By Eben van Tonder, 11 March 2025

While Sigi and Aemi sleep, I listen to their quiet breathing. The house feels different when they’re resting—so still it almost hums. I lay back, expecting sleep to take me softly, as it usually does. I thought I’d drift off listening to the silence, knowing they are safe, the night calm, everything as it should be.

But that’s not what happened.

Sleep didn’t come. Instead, something hung in the air—something I couldn’t name. A feeling as if I were waiting for something, or perhaps remembering something I’d forgotten. My thoughts wandered, but they didn’t settle. I kept looking at the ceiling, at the faint light that moved when the wind stirred outside. And I realised: I wasn’t alone in that quiet.

There was more to this night than rest.

At first, it was small. A sense—no, a certainty—that something was watching. Not in a way that made me afraid, but in a way that made me aware. Like the way you feel when you know someone is standing behind you before they say a word.

I sat up slowly, careful not to wake Sigi or Aemi. Their faces were soft in sleep, their bodies warm under the blankets. I listened. Nothing but their breathing. And yet… something called.

I stood, bare feet quiet against the floorboards. The house, familiar in every way, suddenly seemed older, as though it had held this moment for a long time, waiting for me to notice.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have. Shadows slid along the walls in a way they never had before. But I wasn’t afraid. I was curious. I followed it—whatever it was—out the door and into the night.

The sky was clear. Cold stars stared back at me. And the wind, gentle as breath, whispered my name.

That’s when I saw them.

Figures, just beyond the edge of the trees. Still as stone, watching. I should have felt fear. But I didn’t. I stepped closer. The ground beneath my feet felt soft, like moss, though I knew it was the hard earth of our yard. The night opened up in front of me, and the figures turned as if waiting for me to follow.

And so I did.

I crossed the yard, past the garden fence, under the old oak tree where Sigi had once tied a rope swing that still swayed when no wind blew. Beyond the fence line, the land dipped down into a hollow. I’d walked here in daylight, but now it seemed unfamiliar, like I’d stepped out of time.

The figures moved ahead, gliding more than walking, always just out of reach. They didn’t speak, but I understood their silence. It was an invitation. A remembering. Something ancient I’d forgotten until now.

We came to a clearing I didn’t know was there. At its centre, a pool of water perfectly still, reflecting not the stars above but something deeper—something like memory, or maybe possibility. The figures circled the pool. One turned to me, and though its face was shadowed, I felt kindness. Expectation.

I knelt by the water. My reflection wasn’t mine—it was me, but different. Older. Wiser. But there was a strength in those eyes I hadn’t seen in myself before.

The figure reached out a hand and touched the water, sending ripples across the surface. And in those ripples, I saw Sigi and Aemi—not as they were now, small and sleeping, but as they would be. Grown. Standing strong. Laughing. Building. Their children around them. A whole line, stretching beyond sight, all beginning with them. And me.

Then I saw Tristan. Lauren. Shannon. Their children playing in warm sun, their voices carried on a southern wind from the tip of that dark land far away. The life we had all shaped. The legacy. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a vision. It was a call.

That’s when the storm broke.

Thunder cracked, sharp enough to tear the world open. Lightning split the Lagos night sky, jagged white ripping down to earth. And then the rain. Heavy, pounding. Each drop hit me like it had weight, like it was carving something clean. A monsoon had found me. A torrent.

But I didn’t flinch. I stood there, face to the sky, as the water poured over me.

The sea called too. Its black water stretched beyond the land, its voice rising above the storm, begging me to join it. I stepped toward it, curious—not because I wanted to give up. Never that. There was no doubt in me. Not then. Not ever.

I was curious because part of me wanted to understand. To know what waited out there in the deep. But suddenly, curiosity stopped. It ended right there. I was here. In this world. And I wanted nothing more than to build.

With Christa. Another smokehouse in Austria. Maybe Cape Town. It didn’t matter where. It mattered that I would build it with her. That I would build it for them. For us. The smoke rising steady into a bright sky, not a storm-dark one.

Through every flash of lightning, my vision cleared. To build!

And I ran.

Through the storm, through the rain, through the roar, through my own insecurities. I ran back toward life. To lead!

By the time I reached the house, I was soaked through, breath ragged, but I was alive. Fully alive. I stepped inside. Stripped off the wet clothes. Found towels. Dried myself with steady hands. Then I pulled on warm clothes, clothes that reminded me who I was—who I had chosen to be.

Even more determined now.

I went back to the room where Sigi and Aemi slept, their small bodies curled into the blankets, untouched by the storm. I slid into bed between them. Their warmth met me. Their breathing steady. Their small hands found mine again, even in sleep.

And this time, when I closed my eyes, sleep came. Not because I expected it, but because I had chosen it.

Outside, the figures still stood guard. Old kings of West Africa. Silent, solemn, watching. Guarding what had been entrusted to them. Guarding what had returned home.

And they waited, as they always had, for dawn.