Time of the Locust by Morowa Yejidé Page B

to take; sugar had gotten the best of him.
    Years later, when Brenda was up with Sephiri at four o’clock in the morning (he wanted to spend the night walking up and down the stairs), she sat on the sofa watching a documentary. In it, a Native American talked of his life, of all he’d seen, of what he knew to be true yesterday and tomorrow. “Religion is for those afraid to go to hell,” he’d said through watery eyes. “Spirituality is for those who have been there.” And indeed, Brenda felt she was living in a hell. One that had swallowed her husband whole. One in which she could see her boy burning but could do nothing to rescue him from the flames. That was when, after holding anger and grief for so long, she made a deal with God, which was this: she would talk to Him about something only if she had the fortitude, and He would listen only if He could do something about it. Brenda had begun to wonder if that private arrangement was coming to an end.
    â€œThe truth is,” said the doctor, “if you don’t start making some major changes now, you’re going to get sick.” He handed her another prescription for blood pressure and a referral. “Fill this prescription today, and I want you to make an appointment to see a nutritionist. There is only so much the body can take. You owe it to yourself.” He patted her gently on the shoulder and gave her a meaningful look.
    Sitting on the hard examination bench, Brenda’s legs had fallen asleep, and she rose to gather her shoes and purse. Her heart was pounding, her ears thumping with the blood pumping through her. She read somewhere that the heart beats some hundred thousand times a day, thirty-five million times a year, two and a half billion times in a lifetime. Her heart had beaten through so many things. Thirty-five million beats in each of the years of her life, each beat striking the drum of her heart and then gone forever. How many more beats did it have left? She picked up her purse, clutching the strap. Tired. She felt tired all over, as if she had walked for miles, had swam kilometers in the sea. If she couldn’t help herself, how could she help Sephiri? She slipped her feet into her flat loafers, her most worn shoes. They would have to carry her on yet another journey now, one even more ominous. Again, the two signs materialized in her mind: What are you going to do? and Why are you doing what you’re doing? She didn’t have the answer to either.

Water World
    T he little boat materialized. Sephiri blinked to make sure that it was there. He was ready to ride in it, and just as suddenly, he was sitting inside of it, on the little wooden bench, floating atop the beautiful current that was as turquoise as the bathwater he sat in every night before bedtime. He began to float away, the sun’s warm rays beaming on his head and shoulders. He blinked again, and there were the giant rocks hailing him from a distance, the Obsidians. He floated toward them. He was enjoying the sounds of the water sloshing against the side of the boat when he heard a voice.
    â€œSo you’ve found us again,” said the voice.
    This sort of thing always filled Sephiri with a jolt of excitement. In Water, voices were quickly understood. He scanned the blue for the source of the voice. The surface was gilded with sunlight.
    â€œDown here,” said the voice.
    Sephiri looked into the water. It was his friend, the dolphin, who had been gliding alongside him, his gray skin slick and glistening in the bright rays.
    â€œHello,” said Sephiri.
    â€œWelcome back,” the dolphin said. A merry creature, the dolphin always greeted Sephiri when he entered the World of Water.
    Sephiri rejoiced. Whenever he was angry or lonely or confused, he knew that he could always travel out to the great ocean. Now he could forget about the things that troubled him in Air. The ocean was the great bath that washed away all tears, the