Sunuteel abbreviated ideas, chopped stories in half, summarized pain and suffering and joy, and reinterpreted and omitted. He declared the authors dead and did with the information what he would. That silly little essay from so many decades ago didn’t take into consideration that the story could be and very often was shaman, and that the teller was more often than not medium. There are ghosts in the machine and spirits in the books, oral or written. Don’t be naïve enough to believe that the author of The Book of Phoenix is dead. What is death, sha?
I will interject here. I am Sola.
I give you this story from the future. Or maybe I am in the past, today. Presently, I am in your presence. I am a white man; I have and use the privilege of unhindered mobility. I laugh because most of my words are lies. Regardless, I hope this story is a comfort to you. I pray that it makes you better able to sleep at night.
I don’t really care if you know who I am. Just know that I know more than you. So listen. Sunuteel is as much a victim of his environment as he is a talented man of his own profession. He is old and that opened him to the voice of Phoenix Okore’s story. But he is too young to see beyond his own nose. He cannot contain Phoenix’s tale. He cannot even consider her story, for whenever his mind goes back to it, he sees her ghost which was not a ghost standing in the sand just outside that cave, burning like lightning and staring at him.
Sunuteel is a good man but he is limited. A part of him is also a coward. Why do you think he will never seek The Seed for real answers? Instead, he chose to write fiction.
It was as if he were possessed, for not only did he rewrite and rewrite, he became infected with stories. He wrote stories so tantalizing and addictive that those who heard it were sure that they heard truth. His Great Book, which he claimed was not his, was powerful and delightful. It was full of rules, history and shapes. It reshaped what the people of the deserted lands knew and felt deep in their hearts. They were a wounded people, so these ideas were wounded, too.
The old African man took the bones, blood, and quivering flesh of Phoenix’s book, digested its marrow and defecated a tale of his own. Then he and his oracle of a wife spread this shit far and wide. And their Great Book deformed the lives of many until the one named Onyesonwu came and changed it again. But that is another story.