A story about a time when Eli meets Papa Legba at the crossroads. With thanks to Samuel and his Old Testament book.
It's late night in Houston. The hot, humid air seems heavy enough to drink. It's the kind of Gulf dampness that settles into old houses in Magnolia Park, old bones and old memories if they can still be found.
Somewhere beyond the freeway, the disturbing sound of a siren rises and falls. A train horn low and mournful, accompanied by the deep throbbing of his diesel heart coming from the east side.
The weak light bulb in the lamp beside Eli began to flicker, giving a warning that life was nearly done. Its glow wasn’t much more than a dirty yellow stain against the darkness.
His eyes had grown dim years ago. Though most folks around him never noticed it. When you are in charge, you can imitate vision for a long time.
Across the road stood an old, dark man in dusty clothes and smartly wearing a big straw hat, smoking a pipe and holding a crooked walking stick with one hand. A mug of steaming hot coffee in his other hand. Even without seeing Eli, knew this was his guide and it was time.
Papa Legba, protector, keeper of the Crossroads where all must travel. A wise old man, with the knowledge that only comes from beyond the soul, patient as though all eternity was his deadline, leaning lightly on that walking stick beneath a tilting utility pole plastered with old band flyers, revival notices, and a faded sticker for Houston-IForgotSomething.com .
“You have come a long way from your temple,” the old spirit said gently.
Eli straightened up and felt the tremor in his knees. “This ain’t the Lord’s house.”
Legba chuckled and tapped his cane once on the damp sidewalk. “Every house has a door. Every door has a lock. I just keep the keys.”
Papa Legba looked down the road, then back toward the old man.
“You still waiting for something to come through that door?” he asked.
Eli gave a dry laugh.
“Ain’t that the arrangement?"
“You wait long enough, pray hard enough, and eventually the light arrives.”
The sound of early morning traffic began to hum from somewhere beyond the trees. It was steady and rhythmic like the eternal waves flowing down on Galveston Island.
Papa Legba smiled a little.
“Old priest… maybe the problem is you keep looking past yourself.”
Those words just sat there for a while between them.
Eli rubbed his eyes, more out of habit than hope now.
“Sammy heard the voice,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Maybe the boy wasn’t listening with his ears.”
The night insects buzzed loudly in the ditches after a recent rain. Clouds moved slowly under the dark sky and over the city glow.
Eli thought about all the years spent guarding doors, temple doors that only swung one way, the sacred words recited just the right way, in the correct order, rules, appearances, ceremonies, and slow steps at just the right cadence.
All the while believing God lived somewhere else, somewhere outside above himself, beyond the gate, beyond the darkness.
Papa Legba tapped his cane once again against the pavement.
“What if the light never had to travel?” he asked.
Eli didn't say anything for a long while, just sitting there confused. Was it all wrong? Eli said nothing.
Then he closed his clouded eyes. It wasn't to sleep, not even to pray. Just to stop looking, to stop from looking outward for once. And there beneath noise, beneath memory, beneath regret and duty and age.
Something remained, a small steady light.
Soft as the glow from a Ship Channel refinery seen through that sweltering midnight haze.
Not blazing, not demanding, it was just there.
Waiting patiently just beneath everything he had mistaken for faith.
The freeway hummed, and a dog barked twice.
Somewhere nearby, an old window unit air conditioner rattled like loose change in a coffee can.
Eli smiled faintly into the dark. For the first time in years, he stopped looking down the road for God to arrive. Somewhere deep inside himself, he finally heard the voice clearly. Right where it always had been.
©J. Michael Boland May 4, 2026
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