Chapter One

 

The sun shone brightly, painting the Kansas sky in hues of gold and azure. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the towering oak trees that lined the street. Mustafa and Khadija stood at the Westboro Baptist Church’s entrance. The stark white sign emblazoned with its infamous message — “BELIEVE IN GOD HE WALKS AMONG US” — a chilling irony given the nature of the institution.

“Mustafa,” Khadija began, her hand clasping tightly in Mustafa’s. “Are we really sure we have to do this? These people … they’ve been banned from other countries for their hateful views. Their words cause so much pain.”

Mustafa, the son of the High Father and the Great Mother, sighed. “The High Father has commanded this mission, Khadija.” he replied, his voice a soft baritone. “The Age of Aquarius is dawning and the hateful souls must be purged.”

Khadija knew better than to question the pronouncements of the High Father. Her heart ached at the thought of wading into the muck of hatred. Her unwavering loyalty to Mustafa, propelled her forward.

The heavy wooden doors creaked open, revealing a scene that was both familiar and surreal. The interior of the church was filled with the usual assortment of aging pews and faded religious banners, but the atmosphere was thick with animosity. Reverend Phelps was in mid-sermon, his words spewing venom like a serpent.

“Homosexuality! A blight upon the face of God’s creation!” he thundered, his voice echoing through the otherwise silent church. “Plenty speak for them and their so-called lifestyle. They want to force you by law to support their filth, and they want to shut you up by law when they hate what you say! The media, Hollywood, and Megan thee Stallion, won’t ever stop spewing her vileness! What they don’t know is God hates fags.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the congregation, a sound that chilled Mustafa to the bone.

“Yeah, funny,” the Reverend continued, his voice dripping with self-righteousness. “But that’s why we raise our voices! That’s why we picket their so-called weddings and their funerals. Someone has to speak for God!”

“Who says you speak for God?” Mustafa’s question stopped the Reverend in his tracks and silenced the congregation.

The congregation turned, their eyes widening in shock as they saw Mustafa standing at the opposite end of the aisle. His presence alone radiated a quiet power that filled the entire church.  Khadija stood beside him, her hand still intertwined with his.

Literally sculpted by the hands of the Divine, Mustafa stood at six feet five inches tall. His physique was muscular yet slender. His skin, the rich color of dark chocolate, absorbed light and emanated divine grace. His emerald eyes searched the Reverend’s soul. His crown of black dreadlocks cascades down his back, framing his eternally youthful face that was both gentle and fierce.

His nose was straight and proud. His cheekbones were high and sharp, His smile would normally be warm and inviting. 

“You’re wrong, Reverend.” Mustafa declared, His long and nimble fingers, capable of performing the most astounding of miracles, were balling into a fist. “The High Father and the Great Mother are utterly indifferent to sexual orientation. They are not concerned with the human constructs of love, with whom you choose to share your life. On the other hand, the High Father and Great Mother cannot abide hypocrites like you, Reverend.”

The Reverend, his face flushed with a mixture of anger and confusion, sputtered. “Okay, fun’s over, son.”

Mustafa’s gaze never wavered. “Tell your flock where your genitals were just last night before you speak for my Mother and Father.”

“And who the heck are you?” the Reverend demanded.

“I’m the Messiah.”

Murmurs rippled through the congregation.  There was a mix of disbelief, fear, and a chilling sense of something profoundly wrong. One of the parishioners, emboldened by the Reverend’s earlier words, rose to his feet. 

“My Jesus ain’t no nigger.”

He lunged forward with a violent growl. However, before his fist could connect, a single, unwavering glance from Mustafa caused him to collapse. The man’s body hit the pew with a deafening crack, unconscious.

Mustafa turned to Khadija. She saw the silent question in his eyes. He’d just been attacked. She knew what was about to happen next. He was asking her if she was okay with what he was about to do. She nodded, knowing his actions were fully justified. 

Mustafa’s gaze returned to the Reverend with a look of pure, unadulterated divine judgment. The Reverend began to choke, his face contorting in a grotesque display of horror. Foam erupted from his mouth as he crumpled to his knees. The life drained from his eyes, replaced by a glassy stare. With a terrified last glance at Mustafa, the good reverend collapsed onto the floor. The congregation  gasped at the lifeless form of their leader.

Mustafa and Khadija, their mission complete, began to walk out of the church. The scent of stale hymnals and fear lingered in their wake. As they approached the church doors, Mustafa paused. A faint whisper echoing in his mind. 

“Mustafa…” It was the voice of his father. “Well done, my son.”

And then, he heard the voice of his mother. “Good job, baby.”

Mustafa smiled at the cosmic affirmation of his actions. The world outside was bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, a stark contrast to the darkness that had just been purged from within the church. Mustafa and Khadija walked hand-in-hand, their steps light, their hearts heavy from what had just transpired.

