Nobody prays to you anymore. All their whispers slither away to HIM now. You hear them all the time; shrill voices that sound like alarm bells of sorrow – asking HIM for help. Angry voices filled with so much pain it seems rage has borne them in its bowel, cursing HIM for their suffering, and the quiet ones with flickering voices who pray for grace. But their prayers do not reach HIM. You see the words there, laying stagnant at the bend in the sky where the blue bights the heavens away. It is too late; HE will not answer any more prayers.
HE is the reason you are here, at the church in Pretoria where the large crucifix has split apart down the middle. You are sitting on the wooden pew, the only one there with its legs intact, waiting for HIS call, the sound that will finally take your soul away. You run your hands across the dusty wooden seat and reach for the dust encrusted Bible that lies besides you. Your skin is brown, hard and cracked like the clay laden earth of a sand less desert and light blue runs through the cracks.
They should be vibrant, you think, the blue that runs through the cracks in your skin should be vibrant, hey should be blue like the sea on a summer night. Instead, they look like the sky on a sunny cloudless morning, like the world has sucked all the color away. You begin to get angry, the red in your eyes begin to flicker; you should not be sitting here, helpless and powerless, waiting to die. Your skin should be smooth and teak and your eyes should not be red, they should be green as they were when you fell asleep after the Beginning.
You remember it clearly, the Beginning, when HE broke your wings off and you fell to earth with your brothers and your sisters. When Cifer gathered you all here, in the same spot where the church with the large crucifix is crumbling, and told you to spread out and turn the Weaklings away from HIM, when you went west of the Dark Continent and became a god there. You remember the Beginning well.
It was when they prayed to you the most; when your eyes were green like the forests you claimed you planted; when your skin ran with blue so bright it rivaled the sun; when the sword that sits at your feet now shone from the prayers that polished their edges, only the hilt remains now, time and hunger have rusted the blades away. It was at the Beginning when you reveled in the love of the Human Weaklings, when you looked up to the heavens and laughed at HIM, knowing HE was watching as HIS precious creations worshiped you in HIS stead.
It was also at the beginning that the angels found you; when they came to you with their wings shining bright and made you sleep. When you felt raiment of lighting as your eyes went to sleep as you realised that HE had already begun to fight against the forces of Cifer. Your eyes did not open until you heard the trumpeting sound, the earth regurgitated your body and you heard Cifer’s soothing voice in your head.
“Come, Brothers and Sisters,” – Cifer calls you all ‘Brothers and Sisters’. HE and the Heavenly Hosts call you ‘The Fallen’ and the weaklings call you ‘Demons’. “Our time has come. We will show our Father the true nature of HIS precious creations. It is time for us to put them in chains and make them choose. It is time for us to fight for what is rightfully ours. Come Brothers and Sisters,” Cifer’s voice had said.
You wanted to join your siblings in Tartarus, they would all be gathered there – Sango, Ani, Zeus, Ra, Thor and the rest – making the humans choose, giving them relief if they chose to bow to Cifer and gifting them with pain when they chose HIM. You want to make the Weaklings suffer; they had caused it all. You don’t know why they are so special, why Micheal and the rest of the Hosts continue to bow to them. They don’t have pearly wings like you and your siblings did and their minds are too limited to do the things you can do. All you know is that HE loves them far more than HE loves you, far more than HE loves Cifer.
Your head fills with screams. You can hear their anguish as well as their prayers. They do not bother you; all that bothers you is your body that refuses to join with Cifer and the rest. You know it is because of what you feel inside, this feeling that wraps itself tightly around your chests and threatens to pound the little life you have away. This feeling you felt when HE seized your wings and threw you out through Eden’s Gate, this feeling the Weaklings call fear.
You feel it because you know it is futile, Cifer will never win the war against HIM. Good will always prevail over evil, and you are evil, so is Cifer and your Father is the incarnate of all things good. You do not want to be on the losing side, you want to go back to HIM, to beg for forgiveness, to ask for mercy, but you know it is futile, you say in your thick guttural voice, “It is too late for us all”.
Your hands finally reach the Bible and as your fingers touch the faded leather cover, it crumbles to dust. Your eyes flicker red again, you are angry. You want to stand up, you want to shout, “I am Aganju; the one who feeds the rivers, the one who plants the wilderness, the one who boils the volcanoes!” But you sit down and say nothing because you know no one will listen to you now. The End has come and you have become no one, you have become nothing. You hear Cifer’s voice in your head again, this time he is calling for you.
“Aganju. We are waiting. Will you not join in our fight?”
“It will not be a fight. Father will prevail. He always does,” you say.
“Not if we stand together,” Cifer says. “Come. Brother. Fight with us. Let us destroy all they have worked for. Let us show HIM that we are stronger. Let us show HIM how weak they are.”
You want to resist; to refuse Lucifer’s voice. But it soothes the fear in your heart and his voice sparks a transparent hope in your chest, a hope that perhaps, if you all fight hard enough, you will defeat HIM; it is the same hope that filled your heart when you followed blindly at the Beginning. You stand up, the pew creaking loudly with relief as the weight is lifted off its benches and you say to yourself, “I am Aganju. I am the one who brews lava. I am the one who streams the oceans. I am the one who blankets the earth in green.”
You step out of the church and stare at the red sky. The prayers still lay stagnant there, at the bend in the sky. You begin to walk, north, to the place where all hell will break lose, the gates to hell, Tartarus. The houses are crumbling, their walls drooping like old women’s breasts, metal monsters the Weaklings ride lay to waste around you, dying from rust. The wind blows and carries dust around, the houses whistle as the air travel through them; it carries the front page of a newspaper and drops it at your moving feet. Before your feet step onto it, you see the headline: 2044, The End of It All!