Dating : Ṣàngó- God-Death [Exclusive Look]

Ẹni tó ńbẹ̀rù àti ṣubú, àti dìde á nira fún un.

Whoever is scared of falling, would find it difficult to rise.

As Ṣàngó, god of thunder, lord of the storms, commander of lightning itself, walked to his death in chained hands, chained feet and a heavy heart, a small thought prodded his back:

Who do the gods themselves pray to when the end is nigh?

The chains that bound him were made of pure Aru — the metal of the heavens. They were forged for forty years in the heart of the sun and cooled in the eternal rivers of Yemoja. They would never dull, or weaken, or break. They bound his physical and metaphysical form, crisscrossing around his entire being. They were the perfect bonds for the criminal he had become.

The rest of his brethren, the Òrìṣà, all watched as he shuffled past, slowly. Nobody spoke a word or made a sound, nobody dared. Even Èṣù, the trickster god, only looked on with his poison green eyes. Ṣàngó sneered at Èṣù, and Èṣù…. Èṣù smiled.

He saw Ògún, the Òrìṣà of Iron, cutlass in one hand and sword in the other, and one of his remaining allies, Yemoja, goddess of the waters. He had his lips curled in disgust, while Yemoja had her eyes open with fear. Òrúnmìlà was there with his grey eyes that saw all, and his face was impassive as Ṣàngó passed. It is said that Òrúnmìlà had seen all that had ever happened and all that was to happen, and so, to him, this was already finished. Obá stood beside him, Obá his first wife, and she bored holes into his soul with her eyes that screamed fury.

Oṣun was being held back by the others as she tried to reach him, just to touch his skin one more time. Tears of blood flowed freely from her eyes and Ṣàngó felt her anguish, her love.

He shook his head quietly, and he knew she understood. No, my love. No.

There are two laws in The Above: The first is to never lay hands on another, they are spawn of Olodùmarè, and so are brethren. And brethren do not slay brethren. The second is to never speak an untruth, for lies are stories, and stories have power. That is the domain of the humans, and the both cannot, can never, mix. For eternity and a day, these are the laws in The Above.

And Ṣàngó broke them both.

The punishment in The Above was simple for crimes committed. There needed to be no jury or council when Olodùmarè was present. He knew all. What need be for anything else?

Ṣàngó walked with shoulders that sagged and shimmied. He could feel the eyes of every god staring at him on either side as they made a row to the throne. All four hundred and one gods were present that day. There had not been a congregation like this since…since his coronation as general of all the forces in The Above. He could hear the whispers as they travelled to his ear. He could see the disgust on their faces. He could feel his own shame, curling and coiling in his heart.

But still, he tried to walk with his head high, his chin lifted. He was a criminal and had committed a heinous atrocity. But he was still Ṣàngó, slayer of the three thousand, the one god to whom even the All-Storm bowed to, and though he was meeting his end, he would meet it with dignity and honour. The same values with which he lived his life. That is, of course, until the end.

Secretly, he wished this end, after what he did, he did not want to survive another day. Now, he thought, his suffering would be over.

He had reached the edge of all there was and will be when he stopped and knelt. All the gods gathered behind his back, forming a semi-circle, giving him a wide berth.

Ṣàngó had only ever witnessed one God-Death, two hundred years ago, it stuck to his mind and haunted him for decades until he was finally able to drink the nightmares away. He had been present that day, at the very front of the crowd, still a very young god, and so, he knew what came next.

Ṣàngó knelt on the ground that was made of clouds. The sun rays spilt through the heavens in a kaleidoscope of different colours and spectrums, and though Ṣàngó knew what his fate would be, he still found the space within himself to appreciate the beauty of the universe they experienced.

She had seen the beauty in all.

Even in a scarred general like himself, she still found a way to see through the pain, the torture, and find beauty that nobody had seen before her. And it was that same love, perhaps, that led to her end.

Òrúnmìlà walked forward in his grey mist agbada that blurred and mixed with the clouds that shifted before him as he walked on the air itself, between his hands were the beads of Ifá. He was rubbing them, whispering as he spoke. He circled Ṣàngó sixteen times, and each time, Ṣàngó could feel his Aṣẹ, dimming, becoming subdued. His muscles were beginning to weaken, his eyes darkening. But he would not fall, no, he would not fall.

Òrúnmìlà stopped in front of Ṣàngó’s kneeling form, his brown and grey eyes staring deep into Ṣàngó’s soul. And then he spoke with a voice that all in the universe could hear, in reality or in their dreams, for Òrúnmìlà spoke to all.

“Let one conduct one’s life gently; that he may die a good death.” He said. “Let there be space in The Above for such a soul. Let one live life truly, and honestly that one’s children may stretch their hands over one’s body in burial.” He looked at all the gods gathered. “It is known why we are here. The remaining wives of Ṣàngó. Come forward. Speak, so your husband may depart peacefully.”

