I can recall as clear as day, the day I went to Babatunde Island. As I stepped foot on the Island, I saw the antediluvian, pulchritudinous castle stretched its pointy head into the evanescent canopy of stars. The embrace of the sun’s rays-chief nourisher amongst life’s great feast-grew ever stronger as the constellations began to fade into the gloaming.Waves gently lapped on the shore as Islanders reclined as they gazed wondrously at the ethereal scene before them; almost as if they were in an earthly Eden. As I walked along the coast of the Island, the sapphire sea cradled the desert Island like a mother would cradle her precious new-born baby--every gentle breeze a breath being.exhaled from the helpless babe. The waves on the shore effortlessly invaded and retreated the white sands of the beach; a cowardly army futile against the impenetrable defences.Some valiant aquamarine soldiers remain trapped in the chthonic underbelly of the Island never to see the light of day again. Phlegmatic palm trees rocked back and forth to an island symphony as soft notes of waves harmonised with the boisterous cries of a seagull producing a melody as alluring as that of a seductive siren. As I inhaled the scorching Island air, edging ever closer to the castle, an atmosphere of serenity washed over me --an oasis of calm that engulfed my being. Eventually I arrived at the regal castle which elegantly bathed in the loving light of the sun, its cobblestone walls absorbing the tranquil heat of the desert island. Its opalescent roof dazzled onlookers like a firework that was fixed in time and space; a sight which could only have been curated by God.The anfractuous stairway of the castle - which was embellished with ornamentation- was almost labyrinthine in its elaboration heralding the arduous climb that awaited me. As I reached the summit of the castle, I began to pant, my heavy breaths flooded the air. The vantage, aided by a telescope, presented me with a view of the heart of the Island. The view revealed mangroves teeming with life which whispered secrets of ancient tribes that once inhabited it. Vines twined and tangled like the hair of the playful, petulant monkeys that swung on them.The floors of the mangroves were dominated by a black sea of ants; waves and waves and waves of ants. It was as if they were part of some procession. Industrious, indefatigable ants that cooperated scavenging for fruits and leaves left behind on the mangrove floor rushing to their colony to store in case of rough weather. A gentle breeze carried the fragrances of sweet blossoms of fuschia, hibiscus and begonia which spilled from the bushes. After ten years of nuclear warfare,I now return to the Island. Desolate. The Island has become monstrous, held only by the clutches of a black, venomous sea.The once-white sands now lie crimson, like blood soaked trickling down to the underbelly of the Island which lay gaunt and silent-floating face down-in the stygian sea. All human inhabitants had vanished.The cold, white, sun unleashed a harsh, roaring flame searing the pile of rotting seagull carcasses that had accumulated on the shore.The castle- reduced to rubble-had only one remnant: its once dazzling rooftop, is now a deep black as it is littered with radioactive ash. The Island’s sole survivors are found in the mangroves. What seem to be monkeys and ants.The monkeys have become bellicose, their skin peeling away from their flesh as they savagely consume their young to survive. The ants, unable to prepare for the nuclear fallout, mutated- some grow extra legs- and were forced to eat the queen of the colony and her eggs.