While He Prayed...

       All was dark in the dinky room. The rickety standing fan, silhouetted
against the moonlight filtering in through the louvres, created an
illusory apparition that could drive a toddler out of his wits. The
room had an impressive alcove improvised as a make-shift wardrobe.
Outside, crickets shrieked love calls to one another just as the moon
illuminated the environment and landscape in an alabaster-white
colour, pacifying for the power outage. The room was bare except for
few essentials scattered around. It was the first room by the right in
a bungalow of ten rooms. The compound had a low fence because the
inhabitants of the building were confident that only miserable thieves
would attempt to break in. The room was fitted with everything a
bachelor could have to make life a bit comfortable in an economy where
most of its citizens lived below the poverty line.
       Everywhere was quiet save for moans and groans. Sprawled on the
carpet was the figure of a man in his early forties. Amidst the cold,
as a result of the rain that had tempered down to a drizzle, he was
drenched in sweat. His eyes were filled with tears and phlegm cascaded
down his nostrils like Niagara Falls. The prayer he intended to make
for a good night rest had escalated to holy travailing lasting from
the last three hours of a day to the first four hours of a new day. On
the carpet he wept. This was his act. This was his ministry in the
kingdom.
       “Oh Lord,” he wept, “redeem the desolation of our land and generation.”
       His tears were torrential; his heart was the semblance of an
over-inflated balloon. He interceded with holy boldness, but not
arrogance. He prayed hard and long with intensity and passion. The
Lord’s burden on his soul beclouded the yearnings of his flesh. He had
prayed in the spirit for long hours that his mind had ceased to know
what was been sought for and had fallen silent. Then like the sound of
many waters, the Holy Spirit spoke within him. He was accustomed to
that voice, had felt His tremendous power and had vowed to obey him,
no matter the consequences.
       “Pray for Humphrey Williams,” the Spirit instructed. “And if you must
wrestle for his salvation and that of his son, you must pray like
you’ve never done.”
       At that instruction, holy passion filled his spirit setting him
afire. He let out a bone-chilling cry as only a battle casualty could.
His intercession penetrated his entire being – spirit, soul and soul –
as never before. Right now, he started groaning intensely for there
was no language in the tongues of men nor angels to convey how he felt
to God his body contorted and relaxed in quick successions as his
cries were incoherent. He knew that he had to sow in tears in order to
reap in joy. He knew that his deepest satisfaction came after he had
seen the rewards of his long travails.
       While he prayed, the wind blew as his accuser came. His prayers had
had nosedived whenever his accuser came reminding him of his past sins
and how God would never forgive him. At the moment of securing an
answer to his prayer, these accusations ruptured his faith and made
waste to night long battles in prayer. So that night, two angels stood
unglorified in his room, ready for battle.


       From a corner Chemosh appeared. He was a hideous creature with
leathery wings, foul-smelling skin and stinking sulphuric breath. He
moved across the skin with outstanding cat-like grace. His presence
covered every trace of light, colour or sound in thick darkness, as
his savage yellow eyes sought his prey. Earlier on, he had wondered
why one of his minions had not been sent, instead of him, on an
assignment he deemed degrading. When he was intimated with the degree
of opposition the praying man had caused on his knees, he volunteered
eagerly for the job. Three fingers in each hand were embellished with
rings of different precious stones. Onyx, quicksilver, and jasper.
Discernible on the little finger of his left hand was his master,
Shishak’s ring. A prize he treasured more than his own very existence.
Various medals hung from his neck. They were awards from his various
masters for various victories. Masters! How he hated them! How he
despised them! But as he dove down towards that familiar street, with
wings and limbs that were obvious accessories in his movement because
he moved forward without their aid, his mind was firmly set on his
target.



       Chemosh landed with a thud oblivious to mortal ears. He drew his
weapon and made quickly towards his target, seeking his prey. What a
perfect night to wreck evil, he said in his heart. He kissed the
signet ring, blessing his luck and believing that the coast was clear.
As usual he melted through the padlocked Iron Gate as though it never
existed. Approaching the door to the corridor, he slowed down,
assuring himself that there was no need to hurry. After all, he had
two full hours before daybreak. He paused, looked at the moon and his
immediate surrounding and felt very uneasy. There was something
strange about that night. He had a premonition that that night would
be his last. Nevertheless, he debunked the idea.
       As he set foot on the doorstep, he sensed looming adversity. He
turned abruptly. Right before his eyes, his premonition became real.
       WHOOSH!!!
       In the air few metres from where he stood on the wet sandy soil were
a pair of flaming eyes filled with holy indignation, set in a
well-sculptured face of a muscular body that had a head overflowing
with long jet black hair, borne on immaculate wings. It was a warrior
angel. It suddenly occurred to Chemosh that he was under attack. He
lifted up his sword to defend himself.
       “I won’t go down alone,” he cried.
       “We shall see!” his attacker thundered in a loud voice as he struck
the weapon from Chemosh, the demon’s hand in one neat swipe. Chemosh
lunged at the angel with bared talons. The angel ducked and as the
demon went past him, threw a clenched fist at the demon’s spine,
sending him reeling to the floor.  Chemosh made for the nearest tree
in a desperate attempt to escape. However, the angel anticipating such
tricky move sent the demon back to the floor with a stunning blow to
the chest.
       The demon lay helpless on the ground on the ground as the angel
advanced towards him. The angel’s long jet black hair totally covered
his face as he said, “Ancient Romans had a saying: “De inimico non
loquaris sed cogites.”
       Feeling stupid, Chemosh asked, “What the hell does it mean?”
       “It means, ‘don’t wish ill for your enemy; plan it.’ That’s what I
did to you. You will trouble praying men no more.”
       Chemosh, sensing his demise, made for his weapon in order to make
good his threat or at least draw some blood. The angel desiring a
flawless victory went after his foe and with one smooth swipe of his
sword beheaded the demon. The demon’s hands were only millimeters from
his weapon. The last sight Chemosh had as he disintegrated into the
abyss in puffs of smoke was a pair of sapphire eyes that he had
avoided for many centuries. Before he vanished totally he whispered to
the angel, “So you finally caught up with me, Andronicus.”
       The fight was over even before it began