“tear the veil” is the first thing yoki hears after what felt like a bumpy ride from the site of his abduction. during the ordeal, he had spent time thinking about his life and how unpredictable and fickle it was. only a few moments ago, he had been taking an evening stroll around his neighborhood, now, suddenly, he was tied up in the back of a windowless van.
upon arriving in the nation’s capital, yoki had heard soft tappings on the passenger window of his blue tesla. he had been escorted into a blue sedan by a tall white man. he had been nicely asked to tie a piece of white bandana across his face. he had been assured he was safe and that the bandana was just security measure insisted upon by the “higherups”. also, he had been promised more information when the time came.
“welcome home, yoki” a soft welcoming voice calls out as a set of unknown fingers unties the piece of clothing around his face. yoki scans the room, trying to figure out where he was and who the group of men dressed in agbada were. [here we go again with those white people who wear dashikis and think we should forget centuries of humiliating trauma. and somehow by magic, see them as family. nah nigga lol].
“welcome” a different voice calls out from the front center of what yoki has determined to be a palace. the voice’s owner is a french woman, who seems to be the leader of this group of strange mute people. she emerges from her seat, enamored with the panache of a roman emperor’s throne, and walks towards yoki.
“you called out to us for so many nights” she started.
“…from your small apartment, in your small room, on your small bed, for years and years.”
now, she was standing directly in front of yoki, towering over him while observing the bald spot forming on the center of his head. she ran her fingers through his deserted loneliness and soon thick curly follicles materialized over his baldness, turning his shiny black and white desert into rich colorful vegetation of nappy hairiness. yoki felt it happen too; he felt the empty coffers of his heart quietly fill with placid warmth and grace. he felt a numbing force apply itself upward from underneath the layer of skin atop his head.
ignoring the surprise on yoki’s face as if she hadn’t just performed a miracle, the magic woman continued, “however, we did not respond because your time hadn’t come. we had promised awo-lo-wo…” yoki was taken aback yet again! it was the first time he had experienced somebody with a pointy nose pronouncing a yoruba name so accurately: pulling all the stops and not sparing any emphasis on any syllable.
“yoki, are you listening?” the woman asked
“yes ma” yoki’s voice wavered.
“we promised awolowo we would wait until you turned thirty; however, you’ve consistently broken through the ‘veil’ and so have become privy to knowledge to which most people from your hierarchy remain oblivious.”
“come, walk with me.” she grabbed yoki’s hands and ushered him up.
“let me tell you what all of this is and why you are here. first of all, this is not an afterlife like you’ve read in those obsolete masses of sacred text your people continue to peddle. you did not die. you have been activated. this is the reason “be what we are intended to be” has always persisted in the shape of an earworm.”
the duo was now staring into space through a far east aperture on the palace’s wall. she put her hands over his shoulder and whispered into his right ear, “welcome to the future, this is the higherups.”