you watch ants crawling on the wall. black teardrops in reverse. they move against the grey paint. ants being born from monuments erected in honour of your state of mind: half-eaten biscuits in yellow wrappers; week-old caramel candies on the floor, melted; sandwich tainted green by time; bowls with milk and cereal still inside; spilled sugar; spilled juice; empty packets of snacks whose names no longer have meaning to you. outside, in the living room, your mother’s prayers mingle with the prayers of emmanuel from church. they ask god to forgive whatever transgression has cursed your family, your father, your siblings, you. they ask god to drive away demons because depression, or when a daughter puts blade to her wrists, or loss of appetite, or financial struggles, or when a child talks back to their father, or infidelity, or when a father distances himself from a son, or anything along those lines, is merely a wrong name for evil spirits. they pray like this every evening, erupting like volcanoes. you watch ants crawling on the wall. you hate them, the ants, not the prayers because you are certain they will never work. how did it get so bad? you try to move, knock away the ants on the wall. you want to do something, anything, but your body is no longer your body. you are stuck in place.

you watch ants crawling on the wall. black teardrops in reverse. they move against the grey paint, upwards. you watch your body from outside yourself. it lies motionless, paralyzed, uninterested in existence, on the naked bed. you watch yourself watch the ants on the wall. how did it get so bad? outside: prayers like lava march toward the stars. you count the ants. one two three four five six seven eight. is this the apocalypse of the self? beside you are mountains of dirty clothes. hills of dead socks. you see that white lace dress you wore to church that thursday a friend and a group of strangers tried to force demons out of you—stains still on the sides from when you fell and wept, mouth growing wider and wider, on those hallowed grounds. the piles of clothes and underwear and towels have been untouched and unwashed for so long they’ve grown eyes, blinking and staring at your motionless body on the bed. your mother enters the room. her movements, unsure. she parts the blinds; sunlight screams into your eyes. she sits by you, puts your head on her lap. she plays with your fingers. emmanuel has returned to his church. she sighs. she speaks. maybe she tells you to join her in prayers next time. her voice sounds like rain a million miles away. you hear a single drop, after a while: tell me what to do, she prays, what to do to make you better.

you watch ants crawling on the wall. black teardrops in reverse. they move against the grey paint, upwards. week-old caramel candies on the floor, melted; bowls with milk and cereal still inside. the odour of a sandwich given to you by a lover about a week ago, a lover whose hands do not know how to make you better, but they try. you watch your body on your mother’s lap from outside yourself. moments ago, she was in the living room praying like volcanoes sending their innards to the heavens. demons leave my home, my family. now, she prays to you. tell me what to do, what to do to make you better. tell me what to do. tell me what to do. you’re suddenly grateful for the space between you and your tongue. what answer could you have willed the organ to give? tell me what to do, what to do to make you better. what answer—when you can’t even tell how it got so bad, why it got so bad. how do you begin to explain you are not sad, only empty? how do you begin to explain you do not believe your body is your body; your soul dances out of harmony with your flesh? how do you begin to explain you want to drop out of school, explain how nothing around you seems real, explain how everything feels like clouds drifting away? your mother’s voice staggers then stops. you watch ants crawling on the wall. tiny, spiked legs.

no ants on the wall? no week-old caramel candies on the floor? no bowls with milk and cereal still inside? no mountains of dirty clothes, underwear, towels, eyes? the odour of a sandwich given to you by a lover about a week ago, is gone? change. time. how much time has passed since the ants on the wall? you think of time, the movement of it. in what second, on what day, week, do things unbecome themselves? change, you think of change. what to do to make you better?—the prayer of a mother, repeating, even as she walks away, fades away. was that yesterday? was that last year? you close your eyes. do we become better in jagged leaps, a sudden lurch? do we flow, like a stream, like light? where do ants go when no longer crawling on the wall?

no ants on the wall. no week-old caramel candies on the floor. no bowls with milk and cereal still inside. no mountains of dirty clothes, underwear, towels, eyes. the odour of a sandwich given to you by a lover about a week ago, is gone. smells in your room: clean sheets, coconut, mother’s love. you return into your body, slowly, afraid of the fog and thoughts you will find inside. memories come in flashes; mother carried you to the bathroom; mother washed you, soap and sponge and water; mother cleaned the haunted landscape of your bedroom, laundry, filth on the floor, ants. mother. mother. mother. how can the littlest things return hope to us? mother. you get out of bed. the tiles, cold against your feet. this is your body. you find your mother in the kitchen, doing the dishes, humming a song. she is not perfect—the blind prayers, the endless talks of demons, the unlearning she needs to do, the etchings from her childhood deep in her bones—but she tries, in her own way. she turns around. tears drown her eyes when she sees you standing on the doorway like a ghost. you say nothing. you cry and tremble. she rushes to you, wiping her hands on her dress. arms outstretched. she smiles. she hugs you. this is your body. no ants on the wall. everything will be fine, your mother says, and for the first time in forever, you believe those words again. she holds you so tight. and you whisper, you pray, please, never let me go.

Victor Forna is a Sierra Leonean writer based in his country’s capital city Freetown. His short fiction and poetry have been published or are forthcoming in Fantasy Magazine, Lightspeed Magazine, Nightmare Magazine, and elsewhere. He is an alumnus of the 2022 AKO Caine Prize Writing Workshop. He tweets @vforna12.