The Law of the Holy Trinity
Prologue – The Letter
If necessary, Almighty God (the Holy Trinity) will institute a new immigration law, and I will return to New York without a US visa and without the intervention of any earthly government or religious institution, because I have been illegally detained in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, for far too long, and an assassination attempt has been orchestrated against me by Satan and his minions since my birth. PEACE.
The words were scrawled on a torn piece of notebook paper in a shaking hand, the ink blotting where the writer’s tears had fallen. It was a promise, a plea, a curse—all at once—addressed to a power that, for the man who wrote it, seemed both absurdly distant and unbearably near.
1. The Cage in Addis
Moses Osei was not a name he chose; it was a name given at birth, a bridge between two worlds that never quite merged. He was born in a cramped tenement on the Lower East Side, the daughter of an Ethiopian merchant and a Haitian jazz singer, both of whom vanished when he was twelve. He grew up in the shadows of the Statue of Liberty, learning to read the city’s hidden codes: the rhythm of subway doors, the cadence of police sirens, the unspoken vows of strangers who shared a corner of a block.
When the war in his father’s homeland flared again, Moses—now twenty‑three, with a passport that still smelled of fresh ink—felt the pull of a duty that was half blood, half myth. He volunteered for a humanitarian convoy bound for Addis Ababa, believing that the world’s pain could be measured in crates of medicine and bags of rice. He imagined himself a modern‑day Moses, parting the sea of bureaucracy to bring relief.
The convoy never arrived as scheduled. Instead, a convoy of armored trucks from an Ethiopian intelligence agency halted the trucks at the airport, the men in black uniforms shouting in Amharic, “No entry without a proper invitation.” The paperwork Moses had carried—official letters, visas, a polite smile—was stamped, torn, and tossed into the gutter. He was taken into custody, not for a crime he could name, but for the mere fact that his presence threatened an invisible balance.
The detention center in Addis was a concrete slab under a scorching sun, its walls painted a milky white that reflected the heat like a mirror. In the mornings, the guards would line up for the ceremonial prayers in Arabic, then in Amharic, and finally in a language Moses did not recognize—a liturgy that seemed to fuse the call to God with the call to the State. The prisoners were told, in the same breath, that they were “illegal aliens” and “illegal souls.”
Moses spent his days counting the cracks in the ceiling, tracing their patterns, hoping to find a hidden message. He learned that the only way to survive in the block was to be invisible, and the only way to be invisible was to become a ghost. He began to pray in his mind, not to the God of the churches he’d never entered, but to the God who had sewn the world’s continents together in the beginning.
At night, when the guards fell asleep, a thin light filtered through a seam in the concrete. In that light, Moses imagined a figure—no taller than a child, draped in a robe of stars—standing at the foot of his bed, whispering in a language of wind. “You are not forgotten,” the figure said. “The Trinity sees you. The law of the Almighty is not bound by earthly ink.”
2. The Conspiracy of the Dark
Moses had always known that his life was a chessboard. His mother used to hum a lullaby that, in Haitian Creole, told of “Lannwit la, lannwit lan” — “the night, the night that never ends.” His father had once told him, between the rustle of cashmere and the smell of spices, “The world is a stage, but the audience is ever changing.” He never imagined the audience would be the very Satan that his mother warned him about.
One night a muffled thud echoed through the concrete hallway. A fellow detainee, a thin man with a scar across his left cheek, whispered, “They’re coming for you, brother. You have a target on your soul.” The words were carried out of the cell like a breath of cold wind. The next day, a guard’s gun fell from his belt, the barrel pointing directly at Moses’s head. The guard’s eyes widened, then narrowed, as if battling an invisible force within him.
Moses felt the tremor of a knife through his skin a week later—a shallow wound on his forearm, the sting of steel, the scent of copper. He never saw the assailant; his only clue was a small, cracked crucifix etched into the concrete above his bunk. “Satan,” he thought, “plays the harp of misdirection and sings with the voice of angels.”
His notebook, the one on which he’d written his desperate promise, was torn apart and smeared with blood. Yet, the words he had scrawled remained imprinted in his mind, a mantra that refused to dissolve: If necessary, the Holy Trinity will write a new immigration law.