Mustafa strolled the streets of Topeka, Kansas, his mind still grappling with the events of the day. The world had shifted since his public revelation. It was a time of unprecedented change, innovation, and a fragile, burgeoning hope. 

The Ku Klux Klan had crumbled under the weight of his presence and most of the world embraced a newfound peace. Yet, in the wake of such progress, new seeds of hate had sprouted, determined to resist the tide of enlightenment. His thoughts drifted back to the encounter with Reverend David Phelps of the Westboro Baptist Church. Westboro Baptist Church was known for its Anti-homosexuality, Antisemitism, Islamophobia, and outlandish conspiracy theories. Mustafa had smote him before his flock, but the weight of his power — the responsibility it entailed, pressed heavily on his soul.

He wasn’t a man of wrath, not truly. He was a man of miracles — of justice. A man who yearned to be just. His musings were interrupted by a raspy voice, faint but insistent. 

A blind, homeless black man sat on the sidewalk, his hand outstretched, “Some help, please ... please help ... I haven’t eaten all day.”

Mustafa’s heart ached. This man — this forgotten soul was the reason for his existence. This was the reason he’d been sent to Earth. He reached into his pocket and handed the man a crisp one hundred dollar bill.

“God bless you, sir,” the man rasped, gratitude evident in his voice.

“You are the reason I was born,” Mustafa said. “The reason I was sent here.” He paused, “I never like to be wrathful. Miracles … that’s why I’m here. I want to be a justful Messiah.”

“Excuse me?” The man’s voice held a hint of confusion.

Mustafa’s hand hovered over the man’s forehead, a gentle touch of divine energy. “See.”

The blind man’s eyes snapped open. Light flooded his vision, a world reborn in vibrant hues. “Oh my God, I can see!”

But when he looked up, searching for the source of the miracle. He found no one there. Mustafa had already faded into the Topeka streets.

Meanwhile, inside the cozy confines of an Airbnb, Khadija waited patiently in the luxurious King Suite for him to return. The scent of marijuana hung faintly in the air, a companion to the breaking news broadcast on KSNT 27 NEWS.

“The sudden death of Westboro Baptist Church Reverend David Phelps has shaken the community,” announced KSNT 27 News Reporter Gabriel Johnson. “Church officials have yet to issue a statement, but some are already calling this an act of God.”

The camera cut to a woman outside the church, her face a mix of shock and awe. “We all saw the Messiah,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “No beard, no robe. He was young... and colored... and sexy. And he had a woman with him.”

“At least she’s not a complete idiot,” Khadija chuckled, taking a drag from her joint. “Mustafa damn sure is sexy.”

The bedroom door creaked open, and Mustafa walked in. His stomach rumbled. He spied the pizza box on the bedside table and his mouth watered. His eyes landed on Khadija, wrapped in a fluffy white bath towel. His arousal was immediate. 

Khadija Dawson was a striking beauty. Her skin was the color of butter pecan. Her face was a canvas of freckles (that she was often teased for when they were kids), scattered like stars across the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks, which blushed easily at the slightest hint of embarrassment or excitement. Her eyes are almond-shaped pools of ember, fringed with thick lashes that cast shadows on her high cheekbones. Her hair is a glorious cascade of black curls. At five foot five, she was neither too tall nor too short, moving with a grace that seems almost ethereal. 

Khadija was slim-thick with a waist that curves in just enough to emphasize the generous swells of her 34DD chest and the luscious roundness of her ass. For too long now, he wrestled with the pull of his desire for her. It was a desire that threatened to distract him from his mission. Khadija offered him the blunt.

“Thank you,” he murmured, taking a long drag.

He grabbed a slice of pizza. He devoured it with gusto. Khadija watched him, a tender smile gracing her features.

“You healed someone on your walk, didn’t you?” she asked.

“A blind man,” he replied.

“I could tell,” she said, a knowing glint in her eyes. “You only scarf down food like that when you use your abilities more than once a day.”

Mustafa shed his clothes, revealing his sculpted, dark chocolate physique. Khadija’s breath hitched. His very presence (the raw power combined with the undeniable sex appeal) was intoxicating. Her eyes lingered on the dark chocolate python straining against his boxers. He crawled into bed, exhausted but content. Khadija discarded her towel, joining him naked.

“You’re blowing up on social media,” she said, snuggling close. “Nobody’s judging you for … for what you did to Reverend Phelps.”

Mustafa tensed, his eyes closing. “I don’t want to think about it.”

Khadija’s breasts face to face with on his chest. “You don’t have to. You did what was necessary.”

Mustafa wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “I just want to be here with you.”

Khadija felt her heart swell. The intimacy was perfect, a sanctuary in the chaos of his divine purpose. ….But a sliver of longing flickered through her. It was a desire to push the boundaries of their intimacy, to experience the full extent of their connection. Sadly, Khadija knew Mustafa didn’t see her in that light.