Editor’s Note: The Phantasm of Onyeka Nwelue Instructed Me To Start This Paper

I would love to be the guy that says believable things all the time, but I do not believe that the guardians of the streams of knowledge has reached it ultimate source. Something happened to me that I do not believe could be believed by others, but I have to tell my story nonetheless. The Phantasm of Onyeka Nwelue visited me in my sleep and instructed me to start a fake news blog and a group to share it in. Well, that’s not exactly how it happened. I was indeed asleep on my bed when the lights came on and out of a wormhole came Onyeka Nwelue, his beads jangling and his bracelets jangling too, his beard well groomed and his cowries would sparkle in the sand. He apologized for waking me with a curt wave of the hand and went about searching the floor of my room. I on my part was excited to see him, and the sleep I sought earnestly a few moments ago disappeared from my eyes. Aside the weak luminescence of the the wormhole he emerged from, I put on the other lights so I could see his face better . . . I am indeed a big fan of his work. But he wouldn’t look me in the eye, just searched the rubbery carpet in the room. It took me a few moments, but the excitement caused me to speak out, and I spoke to him saying:
“Wow, wow . . . You’re Onyeka Nwelue right?”
He looked at me with the exact sort of contempt reserved for fools, but changed his countenance when my smile began to fade. “You already know me naaa . . . eh, oga.” He kept his eyes on the floor, his split concentration  breaking his speech. “You . . . you already know me.” He kept searching the floor, and when it took too long, he put on the light of his cellphone.
“What are you looking for?” I was thus pressed to ask. I even swinged my legs over the edge of the bed readying to help. I am looking for . . . I am looking for my ring . . . found it!”
“Oh . . .” I smiled as much as my facial muscles would let me. He was on his way out of the wormhole but turned to look at me with concern on his face. He slided the missing ring down his finger as he asked,
“Kee ihe ji gi ura?” He asked in Igbo.
“Nothing oh, my brother, just Facebook wahala.”
Royally disappointed he was. He shook his head sadly and started walking back through the wormhole. “Umu azi!” I could hear him hiss, and he even repeated it. The soundwave was disrupted by the wormhole, and I thought of white noise as the wormhole circled closed. The word “wait” was stuck in my throat as the light in the room was dimmed by a particular percentage I had no time to calculate. I just sat on my bed and after a few rounds of thinking, I decided that he clearly wanted me to run the blog and open a Facebook page. Having done that, I went back to sleep, this time lying on my back. But the mad men of the street were awake, and one was playing a guitar.



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