A Very Reasonable Proposition

2042 Anno Domini

A shrill menacing cry echoed through the  decrepit labour ward as the old nurse cut the umbilical cord. A deafening silence followed.

It was like the new born baby knew he had done the bare minimum needed and that was enough. He did not make a sucking sound. He did not instinctively turn his neck to look for his mother’s breast. A forlorn look settled on his face as he cradled his bloodied round head on his right wrist. He did not yet have a name. He never would.

The mother took one look at her son then closed her eyes. Her knees were bent and spread apart on the hard, tattered delivery mattress. She laid in a hodgepodge of faeces, amniotic fluid and urine. In another time she would have been happy to see the end of what was a gut wrenching, prolonged labour. Not today.  She did not know what it meant…to be happy.

The old midwife grabbed the baby by his gore and liquor stained legs and headed out of the room, his small soft head dangling by her side. A streak of saliva trickled down the corner of her lips as she looked at the corner of the room where a younger nurse was tapping on her phone uninterested in what was going on around her. The young nurse caught her eyes and on cue walked towards her. This was going to be her first.

She was famished.

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A burly red haired man with crooked teeth strutted down an unpaved street in central London. The air was dry with a putrid odour sifting onto the main street from a nearby alley. It smelt like rotten carcass and dried blood. The time was 1pm but the sun was yet to rise. On some days it peaked through the grey, thick clouds for a few minutes late in the evening. On some days it never showed up. The streets were barely lit with ancient street lights that flickered constantly, amber bulbs half alive, half dead.

The man had an ugly tattoo drawn across his face- a poorly sketched green scaled dragon breathing fire that seemed to shoot out of his left eye. He put his hand in his pocket to see if he had any change left over to buy some breakfast. A scrawny looking black man bumped into his left shoulder.

The black man was about 5 foot 4 with a bad case of halitosis. He looked like he had not eaten in years. A frightened stare was permanently etched on his bony face.

‘Sorry, accident’ he muttered to the big man in a thick Ugandan accent as he turned to cross the street. The red haired man grabbed the collar of his well-worn jacket and pulled him back. He glared into the scared eyes of the small man as his bushy eyebrows lowered, drawing close together till it looked like they might touch themselves. His parched lips curled inwards.

Across the street from these two men, a bald and sweaty overweight policeman was eating a peanut butter sandwich. A dash of jam fell onto his uniform as he tried to chug a huge chunk of food in his mouth. When he noticed the red haired man looking towards his direction from across the street, the policeman shifted his trunk so he faced the other end of the dusty road. He mindlessly brushed the jam off his shirt and continued his meal. The jam was crimson red and heavily sprinkled with granulated sugar. In another life he would have described it as sweet…if only he knew what the word meant.

The red haired man noticed the cop looking away. Well played he thought to himself. Well played.

He returned his attention to the small man in front of him who was still cooing apologies like a loser. He picked him up like a fluffy doll and threw him violently on the floor. He heard a cracking sound as the man’s head bounced off what was left of the sidewalk. He loved the sound bones made as they broke. It reminded him that in this world power was all that mattered and harder shattered hard.

The black man went unconscious from the impact to his head. A small pool of bright red blood was forming beneath his occiput. His mouth was opened slightly to let out another plea but this was cut off as he landed on the ground. The big man knelt beside him and dealt heavy blows in quick succession to both sides of his head till his face was a beaten pulp of sunken eyes, broken bones and splattered tissue. A blonde woman who had stopped briefly to witness the scene sighed when the big man landed the last blow. She took one more sip of her stale coffee and continued on her way. Nothing new had happened today.

33 Anno Domini

The sun was sitting majestically in the sky when The Messiah walked into the garden of Gethsemane across the Kidron valley in the Mount of Olives. He had on his favourite undyed mantle with the greyish tallith swaying gently in the arid Jerusalem wind. He walked briskly to his usual prayer spot after having a quick word with His disciples.

‘Pray that you do not fall into temptation’ he had charged them.

He carefully tucked away His Judean sandals and went on both knees. He liked to feel the hard floor under His knees whenever he talked to The Father. Oh! How He Loved the Father.

The maker of Heaven and Earth. The one who saw the end from the beginning and lived in both the past and the present, above the constraints of time and space. The Holy one of Israel. The I am that I am. Compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to billions, and forgiving rebellion, wickedness and sin.

Oh! how He adored The father- Who in His infinite mercies deemed it fit to make a way out for man despite their sometimes shocking rebellion and unfaithfulness.

