The world had narrowed to a tunnel of pain and determination. Each step was a negotiation with agony, a bargain struck between his will and the screaming protest of his body. The stream's gentle gurgle, a promise of salvation from the old man, Tobe, had become a taunting, distant melody. It seemed to shift and move, sometimes sounding to his left, sometimes to his right, as if the forest itself were conspiring to disorient him.
He used Mmaagha Kamalu as a crutch, the leather-wrapped hilt grinding painfully into his armpit. The sheer, dead weight of the sword was a constant, humiliating reminder of his fall. Every time its tip dragged through the mud or caught on a root, it sent a fresh jolt through his wounded side. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps; drawing it too deep felt like being stabbed anew. The drizzle had returned, a fine, cold mist that beaded on his eyelashes and soaked his hair, leaching the last remnants of warmth from his core.
He didn't see the root. One moment he was upright, focused on placing one foot in front of the other. The next, his ankle turned, a sharp, bright pain flared in his leg, and the world tilted. He fell heavily, his shoulder hitting the ground first, followed by his wounded side. A silent scream tore through him, his vision exploding into white-hot stars. He lay there, writhing, the cool mud a bizarre comfort against the fire in his belly.
This was it. This was where a god died. Not in a cataclysmic battle against a primordial beast, not betrayed by a rival deity, but face-down in the mud of a forgotten forest, felled by a tree root. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth, sharper than the blood.
Through the roaring in his ears, he heard a new sound. Not the rain, not the stream, but a voice. Human. Female.
"...another fool who picked a fight with a bush pig and lost?"
The voice was young, but it held a weariness that aged it. It was not gentle. It was laced with a pragmatic, almost cynical amusement.
Amadioha tried to lift his head, but the effort was beyond him. He could only see a pair of feet, bare, caked in the same red mud he lay in, planted firmly on the earth. They were slender, but strong, the toes splayed for balance.
"Or did the forest spirits finally take offense to your loud breathing?" the voice continued, closer now.
He felt a prod against his ribs, not with a foot, but with something hard and wooden. A staff. The pain was exquisite, and a choked gasp was all he could manage.
"Hmph. Still alive. More's the pity."
He felt hands, surprisingly strong, grip him under his shoulders. The contact was startling. How long had it been since he had been touched by another being? As a god, supplicants approached on their knees, they did not lay hands upon him. This was a rough, impersonal handling.
"Come on, you great lump. Don't just lie there. If you die, you'll stink up my trapline."
With a grunt of effort that was entirely her own, she began to drag him. It was an undignified, jarring process. His legs trailed uselessly, his head lolled, and every bump and dip in the ground sent fresh waves of nausea through him. He caught glimpses of her from his awkward angle: the strong, corded muscles of her calves, the simple wrap of dyed indigo cloth around her waist, the sway of beaded cords in her hair. The forest blurred past—a smear of green, brown, and gray.
After what felt like an eternity of being hauled like a sack of yams, the light changed. The incessant patter of rain on leaves ceased, replaced by the hollow drip-drip of water falling onto a hard surface. The air grew still, carrying the scents of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and the faint, tangy odor of curing meat.
She released him, and he slumped onto a surface that was firm, but covered with something soft and dry. Animal pelts. He could feel the coarse, thick fur of a antelope against his cheek. He lay there, panting, trying to reorient himself.
He was in a hut. It was round, with walls of woven bamboo and a conical roof that peaked high above, where a thin wisp of smoke escaped through a hole. The space was small, but orderly, dominated by the central fire pit, where a few low flames licked at a clay pot. Bunches of herbs hung from the rafters, their varied scents—pungent, sweet, sharp—creating a complex, medicinal perfume. Along the walls were baskets of roots, clay pots, and gourds of all sizes. This was a place of work, of purpose.
His rescuer moved into the circle of firelight. She was young, perhaps no more than twenty rains old, with eyes the color of dark, rich soil and a face that would have been considered beautiful were it not for the severe, unsmiling set of her mouth and the web of fine scars that traced a path from her temple down her neck, like a map of old pain. Her hair was braided in intricate patterns, threaded with blue beads and small, polished bones.
She looked down at him, her hands on her hips, her expression one of pure, unadulterated scorn.
"Well?" she said. "Are you going to tell me your name, or shall I just call you 'Stupid'?"
Amadioha swallowed, his throat dry as dust. Pride, that last, stubborn ember, flared. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the shriek of protest from his body.
