Five years is a long time for memory to fade into a dull ache.
In Umu-Oka, the terror of that lightning streaked birth night had settled like ash at the bottom of a hearth. The charred mark on Nnanna's doorstep had been worn smooth by the soles of feet and the sweeping of brooms. To the neighbors, Adadiogo had become a quiet reality rather than a terrifying omen.
Fear, when left to the passage of time, usually thins out into smoke,something you can see, but something that no longer chokes you.
At five years old, Adadiogo was a vibrant, laughing spark of a girl. She did not look like a "collection" for a monster. She had her mother's wide, curious eyes and her father's stubborn chin. She ran through the village squares with the other children, her small feet kicking up the red dust, her laughter mingling with the bleating of goats and the rhythmic thud! thud! of women,pounding yam.
The other parents still watched her from the corners of their eyes, a lingering hesitation in their hearts, but children do not know how to be afraid of prophecies. To them, she was just Adadiogo,the girl who could run the fastest and who knew where the sweetest uda seeds fell.
"Wait for me!" Adadiogo shouted, her voice bright as she chased a group of boys toward the village stream.
The sky above was a soft, bruised gray. A gentle rain began to fall,the kind of rain the elders called "the sun's weeping." It was light, cool, and carried the sweet scent of dry earth finally getting a drink. It wasn't a storm,there was no wind to whip the trees, no heavy clouds to block out the light. It was a perfect afternoon for children to dance in the mud.
"Look at Adadiogo!" one of the boys laughed, pointing as she spun in circles, her arms spread wide to catch the droplets. "She's drinking the sky!"
Inside their hut, Nnanna and Ugomma watched through the doorway. For the first time in five years, Nnanna's shoulders were relaxed. He allowed himself a small, tentative smile.
"See?" he whispered to his wife. "The God has forgotten. He has his palaces in the clouds, why would he care for a small girl in the dust?"
Ugomma didn't smile. She never truly smiled when Adadiogo was out of her sight. "A God does not forget, Nnanna. He only waits."
As if the heavens had heard her doubt, the air in the clearing suddenly grew heavy. The light rain didn't stop, but the temperature plummeted until the children's breath came out in faint puffs of white mist.
The laughter died. The boys stopped their playing, sensing a shift in the vibration of the earth.
"Adadiogo, come back," one of the older boys whispered, his eyes darting to the sky. "The rain feels... angry."
Adadiogo didn't move. She stood in the center of the clearing, her head tilted back. She didn't feel the cold. Instead, she felt a strange, humming warmth beginning to coil at the base of her spine. It wasn't a bad feeling, it was a pull, like a secret being whispered directly into her blood.
Then, the sky cracked open.
There was no warning rumble. There was no gathering of dark clouds. A single, jagged spear of white hot violet light descended from the clear gray sky. It didn't strike the trees. It didn't strike the earth.
It struck Adadiogo.
The sound was a physical weight that shattered the clay pots in nearby compounds. The other children were thrown backward by the sheer force of the air, their screams drowned out by a roar that sounded like a thousand lions.
"ADADIOGO!" Nnanna's voice was a ragged tear in the silence that followed.
He and Ugomma scrambled into the clearing, their hearts stopping at the sight. In the center of a scorched circle of grass, their daughter lay facedown. Her small wrapper was singed at the edges, and a thin trail of smoke rose from the damp earth around her.
Nnanna gathered her limp body into his arms, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold her. "No, no, no... please, ancestors, not yet..."
But as he pulled her against his chest, Adadiogo gasped. Her eyes flew open,not the dark brown of her mother's, but for one terrifying second, they were glowing with a fierce, electric silver. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She simply breathed, her small chest heaving as if she had just run a race across the stars.
"She's alive," Ugomma sobbed, falling to her knees. "She survived the Bolt."
But the survival came with a price.
As Ugomma adjusted the girl's singed cloth to check for wounds, she let out a strangled cry. There, etched into the soft skin of Adadiogo's waist, was a mark that had not been there moments before.
It wasn't a burn. It was a tattoo of silver and charcoal, a swirling, intricate pattern of lightning bolts that seemed to wrap around her hip like a lover's hand. It pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light, moving in perfect synchronization with the girl's heartbeat.
The first sign of ownership had been laid. The God was no longer just a prophecy, he was a brand on her flesh.