It was at this point The Messiah began reflecting more and more on all the events that had led to this point. Trillions of events flashed across his vast mind in what seemed like a split second. The vast, dark earth and the Spirit hovering over it; the creation of man from the earth itself and man’s fall from the garden of Eden. The tears and blood of prophets that had been swallowed up by the same earth as The Father out of his boundless love tried to reconcile man to Himself, and now the plan for The Messiah to die on the cross in one fell swoop of glorious victory over sin and death.

The Messiah shed tears as He reflected on how he and The Father so loved man and would give of themselves over and over again in show of the pure love they had for man despite his fallen state. His tears became more viscid and very soon hot drops of blood were oozing out of his pores as the Spirit revealed to Him the events that would soon unfold and the suffering that lay ahead of Him. Several hours passed and The Messiah did not move an inch from His spot of prayer. A few yards from Him the disciples had all fallen into deep slumber. Even Peter was snoring loudly!

As the night drew near He felt a soft rustling of the leaves behind him. He could feel the darkness creeping in on him as he began to hear the whispers- soft whispers. The voice was seductive, subtle, almost musical sometimes. They were whispers in the encroaching shadow constantly beseeching, imploring, entreating. He knew this voice all too well.

‘What is it? Can you not see I am talking to The Father?’ Jesus asked firmly.

Silence.

The soft voice then spoke, choosing every syllable and word carefully. It was like every sentence had been rehearsed a million times.

‘I know. I could not help but notice Your time has come. Judas was quite the pushover’

Silence. Then an outbreak of laughter. The voice’s laughter was like a thousand rocks tumbling down a mountain.

‘You had me scared for a moment there My Lord’ The voice started.

‘The despair I so enjoyed beholding in the eyes of Your people was gradually turning to hope. The blind suddenly believed they would someday see. The lame walked. The deaf heard and even the down trodden suddenly believed they would someday be free.

Urrgh! I hate that! You know I do. I offered you plenty in the wilderness but as always you are too good for your own good. Now The Father is about to sacrifice you as He has done many other sons before you. What a waste!

Another cacophony of mocking laughter rang through the mount of Olives.

Then Silence as the voice drifted away.

The Messiah was about to go back to prayer but took a quick second to ponder on some of the things the voice had said. He knew all too well the voice only came to steal, kill and destroy, while He had come to give life to the people, that they may have it more abundantly. But He could not help but reflect on something the voice had not exactly said but which was actually a very reasonable proposition.

He always felt a surge of joy and inner satisfaction whenever he was able to perform miracles among His people. He could see the love and joy in the eyes of the people as they received back their dead, He intimately knew the heartfelt bliss in the hearts of many sick people He had brought succour to. He knew the inner yearnings of the average Jewish man on the streets of Jerusalem that they would one day be free of their oppressors and He saw the questioning look in their eyes as they all wondered the same thing- Was He the Messiah that was promised to come and save them or do they await yet another?

What if He spent a few more years before going to the Cross. Was the Cross really the only way in this scenario? He tried to recollect every discussion He had with The Father over the ages, carefully dissecting every word to be sure He was not missing anything. Sometimes The Father did not talk plainly. His infinite wisdom was often times hard to comprehend. A day in the sight of man was like a thousand days with Him, and a thousand days in His presence was sometimes a day by the calendar of man. Who can search the Father’s heart and know all that it holds?

The Messiah agonized in His soul over these things? Was it really loving to leave these worn out and broken people at this time. Was staying back to do some more good really such a bad idea?

The Messiah felt a force descending on Him as He thought these things. It was the Spirit coming down again to reveal things to Him and to comfort Him. In a blinding flash of light The Spirit revealed to Him what would happen on Earth if He took any other path but the cross. Scenes of despair and absolute chaos played before the precious eyes of the Messiah. Mothers eating their young, darkness, brutish violence and sin on the streets without any hope of justice. Unending misery all around.

It occurred to the Messiah that in the grand scheme of things the cross was indeed the only way. Sure, there would still be famine, wars, sickness and death in the days to come, but above all there would be love…and hope. Without hope of redemption there was no point in living. The Messiah bowed His head even lower in reverence of the endless wisdom of The Father.

‘Not my will, but Yours be done’. He said.

About the Author

Oluwaseyi Adebola (MBBS, MSc, MRCS) is the founder of CreativeNaija, author of A Cluster of Petals and the curator of ‘I Am Nigeria- An anthology of what it means to be Nigerian in past, present and future perspectives‘. Purchase links available here: Link Tree

He also has an advanced diploma in creative writing from Austing Peay State University, Tennessee. This is one of many works. Kindly follow him on twitter @laylow1388