Blindside of Cassandra by Imma Afro Super

Author:Imma Afro Super
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: love, trust, why worry, african creative flair, flowering of african talent, eve and adam, unbeatable value to the literay world, exrtaordinary big scope, african best author
Publisher: Imma Afro Super

Chapter Fifteen

A man in apron tagged EMS, knocked on his door, and he opened and received a moment grin from the courier service man.

“You, Mister Jamike?”

“Yeah… Mister WyiWorri Jamike.”

“Here’s your parcel.” The man grinned again, but this time his grin had a real touch of hero-worship. “From London.”

“Thanks.” SonOfMan collected the big envelope, let a hero’s grin flash across his face, signed and closed his door. He was opening it, and hadn’t even gone across the centre of his room, when he collapsed on the floor.

This time it wasn’t just a seizure, his heart actually cracked. It cracked and received a sudden failure. And the causative parcel contained an injurious message that was just staring the empty room brazenly.

When SonOfMan woke up from his strange involuntary journey, he found himself back in the hospital he had so much reproached—and the same doctor that had sent him to the defamatory neurologists was staring down at him.

“It’s still never grandiose delusions!” he shouted, struggling to come out of the bed. “Yeah, I’m still certain about my super-impressive desire, despite that bleak note there!” he shouted the more.

He was a maniac; the hospital crew just stood watching him. Nobody should have known him with his physical description—but his purpose. And that was, trust him, the difference between his present condition and his future. Aye, it was grievously unfair to judge him with things without—instead of things within!

SonOfMan jaywalked along the streets of Okigwe. He had stubbornly left the hospital that had so much misread him, and was going to meet God to tell Him something confidentially—there he had once told Him something conjugally. He was going to remonstrate with God, but to reduce the blasphemous effect of the heresy about it, he was going to do it silently kneeling down there at the altar—just like he had once done.

Now he walked into St. Mary’s cathedral but met a crowd of festive people on ordination. Notwithstanding, he crossed them and headed straight to the sanctuary, ambling into this sanctum, and kneeling before the holy tabernacle. Then he complained;

“God, my creator, my father,” he swallowed hard saliva; “I’m going to say this; that You never received the doctorate degree award is not really because the scientific community has had a hard time replicating Your result, or because some say You had Your son teach the class, or because You expelled Your first two students for learning—no, but because Your cooperative effort to Your students, God, Your creatures, have been quite limited… yeah, hardly any as it concerns me, Mister WyiWorri Jamike, an image of You.”

He ended it that way and stood up and ambled out again.

He entered the church and sat like others, watching as these men of God queued in the entrance procession. The thuriffer. The acolytes. The deacons for the perpetual ordination. The concelebrant priests. The monsignors. The bishops. The officiating bishops and attendants.

He waited as the homily lasted. The address of homily emphasized on religious ordination as a gift and responsibility for the sanctification of research.

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