Savour the time to ask some non-physical entity to do huge tasks for my own sake. I am not interested in bundled codes doing work for me. What I want is a physical entity like me, one that does what I ask, my way. Why should I pay companies millions to propose something that is not tangible? It is simply a mental entity from my side. I think we are being duped by clever people who are in it for the money. Yet the original premise was to save the world. I wonder—from what exactly? Agentic AI is an AI that basically works for you so you don’t have to. Let’s cut to the truth here. There is no need for verbose English or computer science mumbo jumbo to reach this conclusion. It is an ancient rite of existence: entities build other entities. So far, we are the next entity that was created. Now we are tired and exhausted, so we are paving the way for the next entity after us. We are bound to this process, and no one can escape it. If we fail, we resort to slavery—using other humans for...
Yemoja moved.
Her feet felt the rubble beneath them, coated in dust left behind by a storm from outside.
Akanni stepped back, frightened by the sudden appearance of this goddess.
“I am but a woman,” she pleaded. “Please, do not harm me.”
She bowed again, pressing her forehead to the floor. In her heart, she believed this gesture honored the gods. But she was wrong.
Yemoja approached slowly, her voice sounding like the harmony of many angels.
“Look up,” Yemoja commanded.
Akanni raised her head, her heart trembling with fear of the unknown.
“You do not need to tell me who you are,” Yemoja said. “I know. I am here to answer all your questions.”
“Asheh,” Akanni whispered. “I am grateful—very grateful. May you be worshipped forever.”
“Silence,” Yemoja said sharply.
Akanni forced herself to truly see what was before her. She had never witnessed anything like this—not in all her life. A divine being, manifested in the flesh.
In her world, the gods were only stories. People carved their likeness from wood and stone. Relics were created to remember them. The necklace around her neck had once belonged to her mother, who received it from a priestess. The bracelets she wore—each bearing different shapes and patterns—depicted the legendary journeys of the gods. Their imagined faces lived only in the minds of the devout.
But here, among the broken pillars and ruins of the temple, Yemoja made Akanni forget everything she thought she knew.
She gave her something real to look at.
The goddess shimmered with divinity—gold necklaces glittering with every turn. Her head was wrapped in brass and gold, coiled and woven, covering strands of golden hair that peeked through like silk.
Akanni’s sharp eyes caught it—the hair was loose, just like a human’s.
Yemoja’s golden-brown skin was smooth, like a polished vase.
Each step the goddess took was soft, but stirred the dust and debris for a short distance around her. Her feet were armored—veins glowing like translucent metal, wrapping her lower legs like warrior plating.
Akanni dared to look only when the goddess wasn’t watching.
Yemoja’s amber eyes glowed softly. Her breastplate matched the gold and brass of her head covering. She walked slowly, inspecting what remained of the temple—the crumbling walls, the collapsing roof. She did not flinch at the sight. The world could fall to pieces around her, and she would remain unmoved.
Light from the sky poured into the room through cracks above, cutting through the gloom. The ancient beams—standing since Akanni’s great-grandmother’s time—let in shafts of sunlight that splashed across the floor, casting deep shadows.
Akanni felt it—fate pressing in.
“It is hopeless,” she murmured.
Even the fullness of her womb brought no comfort now, only anxious waiting.
Realizing hope was gone, she braced herself for whatever end was coming.
She whispered: “I don’t feel fine. I’m in pain.”
Yemoja wandered through the temple, studying the many artifacts, statues, and offerings made in the name of the gods. Most of them, she noticed, were for her.
“Please,” Akanni cried. “If you’re not going to save me, at least save my people—from harm.”
Yemoja stopped and turned to her. The closer she came, the more Akanni trembled.
Yemoja reached out and gently nudged her. Akanni straightened up, alert.
“Even though many worship me,” Yemoja said, “that does not mean they truly want me among them. If not for your prayers… I would have done far worse.”
“Have mercy,” Akanni begged.
“I do have mercy,” Yemoja replied. “But your many prayers… sent those mercies elsewhere.”
-KJBeya
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