1 The Life Of An Angel (1/2)

Within the corridors of men's hearts exist two worlds: the bright world of humanity and the dark world of the cults.

He who wants to pa.s.s from one world to the next will find it not a herculean task. It is as simple as dying and the transition of day into night.

The pa.s.sage into the dark world starts with the fall, the irrevocable action that will pitch your soul into the abyss of darkness, where you shall never see the light again, stranded forever in the wastelands of the dark side of the moon.

There are angels in the dark world. They are as human as you and I; they are not hideous beasts with black wings and fork like tails. They eat, sleep and defecate like you and I. But some of them were not angels before. They too fell from grace. Some had no choice; some had to become angels to save themselves from destruction.

I never would have thought that one- day, I too would become an angel. I have always loved the light, lived for the light and fought for the light. But what power on this earth can alter your destiny? When I fell, I fell like an eagle struck from the sky. The curtains of my soul were torn from top to bottom and the pillars of my heart shaken to its very foundation. The fall is the worst thing that can happen to a human being. It is worse than dying.

Some angels are good, some are bad and some do not know the difference. Some tread the thin line between good and evil, oscillating between the two sides like a pendulum.

I do walk that like but I know I cannot keep oscillating forever.

Ballaro Market, Palermo, Sicily

September, 2007

The event that irrevocably altered the course of my life occurred one dark, lonely Sunday night as my cousin Jide Offor and I went out for a drink. The market was quiet that evening, an unearthly stillness that frequently enveloped the area on Sundays since most of the traders were religious and were dutifully observing the day of rest. It was bitterly cold. Black clouds scuttled across the darkened sky and an icy wind rattled the wooden stalls.

I rubbed my palms for warmth as we strolled through the quiet streets. I yearned for a cigarette. Apart from my usual getup of an old white sweater, faded jeans and tattered sneakers, I also wore an extra large black jacket. It matched the black winter cap, pulled low over my head but it did not do much to prevent the cold from seeping into my body. However, it didn't seem to bother my cousin Jide Offor. My cousin, apart from his own jeans and a pair of leather boots, had only a tight, powder-blue, wool turtleneck that showed off all his rippling muscles.

Tall, fair in complexion and hard as nails, he had those roguish good looks that reduced the opposite gender to whimpering wrecks. His devil may care att.i.tude made you feel he could get away with anything. He was everything I wanted to be. He and I were very close, right from when we were much younger. My parents felt he was a bad influence on me: we were always getting into trouble, I couldn't care less. We were inseparable.

He had my back ever since we crossed the Sahara to Libya and had protected me when we came to the sh.o.r.es of Sicily with a hundred other migrants on a dingy boat. I would have never made it alive without him hovering over me like a guardian angel. He protected me like I was his own blood brother – I guess in a way we were brothers. He was the brother I never had since I had always been an only child. He had promised my parents back in Enugu, Nigeria that he would never let anything happen to me. They believed him.

Tonight, we met rather late after I had closed late from the grocery shop where I worked as a cleaner. The pay wasn't much but it was adequate and the owner, a large boisterous Sicilian called Giovanni was nice to him. In return, I was obedient and did my job. I didn't know exactly what Jide did. There were rumours that he was a hit man for a Nigerian gang called the Black Angels but I didn't want to believe it since he had always been kind to me despite his ruthless, good looks.

Jide insisted that we go out for a stroll. We were trying to find any of the Muslim traders that would be open on Sundays but it seemed even they had refused to open on this dark, chilly night.

Finally, we saw a makes.h.i.+ft, wooden stall that was full of stuff like cigarettes, tinned food and beverages and it was open.

”You wan smoke?” my cousin asked, smiling in amus.e.m.e.nt as I continued to rub my hands.