming pain burning in my chest. I look down to see blood blossoming on my green dress. I just got shot. I’m a young black girl in Africa who is pregnant and has HIV, and now I’ve been shot. I hear the old woman scream before I start to fall face-first to the ground.

Everything goes black.

I slowly open my eyes. I guess I should either be dead or awake from my dream…it was more like a nightmare. My hand flies to my chest…no wound. I check my hand…now I’m white. I’m still dreaming. I don’t recognize this place at all. It is very nice, though. I’m in a large room painted light lavender and decorated perfectly. The room is pleasantly air-conditioned, and I’m under a thick comforter.

I get up and slowly stretch. This is one helluva dream. I hope I wake up soon. I hear a knock at the door, and it opens to reveal a middle-aged white woman dressed in a nifty pantsuit and pearls.

“Becca, darling, you can’t just sleep all day. I know it’s Saturday, but come down and have some breakfast while it’s still warm.”

I assume this person is my mother. I say, “Ok…mom,” a little unsure. She just smiles at me and closes the door. I get up and check my stomach; thank God I’m no longer pregnant. I go out to the hall and now I’m sure I’m rich. There are lovely paintings all down the hallway, and the house is quite large. I get to the dining room and sit at the long, empty table. In front of me, there is fresh fruit, eggs, and bagels.

Suddenly, I’m starving, and I dig in. “Would you like some juice, Miss?” I hear a voice next to me ask. I almost jump. I look up to see a young black woman wearing a maid outfit with an apron and everything. Considering what I just went through, I’m sorta taken aback by this. I just nod. She pours the juice and leaves, walking through a swinging door to what I assume is the kitchen.

I suddenly start to wonder where I am. I approach one of the large windows and pull back the white lace curtain. I see a typical street with pretty average cars and houses. I know I’m still not in America by how the cars look. I hear the maid come back in, and I turn to her and ask, “Where are we?”

She looks at me, confused. “Excuse me, Miss?”

“Where are we, like what country?”

“Uh, this is South Africa, Miss.” She says, looking at me like I’m crazy…maybe I am. I’m still in Africa? You gotta be kidding me. This is like night and day. I found my way outside and spent the rest of the daylight hours just walking around. I took in the houses, buildings, businesses, and people. There were mostly white people here, very few blacks. I didn’t see any jeeps full of rebel fighters or shacks. I didn’t see any plastic bags on the ground, which were everywhere the last place I was.

I also just sorta wandered back to my vast house; I couldn’t say how I got there. The house I’m in is the biggest one I’ve seen. I wonder what my parents do for a living. I saw that lady, whom I assumed was my mom when I walked into the living room after the maid let me in.

“There you are, darling. Where have you been all day?” She asks.

“I was just wandering around,” I replied.

“Well, are you hungry? Dinner will be soon. It’s your favorite.”

I didn’t ask what my favorite was; I didn’t really want to know. I was feeling incredibly guilty. With a slight nod, I returned to my room and sat on my bed. It just wasn’t fair. What made me so special that I got the biggest house, fresh fruit, a maid and air conditioning? Was it because I was white? Was it because my parents were important? Was it both? I hear another knock at the door.

“Miss, it’s time for dinner,” the voice of the young maid says.

“Ok, thank you,” I reply.

I get up to go to the door but didn’t see the small footstool at the bottom of the bed and tripped. I hit my head on the side of my desk, and everything went black. The last thing I thought was…I hope this at least wakes me up.

The End

Copyright 2024 R.J. Byrd All Rights Reserved.