This piece below is Authored by @khojo , edited and posted by @mcsamm for @wafrica.

1. She was falling again. She had done it before. She had fallen severally. But tonight was different. She descended the ladder in a frenzy, her heart pounding in her chest. The grotto was heavy with a fetid and an asphyxiating smell of death. Her fingers trembled as she held onto the ladder. She could feel her legs almost kneading in. She stopped, steeled herself for a moment and continued her descent. After descending the almost immeasurable ladder as though she were seeking the abrupt end of an infinite hallway, she saw it. Suddenly, like a bucket of fire sprinting to life out of a pitch-black darkness, she saw it. It was unmistakable. To her far right, there was a large body of fire which seemed to burn as though it had the blessing of eternity. There were naked bodies in the pool of fire, burning, writhing in excruciating pain. There was a sharp flickering sound as a tinge of fire rose into the air as though it’d been pumped out. It shattered into a million infinitesimal pieces. It was as if someone had breathed more life into the fire. People kept screaming in pain as the fire consumed them. In front of her, emblazoned on the floor in a thick red was the inscription, “HELL.”
   Her heart gave a long-awaited leap. Then she bolted awake, spewing pangs of fear-ridden breath into the solemn night.

2. She had just returned from church service. She still wore her white somewhat oversized blouse and the black skirt she had gone to church with. She slumped into a sofa and heaved a huge sigh of frustration. Today’s service had left her particularly and uneasily stoned. She couldn’t quite tell what it was that was eating at her. In fact it had started eating at her when the pastor, a plump, steel-faced bearded old man, had started the service with a prayer about delivering God’s people from hell. She had clasped her hands and closed her eyes perfunctorily when the pastor started…
   Thirty minutes later she was drenched in perspiration despite the vast array of fans that wheezed overhead, expelling the minutest tray of heat which assaulted the church.
   Now as she remained seated in her room, she wondered if everything the pastor had said was true. And if so, would she go to hell? The only answer she could think of, seemed to drive a flaming knife through her heart.

1. She had taken the same route she took to work everyday. But ever since the church service which had left her questioning and doubting her chances of making it to heaven—a heavenly or an earthly abode God has created for those who remained steadfast in Him—she had had the most unusual experiences. She had had dreams that she had never had before. She had developed a sickening feeling of fear toward some of her old habits. It was like she was on a forced path to self-rejuvenation. Who had inspired such a drastic change? She could think of no one more fitting an answer than her pastor, Bishop Duncan Bosuo.
   Now as she strode briskly to work, she was struck with an overbearing uneasiness. The air around her was suddenly rife with a foreboding so strong it left her turning back to make sure no one was following her. No one. She turned and started toward her workplace again. Her workplace was about 25-walking-minutes away. I am going to die on this road. She quickened her pace now. Her breathing grew louder and heavier with every step she took. Her heart had started the now usual routine of palpitating in a frenzy. Then suddenly as if struck by some invincible force of nature, she stopped. There, on the road, were monsters, creatures with mixed semblance of humans and animals—villainous eyes and talons. They were approaching her, their teeth, brimmed with trays of blood which seemed to drip from the pores in their teeth. They have been eating people alive. She felt her heart sink. Her hands trembled now. The fear seemed to seep into her veins, through every pore in her body and finally into her legs. She turned around, and headed home…the monsters of death are after me.
   Then as if thrust out of a space-time continuum, an ear-shattering honking snapped her out of the unwelcome reverie. She steeled herself again. Gave out a low breath and sighed relieving. There are no monsters. It is just my subconscious.
   Then she strode majestically to work.

1. She had spent the last two days surfing the Bible and the internet for quotations and articles about Hell. While there appeared to be a general consensus as to the opinion that Hell is some grotto for those who couldn’t stay steadfast in the Truth, there were a handful of articles that argued that the whole concept of Hell was a fabrication conjured by the church, to instill an inspiring fear in its people so that they did not abandon the church. She found herself wishing the latter were true. She had also phoned the Bishop and sought his wise counsel about what she was going through. The Bishop had entreated her to pray before bed and believe in God to give her answers. She wished the answer could come as quickly as she wanted it. But God works at His appointed time. When would that be?

She was in a classroom. She was a student. She looked about twenty years. She wore a beautiful black gown which skirted her knee and accentuated her voluptuous body. She was in the University. This morning’s course was one she hated attending but for some eerie reason she was in class that day when she could have gone out to shop with her friends. The stout man who walked into the class was one of the many reasons why she’d boycotted the course since the start of the semester. Why was she in class today? She had no idea. It was a Literature class. They had appreciated a lot of poems already—all of them by foreign poets like John Donne, W.B Yeats, William Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson. None of them was Ghanaian or African. And then, as if sensing their distaste with his concentration on poems written by well-renowned foreign writers, the lecture mentioned a Ghanaian poet whose poem would be used to close the day. He was Kwakuvi Azasu. When the lecture wrote the name on the whiteboard, one of the students at the back, rose up and said in a voice which bore the triumph of a student who read widely:
There is no heaven or hell
Except that which is in the heart.

She bolted awake. This time her breathing didn’t sift forcefully as though she were about to take a leap over the abrupt end of a mountain. Eerily the dream had restored a flawless calmness into her heart. She sat on the bed and tried to process the dream she had just had. She realized it had been five years since she’d graduated from the university. The poem left her awash with a new realization, one that she hoped was the right answer to the question which had been nagging at her and an eternal antidote to the nightmares that had assaulted her.

There is no heaven or hell
Except that which is in the heart.

“God are you speaking to me through this poem?” she asked aloud as though she were communing with God.
She then lay on the bed again…minutes later, she was sleeping peacefully. Deep down, before she lay back in bed, she hoped, what she held in her heart was not further from the truth.

IMAGES TAKEN FROM PIXABAY
This is @khojo from teamghana

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