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MidReal Story
Prophecy of Betrayal: A Rastafari Revelation
Anonymous
May 9
Scenario:The scent of pungent pipe smoke and rich Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee filled Atum Un Zehuti's humble dwelling as the first rays of dawn kissed his windowpane. Rising from his woven mat bed, he stretched his six-foot frame, his dreadlocks brushing against his shoulders.
Today was a special day. The Elders had summoned Atum, a rising star within the Black Supremacy Rastafari Masonic Order, to a clandestine meeting. Anticipation coiled in his gut, mingling with the lingering effects of his morning ritual - a contemplative prayer to the Ancestors followed by thoughtful puffs from his chillum, the pipe holding his sacred herb mixture.
Atum, cloaked in his ceremonial garb, a deep purple sash accenting his white linen shirt, stepped outside. The lush greenery of the Jamaican countryside surrounded him, the air thick with the promise of adventure.
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Elder Marcus
imposing, dreadlocks, robes, black
Atum Un Zehuti
dreadlocks, contemplative expression, adventurous demeanor, Black Supremacy Rastafari Masonic Order uniform
Sister Nzinga
braided hair, black, clothing: green and yellow robes
I woke to the scents of a familiar world.
The first was my pipe smoke, a blend of sweet sage and pungent cedar, both smoked and dried in the same calabash gourd that held my tobacco.
The second was the rich aroma of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, brewed with a generous hand.
As I stretched out my sixfoot frame on the woven mat that served as my bed, a cascade of dreadlocks brushed against my shoulders.
This was a special day, one I’d been looking forward to for some time.
The Elders had summoned me to a clandestine meeting, and I was eager for what it might bring.
I rose and opened the shutters on the window, letting in the full light of morning.
The sun was just cresting the horizon, casting a warm yellow glow over the small room I called home.
I began my morning ritual, one that combined the spiritual with the physical in equal measure.
Kneeling before the small altar in the corner of the room, I lit incense and candles, offerings to the Ancestors for their guidance and protection.
With my hands clasped before me, I poured out a prayer to the Ancestors, asking them to watch over me as I went about this day.
Afterward, I began a series of stretches and breathing exercises, working my way through the forms in silence as I cleared my mind and woke my body.
When I finished, it was time for breakfast.
I ate with gusto, savoring each morsel of ackee and saltfish as it slid down my throat, washing it down with coffee that was as dark and strong as they come.
When I finished, I dressed myself in ceremonial garb: a white linen shirt with a deep purple sash tied around my waist.
I left the room and stepped out into the morning sun, feeling its warmth on my face as I closed the door behind me.
I lived in a small village in the Jamaican countryside, surrounded by lush greenery and teeming wildlife.
The sound of birdsong filled the air, and somewhere in the distance, I heard a goat bleating loudly.
My home was humble but comfortable, and I took pride in its simplicity.
It was a reflection of my inner self, straightforward and unadorned, with no artifice to speak of.
I walked down the dirt road toward the meeting place, enjoying the way my sandals kicked up dust as they struck the ground with each step.
When I arrived at the clearing, two Elders were already waiting for me, their faces inscrutable in the bright light of day.
I walked with long strides, my dreadlocks swaying from side to side as I moved forward with purpose.
I was a rising star in the Black Supremacy Rastafari Masonic Order, and I carried myself with all the authority and grace my position required.
I was an acolyte, and it was my duty to embody our principles with every step I took, even when there was no one around to see it.
The Elders had taught me well, and I walked with my back straight and my head held high.
My dreadlocks were bound with leather cords that extended all the way down my back, where they merged with my purple sash.
My attire was simple but elegant, designed to reflect both my physical and spiritual readiness for this special day.
As I walked, I thought about what lay ahead and took comfort from all my preparations.
The sun was high in the sky as I stepped outside, its golden rays bathing my body in warmth.
