They said Ọbalọkun was too kind to be feared.
They said no god should love mortals so much.
And so, kindness became his curse.
He had given them water in seasons of drought,
called rain from the stubborn skies,
taught farmers when to sow and when to reap.
He had walked among mortals —
not veiled, not hidden —
drinking palm wine from their gourds,
laughing at their moonlight stories,
blessing even the weakest with a smile.
But love breeds envy,
And envy births fear.
The other gods whispered in their shrines:
*"Why bow to him who walks with ants?
Why follow one who shares his throne with men?"*
The priests of thunder and fire,
once humbled by his light,
turned their chants against him.
And mortals — oh, mortals —
the same he saved,
the same he fed,
the same he lifted from dust,
marched with torches and charms,
demanding his fall.
"Too much love," they said.
"Too much kindness," they feared.
"A god that bends to men is no god at all."
So they betrayed him.
Chains of divine iron bound his limbs, Words of curse scorched his name.
Ọbalọkun, god of mercy,
slain not by war,
but by the people he loved.
But gods do not die as men.
From ashes, storms arise.
The night they burned his shrine,
Thunder cracked across the heavens,
The ground split as if the earth itself mourned.
From the smoke of forgotten prayers,
a body was woven anew.
Not god, not man,
but something in between.
Ọbalọkun awoke,
his chest heaving like a warrior pulled from the river,
His eyes are åno longer soft as morning rain
but sharp — like blades thirsty for blood.
Gone was the god of kindness.
In his place stood something darker,
a villain clothed in the skin of mercy.
Two hunters stumbled upon him that dawn.
Ẹ̀dun, sharp-mouthed and ever foolish,
squinted at the figure crawling from the ashes.
"Eh! Nnamdi, see am o! A naked man dey rise from smoke like roasted yams!"
Nnamdi, older but more cowardly,
clutched his bow and stammered:
"Chineke! There is no man. That… that is spirit work. Let us run—"
But Ẹ̀dun, with a grin, shouted louder:
"Spirit ke? Maybe na a stubborn debtor running from his wife's pot of soup!"
Ọbalọkun's glare fell upon them,
lightning cracking behind his eyes.
Both hunters froze.
Nnamdi trembled, whispering:
"I told you we should run…"
But Ẹ̀dun, still bold in foolishness,
bowed low and proclaimed:
"Great one! If you have come back from the dead,
please, do not strike me. Strike Nnamdi first — he has more meat!"
Ọbalọkun almost laughed. Almost.
But laughter had died with his old self.
Word spread quick —
The villagers returned, armed with stones,
chanting the curses they once carved into his shrine.
"Monster!"
"Abomination!"
"Spirit of ash!"
They hurled words sharper than spears.
Children cried.
Women spat.
Men raised cutlasses high.
Ọbalọkun clenched his fists.
His heart whispered: Do not harm them.
But another voice, darker, louder,
thundered: Burn them. They betrayed you. Burn them all.
The skies answered his rage.
Clouds boiled,
Thunder roared like drums of war,
winds tore through huts.
One child screamed as fire leapt from the heavens,
Splitting the village square in two.
The people scattered,
Their chants were swallowed by the storm.
And at the center stood Ọbalọkun —
half-god, half-vengeance,
His shadow is long and terrible.
Then—
a light, pure and searing,
cut through the storm.
Ayelala, goddess of justice,
descended with fire at her feet.
Her voice shook the air:
"Ọbalọkun! Forgotten god of mercy,
you rise in wrath and blood.
But justice does not forget.
I will strike you down again —
this time forever."
Villagers gasped, falling to their knees.
One hunter fainted (Nnamdi, of course).
Ẹ̀dun whispered:
"Ah. If she kills him,
who will pay me for keeping quiet about this?"
Ayelala raised her staff,
symbols of light swirling around it.
Her power flared like the midday sun.
Ọbalọkun lifted his hand,
dark fire curling in his palm.
Thunder and justice collided in the sky.
And just before their powers clashed—
Darkness swallowed the scene.