Nobody really knows who wrote the Great Book.

Oh, the religious always have answers to explain the unexplainable. Some of them like to say that the goddess Ani wrote the Great Book and made it so that ten men and women who loved stories would find copies of it at the same time. Some of them say a mere woman with ten children transcribed Ani's words over ten years. Others say some illiterate half-witted farmer wrote it in one night after Ani blessed him. Most believe that the Great Book's author was a mad yet holy, always always holy, prophet who'd taken refuge in a cave.

What I can tell you is that two hundred years after it all went wrong an old man named Sunuteel was out in the desert. This man was one of those who enjoyed being out there for weeks on end, close to the sun, sand, and desert creatures. The time away from his wife made their time together sweeter. Sunuteel and his wife agreed on his. They were old. They had wisdom.

"Go on," his wife said with a smile. She took his old rough hand into her equally rough old hand. She was a beautiful woman, and Sunuteel found it easy to look into her eyes. "It is good," she said. "I need the solitude."

There had been an especially powerful Ungwa storm and the old nomadic couple had barely survived the dry thundery night of lightning. A bolt had struck near their sturdy tent, setting on fire one of the three stunted palm trees they'd camped beside. His wife had been peeking out of the tent when it happened. Thankfully, she'd blinked at precisely the right moment. She said the tree looked like a woman dancing in flames. Even as Sunuteel dragged her to the center of the tent where they huddled and prayed, his wife felt a presence. She was sure it was a premonition.

The old man was used to his superstitious wife and her odd intuitions. Therefore, he knew his wife would want to be alone to think and ponder and fret. When the storm passed and she gently encouraged him to take a few days to go and see what was out there, he didn't argue. He took the rolled up goatskin tent and satchel of supplies she handed him and kissed her on the cheek. He didn't say goodbye because in his tribe "goodbyes" were a curse.

"I leave my chi to keep you company," he said. Each night he was away, along with her meals, she'd prepare a small plate of food for his personal god until Sunuteel returned. He clipped his portable to his hip, facing the tiny device inside his pocket. After one last, far more prolonged kiss, he walked away from his wife. Did she think an angel was coming to visit her? His wife's descendants were from the Islamic portion of Old Naija. She said that her father used to tell her all sorts of stories about angels and djinn. She'd passed these magical stories on to their own children as they grew up.

Minutes after leaving, Sunuteel brought out his portable and laughing to himself, called up the virtual screen and typed, "Hussaina, greet her for me when you see her, whether she's an angel or djinni." Moments later, his wife Hussaina's reply popped up on the screen saying what she always said when Sunuteel went off, "And you make sure you bring me back a good story."