The day began with peace.
Birdsong drifted through the morning air, and the golden light of dawn fell across the Achebe compound. Shango sat on the wooden steps outside, his school uniform crisp, his gaze lost in the rising clouds.
They were calm today — soft, harmless, almost playful. He liked mornings like this. The air didn't hum or tremble. No thunder whispered in his ears.
From the kitchen came the smell of yam porridge. Achebe's voice rose in song, an old Igbo hymn that had no beginning or end. It always soothed him.
Femi stepped out, wiping his hands on a cloth. "You're quiet this morning," he said, sitting beside him. "Something on your mind?"
Shango hesitated. "Do you ever… hear things when there's no one speaking?"
Femi frowned lightly. "Like what?"
"Like…" He paused, uncertain. "Like a voice that doesn't use words."
Femi studied the boy's face. "Dreams again?"
Shango nodded.
The older man sighed, looking at the sky. "Sometimes the ancestors speak through dreams. But sometimes, it's only our hearts trying to remind us of who we are." He smiled faintly. "You think too much for your age, my son."
Shango tried to smile back, but something in Femi's words lingered — remind us of who we are.
---
At school, the day went as usual until afternoon. The class was restless, the fan barely spinning. Sweat and chatter filled the room.
A group of boys whispered near the back, glancing at Shango. They always did. One of them, Ebuka, finally spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Hey, Rain Boy," he called, smirking. "Think you can make the clouds cry for us again?"
Laughter rippled through the class.
Shango clenched his jaw but said nothing.
Ebuka pushed further. "What? You too holy to talk? Maybe your mama call thunder to fight for you!"
The laughter grew louder.
Something in Shango snapped.
It wasn't anger at the words themselves — it was the way the room seemed to vibrate with mockery, the sound crawling under his skin.
The fan overhead began to spin faster — too fast — then sparked. A sharp crack split the air. The laughter died instantly.
Outside, the clear sky darkened. Wind howled through the open windows, scattering papers across the room.
"Jesus!" someone screamed.
Shango stood frozen as the world dimmed. He hadn't moved. He hadn't spoken. But the storm had answered.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The light returned. The fan stilled.
Everyone stared at him.
Ebuka muttered, "W–witch boy."
Before the teacher could return, Shango grabbed his bag and ran.
---
He didn't go home right away. He walked until he reached the edge of the old mangrove path by the river. The air there was always damp, heavy with salt and spirit.
He dropped to his knees, breathing hard. "What's happening to me?"
The water rippled, though there was no wind. Then a whisper — faint, feminine — brushed against his ear.
> "The sky remembers you, Shango. Do you remember it?"
He spun around. No one was there. Only the still river, reflecting the bruised color of the evening sky.
His hands trembled. Tiny sparks flickered across his fingertips — like blue fireflies that lived beneath his skin.
The voice came again, softer this time.
> "Your silence has ended. The storm stirs for its master once more."
Shango fell backward, clutching his hands. The sparks faded slowly.
The mangrove trees swayed though the air was still. A distant rumble rolled through the horizon.
He whispered, almost pleading, "I'm not your master… I'm just me."
But the thunder only answered with a low, knowing growl — as if laughing at the lie.
---
That night, as rain fell gently against the roof, Achebe entered his room and found him staring at his hands in the dark.
"My son," she said softly, "you've been distant lately."
He hesitated. "Mama… if something inside you was dangerous, would you tell anyone?"
Achebe's breath caught. She sat beside him, brushing his hair with trembling fingers. "No one is born dangerous, Shango. Only lost."
He turned to her. "Then why does the sky talk to me?"
She froze. The candlelight flickered between them.
Outside, thunder rolled again — faint, almost affectionate.
Achebe forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Then maybe," she whispered, "it is time you learn who you truly are."