In the heart of the Sahara, I build my sanctuary. It is half-lab, half-temple. Walls of sunbaked adobe rise from stone, etched with cosmograms and proverbs I remember: "Nea woanhunu kyere no, wannya nkyerɛw" ("Teach by example, not by accusation"). Inside, solar panels absorb the day's excess and converters hum with small power. In a corner, a simple shrine: sand from the Nile, a carved stool, smoldering incense. I set up instruments in one alcove, a meditation circle in another. Everything is measured, balanced—Egyptian style mirrored in Ghanaian wisdom.
When the solar storm flared days later and instruments wavered, I stood calmly. I raised arms and felt the familiar pull in my center. The magnetic needles steadied and the power grid held. I knew then: I had accepted this responsibility. I am a guardian of equilibrium, chosen by accident, sworn by destiny.
At dusk I trace a line around the sanctum with salt and speak a proverb aloud: "Odo betɔ nsa no, oduru mpo mu." (Love will cross the river—even if it must swim.) This space is built of love for the Earth, no matter the cost.
Inside, lanterns glow warm. The endless Sahara night presses in, but I feel anchored. Once I feared my gift; now I bend to the task. The walls hold witness: Asase Yaa's breath on clay, Nana Akwasi's mark at the door. In this hidden haven, Earth's balance is my charge. The dust outside might swallow footprints, but inside, a promise stands.
I step outside under the new moon. The universe is quiet, whole once more in this moment. With sand underfoot and stars overhead, I breathe deeply. This is where I belong. I smile and bow my head. The journey was long; my work has just begun. The world may never know my name, but the Earth will feel me standing watch at its heart.