Recap:
Years passed since the night of thunder that brought Shango to earth. Achebe and Femi raised him as their own—though strange things always happened when he was near. Rain came without clouds. Lightning danced across still skies. The neighbors whispered, some with awe, others with fear. But Shango grew up quiet, polite, and curious, pretending not to notice the sky's restless mood whenever he was sad or angry.
---
The air was heavy that morning, though the sun shone bright.
Port Harcourt was alive with its usual noise—the call of street hawkers, the hum of traffic, the laughter of children running through puddles that hadn't yet dried from last night's rain. But above all, the sky seemed to watch him.
Shango paused on his way to school, feeling the weight of it pressing down like an unseen gaze. He could almost hear something in the clouds—a pulse, slow and patient, like a heartbeat he'd forgotten.
He shook the feeling off and adjusted his backpack.
"A storm again today?" called old Mama Ebi from her roadside stall, smiling toothlessly. "Eh, my pikin, tell your friends up there to wait till market closes before they pour their wahala!"
The boy laughed softly. "It won't rain today, Mama."
"Ah, that's what you said yesterday!" she replied, wagging a finger playfully.
But even as she spoke, a single rumble rolled in the distance. Not near enough to frighten, but loud enough to draw glances from the crowd.
Shango froze. He hadn't felt upset—he thought. Why, then, did the thunder answer?
---
That night, he dreamed again.
He stood in a vast plain of clouds, bare feet sinking into mist. The air shimmered blue-white. And before him stood a figure cloaked in lightning—tall, regal, with eyes like molten copper.
The figure's voice echoed without sound:
> "Do you remember me, child of thunder?"
Shango stepped back. "Who are you?"
But the mist thickened, swirling around the figure like a living storm. He saw flashes—a woman's cry, a cradle of light, a staff raised toward heaven—then darkness.
When he woke, his bedsheet was damp—not from sweat, but from raindrops on the ceiling.
---
At breakfast, Achebe frowned up at the leaking roof. "This weather again. Femi, didn't you fix it last week?"
"I did," Femi muttered, but his gaze lingered on Shango. "Maybe it's time we call the pastor again."
Shango's spoon paused midair. "For what?"
Achebe forced a laugh, though her voice wavered. "Ah, nothing, my son. Just... the house always acts funny when you're not sleeping well."
He looked down, saying nothing.
---
That afternoon, while walking home, thunder cracked suddenly across a cloudless sky. The students around him screamed and scattered. Shango stood still.
The sound didn't frighten him anymore. It called to him.
He looked up, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—he saw a shadow moving behind the sun, like a man-shaped bolt of light. Then the vision vanished.
A drop of rain landed on his cheek.
He whispered, "Why do I feel like I've seen you before?"
The clouds didn't answer, but in their silent glow, something stirred—as if the sky itself remembered his name.
---
That night, he dreamt again. The same figure stood waiting. This time, the voice was softer, closer.
> "The seal weakens, thunder child. When the world calls, will you answer?"
Before he could respond, lightning erupted around him, blinding white—and he woke to find his window shattered, the smell of ozone in the air, and his palms faintly glowing with traces of light.
The storm had found him.
And this time, it would not leave quietly.