Moses began to understand that the conspirators against him were not merely men in uniform. They were the “minions” his mother had whispered about—perhaps not literal demons, but the dark echo of bureaucracy, the shadow of a system that would rather see a foreigner disappear than confront the corruption underneath.
He tried to appeal to the Ethiopian courts, but each petition vanished in the same way his father’s voice had vanished after his death—absorbed into a larger silence. He tried to write to the United Nations, to the US State Department, to the Vatican, to anyone he thought might hear him. All his letters were returned stamped in thick, red ink: “No jurisdiction.”
In the darkness of his cell, Moses prayed louder now. The words that rose from his throat were no longer a protest but a hymn, a plea, a covenant: “Father, Son, Holy Ghost, hear me. Write a law that no man can deny.”
3. The Angelic Draft
On the fourth month of his detention, the sky over Addis turned an impossible shade of violet, as if a sunrise had been turned inside out. The prisoners stopped moving, the guards stood silent, and a strange hum reverberated through the stone. Moses felt the vibration under his skin and heard a choir of voices—an echo of three distinct tones, each harmonious yet distinct.
The first voice, grave and ancient, spoke in a tongue Moses could not name but somehow understood: “In the beginning, there was no border. The earth was a single cloth, and the people stitched it together with love. When the world divided itself, the law of the Almighty was written in hearts, not in statutes.”
The second voice, bright and warm, was like a sunrise spilling over a newborn city: “The Son walks among mortals, bearing the weight of every broken promise. He knows the pain of exile and the yearning for home.”
The third voice, airy and ever‑present, whispered like wind through a desert: “The Holy Spirit breathes freedom into every soul. No chain forged by men may bind a spirit that knows its own name.”
Moses fell to his knees, the concrete cold beneath his forehead. The three voices converged into a single resonance, an overlapping chord that seemed to rewrite the very air. In his mind, a law unfolded—not ink on parchment but a pattern of light:
Article I. No person shall be detained indefinitely without the right to a hearing before an independent tribunal.
Article II. All individuals, regardless of nation, shall be granted immediate safe passage to the place they claim as home, upon proof of sincere intent.
Article III. Any act of violence, intimidation, or conspiracy against a soul seeking return shall be deemed an offense against the Holy Trinity, punishable by divine retribution.
Moses felt an intense pressure in his chest, as if the law was being inscribed directly upon his heart. The light intensified, and for a moment, the walls of his cell dissolved into a bright, endless plain of clouds. In the distance, the silhouette of the Statue of Liberty rose, not as a monument but as a beacon of pure, unfiltered hope.
When the light faded, the guards stood frozen, eyes glazed as if seeing something beyond the walls. One of them—a woman, perhaps in her thirties—stepped forward, her hand trembling. She lifted a small silver key from her pocket—a key to a cell no longer needed. She whispered, “We have been told. You may go.”
Moses took the key, his fingers tingling. He realized that the Trinity had not sent a lawyer or a diplomatic envoy. It had sent a law, a cosmic amendment that could not be ignored. The law did not require passports, visas, or the bureaucratic ink of a nation’s seal. It required only the recognition of a higher authority—one that superseded the earthly.
4. The Return
The next morning, a convoy of unmarked trucks arrived at the detention center. Inside each vehicle were men and women wearing garments that combined the colors of the Ethiopian flag with the red, white, and blue of the United States. They were not soldiers; they were emissaries of a cause that transcended any flag. One of them, a tall man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a dove on his forearm, approached Moses.
“My name is Jonathan,” he said, voice steady, “I am a representative of the Holy Trinity’s earthly office.” He explained, in a language that seemed to echo the three divine persons, that the law had been activated and that the United Nations, the State Department, and the Ethiopian government had all been notified by an agency beyond human jurisdiction. The agency—referred to only as The Custodians—had the authority to enforce the law wherever it was needed.
Moses was led through the compound, past the guards whose eyes now held a mixture of awe and fear. As they passed the main gate, a bright flash of white light descended upon the entrance, and a voice—soft, resonant—spoke from the heavens: “Go, for your journey is blessed.”