It was Obá who pushed past the crowd, her dark purple eyes meeting a challenge to everyone they laid on. She came forward in front of Ṣàngó, and spat on him.

“You were a bastard in life as an Aláàfin,” she said, “and a bastard when you became an Òrìṣà. And now, you will fade as you were always meant to: as filth.” She clenched her fists. “Her greatest mistake was loving you, and when you are gone, I will finally know peace.” And she transformed into a water buffalo and strutted away.

And then, Oṣun came forward, her hands clasped in front of her, her light blue eyes that streaked with blood radiated a sadness that everything in existence could feel. She came forward to Ṣàngó, bowed before Òrúnmìlà and knelt at Ṣàngó’s front.

“My heart called to you all those years ago in that drum festival.” She said, cleaning her eyes with a white cloth that turned red

“You gave my life meaning, and you accepted me in all those years when the others would not. You were my rock and my guiding star, and I know what you did is unforgivable but my heart will call on you for all eternity and a day, my husband.” She looked up at Òrúnmìlà who nodded gravely. And then, she kissed Ṣàngó softly on his right cheek, then his left, then his forehead. “Till we meet again.”

She stood up and brushed her knees. “Oṣun,” Ṣàngó said, his voice speaking the first words he had spoken since what happened.

Oṣun held his chin in her hand. “What is it, my husband?”

Ṣàngó let his head fall; this shame too heavy to bear. “I am not worthy of your love, Oṣun,” he said. “I was never worthy of it.”

Oṣun smiled, and lowered her head to his. “Everyone is worthy of love, Ṣàngó,” she said. “Even you.” She kissed him one more time, and then she too left, transforming into a blue dove, flying over the clouds.

Òrúnmìlà, once again, took his place. “And now, with the wives of Ṣàngó gone. Who else would — ”

“I will!” A voice shouted from behind Ṣàngó. And the bulking mass of Ògún walked forward, now he was drinking palm wine from a calabash in one hand with his black-iron sword in the other. His Aru spear was strapped tightly behind his back with leather made from the hide of wild boar.

Ògún bounded to the front of Ṣàngó and smiled. “I told them all you would be a useless general,” he said. “I told them you would fail us. I told them you were a disgrace. And now,” his smile widened, and as he looked at the others present, “the fool has proved me right.”

He removed his spear and held the tip with his hand. His dark gold-red blood spilling on the clouds. “I swear that you will never return to The Above,” he said, his voice darkening and warping as the words took shape, “I swear it on the Ifá and my Aṣẹ.”

And with that, he transformed into a boar and rode through the crowd.

Òrúnmìlà looked at Ṣàngó with his mismatched eyes that had seen the past, present and future, and Ṣàngó could swear there was pity there. “Live your life so that no tongue shall rise against you. So that no life will be in conflict with yours.” He looked at Ṣàngó now. “Brother,” he said. “Are you ready?”

Ṣàngó nodded.

Òrúnmìlà pursed his lips and spread his arms. “May the will of Olodùmarè fall on you with favour,” he said. “And if not, may you be strong enough to bear it.” He looked at Ṣàngó one last time, and strangely, he winked.

And then, the whole world blended away into a sea of white clouds, and Ṣàngó was alone, kneeling on the ground.

This was the part that sent fire ants across his back, the part that he dreaded the most. The moment where he would, finally, come face to face with —

“Lord of thunder!” A voice bellowed from all around him. It reverberated through his entire being, shaking him down to his very core.

Ṣàngó tried to move around but the chains held him fast and tight and he could only move his head. But there was nothing, and no one.

“Commander of the storms!”

Ṣàngó struggled against the chains, but he knew it was a fruitless endeavour. The chains could hold a thousand Òrìṣà without trembling.

“Wielder of lightning!”

Ṣàngó managed to stand in the chains turning and spinning trying to find where the voice was coming from.

Ṣàngó dropped to his knees again. “It was a mistake,” he said, sobbing. “It was terrible and abominable, but it was a mistake.”

“My child!”

The voice came back angrier this time, like it was raging against nature itself. The rage washed over him in a wave of pure primal energy that crackled and shifted all around him. It bellowed.

It roared.

It rose to heights that no being in the world had ever known.

A little boy walked through from nothingness with eyes that were shut, he was naked except for a piece of cloth covering his privates. A simple white necklace rested on his neck, there were gold markings wrapped all over his body in a language even Ṣàngó did not know. He had no way of knowing, these were words written before the beginning of time. Words that only one in The Above knew.

“My child,” the boy said, in the voice of a man who was not completely a man.

Ṣàngó quickly let his head hang low as he prostrated. “My Lord,” he said, to the great one Himself.

