CHAPTER 3
Orun picked up his blade," she said, her tone low and deliberate, "and lifted it against the sky, its edge glinting in the storm's fractured light. Then he began to chant, his voice rising over the wind
'Whispers of those who travel the void, hear my plea, Spirits of purgatory, converge in me. By blood's sacrifice, I offer this part, flesh, a token from my soul. Unleash the force to smite my foe, with this offering, let your power flow. Bound by this rite, my fate I seal, to vanquish the one through this dark ordeal.'
Mama Ajike's hands traced the arc of the blade, her voice trembling with the weight of the forbidden words.
"Akami's eyes widened as he recognized the spell. It was forbidden juju, a dark art from the depths of creation, one that should not have been known to Orun—or any of them.
'Don't you dare,' Akami barked, his voice a thunderclap as he dashed toward Orun, his form a blur of fury. But he was an instant too slow. Orun drove the blade into his own eye, and his scream pierced the sky, a raw, guttural sound that shook the hill. A sinister energy surged into him, black and twisting, flooding his body with a power both ancient and profane."
The children flinched, some clutching each other, as Mama Ajike pressed on.
"Akami stopped in his tracks, his body burning as he felt his soul rip apart. It was an instant-kill spell, a rare and terrible magic that only a powerful god could wield against another, and only at a great cost—one use, one sacrifice, never to be called upon again by the caster. Akami's soul tore into five parts, four of which burst from his mouth in a rush of shadow and light, scattering into the wind like ashes on a storm. He fell to his knees, weakened, his once-mighty frame trembling. 'What have you done?' he gasped, his eyes wide with shock, staring at Orun as if seeing him for the first time."
Mama Ajike's voice softened, carrying the bitter edge of the aftermath. "Orun, now on his knees as well, pressed a palm to his wounded eye, black blood trickling between his fingers. A smile, bitter and pained, curved his lips. 'Even an instant-death spell could not kill you,' he said, his voice a ragged whisper. Akami frowned, his strength fading. He leaned back and fell to the ground, the earth rising around him as if to claim him, swallowing him into its depths. That was the last time anybody ever heard of the Last Primordial."
She paused, letting the silence settle like dust over a grave. The children stared, their faces pale in the moonlight, as Mama Ajike leaned forward, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "It is said that, to this day, the Orisa—the fifteen who remained—watch Isare Hill. They know Akami is not truly gone. His soul, torn but not destroyed, lingers somewhere beneath the earth, waiting. And the hill stands quiet, a sentinel of secrets, holding the promise—or the threat—of his return."
The fire gave a final, faint sputter, and Mama Ajike smiled faintly, her eyes glinting with the mystery of the tale's end. "So ends the story, my little ones. The moon has seen it all, and now it's time for you to carry it in your hearts—and perhaps keep an eye on the hills when the night grows still." The children murmured among themselves, the weight of the tale settling into their bones as the village night embraced them once more.
Mama Ajike watched as the children dispersed to their homes, their small figures vanishing into the shadows of the huts, their voices trailing off into whispers of the story they'd just heard. A smile sat perfectly on her weathered face, warm and knowing, as she adjusted herself on the mat to face the moon's glow. The fire beside her had dwindled to a faint pulse of embers, and the air carried the lingering scent of stew and smoke.
"A great tale, I must say," a voice sounded, low and resonant, not too far from where she sat. Mama Ajike's gaze shifted, landing on a figure stepping into the moonlight. He appeared to be a man in his early thirties, tall and imposing, with long black dreads bundled loosely with a rope. His shoulders were broad, his frame muscular, and his bare chest gleamed like polished ebony under the moon's light. Around his waist hung the fur of a leopard, its spotted pattern swaying slightly with his movements—likely a trophy from a hunt he'd claimed himself. His presence was striking, a quiet power radiating from him that seemed to stir the night itself.
Mama Ajike's eyes lit up at the sight of him, a spark of recognition dancing in their depths. She smiled wider and rose to her feet with a grace that belied her age.
"Do you now sneak up on fragile women, old man?" she asked, her voice laced with fondness and a touch of teasing. To anyone overhearing, it might have seemed Mama Ajike had lost her reasons—calling this youthful, vigorous man "old" would sound like the ramblings of a madwoman. But her tone carried a certainty.
