I have an African son.
Emeka Joseph calls me Poppa. He is fiancé to my eldest daughter.
His astonishing fortitude reflects his late father's vision to establish a seminary in Nigeria. His mother, a doctor, explains his acuity. His brother, a pedigreed NFL champion hints why only a few reps on the press rips his biceps brachii. His sister, a prolific fashion designer spills the vogue genetics. Not to mention, the other siblings with equal if not better endowments.
What is truly remarkable about him is his intimacy with his Redeemer. He was a wild prodigal until God showed him the way to the egress. If there is any strong argument for the colossal nature of divine mercy, Emeka stands nonpareil.
His love for my daughter resonates with a purity that is refreshingly alien. His regard for me beams with respect that seats me with proper humility. I have never met a man so resplendent in soul.
Emeka is a restaurateur/sommelier running what was recently voted the best Italian Restaurant Eatery at Tribeca, Manhattan. Whenever I visit, he serves me four things: unbridled eye contact, cardiac smile, dinosaur hug and impeccable gourmet.
I invite you to meet him someday. He will either be at Gran Morsi or at Trinity Grace Church Chelsea.
Ask him for black coffee. Add brown sugar.
Chat about Grand Mercy.
