The first time Mela saw a god, he wasn't even sure he was awake.
He was slumped on the back row of SS2 Physics, half-asleep, half-dreaming. Mr. Adesina's chalk scraped the board, but in Mela's head, it wasn't formulas he was seeing it was glowing kanji letters like in the manhwa he read last night.
He imagined himself standing tall like Solo Leveling's Jinwoo, shadows bowing to him, Lagos bowing to him.
"Adigun Chimela!"
The class roared with laughter. His teacher's voice snapped him back to reality.
"You dey sleep abi? Come and solve this!"
Mela dragged himself to the front, his legs heavy. In his mind, a manga narrator whispered: "Our hero rises to face his first trial."
Only problem—this wasn't a manhwa panel. This was Lagos. And in Lagos, failing Physics was deadlier than zombies.
He picked the chalk, stared at the question. His brain blanked. The laughter stabbed his ears. He turned to the class and grinned.
"If this was apocalypse, una go dey beg me for answers."
A ripple of laughter, some mocking, some uneasy.
Then, for a heartbeat, everything shifted. The ceiling fan buzzed, the fluorescent light flickered. On the blackboard, the numbers blurred, shifted—spirals, runes, a falcon's eye, a hammer crackling with lightning.
Mela's breath caught. His fingers trembled.
He dropped the chalk.
The laughter stopped. Mr. Adesina frowned.
"What is wrong with you, boy?"
But Mela barely heard him. Deep inside his skull, a voice stirred. It was not Yoruba. Not Igbo. Not even English. It was older, heavier, like iron grinding against stone.
His knees buckled.
—Clang. Forge. Blood.
Then, silence. The board was normal again. Numbers. Physics. Nothing else.
"Mela, are you sick?" someone muttered.
He forced a smile, picked the chalk again. "Just… hungry."
The class laughed. But the hairs on his arm were still raised.
That afternoon, he walked home through Ojuelegba's chaos—horns blaring, hawkers shouting, danfos cutting lanes. He liked to pretend Lagos was an open-world RPG, each street a new map. Only difference: Lagos had no respawn points.
Home was a cramped two-bedroom flat in Surulere. The smell of beans and plantain drifted from the kitchen. His mother, Funmilayo, was bent over the stove, wrapper tied tightly around her waist, humming a Yoruba hymn.
"Mela, go and check on your sister," she said without turning. "She's been quiet."
He dropped his bag and entered the small bedroom.
Amara sat cross-legged on the bed, notebook open. She was scribbling symbols that looked nothing like English, Igbo, or Yoruba. Her eyes were glassy.
"Amara?"
She looked up, her voice faint. "The sky will break."
Mela froze.
She blinked, as if waking up, and quickly shut the notebook. "I'm fine."
But her hand trembled. On the page, Mela caught a glimpse—shapes that looked like thunderbolts, falcon wings, and an iron staff.
That night, Mela lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan. From outside came the distant hum of generators. The usual Lagos lullaby.
But when his eyes drifted shut, the dream came again.
He stood in a wide plain of ash. The sky cracked above him, symbols burning in the air. From the left, a man of iron—muscles dark as coal, eyes glowing, holding a hammer. From the right, a tall figure crowned with lightning. Behind them, a falcon-headed shadow stretched its wings.
The gods were watching.
And one of them spoke his name.
"Mela…"
He jolted awake, gasping.
The fan above him was still spinning. His room was dark. But across the hall, Amara's voice floated in the silence.
"Ogun. Zeus. Ra. The sky will break."