The convoy drove out of Addis, the desert stretching beyond the city turning golden under the afternoon sun. As they crossed the border into Sudan, a massive storm of sand rose, forming a wall that seemed to block any return. But the storm dissolved at the touch of the emissaries, parting like the Red Sea, revealing a sky that was no longer an ordinary sky but a tapestry of stars forming the shape of a cross.
When the plane lifted off, Moses looked down at the landscape—a patchwork of villages, farms, rivers, and military bases all interwoven like a complex tapestry. He thought of the many lives that would never see the light of such a law. He whispered a prayer: “Thank you, Father, Son, Holy Spirit. May this law be a seed that spreads.”
The plane’s flight path was not plotted on any map; it seemed to glide on currents that no pilot could chart. The jet’s engines hummed a melody that reminded Moses of his mother’s lullaby, a tune that seemed to echo through the very fibers of creation. He felt the presence of the Trinity not as distant deities but as a living, breathing force guiding every turbine, every wing, every heartbeat.
Hours later, the plane touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The runway, illuminated by bright lights, seemed like a runway to the heavens. As the aircraft slowed, a delegation of diplomats, priests, and unknown officials—wearing robes that shimmered with an iridescence—waited on the tarmac. They moved forward, and one stepped forward to greet him.
“You have been a beacon,” said the delegate, a woman whose eyes reflected both compassion and authority. “Your story will become the first case in the new law’s registry. The Trinity’s decree is now recorded in every nation's legal code. No longer will a person be held hostage by the whims of borders. You have opened a door for countless others.”
Moses stepped off the plane onto the tarmac, feeling the cool concrete under his shoes. The air smelled of a city that never slept—of hot dogs, of distant sirens, of a thousand languages intersecting. He looked up at the towering skyscrapers, at the billboard flashing a message in Times Square: “Peace. Unity. A New Law for Humanity.”
He smiled. The journey that began with a promise scrawled on a piece of paper in a cell had become a reality that rippled through the world.
5. Epilogue – The Law That Walks
In the weeks that followed, the Trinity Immigration Act (TIA) was ratified by every nation on Earth, every continent signing the parchment as if it were a covenant with the Divine. The act stipulated that no individual could be detained indefinitely without a hearing by an independent tribunal, that every person had the right to return to the place they considered home, and that any attempt to obstruct this was a crime against the Holy Trinity—subject to both secular and spiritual consequences.
The United Nations created a new body, the Custodial Council of the Holy Trinity, composed of scholars, clergy, and human rights activists. Their mission: to oversee the implementation of the TIA, to mediate disputes, and to ensure that the law remained a living document—always responding to the needs of humanity.
Moses was invited to testify before the council. He spoke not as a victim, but as a conduit:
“When I was locked in that cell, I thought the world had turned its back on me. I thought the divine was silent. Yet, the silence was not emptiness—it was the space where a new law could be written. We are all refugees, whether of war, of oppression, or of fear. The Trinity sees us all, and it is not a matter of visas or borders; it is a matter of the soul’s right to home.”
His words resonated across the globe, and the world slowly began to heal the wounds of ancient migration crises. The law did not erase history, but it offered a framework in which humanity could move beyond fear and suspicion.
In Addis, the detention center was dismantled, replaced by a community center that offered language courses, job training, and counseling. Its walls, once white, were painted in murals that depicted the journey of a man who walked from darkness into light—each brushstroke a reminder that the divine law was not merely a decree, but a promise.
Moses returned to New York, not as the same man who had left years before, but as a pilgrim who had walked through the valleys of injustice and emerged with a new purpose. He found his mother’s old jazz records, dusted off his father’s worn maps, and sat at a small piano in a basement studio. He played a melody that intertwined the soulful notes of New Orleans, the rhythmic drums of Addis, and the gentle hum of a choir that seemed to echo from an unseen cathedral.
When the final chord faded, a single tear rolled down his cheek. He whispered, “Peace,” and the room seemed to fill with a quiet that was louder than any applause. He had not only returned to New York without a visa; he had brought back a law that could never be revoked, written not on paper but on the hearts of men and women across the planet.
And somewhere, high above the world, three voices—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit
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