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But last night, a storm came. Lightning split the baobab where the altar once stood. And as the rain washed the ash into the earth, I heard something—not a prayer, not a command. A sound like the first breath before language.
The Godless Testament of Iyovi
I was seven when I first refused the evening prayer to the Sky Father. Not out of rebellion, but curiosity. I asked, “If he sees all, why does he let the river swallow children?” The elder struck me. Not for the question—for the silence that followed it. That silence, they said, was the godless seed. godless iyovi
They say a godless woman is a hollow drum. No spirit to move through her. No song. But last night, a storm came
They call me Iyovi, and they call me godless. A sound like the first breath before language
Now I live on the far ridge, where the old gods are too tired to listen and the new ones have not yet learned to lie. I keep no shrine. I light no candles. But I watch the stars spin their slow, mechanical grace, and I think: this is enough . No judgment. No mercy. Just the cold, honest clockwork of a universe that does not hate me—because it does not see me.
Not to any god. Not to any ghost.