|
ABIODUN BELLO HELENE the day before, the preacher sermoned about Noah— his ark of timber was great and saved the world, but I thought to myself in that moment: "the world" was not eight-billion-and-something people, no Elon Musk to airlift the world to space in a capsule, and no official flights to fetch a "first family"— the preacher conceded that the hurricane must come, but when or if the hurricane came, the town must remember to tell the preacher and his laity that suburbia and their common dwellers were no avatars from Noah's day, I repeated to the laypeople, The South is no "Museum of Noah's Ark"— tomorrow, rescue workers must find and ferry families who have no firsts to prefix their family names— circadian workers and the fainthearted must await their own resurrection on the day after— when only the fortunate millions must return at dawn. a voice in the wilderness, I cautioned the laity and the cleric robed in glory— Helene is not a ballerina girl but a Southern storm coming for the sinner and the saint |