The sky split open that night.
Thunder rolled like an angry god pacing across the heavens, and lightning bled through the clouds in streaks of molten silver. The forests bowed to the wind; the rivers trembled. It was as though the world itself feared what was being born.
In a hidden grove where time thinned and spirits walked freely, Oya, goddess of storms and winds, knelt beside a cradle woven from cloudlight and fire. Within it, a baby cried—not a mortal cry, but the trembling hum of thunder waiting to be loosed.
"His power has not yet settled," murmured Hevioso, the guardian of balance, his eyes glinting like twin moons. "The storm within him could tear the realms apart."
Oya's hands trembled as she caressed the infant's cheek. "He is Shango, son of thunder, my blood and my heart. The world will not survive without his fire. Yet the council fears him already."
Lightning struck a nearby tree, turning it to ash. The baby's cries softened, as if soothed by the destruction.
Hevioso's gaze grew distant. "The gods are restless. Orunmila has spoken—a seal must be placed upon him until his spirit is ready. If he awakens too soon, he will bring war between heaven and earth."
Oya rose, her eyes burning like dusk over storm clouds. "You ask me to surrender my child to silence?"
"I ask you to save him."
Wind howled through the grove, carrying the scent of rain and blood. For a long moment, Oya said nothing. Then she bent over the child, pressing her lips to his forehead. Her whisper was half a lullaby, half a prayer.
"Sleep, my thunder. Let your name be forgotten until the world is ready for your return."
She laid him upon the altar of clouds. Hevioso lifted his staff, and the lightning gathered, coiling into a sphere of white light. The baby's crying stopped. The grove dimmed.
A thunderclap split the air—then silence.
When the storm passed, the cradle was empty.
---
Far below, on earth, the storm reached the coastal city of Port Harcourt. It came without warning—rain crashing against rooftops, the sea roaring against the docks.
At the edge of a quiet street, Achebe and Femi, a couple who had prayed years for a child, watched as a bolt of lightning struck the ground near their home. When the light faded, they found a baby lying in the shallow mud—unharmed, eyes glowing faintly like trapped lightning.
Femi gasped. "By Chineke's hand... Achebe, where did he come from?"
Achebe, still shielding her face from the rain, whispered, "From heaven itself, perhaps."
The thunder rolled again, softer now—like laughter fading into the clouds.
The couple took the baby in, wrapping him in a faded cloth.
"His name," Femi said after a long silence, "will be Sango—the one who came with the storm."
As they turned back toward their home, the rain ceased as suddenly as it began. In the distance, thunder rumbled once more—gentle this time, like a heart still beating beyond the clouds.
And the heavens grew still.