The other night, I had an unusually
vivid dream.
My two younger sisters and I were in
an enormous hall, having been kidnapped alongside a large crowd—enough people
to fill at least two classrooms, perhaps even more. We were all herded into a
single, cavernous room under the strict watch of heavily armed guards, each
ready to shoot anyone who dared to escape. Though my sisters and I had been
captured together, we were separated in the room.
As I sat silently, a stranger beside
me discreetly handed me a book. We had no phones, and the book became my sole
escape. I read nervously, stealing glances at the guards, my heart pounding
with fear that one of them might notice and punish me for possessing it. But
despite the looming danger, I thumped my chest silently and continued to read,
determined to hold onto my tiny slice of freedom. Every time I heard footsteps
nearing, my heart skipped a beat—but no one questioned me, so I read on.
Suddenly, one of the guards shouted
that the building was collapsing—we were, apparently, on a very tall structure.
While I expected the boss to dismiss the warning, he instead ordered the doors
to be flung open. Self-preservation kicked in: he bolted out faster than even
the prisoners. I ran beside him, but my sisters were already ahead of us. As
soon as he stepped out into the stairwell, he realized it had been a false
alarm. I feared he’d now turn on us, order our recapture, and lock the doors
before the rest could escape.
Instinctively, I ran—faster than
I’ve ever run before. I caught up with my sisters as they reached the main
road, and without a word, I pulled them toward a different path—into the
forest.
We sprinted for hours. My sisters
begged me to stop, convinced we had lost our pursuers. But I insisted we keep
going—"the goal is to get as far away as possible," I told them. I
ran ahead, with them close behind. Eventually, deep in the woods, we came
across a small settlement of no more than five houses—isolated and quiet. We passed
quickly, not daring to stop.
Just as we were leaving, we
encountered a woman walking. My sister, Dr. Rehema, recognized her and greeted
her warmly, asking if she was a certain doctor. The woman said no, but revealed
that she was the daughter of the doctor in question—also a medical
professional. Rehema introduced herself, and for some reason, she had a phone
with her. I asked her to take the woman’s number, just in case we encountered
danger or needed help. She complied, though we didn’t explain what had happened
to us.
We continued on until we reached a
small town. We had no idea where we were, but saw buses bound for Nairobi,
Mombasa, and Zanzibar. I suggested we head to Nairobi first, to regroup and
figure out our next move. We couldn’t afford to wait till nightfall, as I
feared the gangsters might scour town centers in search of escapees.
So we began the trek to the highway,
a few kilometers away, hoping to catch a matatu to Nairobi. But
then—ominously—we turned and spotted the lead mafia figure, a white man (unlike
the African guards who had held us). I told my sisters, “You see? I warned
you.” I hoped he hadn’t seen us, but his quickened pace toward us said
otherwise.
We turned back toward the town
center—still close enough for safety in the presence of others. As we walked, I
was slightly ahead of my sisters. The man passed me and Hajilo, but when he
reached Rehema, he seized her. Hajilo kept walking, but I stopped and shouted,
warning her that we must fight to free our sister.
We fought with every ounce of strength
and screamed loudly to attract attention. Eventually, he released Rehema. As we
tried to walk away, he made one last attempt—lunging at Hajilo’s coat. I
screamed for her to run, and she dodged him just in time. His hand clutched
nothing but air.
We ran toward the town center
again—and then, just like that, I woke up.
Reflection: What Could This Dream
Mean?
I lay awake wondering: was this
dream symbolic of something? Was it a metaphor for a real-life situation? Could
it represent my fear of captivity in a situation where I feel watched,
constrained, yet still secretly brave enough to seek my own form of mental
escape? Or maybe it was a message about leadership, instinct, and protection—my
natural drive to shield my loved ones, take decisive action, and outsmart
danger?
It could also suggest the illusion
of safety, the fine line between false alarms and real threats, and the idea
that sometimes, in moments of crisis, the person who holds power is just as
afraid as the rest.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was one of
those dreams that visits us with no clear message—but lingers because it forces
us to confront our own courage, love, fear, and strategy.
What do you think such a dream could
mean? Have you ever had a dream that felt like a warning, a test, or a message
in disguise? I’d love to hear your interpretations.