Mama Ajike—Ajike, as she'd been called in her youth—and her parents had been among the earliest residents of Ileigi village, back when it was little more than a cluster of huts. Three families and one man—that man standing before her now—had made up its humble beginnings. She'd been five when they arrived, a wide-eyed girl in a settlement of barely more than ten souls. This man had been the first to set foot in the village, or so the whispers said. No one knew his origins, nor why he vanished every mid-year only to return with the next, like a season unto himself. Years passed, and the pattern held. But Ajike had noticed something no one else seemed to. He never aged.
She remembered the village growing—new huts, new faces—while he remained unchanged, his dreads as dark and his skin as smooth as the day she'd first seen him. It baffled her that no one spoke of it. When she'd asked her mother once, the woman had frowned and insisted Ajike was imagining things. But Ajike knew better. The question gnawed at her until, at twenty-five, she could bear it no longer. She'd marched to his hut at the village's edge, a simple structure of mud and thatch, and confronted him outright. "How come you don't age?" she'd demanded, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart.
She could still see the shock that flashed across his face, his eyes widening as if she'd struck him. "You can see my true form?" he'd asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and wonder.
That day, everything changed for her. He'd called her "a Blessed," a term that carried a weight she didn't yet understand. She was gifted, she was always suspected but never said anything. She first noticed when she was ten. She could tell when a person was lying or pretending. It was like no form of deception could trick her.
At first, she thought this man could be like her, touched by something beyond the ordinary. But as the years unfolded and she came to know him—through quiet talks under the moon, shared glances across the village—she realized he was far more than that, a being woven from threads older and deeper than she could fathom.
Most of the stories Mama Ajike told the children under the full moon had come from him, shared in hushed tones as she grew from a curious girl into a woman with questions too big for the village to hold. He'd spun them under moons just like this one, his voice a thread weaving history into her soul. The last tale he'd given her was the one she'd just recounted—the war of the gods, Akami's fall, the rise and burden of the Orisa. She knew it was more than a tale, a truth dressed in the garb of legend, but she'd kept that knowing tucked away, a quiet pact between them.
"Have you come to stay?" Mama Ajike asked, her eyes bright with hope as she looked up at him. The man smiled, but it was a gentle refusal, a curve of lips that carried regret.
"Unfortunately, no," he said, his voice soft but firm. "There are still things I must do outside the village."
Ajike sighed, a sound heavy with years of the same answer. "For many years, I have asked you to take me along or at least tell me, but you always refuse me." Her tone was tinged with frustration. The man laughed, a deep, rolling sound that broke the night's stillness, and placed both palms on her shoulders, his touch grounding her.
"Do not worry your precious hair about these things, my little Ajike," he teased, his eyes glinting with affection. She shrugged his hands off, pouting like the child she'd once been in his presence, her lips pursed in mock indignation.
"I'll be gone for another six months, actually," he said, a soft smirk tugging at his mouth. "Do you want me to bring you anything?"
Ajike rubbed her chin, her expression thoughtful, then her eyes lit up with sudden delight. "Bring me the liver of the Abebe rat," she said, her voice brightening. "My mother used to make the perfect soup with them."
The man laughed again, a sound like the wind through the trees, and nodded. "Very well," he agreed, running a palm through her thick grey hair, his fingers lingering for a moment in the familiar gesture. Then he turned to leave, his tall figure blending into the dark, the leopard fur swaying faintly as he moved. The moonlight seemed to cling to him, reluctant to let go, until he was little more than a shadow swallowed by the night.
Mama Ajike stared after his retreating form, a bitter smile spreading across her face. Her voice dropped to a whisper, carried only by the wind and the moon. "The burden of immortality, the curse of eternity. Lord Akami, your smile carries so much pain."
The words hung in the air, a quiet confession to the night. She knew who he was—had known for decades, ever since that day outside his hut when he'd told her the tale of the Orisa. It was indeed in the premise of her abilities. The truth could not be hidden from her. The Primordial God of Death, the last of his kind, walking the earth in a cycle of departure and return, tethered to a purpose she could only guess at.