I can’t sleep. Again. It’s too loud in my head. They think I’m sleeping. My daughter-in-law, she left the little lavender spray on my pillow, like I’m a child. “For good dreams, Mama,” she said. But my dreams… they’re not about lavender. They’re about that sound. That *ping* when you get a headshot. Baba, you always said idle hands are the devil’s workshop. You never saw this. This thing I do. They call it… battle royale. My grandsons showed me. At first, it was just watching them, you know? Then one day, my eldest, he said, “Nani, try it. Just once.” I thought it was silly. A children’s game. But then… the headset. The click of the mouse. The way your fingers fly across the keys. It felt… real. More real than sitting in the kitchen smelling their dinner cooking. They call me “Killer Queen” online. My squad, they don’t know. They think I’m some twenty-year-old kid. My voice, it’s not so old when I yell into the mic, “Behind you! Flank left! Push, push, PUSH!” And we win. We actually *win*. My heart pounds like I’m back in the village, running from the dogs, from that man who used to look at the young girls too long. That fear, that rush… it’s the same. And then they come home. My son, his wife. “Mama, why are you still up? It’s almost 2.” My hands, they still tingle. My eyes burn from the screen. I pretend to be reading. A book from the library. Something about flowers. They don’t see it. They don’t see the sweat on my palms, the way my finger still twitches for the shift key. They see an old woman. A grandmother. Who should be sleeping. Dreaming of lavender. I can’t stop. I try. I tell myself, “One more game.” Then another. The sun comes up, sometimes. The birds start to sing. I feel… exhausted. But also… alive. It’s a bad thing, I know. My soul, my culture… this is not right. But when I’m in that game, with my headset on, my mechanical keyboard clicking… I am not Mama. I am not Nani. I am Killer Queen. And she never loses.