"I am… Amadioha," he rasped, putting as much of his former thunder into the name as he could muster.
She didn't flinch. She didn't fall to her knees. She let out a short, sharp bark of laughter that held no humor whatsoever.
"Amadioha?" she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "The Amadioha? He who shakes the heavens? The great Lord of Lightning himself, laid low by a tree root and bleeding like a stuck goat in my hut?" She shook her head, turning to a basket to retrieve a clay bowl and a pestle. "The fever has cooked your brains, man. You're delirious."
"I speak the truth," he insisted, a flicker of anger warming his chilled blood. "I have fallen. My power is… diminished. But I am he."
She began crushing something in the bowl, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the pestle a counterpoint to her derision. "Is that so? And I suppose you were just taking a stroll through the forest when you tripped and fell on a spear?"
"I was attacked," he said, the memory of the painted warrior, the obsidian tip, flooding back. "By a mortal. A man of the Nri."
She paused her work for a moment, her eyes flicking towards him with a glimmer of something—recognition, perhaps?—before the mask of scorn returned. "The Nri are not to be trifled with. Their faith is old and their magic is strong. But it is not a god's concern. If you are who you say you are, why were you here at all?"
It was a question he had been asking himself since he awoke. Why was he here? The events leading to his fall were a blur, a jumble of storm and shadow.
"I do not… I cannot remember clearly," he admitted, the confession tasting like ash.
"Of course you can't," she said, resuming her crushing. She added water from a gourd, creating a thick, green paste that released a sharp, astringent smell that made his eyes water. "It's easier to invent a grand past than to face a pathetic present. Now, shut up. This will hurt."
She knelt beside him, her movements efficient and devoid of tenderness. She pulled aside the bloody, ruined fabric of his tunic, her eyes critically assessing the wound. Her fingers, though calloused, were surprisingly deft as she cleaned away the old, clotted blood and the remains of Tobe's poultice with a damp cloth. The water was cold, the cloth rough, and he hissed through his teeth.
"The great Amadioha, flinching from a little cold water," she mocked without looking up.
Before he could retort, she slapped the new poultice onto his wound.
Fire. It was pure, herbal fire. It felt as if she had packed glowing embers into his flesh. He arched his back, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms.
"Breathe, 'Lord of the Sky'," she commanded, her tone flat and unsympathetic. "Or would you prefer to suffocate and prove me right?"
He focused on her voice, using it as an anchor in the sea of pain, just as he had with Tobe. He sucked in a shuddering breath, the smoky air of the hut filling his lungs. The initial inferno slowly subsided into a deep, throbbing, drawing heat that seemed to pull the corruption from his body.
She began to bind the poultice in place with strips of clean, white linen, wrapping them tightly around his torso. "This is ogwu from the akwukwo ogwu plant. It draws out poison and stops rot. It is real. Unlike the stories you tell yourself."
Sweat dripped from his brow, mingling with the tears of pain and humiliation he could no longer hold back. He was utterly at her mercy, and she had none to spare.
"Why?" he gasped, as she finished her work and sat back on her heels. "Why do you help me if you believe me to be a liar?"
She regarded him coolly, wiping her hands on a rag. "I am Kelechi. It means 'thank God'. My parents were pious fools. I do not help you. I am a healer. It is what I do. I would do the same for a wounded dog. It means nothing."
She stood and moved to the fire, stirring the contents of the clay pot. A rich, savory smell wafted from it—a broth of roots and herbs. His stomach clenched with a hunger so profound it was a new kind of pain.
"You are… skilled," he said, the compliment feeling strange and inadequate.
"I have had to be," she replied, her back to him. She ladled some broth into a smaller bowl and brought it over to him. "Here. You need strength. And not the imaginary kind."
She didn't hand it to him. She held it to his lips, her expression impatient, as if feeding a troublesome infant. The broth was hot, salty, and complex with the flavors of the forest. It was the most nourishing thing he had ever tasted. As he swallowed, he felt a tiny, fragile warmth begin to spread from his core.
When the bowl was empty, she set it aside and looked at him, her dark eyes boring into his.
"So," she said, her voice losing some of its sharpness, but gaining a new, heavier weight. "You claim to be Amadioha. You say you have fallen. That your power is gone."
"It is the truth," he said, his voice slightly stronger now.
Her lips tightened into a thin, bitter line. The firelight danced in her eyes, but it did not warm them. "If you are Amadioha," she said, and the air in the hut seemed to grow still and heavy, "then answer me this. Where was your lightning when the slavers came?"
