The seventh Angel blew his trumpet.
It started with peals of thunder that made Abiama quiver. Owuwe, the harvesting of souls had come. The gods had struck.
And it began to rain. But the rains weren’t droplets of water. They were tiny balls of fire and they covered Abiama.
And Abiama went quiet..
A figure came from the fires: a man. Sauntering out: Confused. Unhurt.
From the clouds, illuminated beings descended.
The man from the fires came forth, terrified.
“What’s happening? Who are you?”, he asked, trembling.
“I am Amadioha.” One of the beings replied. “Hello, Brother,” He added, smiling.
1849
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