There was reverence to be shown when He was present.

Olodùmarè deserved nothing less.

“Rise,” He said.

Ṣàngó rose.

The boy’s eyes remained close but Ṣàngó could feel his gaze on him still. He could feel his bones shaking and his essence quivering. This was not simply fear; just being near Olodùmarè was not an advisable task. And the Òrìṣà all knew why.

“You have committed a crime against the heavens,” the boy said in the old voice of his. “You have broken the laws that I myself laid down. You have slaughtered your own blood. Without caution, without reason, blinded by your own rage. You have told lies. You have told stories.”

There was silence as the clouds passed by between them.

“I see, and hear, and know all.” The boy cocked his head to the right. “And yet, there is something dark that even I cannot discern. Something that is being hidden from me, the Great One.”

Ṣàngó shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean, Lord.”

The boy moved like light, and then he was in front of Ṣàngó, looking down at him, his eyes still closed.

“You tell the truth,” he said finally, “but your atrocities must still be punished.”

Ṣàngó did not speak, did not shake, did not move. He simply bent his head low and waited for the end. This was what he deserved, he knew.

The boy shook his head. “You think that I will end you,” he said. “You think that I will allow you walk into the night of nothingness.”

Ṣàngó’s eyebrows furrowed. “But, my Lord,” he said, “God-death is the punishment for — ”

“What good is a punishment if it is craved for?” The boy asked. “What good is a poison if it is enjoyed? What good are lashes if they feel sweet?” The boy came closer to Ṣàngó. “No, my child, your punishment will be far worse, far harsher than death.” He touched Ṣàngó’s arm with one finger. And Ṣàngó sagged as he felt his Aṣẹ start to ebb away, leaking through him like a river.

“Lord,” Ṣàngó said, his voice weak, his vision fading, as he fell to his knees. “What is this?”

“Your punishment, young god,’’ Olodùmarè said, “is simple. For the crimes you have committed against your kind, and your own blood, you will not die, but live instead. You will live out your days as a mortal, over and over again, until you understand the Truth, only then will you be allowed to die.”

Ṣàngó groaned as his dreads started to turn grey at the roots and his bones and muscles began to atrophy. He did not have enough strength to even speak, and yet, he managed to utter what would be his last words as a god. “But… what Truth, my Lord?”

The boy smiled and looked down at Ṣàngó. “That is up to you to find out.” He held his free hand outstretched and Ṣàngó’s axe appeared in it. “With this axe, you cut down scores upon scores of enemies, you were feared as a warrior. You controlled men, and thunder alike with it. I cast it down to the earth now, for someone more worthy to wield.” He threw the axe downwards and a loud boom was heard through The Above. Ṣàngó felt it in what was left of his teeth.

He flexed his hand again. And the red and white necklace appeared in it. “With this necklace, you were revered as a man, and all who knew you knew that Ṣàngó was a man of honour, and bravery, and strength. You were once powerful and I now cast it down to the earth, for someone more admirable to wield.” He cast them down to the earth and the roar of a man shook the skies. Ṣàngó knew well that roar.

It was his.

Ṣàngó felt his gold-red blood start to lose its lustre and godly essence. He felt his life force burn away, to leave only mortality behind.

The boy once more held out his hand and the lightning stones he wore around his belt appeared. “With these lightning stones, you were worshipped as a god, you struck fear into the hearts of god and man alike. But it was also a symbol of hope in the skies, the rain you would bring. These are the weapons you used to slay your blood in mindless rage, and I cast them now to the earth, for a person more temperate to wield.” He threw the lightning stones to the ground and the screams he heard shook his heart and made his soul weep. The screams would follow him until the end of his days, he knew. And he would never escape them, no matter how long or how well he tried.

The boy looked at Ṣàngó who was now on the ground, a grey, weak old man.

“You became a god,” the boy said, “not out of my power but out of yours. I saw something in you, a spark I had never seen in any mortal. A spirit so strong and untenable that even I could not resist. But you were a proud, angry man, and you became a proud, angry god. You have brought shame on your name and legacy. But maybe you can redeem yourself. Or rather, you must.”

The boy bent down to Ṣàngó whose eyes were beginning to dim. “Because if you do not, then it would mean something more terrible has happened.”

The boy stood up and opened his eyes and the glory of the universe spilled through his eyes and unto Ṣàngó, warping reality itself and he felt the primal magic take over him, in a way it hadn’t since he first became a god.

“It would mean,” Olodùmarè said in a voice that bore thousands and reverberated a thousand more times, “that the Great One himself, the Creator, has made a grievous error.”

The lights of the heavens covered Ṣàngó’s mortal body and carried him elsewhere.

And then, the great god of lightning, commander of the storm, prince of lightning, Ṣàngó, was no more.

Heavy is the head that bears the crown.