Kazeem didn’t speak for most of the morning.

  The storm had passed. The air was thick with salt and silence. The trench was far behind him now, but something from it had followed. Not the mask, not the whisper, but something… older. A presence that clung to the back of his throat like unshed blood.

  He walked past the square without noticing the market. The sounds were there, bartering, metal striking wood, someone whistling an off-key tune, but they washed over him like noise from another life.

  He did something and something changed.

  The blade disappeared, as for where it went ? He didn’t have any idea .

  Not that he cared.

  After all , It was still the 9th.

  Still.

  The same children played in the dirt road. The same guard limped. The same trader shouted about firestones. He passed a window and caught his reflection in the glass: wild-eyed, skin slick with sweat, amber eyes dulled by sleeplessness.

  “The same … the same… again … and again…and… again…” he kept mumbling .

  Three times. Or was it four ? Or six…? Kazeem wasn’t sure anymore. He remembers clearly having lived this day three times already. But could he still trust his memory?

  And each time, it folded in on itself, like pages being torn and rewritten behind his back.

  But now… now it wasn’t just repetition. It was hunger.

  He hadn’t eaten since the first loop. The food tasted wrong. Not that he didn’t want to … but he could .

  It was like trying to a big chunk of bread with a dry mouth. He could put stuff in his mouth, but swallowing or even enjoying it was another story.

  His body didn’t feel empty, but something inside him twisted with every breath. Like he was starving for something that couldn’t be cooked, or harvested, or hunted.

  “Gb?…”

  He paused in the middle of the road. The sound hadn’t come from around him. It had come from within.

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  A word, not in any language he knew. But it echoed in his chest like a drumbeat. And as it did, his stomach cramped, not from pain, but craving.

  “Gb??”

  He whispered it aloud. It sounded like a question, but the moment it passed his lips, the world seemed to narrow. Colors sharpened. His ears rang.

  He didn’t know what it meant, but somehow, he was sure: that’s what he needed to eat.

  —

  At home, his mother was setting a pot to boil. The scent of yam and spices filled the room, but it meant nothing. His mouth didn’t water. His body didn’t respond. She smiled at him gently, but her brow furrowed.

  “You look tired. Did you sleep at all?”

  He shook his head.

  His father stepped in from outside, wiping sweat from his collarbone. “Storm didn’t let you rest?”

  Kazeem wanted to say something. Wanted to explain, even in fragments. But the words coiled at the back of his tongue like thorns.

  He said nothing a went to take a nap.

  Later that night, as the fire dimmed, his mother called him over. She and his father sat on either side of the small table .Kazeem hesitated at first, then joined them.

  He knew what they will say .

  But instead of feigning ignorance, Kazeem decided to tell them everything.

  His chest was tight. The air felt heavier than before.

  “You’ve been acting strange,” his father said. Not cruelly. Just stating the obvious. “You’ve always been quiet. But now your eyes look like you’ve seen things no one else has.”

  Kazeem looked down at his hands. “I… don’t know how to say it.”

  “Try,” his mother said. “Even if it makes no sense.”

  Feeling somewhat comforted, he took some time to open his mouth . All the frustration, the helplessness, the sadness all the emotions that build up since the first loop erupted.

  Tears started to fall from his amber gemstones.

  He decided to tell them every thing .

  What if his father was furious because he didn’t listen to him ?

  He will kneel and apologize .

  What if his mother start to yell at him for not telling them every thing earlier ?

  He will kneel and apologize.

  And what if his parents don’t know what to do ?

  Well , at least they will be able to share the burden together.

  “ Papa, mama … I… I’m—” he started stuttering, trying to find by what he should start.

  But got interrupted by at sudden cough

  ”COUGH”

  Kazeem lifted his head wondering if his dad got sick but then the thing his saw was enough to turn his dark skin pale.

  “!!!”

  His father began to bleed from the mouth.

  A thin stream of red leaked from his ear. Then his nose. His lip cracked, trembling. His mother gasped as her eyes turned glassy with blood. Her hand shook violently, red soaking through the sleeve of her wrapper.

  Kazeem froze. The air turned electric. He hadn’t even spoken, not fully.

  Another word and they would die.

  He shut his mouth, heart pounding.

  Seeing his parents like that made him more terrified than the sharp pain his received in his dream , more than the encounter with the weird spirit , more than all the weird things happening to him.

  but before he could think about what was happening …

  The world snapped.

  And he was standing at the doorway to the living room, untouched. Whole. The blood was gone. His parents looked up at him, confused.

  “Hey,” his father said gently. “You alright?”

  Kazeem smiled. Or tried to. It was the kind of smile you give to keep people from asking more questions.

  “Yeah. Just a little headache. I think I’ll sleep early.” He said while feeling the cold sweat running down his back

  He turned toward his room.

  Then paused.

  His parents looked at each other but didn’t say anything .

  “By the way,” he asked trying to change the subject , not looking back so that they don’t see. His crying face, “do you know what gb? means?”

  The room went still.

  The air shifted. Grew dense. His father stared at him, his pupil dilated by the shock .

  “How did you—”

  “Time,” his mother said sharply. “It means time. But don’t say it out loud again, it’s not something that you should say lightly.”

  The air then loosened and the pressure vanished.

  Kazeem nodded once and stepped into his room. Silently crying to avoid alerting his parents until he passed out from fatigue.

  gb? is one of the many “ancient word” that we will heard from now on .

  It comes from the language we use in my ethnic group.