Adwoa sat up. She blinked. She saw her granddaughter’s face for the first time in fifty years and laughed like a child.
He was seventy years old.
Not a title. Not a name.
But the camera operator zoomed in on Paul Nwokocha as he stood up, swaying.
The crowd roared.
Paul glanced at the giant screen showing his face. The crowd saw a man in his prime. But he saw what the cameras couldn’t: the grey at his temples, the slack beneath his jaw, the tremor in his left hand that had started last week.
But deep down, Paul Nwokocha knew the truth. Paul Nwokocha - Ancient Of Days
The crowd saw a flash of light.
He could refuse. He could say the Spirit was not moving tonight. He could collect his offering and fly back to his mansion in Lagos and live whatever years he had left. Adwoa sat up
"Ancient of Days," he whispered, "take my tomorrows. Give her today."
A job description. Paul Nwokocha knelt beside Adwoa’s stretcher. He placed one hand on her eyes and one hand on her heart. The old song rose from a place deeper than memory—the place where time began, where time ends, where time is merely a suggestion. He was seventy years old
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