The figure of a young man with his chest puffed out cast a long shadow through the doorway as his eyes scanned across the room for the next man, woman or
child to be exorcised of their sickness. He called out for the old man next to me. “The pastor will see you now, are you ready to receive your healing?” – He gingerly
As he disappeared into the next room, an enlightened man now cut a shadow of himself, I awoke from a deep slumber, chest heaving with muffled sounds of men and women in bright white clothes running around beneath the flood lights asking me to hang on, to keep fighting. Nine fingers and twelve toes, my life reduced to a movie reel. The last thing I remember hearing when my eyes closed and the world went black was the sound of a baby being born, crying while their parents rejoiced in jubilation. For life. And the voice of a man stating the time. – I never did ask the old man what the last breath was for, and as it breezed into my withered lungs, I realized it was the power to choose. That if I wanted to be free, I had to let go.
Perhaps Mother was right. I was sick, in need of healing. Because it is true what the old man said – All revolutionaries die. It’s their ideas that live on forever.