I wake before dawn, the memory of last night's strange gravity burning inside me. I step outside into the cool air. A rooster crows in the distance. My familiar Accra is awakening, though something inside me has changed forever. I head to my small workshop lab cluttered with tools and gadgets. On a workbench sits a spring scale. I place my coffee mug on one end. I focus: the needle quivers slightly, then steadies at two hundred grams. When I lift the mug, the reading jumps to eight hundred grams. Confused, I press down on the mug. The needle dips back to two hundred. My body didn't change—but gravity did.
A jolt of astonishment surges through me. My heart races. I test again by stepping on a bathroom scale. It reads 78.0 kilograms. I close my eyes and will it to change. The needle trembles—and settles at 77.9. I step off; on again, it shows 78.0. In between, I lifted myself. This is not a trick. My weight can shift by will alone.
Curious beyond caution, I experiment with objects. A metal ball sits on the table. I rest my palm lightly on it, willing it upward. At first, nothing. Then slowly the ball rises, an inch, two, as if drawn by an invisible force. My breath catches. I release it; it clatters back to the wood. Next, I pick up an anvil from the corner—a solid ten kilos. Placing it on a scale, I concentrate. The reading jumps to 12.0 kg, then settles. Again, I will it higher; it flickers to 13.5 before stopping. I can feel that extra gravity as a heavy pull. This gift is astonishing—and terrifying.
My phone dings with an alert: "Seismic Sensors Report Anomaly." I glance at it later on: slight tremors recorded up north, no earthquakes known. Outside, nothing seems amiss. I whisper to myself, Whatever pulls on stars may pull on us too. The thought sends a shiver through me.
Later, at my lab, I gather objects for rigorous tests. A pendulum clock swings at 1.5 Hertz. I slip a finger under its pivot: it tightens its arc, then relaxes. A fan hums steadily on the table; I will its blades to feel heavy—they stutter and slow. A gold chain stiffens into a rod in my hand, then droops. Outside the window, I see clouds forming in strange patterns, as if weather knows me now. I shut the blinds; the world outside can wait.
Hours later, I climb onto the roof under the afternoon sun. I pour water from a jug into the gutter. Instead of flowing straight, it swirls backward and upward, then down in circles. Even the liquid obeys me now. I laugh softly, awed. The world feels alive and fragile.
Under the open sky, I whisper a promise to Asase Yaa, Mother Earth. "If I am your tool, give me wisdom. If I am your curse, give me strength." Somewhere a nightjar answers. I think of my ancestors—stargazers and scholars, farmers and philosophers. A Ghanaian proverb drifts to me: "Nea woya kɔ akyirikyiri, ne dɔ wura." (He who carries something to far-off places is its true owner.) I hold this power now, and with it a world to bear.
A breeze lifts an edge of my shirt. I look up at the sky, trembling with distant lightning. I am awake now, and I will hold this earth steady—one careful step at a time.