The question hung between them, simple, direct, and devastating.
Amadioha stared at her, stunned into silence. It was not a philosophical query about the nature of suffering. It was a personal, pointed accusation.
Kelechi's face, usually a mask of hardened scorn, began to fracture. The pain he saw beneath was raw and ancient.
"It was the height of the dry season," she began, her voice low and trembling with suppressed emotion. "The air was so hot it shimmered over the fields. The dust from the road coated everything—our skin, our food, the inside of our throats. We could smell the harmattan haze on the wind, dry and dusty. I was out collecting shea nuts with the other women. We heard the drums first. Not our village drums. A different rhythm. Fast, frantic, screaming of danger."
She wrapped her arms around herself, as if suddenly cold. "We ran. By the time we got to the ridge overlooking the village… it was too late." Her eyes lost focus, seeing a memory seared into her soul. "They were not men. They were monsters made of smoke and greed. They carried fire and iron. I saw… I saw Mazi Okoro, our elder, run through with a sword for trying to speak to them. I heard the screams. Not just of fear, but of agony. The crack of whips. The smell… oh, gods, the smell. Smoke, yes, but also blood and… and worse."
Amadioha listened, frozen. He had seen human conflict from on high. It was a pattern, a swirl of ants. He had felt the ebb and flow of their collective prayers, a distant hum. He had never been made to sit in the dirt and listen to the specific, sensory horror of a single atrocity.
"They rounded them up," Kelechi whispered, a single tear tracing a path through the fine dust on her cheek. "They put chains on them. Iron cuffs, cold and heavy, locking their hands and feet together. I saw my brother, Chibueze. He was only fourteen. He was tall for his age, and strong. He tried to fight. One of them, a man with a face scarred by pox and a voice like grinding stones, hit him across the head with the butt of a musket. I heard the sound. A dull, wet thump. He fell, and they dragged him up and shoved him into the line."
She turned her blazing eyes back to Amadioha. "I fell to my knees there on that ridge. I did not pray to the ancestors. I prayed to you. I screamed your name into that hot, dusty sky. 'Amadioha!' I cried. 'Strike them down! Send your fire! Bring your thunder! Save him! Save my brother!'"
She leaned forward, her face now inches from his, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "And do you know what happened?"
Amadioha could not speak. He could only stare, trapped in the gravity of her grief.
"Nothing," she spat the word. "The sky remained a hard, pitiless blue. The sun continued to beat down. There was no lightning. No thunder. Not a single cloud. There was only the dust, and the screams, and the sound of the chains as they marched my brother, and half my village, away towards the coast. Towards the ships."
She sat back, the energy draining from her, leaving behind a hollowed-out shell of a woman. "So you will forgive me," she said, her voice flat and empty once more, "if I do not bow and scrape before a man who claims to be a god who was silent when we needed him most. Your lightning was nowhere to be found. Your justice was a fairy tale."
Her words did not just hit him. They dismantled him.
They were a spear far more piercing than the one that had wounded his flesh. They struck at the very core of his identity, at the covenant he believed he had with humanity. He had always answered the grand prayers, the ones that shaped kingdoms and wars. He had brought rain to end droughts and storms to scatter invading armies. But the small, desperate prayer of a girl on a dusty ridge? He had not even heard it. Or if he had, it had been lost in the cacophony, deemed too insignificant for his divine attention.
The weight of Mmaagha Kamalu felt heavier than ever. It was not just the weight of lost power. It was the weight of his neglect. The weight of a thousand unanswered prayers. The weight of a brother named Chibueze, lost to the sea.
He had no answer for her. No defense. No grand explanation. The silence in the hut was thicker and more profound than any that had existed in his celestial halls.
He looked at Kelechi, truly looked at her. He saw not a rude, scornful mortal, but a living monument to a failure he had never known was his. Her scars were not just on her skin. They were on her spirit. And he, in his lofty divinity, had been the one to carve them there through his absence.
"I…" he began, but the words died in his throat. I'm sorry was meaningless. I didn't know was a pathetic excuse.
He simply bowed his head, the gesture one of utter defeat. The god of thunder had been felled not by a weapon, but by a question. And in the heavy, herb-scented silence of the healer's hut, surrounded by the tangible, real things that sustained mortal life, Amadioha began to understand the true nature of his fall. He had not just lost his power. He had lost his right to it.