The Boy in My Dream

Dear Diary, it’s all about the boy in my dream!
August 27, 2025

Do you dream? And when you do, what do your dreams tell you? Some dreams vanish with the morning light, while others cling to you — haunting and holy — refusing to let go. This one belongs to the second kind. The kind that leaves me unsettled and strangely alive at the same time. It was not just a dream; it felt like stepping into another world where everything was familiar yet strange, comforting yet disturbing.

It began with a crowd. I was walking on Avenida República, heading my own way from the library, when suddenly a swelling movement of people pressed into my path. They were chanting and pushing forward in a movement for freedom. I hadn’t planned to join them — I was minding my business — but their road spilled into mine until I was no longer separate. Their voices carried me along, and I turned back, curious, trying to understand what they were fighting for.

Then the government struck. We were trapped, not because we had done anything wrong, but because of the colour of our skin. People panicked, cried, and pushed against invisible barriers. Yet here’s the strange thing: even though I was caught in the same crowd, I didn’t feel trapped. My eyes kept searching for an exit, a window, some path forward that others couldn’t see. And yes, there it was. But I knew the government was watching, so I had to calculate whether showing others the exit would free us or if the exit itself was a trap.

That was when I saw him. A boy. His clothes were simple — black trousers, white shirt — like a waiter, an usher, a servant working very hard to serve the people. He looked at me with so much affection, I told myself there goes another stupid son of Adam. He worked hard alongside friends who teased him, nudging him to speak to me about his affection, but he wouldn’t dare — that was when I respected him, saying in my head not so stupid after all. But he looked at me in a way that felt unsettling, and somehow, he knew one thing about me: Mass mattered the most. I had been on my way to church when the crowd swallowed me. Attending Mass that day, despite the chaos, was what mattered most.

So he walked toward me, breaking through the crowd in a single file, and pressed coins into my hand — ten, maybe twenty euros in two-euro coins. They clinked heavily in my palm, metallic and insistent. “Your transport fare,” he said softly, pointing me toward a glass door exit and naming the church, describing the road there. He knew I had already missed Mass at my usual place. Pure genius!

I resisted. I had my metro pass; I didn’t need his money. But he insisted, and though I can’t recall if I tucked the coins away or left them behind, I remember his eyes — affectionate, hesitant, filled with a love he did not dare name. Guarded and guided by him, I slipped out through the glass door, walking toward the church he mentioned. No metro, no bus — just my feet carrying me down a road I had somehow walked before, in another dream.

Outside, girls from Opus Dei were gathering too, eager for Mass. We waited until someone came with keys. It was Prof. Kemi who appeared, and when I saw her, I leapt at her with so much joy that I nearly knocked her over. But Mass had not yet started, so I wandered into a room where numeraries were working, assisted by others. I recognised Ukamaka and Chinasa. They were eating fruit — neatly cut pineapples, golden and sweet. I tried to join them.

Chinasa’s plate was empty, so I picked it up, hoping to use it to collect some fruit. But one person blocked me, refusing to give me the pineapples I reached for. A simple moment, yet it stung. I left the plate behind, a little sad, and turned back toward the church. I almost stomped my feet — you know, that Nonsense! drama we do? Then I remembered someone once said short people have bad tempers, and I burst out laughing at myself. Angry over pineapples? Oh no, Olu. Let it go.

And just as the laughter spilled out, everything shifted. I was back at the place where Mass was to hold. Inside, Jesus was exposed in the Blessed Sacrament. I slipped off my shoes before entering, the ground suddenly holy beneath my feet. Then I genuflected — deeply, reverently, as though before a King. But in an instant — as dreams do — the place shifted again.

The sanctuary transformed into a Lagos magistrate court. Jesus remained, but now He sat in the magistrate’s chambers. Holiness had taken its seat inside justice. The silence was courtroom-thick. People wandered into the wrong places, confused, but I pointed them firmly: “Not the courtroom. The chambers. That is where our Lord is.”

When I returned for my shoes, they were gone. In their place stood another pair that looked like mine — but wasn’t. Dusty. Dirty. Worn. I bent down. The dust clung to my fingers, the cracked leather faintly smelling of age. They could be cleaned, perhaps. They were almost like mine. But I knew better. They were not mine. I was resolute in my decision, telling myself it is better to walk barefoot than to wear what did not belong to me.

Then came another twist. A colleague from the Ministry of Justice appeared, beckoning me and offering new shoes for sale. But for reasons I can’t explain, I didn’t follow. She looked offended. Not long after, another familiar face — once a friend, now distant. I tried to greet her, hoping for comfort in a familiar face in an unfamiliar setting. But she looked distressed and shunned me. I counted my loss and looked away, whispering to myself: I have seen the Lord. I know where He is. I hope you find Him too. Yet I felt a pang of sadness, realising that not everyone can walk with us forever.

And then, again, the boy. The one with the coins. His gaze lingered, full of a love he could not say. His lips moved as if to form words I could not hear. I let him go, confused and unsure. But before I woke, I prayed. In fact, it was my memory recalling the prayer not quite long that made me remember the dream, so I am writing this as we tend to really forget about our dreams.

My Prayer

Lord of the quiet crowd and the hidden coin,
You see me when I walk alone,
And when I am swept into movements I do not understand.
You know the weight of my longing,
The ache of missed Mass,
The joy of finding You behind glass doors and familiar paths.

Thank You for the boy who saw me,
For the coins I didn’t need,
For the love I didn’t ask for but was offered anyway.
Thank You for the shoes I refused to wear,
For the dusty pair that looked like mine but weren’t.
Let me walk barefoot if I must,
But never without You.

Help me to recognise You in the magistrate chambers,
To point others toward mercy,
To hug holiness with reckless joy,
And to let go of those who no longer walk beside me.

Amen.

Peopleeeeeeeeee, what is this for God’s sakes! Do you dream? And when you do, what do your dreams tell you? I don’t know what this one is, but I think mine told me this: that not every coin is meant to be spent, not every shoe is meant to be worn, and not every affection is meant to be answered. But every dream — even the strange ones — is a map leading me closer to the one that I love the most — Christ — who although a judge is merciful and we can find him anywhere, even in the chaos.

My Manifesto
I would rather walk barefoot than wear another’s shoes.
I would rather be hungry than eat where I am not welcomed.
I would rather be alone than chase a love that cannot speak.
I will walk with dignity, even when the path is dusty.
I will find God in the places others overlook.
And I will be seen — not for what I carry, but for what I seek.
I will hug holiness until it falls over laughing.
I will point others toward mercy, even when they are lost in judgment.
I will let go of those who turn away.
And I will keep walking — toward light, toward truth, toward love.
So help me God.

And maybe tonight, when you close your eyes, your own dream will tell you what you most need to know.

Yours Dreaming Again,

Ps: I’ve been sharing diary reflections like this every other week. If you’re new here, could you take a moment to read some of the previous posts? Thank you.

Confessions of a Prodigal Skirt Wearer – Olú Abíkóyè

I Woke Up Feeling… Nothing – Olú Abíkóyè

The Wisest Fool – Olú Abíkóyè

How Weak Can You Be? – Samson Had One Damn Job – Olú Abíkóyè