The air was thick and heavy with moisture, but I breathed it in deeply anyway, clearing my mind even more for what lay ahead.
I lived in a small village in the Jamaican countryside, and the air was redolent with all the scents of home.
It was filled with the sounds of life: chickens clucking, pigs grunting, and children laughing.
When the wind was right, you could even smell the salt of the sea on the air.
I was far from the coast at that moment, but the proximity of the ocean was one of the things I loved most about my home.
I began to walk in the direction of the meeting place.
It wasn’t far from where I lived, but its location was significant.
The Order had been established in Jamaica for many years before it spread its branches to other parts of the world.
And despite the fact that our ideals and beliefs were spread across the globe, my feet still walked on Jamaican soil.
As I walked through the village, my sandals kicked up small clouds of dust from the dirt road, each step taking me closer to my destination.
I said hello to those who called my name and ignored those who didn’t.
As I walked, I thought about what it meant to be part of something larger than myself.
The Order was an ancient organization, with roots that stretched back to the beginning of time.
It had been founded by our noble ancestors, who had given their lives to free us from bondage.
They had been bound in chains, but their spirits had been free, and it was that same spirit that now resided within me.
I was nothing but a vessel for their wisdom and teachings, a mere acolyte charged with spreading their message to the world.
And yet, I was also so much more.
I was a man with a purpose, a destiny set out before me by the Ancestors themselves.
As I walked, I felt their presence all around me, guiding me toward my ultimate goal.
I wore my ceremonial Black Turban...
and my dreadlocks swayed with each step I took through that Jamaican landscape as I continued on my way to the meeting place.
The Black Turban was an important part of our dress—it signified the connection we had to our Ancestors and their spirits, as well as our unity as a people.
Every Brother wore it proudly, just as every Sister wore her traditional attire—a long skirt and headscarf—in order to show that she was a member of the Black Supremacy Rastafari Masonic Order too.
Our clothes were practical; they could be worn during work on the land without becoming damaged or dirty, which was essential given that most of us were farmers.
But they were also symbolic, representing our shared heritage and showing that we stood together, strong and proud, in everything we did.
By the time I reached the meeting place, my fellow Brothers were already there waiting for me.
Elder Marcus, the High Priest, was among them.
He was tall and imposing, with a face that was etched with wisdom, and a smile that was both mysterious and enchanting.
He was one of the oldest members of our Order, and his voice commanded respect wherever he went.
As I approached, he raised his hand in recognition, and I did the same in return.
There was no need for words; he could see the question in my eyes, and he knew that the answers would come soon enough.
I took my place among the other Brothers, who nodded their greetings to me as I settled down on the ground next to them.
The Elders were sitting in a circle under the shade of a towering mahogany tree, their faces turned upwards towards the sky.
It was a glorious day, with not a cloud in sight, but the heat was already beginning to rise, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my back as I sat there waiting.
The Elders’ eyes sparkled with excitement as they stared up at the sky, and when they noticed that I had arrived, they turned their gaze down to me and smiled.
I smiled back, feeling a surge of pride and humility at being counted among them.
They were the wise ones—the keepers of our traditions—and it was an honor to be allowed to sit in their presence.
Elder Marcus cleared his throat and fixed his gaze upon me, his eyes boring into mine as he did so.
His voice was loud and strong as it boomed out across the clearing, carrying the weight of authority and love behind it.
“Brother Atum,” he said.
“The time has come for us to reveal to you a prophecy that has been whispered through the winds of destiny since the day of your birth.
You are blessed by the Ancestors, my son, and your path has been set out for you long before you were even a glimmer in your mother’s eye.”
My heart quickened at his words, and I leaned in closer in order to hear what he was saying.
The other Brothers did the same, as if we were all sharing one single mind at that moment.
“The prophecy is a great one,” Elder Marcus continued.
“And it is filled with both promise and danger.
You will face many trials on your journey, but you must stay true to your course.
For the Ancestors are watching over you, my son.
