(From the whispers of the city)
"They say he was born under a blood sky, crying
smoke instead of tears. That the moment his
lungs filled with air, the world exhaled something
ancient…and dangerous."
The rain fell soft that night, not like a storm—
more like the city was weeping for something it
knew it was about to lose. New Makurdi had
always been a place of paradox. Neon gods
danced on rusted rooftops. Ancient whispers
echoed in silicon halls. A city caught between
empires, balancing on the tip of a needle made
of light and rot.
And in the middle of it all...
Him.
Mr. Black.
baptized him with. Not for his skin, or his suits,
or his secrets—but for what followed him:
silence, smoke, shadows, and salvation.
Some say he used to be a priest. Others? That
he was a ghost in the war who just never
stopped fighting. But the truth was simpler and
more complicated. He was the last of his
bloodline—a family that once ruled art, code,
and the soul of New Makurdi. Now, ashes. Only
two sisters left, five children between them,
and one man—carrying a dead legacy like a
crown of fire.
By day, he built dreams. His animation studio?
The best in the region. Legends in motion. He
gave color to a city too used to grey.
By night, he moved green. Marijuana—illegal,
sacred, forbidden. Not poison, but poetry. He
treated it like a ritual, a rebellion, a gift. And in
this city of contradictions, he was both Messiah
and Menace.
No one knew how he did it—how he wore
peace like perfume and war like a second skin.
He was calm, erotic, dangerous, divine. A god
among mortals. And he knew it. Not with
arrogance, but acceptance. Like fire knowing it
burns.
He gave to the poor, stole from the rich,
rewrote laws with actions not ink. A flirt with a
thousand hearts, but loyal to one. She who
knew his demons, kissed them, and stayed. The
city feared him, worshipped him, whispered
about him in late-night cafes and high-rise
boardrooms.
But the thing about legends?
They're always hunted.
And when the wolves come, when glass
shatters and blood speaks louder than truth—
the world will remember not what he was
called…
…but what he became.
"In the end, there will be no gods. Only the Son."