Samuel Lee - a Kamala short story
4TH LEVEL OF THE ASTRAL REALM SPY'S DANCE CLUB WASHINGTON, D.C. NOVEMBER 2017
Jake Song and I had descended in our finer bodies into a group of disembodied souls hanging out in the astral of Spy’s Dance Club, a well-known D.C. bar they had frequented while they’d been alive in the physical. We were searching for a lost one whose sharp tongue and emotional scars hid a decent heart within.
Samuel Lee was leaning on the bar near the waitress station, just as he used to do while in embodiment. A foul, blackish entity began drifting out of him like smoke curling out of a chimney on a gray, windless day. Sensing our attention, it darted back within Samuel.
“Hello, brother,” Song said, telepathing the words.
Samuel turned toward us, his aura a mixed brew of fear and curiosity. “You ain’t my brother, brother,” he replied.
“How do you know I’m not your brother, Samuel of the light? We are all our brothers’ keepers, are we not?”
Samuel startled a bit, trying to recall where he had heard this proverb before, and the ‘of the light’ appellation too. Dulled by his time in the dense astral atmosphere, he simply couldn’t pinpoint the memory. He also wondered how this bright dude knew his name.
Bright dude indeed. Song’s aura shone like a cape lighthouse on a stormy night. I worked to stay close to him, to blend my light into his for the greater protection of us both.
Samuel had recently passed from the physical. He had joined a small-time neighborhood gang, out of a yearning for camaraderie more than anything else. When a few D.C.-based Bloods took offense to these upstarts, a spate of local gang-on-gang violence broke out that put Samuel right in its crosshairs. While waiting for a bus on Good Hope Road, he was killed in a drive-by shooting. His murderers were still at large.
Spy’s physical and astral realms bled into each other, making it almost impossible to tell the difference between the two. Tonight, the bar was packed with a trampy mix of self-anointed players, many toasted on alcohol or getting there, with a majority also high on other substances. The hip-hop pulsing from the club’s JBLs was so loud that patrons had to shout at each other to be heard. The pungent smell of weed and the dance floor strobes added to the carnal vibe of the place.
Spy’s’ parallel astral underworld hosted a clientele of discarnate souls and soulless ones that could have passed for first cousins of the paying crowd. Among these tenants of the shadow world, awareness beyond base desires was almost nonexistent. Long-held loathings festered as open sores on the features of some. Others had the degenerate look common to addicts. The club also was overrun by all manner of entities, leaching light from souls’ auras like lampreys on lake trout.
“Yo, homeboy, you be in the wrong neighborhood. Who the hell let you in here?” The angry thought-form pierced through our group and rattled Samuel. “Y’all get your shiny ass, sorry ass selves off my strip now! These be my homies. Y’all ain’t takin’ ‘em!”
The blast of wrath was no surprise. After all, we were intruders in these parts. The energy was coming from the owner of the club, or more specifically his astral ka. Cedric Spy was a pretty boy on the outer, but stone cold within. Cedric’s dweller was in full bloom, apoplectic that we had violated his home turf. I had to restrain myself from laughing. Cedric’s tongue twisting diatribe was comical, even if the energy behind it was pure hatred. Darkness has no power but the power one feeds it.
Cedric continued throwing curses at us, which I won’t repeat. Other disembodied souls half-walked, half-floated over to kibitz around the unfolding drama. A couple of female forms meandered closer to Song.
“Hey baby, don’t listen to ol’ windbag Ced,” one of them said. “You can stay here. Come with me and I will take care of you real good.”
The lust for the light is the same everywhere, I mused, all the while making quiet calls to the seraphim for Samuel’s protection. Song stayed focused on Samuel, as if Cedric and his growing entourage didn’t exist.
“You don’t belong here, Samuel,” he said. “We’ve come to take you home.” His tone was commanding.
PORTUGUESE SLAVER’S SHIP PORT OF LUANDA, ANGOLA AKASHIC RECORD JULY 1619
Time ceased. I was gone from Samuel and Jake and watching a scene across the screen of my mind. A tall ship flying the Portuguese flag was loading a human cargo of what could only be captured Africans bound for a slave mart in the New World.
I was witnessing an event that had to have happened more than 300 years ago.
Chaos reigned: shouting, wailing, people beaten and bleeding, pushed and herded, roped to each other by the neck, hands bound. West African Imbangala soldiers worked side by side with the Portuguese slavers to load what must have been four hundred terrorized men, women and children aboard the ship, its destination Brazil.
Though trussed like a goat being taken to slaughter, a tall, strapping boy of perhaps sixteen was fighting his handlers. Drenched in sweat and bleeding from raw welts on his back, he was struggling with every ounce of his being to break his bonds. He turned toward me, his eyes burning with rage and underneath the rage, fear. My heart chilled.
Not only could I see both the terror and the defiant anger etched on this one’s face, I also was experiencing his runaway emotions and his wild heart beating, as if I were inhabiting his body, as if I were him. Immediately, I knew. This tortured soul had been Samuel. And I knew right then that he had borne the traumas of that life as scars upon his soul to the present day.
4TH LEVEL OF THE ASTRAL REALM SPY'S DANCE CLUB WASHINGTON, D.C. NOVEMBER 2017
In a blink, I was back beside Song in Spy’s, with Samuel standing in front of us. Through my entire being, waves of compassion not of my origin flowed out toward Samuel, washing over him. The saints were using my finer body as a step-down transformer to radiate their light to Samuel, so that its healing properties were of a frequency that his burdened soul could bear.
I could see Samuel was torn, but a glimmer of recognition had taken root within him. Part of him was still attached to the familiar darkness, but his soul was leaning toward the light. He was remembering, ever so faintly, who he really was. I intensified my calls. Immediately, light exploded into Spy’s. Impossibly tall angels, their eyes like blue diamonds on fire, materialized and surrounded Samuel. Entities disgorged from Spy's clientele as if they were fleeing burning buildings. A demon emerged from Samuel and was vaporized by the light. Samuel reeled then seemed to regain his footing.
“I want to go home," he thought-formed ever so faintly.
An expression of relief washed over Jake's face.
"Angels will take you," he managed to reply before Samuel began to rise before our eyes and disappeared into sunlit clouds of glory, heading home.