Usain Bolt in the 10,000-Metre Race

Imagine this for a second: You've just had the ghastliest Sunday of your entire life. You woke up way less enthusiastic than usual this morning, after barely getting a wink of sleep the previous night, and you had to will yourself to leave home at the crack of dawn for some special service in church. Somehow, your day has sped by in a flurry of activities even you cannot recollect. All you know is that it's 9.49 P.M. and you've just getting home. 

Of course, you're beyond knackered at this point, and all you want to do is get some good sleep. So, with the little that's left of your reserve, you manage to rustle up some leftover jollof from last night's slumber party for dinner, maybe have a quick shower, and plop right into bed for what you desperately hope turns out not to be the roughest night of your life. 

But The Fates must not be in your favour tonight because, just after shutting your eyes, you immediately realise you're wide awake... but not in your apartment, and definitely not in bed. No. You're running right in the middle of a heated race in what you recognize — without knowing how — to be a a filled-to-capacity London Stadium that's in a state of wild frenzy. And, just then, you realise the impossible; you're your favourite athlete — Usain Bolt!

As the stadium lights glorify you, you feel the unmistakable, undeniable burst of adrenaline flowing earnestly through your markedly dilated veins. Your legs seem to have a mind of their own as they work in perfect synchrony, powering you to seemingly certain victory. Your entire body must be the PMM1 the world believes is impossible — the perfect machine clad in the characteristic Jamaican colours of yellow, green and black.

You hear the entire stadium cheer madly for you as you see the clear track ahead. There's not a single runner ahead of you; you're apparently in the lead. The only indicator that there's any competition whatsoever is the rather faint sound of more than a few pairs of feet running in the distance behind you. 

You're on fire! 

But something suddenly seems rather out of place (yes, apart from waking up as Usain Bolt). You're pretty sure you've run some three, four hundred metres already, but the finish line's still nowhere in sight. You don't see any ribbons ahead. But hey! Maybe it's just in your head; you probably haven't even done a hundred yet. And so you focus even more on this race you're about to decimate and keep giving it your all, stride after perfect stride. 

Now, without a doubt, thirty long seconds more have passed and you're still running. You notice you're slowing down with every new stride, and you're beginning to feel the burn of fatigue. “What sorcery is this?” you wonder with genuine bewilderment. You casually glance around as you begin to decelerate. Suddenly, you notice the jumbotron for the first time. What you realise in that instant makes your heart sink, and your already weary legs stiffen. Alas, this is no sprint. It's a 10,000-metre run, and you've barely done 800! 

As utter despair quickly replaces your precursory perplexity, you turn to look at your competition as they approach and, in the midst of a remarkably star-studded field, you spot London's pride and king of long distance — Mo Farah! All of a sudden, you're unsure if the crowd is so rambunctious because Usain Bolt is daring the impossible, or because they're eager to see the most successful British track athlete in modern Olympic Games history extend his already stellar winning streak in spectacular fashion. 

It's too much for you to take in all at once, and so your already flailing body does the expected as it collapses like a sack of cassava on the track.

You're passed out. 

Someone must be trying to revive you because, amidst multiple taps on either of your shoulders, you hear voices calling out to you. “Brother Efe. Brother Efe, wake up. Service is over.” 

Huh? 

You slowly open your eyes and observe, rather embarrassingly, as members of the congregation walk right past you towards the church exits, a good number of them giving you the very same look you'd given the many people you'd woken from their slumbers in the past. It had after all been one of the highlights of your four-year-long experience in the church as an usher.

You take a quick glance at your wrist watch as you get up, rather clumsily, from your seat; it's just three minutes shy of midday. Service must just have ended because the pastor's still giving each of the first timers a warm, welcome handshake. 

As you hurriedly make your way towards the nearest exit, hoping that Sister Gloria, who you intend to ride home with, has not already left, you struggle to make sense of the awkward dream you just had.  

Was this a sign that perhaps you had been training your entire life to become a Usain Bolt when the race you had to run was in fact a marathon, or was this just another one of your weird, insignificant dreams?