In the year of heaven’s lunar ecstasy, when all the things that mattered lined up at the moment of orgasmic delight, I found myself stranded on the road to utopia, wondering why my mother’s continent was exempted from the luminous joy of the world. The moon, in her patient empathy with my plight, laid before me a riddle about how to give up the traditions I had inherited, in exchange for what I might become.
“I have lost my wand to conjure my eclipse over the sun and the universe is angry with me,” the moon came to me crying.
“I can lend you mine,” I said.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Only if you tell me the secret that will give me the power to perform miracles, without a wand,” I said.
“You want to perform miracles?” She asked.
“Yes, because I will have the means to change the world,” I said.
“Why will you want to change the world, when it is perfect in its imperfections?” The moon asked. “I have been witness to its infinite follies even before the beginning of time and I still like it the way it is,” she said.
“I need the power to perform miracles so that I can heal my mother. She lays there in a coma, with no way to awake her from her condition; half alive, half dead. Not even my wand can charm her sleeping mind to make her blink,” I said.
“So why do you hold on to your wand, if it has lost its luster? I need it to help me make love to the sun. Your mother will awake, when the time is right. So give me your wand before the sun disappears. The sun will not be whole without an eclipse, nor will the day be complete without the night. To change the world, change your rituals, then your mother will awake from her sleep,” she added.
“How do I do that?” I asked.
“Learn how to talk to her in your mind, as though she were awake,” she said.
“Do you still want my wand or not, since it has lost its powers?” I asked. By the legend of its story, I recalled that the wand used to be an elixir for conjuring dreams. It was used to build pyramids, temples and grand citadels for Pharaohs and empires fit for kings and through a long line of dynasties, it became corrupted and lost its magical power to perform the miracles for those who inherited it. Its powers were wasted on the practices of occult beliefs of fear and the malice of ineptitude. Later on it went into the hands of wick witches who misused and wasted its allure on fetish rituals for idols. I inherited it from my father, an amateur sorcerer who acquired it as payment from a gamble amongst shamans. Today, it is a useless relic from the past, famed for being the same wand the Pharaohs held to rule the world,” I said.
“Give it to me, I can restore it to its original power,” the moon said.
I obliged and gave the moon my wand. Then the moon used it to seduce the sun and created night at noon. Everything glittered in a kaleidoscope of lights, a luster of magnificent colors against the shadow of the sun. My wand regained its invisible gifts, placed in the orifice gap between the moon and the sun. This intersection was the point of intercourse, the orgasmic moment of magic, miracle and awe, where the cosmic dance between light and darkness intersected. The meteors and comets were aglow with joy. The universe danced in a euphoric twist of delight, alive within the magic of dreams. At the elliptical moment of exuberance, blissful jitter and mirth, my mother woke up, astonished. Her pulse resorted, sight regained and heaven’s mandate affirmed, by this cosmic intercourse across the landscape of the glittering sky.
After the moon and sun completed their dance and the enchanted delight of the heavens rested in a state of silent bliss, content with the reformative recreation of the earth; the moon gave back my wand. Armed with the epistolary of ancient secrets about the mysteries of the universe, I used my wand to change lives. I was able to bestow upon my mother the charisma and title of a goddess, including the enchanted power of celestial dreams. The desert flowered into a forest, warring tribes exchanged malice for mercy; the henchmen of tyrants who pillaged the continent became transformative agents of change. Wizards became healers; xenophobes learnt the virtues of tolerance, tribal Chiefs embraced the architecture and promise of unity. Prisoners of war were set free; they became saints within the sanctuary of human sanity. These benedictions were the gifts I gained by exchanging the past for the future, I thought.
“Are you now happy?” the moon asked. It was a year after the lunar eclipse that changed the world.
“Mother is awake; she’s now queen of the realm of her own domain, why not?” I said.
“Make sure the wand retains it eternal power of wonder,” she said, vanishing behind the curtain of my dream. I woke up, wet within the aperture of bliss.
Kabu Okai-Davies, Phd, Novelist, Poet
Submit your review