Do you believe in gods of legend? Gods like Ra of Egypt, Shango and Ogun in Nigeria and many more? My name is Nnamdi and here is the story of the great calamity of Africa.
In the Plane of the Gods, where mountains float in the sky and rivers of light weave through eternity, the deities of Africa gathered. Each nation's protector, each tribe's spirit, each guardian of sea, sky, and earth stood in council.
It began with Shango, lord of thunder and fire, his double axe crackling with lightning. He demanded that mortals be given greater strength-the fullness of the storm, so that men could rise beyond weakness.
Nyame, the Akan sky god, denied him. "The balance must be kept. The heavens are not toys for mortals."
But other gods took sides.
Ogun, the Yoruba god of iron and war, pounded his hammer and shouted, "Shango speaks truth! Mortals are ready. Give them fire, and they will forge greatness."
Olokun, the deep-voiced god of the sea, hissed from his throne of waves, "And when they burn the earth, where will their ashes fall? Into my waters! Already they poison the rivers with greed. I say no."
From the Nile, Ra, radiant sun god, rose in golden flame. "I gave men light, but measured, so they may live. If they wield the storm unchecked, they will challenge even us."
Anansi, the cunning spider god, laughed from the rafters. "Let them! Chaos is sweet. When mortals climb too high, their fall is all the more delicious."
The hall shook with voices. Allies formed, enemies shouted. The quarrel of two became the quarrel of many.
Then came the breaking.
Shango hurled his bolt at Nyame, but it struck Esu, the Yoruba trickster and messenger, who twisted the strike and flung it toward the mortal world. In seconds, the boundary between divine and earthly realms shattered.
Lightning cascaded across Africa.
In the west, villages of the Yoruba and Ashanti saw skies aflame. Crops blackened in the fields.
In the north, where Ra's light shone strongest, deserts melted into rivers of glass.
In the east, Engai, the Maasai sky god, tried to calm the storm with rain-but the rains became floods, drowning valleys.
In the south, Unkulunkulu, the Zulu creator, stamped the earth to steady it, yet mountains cracked and trembled.
Mortals wept, thinking the end of days had come.
For seven days and seven nights, gods hurled storms, waters, flames, and shadows at one another, each blow tearing through both heaven and earth. Even the animals fled in terror; lions roared at empty skies, birds fell from the air, and the great rivers overflowed as if mourning.
At last, the supreme being Olorun descended, cloaked in stars. His voice silenced gods and mortals alike:
"Children of eternity, your pride has become poison. Your quarrels are not yours alone-Africa suffers for them. You shall bear the burden of what you have wrought. Mortals will rebuild, scarred yet enduring. But when the storm is remembered, let it remind you: gods may quarrel, but Africa pays the price."
With that, Olorun sealed the heavens, forcing the gods to withdraw their fury.
The lightning ceased. The rains ended. Smoke rose from burnt forests, and rivers cut new paths through the land. Mortals buried their dead and rebuilt their homes beneath the shadow of what they called The Great Calamity of the Gods.
And so, when storms rage and lightning dances endlessly in the African night, elders tell the tale:
"It is the gods, still quarreling above. And we, their children, must live between their wrath and their mercy."
......
I was twenty-five the night the sky broke open.
The air in my chest felt heavy, restless, as if it too knew what was about to come. I had gone to the dam on the outskirts of town-a place I often visited when I needed silence. The waters stretched wide and still, dark like an unblinking eye staring at the heavens. But that night, the clouds were not silent. They churned and rolled above me, bruised purple and black, flashing with sudden bursts of white fire.
Then it happened.
A lightning bolt, so fierce it split the night in two, came down with a sound like the world's own bones cracking. It struck the crown of the dam. For a moment I could not breathe. The concrete shuddered, roared, then gave way. A wall of water burst forth like a beast freed from its chains, surging and thrashing, carrying with it trees, earth, and the screams of everything in its path.
I stood frozen, my heart slamming inside my ribs, the ground trembling beneath my feet. I wanted to run, but my legs refused to move. My eyes were locked on the sky, where more lightning was clawing its way across the heavens. Each strike found another victim-the market square lit up like a funeral pyre, the tall palm by the church ignited in an instant, the iron roof of a home split clean in two. It was as if the sky had declared war on the earth.
The floodwaters raced forward, swallowing streets, dragging cars like toys, drowning shouts in their fury. And still, the lightning did not stop. Each flash carved new scars into the land, a relentless rhythm of destruction. I could taste metal in my mouth, feel the hair on my skin rise with the charged air.
I remember clutching my chest and whispering prayers I had not spoken in years. My voice was small, shaking, lost in the roar of calamity. Around me, people cried out, some running, some on their knees, some too shocked to move.
I realized then how fragile we were. How quickly a life, a city, a history could be unmade by a single breath of the heavens.
And yet, in that chaos, something inside me shifted. I had seen the sky open, seen the world remade in fire and water. I was a witness, scarred by awe and terror.
From that night on, I carried the storm within me.