Excerpt from the Novel, Times of the Supermen

Pg. 209
When he heard a teeny noise in the quiet place his weak heart came alive. His sight was blurred as it had been fixed on the evening sun for ten minutes. He looked to the direction of the noise and allowed his sight to normalize. He did not only look, he smiled, for the first happy sight in six weeks had finally come to him. A pigeon was born and that alone made him smile. He had lived alone for too long that a little thing from nature gladdened his heart. He stared with inexplicable interest, as the little pigeon broke loose from its shell. He had become drawn to such things and he had grown to be fascinated by everything in its beginning. His life as a celebrity had ended the day he was told that the growth on his throat was
malignant. Since then, he had come back to his old opinions, when he was still pursuing his doctorate in Oxford as a temperate young man.
He was an exceptional psychiatrist; the best among his peers. He traveled two hours every other day in the nineteen-forties to a little place near London to treat a wealthy man who was sick with mild psychoses. There, many great people came around visiting his patient. The old aristocrats who came loved him and some loved him too much that they opened up to him on everything under the sun. He was a humble, slavish genius and there was no need hiding anything from him. It was in fact pleasurable to bare their dirty linens to his young face.
Fifty years after a fabulous career he had returned to his hometown, Iluimo where he continued to wrestle with journalists and young doctors in need of inspiration. His wife who was also a psychiatrist was hardly around. She needed to represent him wherever he was invited to speak because he was sick and old. None of his children or grandchildren ever returned to Nigeria. Once again, he was alone most of the times, like he used to when he wandered in the mansion of the wealthy British, snubbing ladies from different continents who wink at him.
Though he responded well to treatment, he had become too pessimistic about his survival. He was ninety-two years old after all. The day he was told that his chemotherapy was successful, he went out alone to the hilly side of his village to have a feel once more of what it was like to be strong and healthy.