BEYOND HEALING

POV: Ayoola Davis --- “200 joules, charge.” “300 joules, charge.” That’s all I can hear. Everything else fades into a blur. The doctors’ voices sound like echoes from underwater—faint, distorted, too far away to reach me. I can’t make out their words anymore. Just the charged static of panic. Urgency. Failure. My eyes fix on the white glare of the hospital light above me. It hums like a warning, sterile and uncaring. Someone is crying in the hallway. Someone’s voice cracks—“Do something!” But I don’t move. I can’t. My mind drifts. Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe this is one of those moments your soul starts floating, right before it gives up. Or maybe… this is a memory. --- FLASHBACK “Daddy, we’ve already discussed this,” Mom said, clearly frustrated. “I’ve submitted the application. Please, just open the door.” It was the same fight they’d had countless times before. Only this time, it felt final. The cab parked outside a quiet house — old but well-kept. As she opened the backseat door, I stepped out, clutching a small backpack and a heavy bag that held all my clothes. My mother carried her worry like perfume — it clung to her skin, soaked her voice, and hovered around us like a storm that wouldn’t pass. The driver dropped the rest of our luggage, gave us a polite nod, and pulled away, leaving only dust and awkward silence. Before us stood a black Toyota Camry, its surface slightly dulled with age. To the right of the driveway, a large orange tree stretched wide, its citrus scent brightening the otherwise heavy air. A mango tree leaned lazily nearby, its fruits green and promising. Birds chirped from the wires above the fence. The house itself looked nothing like our tiny room-and-parlor back in Agege — where mornings were chaotic and nights smelled of garri, hair cream, and struggle. This place felt quieter. Bigger. Tidier. Like it had rules I hadn’t yet learned. At the door, my grandfather appeared. Phone in one hand, the other lifted in half-hearted greeting. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Just watched. Even from a distance, I could tell he wasn’t happy. “Don’t make mistakes again, Pricillia,” he said — his voice harsh, almost like gravel. “I’m not—” Mom started. “I promise to always send money—” “And do I look like I’m suffering?” he snapped. The tension crackled between them like wires sparking. Mom turned to me, kneeling to meet my eyes. “Mom loves you, okay?” “Yes, ma’am.” “That’s my girl,” she smiled tightly. “And remember—you promised to behave. Go inside. I need to speak with Grandpa.” I obeyed, dragging my luggage into the house. The room was small but clean. Already-made bed. A neat reading table. A creaky chair. A large wooden wardrobe that looked like it hadn’t been moved in decades. Above the bed, faded portraits of Mom, Auntie Praise, and Uncle Promise stared back at me. I sat down and listened. Through the thin door, I heard it all. “You expect me to raise a child? At my age?” Grandpa barked. “She’s not a baby. She’s smart. Quiet. You won’t even notice she’s there,” Mom pleaded. “You want her to grow up without her mother? Do you know what that feels like? You do! Your mother died young. And now you want her to go through the same pain?” “I’m trying to make life better for her. For both of us. I’m not abandoning her,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’ll visit. I’ll send money. I promise.” More silence. Then Grandpa’s low growl: “This is the price of getting pregnant before marriage.” I pressed my palms against my ears. But it didn’t help. Not when her voice broke again. “I regret it. But please… just help me do better.” He sighed. Defeated. Angry. “You won’t change your mind?” “No.” “Then visit often.” “I will. Thank you, Daddy. I love you.” She called me. I rushed out, hugged her tight, not wanting to let go. She held me for longer than usual, kissed my forehead again, and whispered, “I’ll be back soon.” But that was the last time I ever saw her. --- END OF FLASHBACK I blink. And the present crashes over me like a cold wave. The doctors are done now. No more beeping machines. No more rushing feet. Just silence. I watch the doctor quietly fill out my grandfather’s death certificate. The pen in his hand moves steadily, like this is just another routine. A nurse speaks to me gently, but I can’t hear her. My ears are filled with static. My mind is empty. I never knew my father. And now, the only person who ever stayed… Is gone. The only home I’d come to trust — the citrus tree, the mango tree, his scratchy voice calling me “small madam” when he was in a good mood — all of it is gone. I can’t cry. I want to, but my body won’t let me. My limbs are frozen. My chest is tight. My throat feels like it’s been stitched shut from the inside. There’s no sobbing. No scream. Just silence. And then a thought—strange and cold— Am I dead too? Because grief shouldn’t feel this numb. It should hurt more than this. Right? Maybe I’m broken. Or maybe I’ve been broken for a long time. --- End of Chapter One