Age of Sango(Naija Demigods Chronicles #1)

The King Who Does Not Hang Returns.

"How did you know?" Kola finally asked—thirty minutes into the ride, as the land cruiser sped along the Abeokuta-sagamu expressway.
"Was there a camera in the room?"

Omítọ̀nàdé shook her head in negation.

"It's common sense," She explained. "A homeless orphan such as yourself is bound to run away."

Kola gazed at her, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

"But I'm not homeless or an orphan" He said, the mockery lucid in his tone. “Stop saying what you don’t know.”

"Yes, you are. No one came looking for you in the week you spent at the hospital."
As an afterthought she added softy "And besides, you've done it once before."

Kola was speechless.

How did she know? He thought. She was really beginning to frighten him.

They went on in a deafening silence, each lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts. Kola looked out the window watching the shrubs blur past, while taking in the view and heaping tension in the vehicle.

"I saw it in a vision," Omítọ̀nàdé revealed a few minutes later, announcing through a rift in the silence. “Your escape— I mean, as well as fragments of your past life too. That's how I knew your name."

"Ya-a that explains it." Kola said sarcastically after a fairly prolonged moment. "If you'll just drop me off here, I'll be on my way. Thank you so much for everything."

She sped on, not minding him.

"Where are you taking me?" He inquired slightly uneasy.

"You'll see." Omítọ̀nàdé answered switching on the car's mp3 player to Burna boy's African giant album. 'On the low' blared out of the speakers. The music was loud enough to discourage further conversation.

Omítọ̀nàdé pulled off to the side of the road leaving the express way as she drove into a route slightly hidden by foliage. The tarred road immediately morphed into a rutted dirt path with lots of bushes closely arraying both sides and the occasional pothole. She turned onto a narrower road before long and forged ahead. Kola looked around subtly analysing the route and trying to contrive a plan for his getaway. Omítọ̀nàdé noticed his eye movement and told him not to think about it with a false sugary smile.

Not long after, Kola noticed some trees with ragged ribbons of white and red cloths tied around their trunks. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs for he was convinced the end of him was in sight. Instantly, he started pleading aloud so his voice could be heard over the tune playing "Please don't kill me. Don't use me for money ritual I beg you. Moni no go cum out."

Switching off the music player, Omítọ̀nàdé snorted with laughter as they drove into a vast circular compound, within the forest, whose perimeter was clearly defined by bamboo walls. The enclosed space was devoid of vegetation with the exception of a singular tree in its centre. There were several square red earth buildings in the rear aggregating around a rectangular courtyard where various traditional livestock such as poultry, goats and a few rams roamed the grounds freely. She informed him in pidgin English "But we don already reach the Babalawo place."

The car had barely come to a stop when Kola unlocked his door and jumped out, erratically selecting a direction and running blindly.
All that mattered to him was getting away from this place.

Within seconds, he ran into a tree which wrapped two large limbs around him.
Kola let out a high pitched shriek that a little girl would have been proud of.

"Shut up," the tree barked.

It was a light-skinned giant of a man six foot nine inches to Kola's six ‘two, huge chested with bulging biceps and triceps and a face even his mother cannot love. Large greenish veins snaked his upper extremities and neck. He wore a purple Lakers jersey and baggy black joggers with a string of cowries around his powerfully built arm.

Kola whimpered as the monster dragged him into a doorless mud hut through a red curtain.

Inside, the primitive dwelling was dimly lit by a low burning native palm oil lantern made with clay and two thick red candles, but he could see the calabashes covered with red cloths lining the walls, a metal staff with a large bird on top — which stood on a flat disc also resting on a wall, a mortar with a mixture inside, several carved wooden rendering of a deity mostly of a man standing on a raised platform with an axe shooting out of his head—a shere in his hand, and a hoary straw mat with some of the babalawo's instruments on it and his fila. Several fringed leather bags hung on the wall.

A reedy old man—with three striped tribal marks etched into his each cheeks like the whiskers of a cat, dressed in a wine coloured buba embellished with green embroidery and a kembe sokoto with an odigba Ifa around his neck— stood in a corner. He was in the process of making a sacrifice by decollating a cock, whilst making chants in Yoruba. His head was shaved to the crown, and from thence backwards, there were cornrow braids garnished with red apparels and cowry shells. On his left wrist was an ide similar to Omítọ̀nàdé’s.

At the sight of the sharp blade, Kola screamed again and begged while struggling against the big man.

The man literally had an iron grip. He couldn't seem to break it no matter what he tried. Kola bit down hard on the monstrous man's forearm but his teeth could not break the skin and draw blood. It felt like he was biting a coin.

"Let him go, Ogun. You're scaring him" Omítọ̀nàdé cried.

"Do not tell me what to do, Priestess." The monstrous man spat out harshly in a strong Yoruba brogue before letting go of Kola and going to guard the only entrance—which served as the only exit as well.

Kola went down on his knees begging, whilst cursing Omítọ̀nàdé simultaneously. With an irritated sigh, she threatened "If you don't keep quiet, I will call Ogun for you."
That shut him up immediately.

Omítọ̀nàdé looked at the Babaláwo and asked if Kola was one of 'Them'. The ifa priest sat on his mat, picked up sixteen Ikin (sacred palm nuts) which he held up to Kola's ori and then shook the palm nuts randomly from hand to hand until only one remained.  He did the random shakes sixteen times and at the end of each noted the results of the nuts that were left in a Opon Ifa (divination tray) filled with sand where he made marks. He repeated the procedure sixteen times over, most of which he chanted Yoruba ifa divination poetry. Then he studied the odus before facing her; giving a huge grin that showed his age rotted dentition, and nodding his confirmation. The entire process took a while.

"Eledumare eshe gun." Omítọ̀nàdé said gratefully, looking up briefly whilst rubbing her hands together.

"Kola listen very carefully to me. I'm going to tell you a short story."

Kola nodded, still cowering where he was rooted. The odour of urine filled the hut as a wet patch hastily spread across his carton brown trouser. Omítọ̀nàdé sucked on her teeth loudly and shook her head in disgust before beginning the brief tale.

"In the beginning Eledumare created everything," She started.

This sounds like the bible story, Kola thought.

"Then he sent a few divinities to earth led by Obatala the arch Orisha to develop it. Afterwards, Eledumare released the Emi; the breath of life to blow across the land, and the figurines made by Obatala slowly came into "being" as the first people of Ife, the cradle of existence. Eledumare created Orishas who are intermediaries between us, human beings, and the paranormal. They rule over the forces of nature and the endeavours of humanity. Well, in simple words, they have supernatural powers."

Definitely not the bible story

"And you happen to be an Orisha, Kola; an incarnate of a Yoruba divinity."

Kola gave her a blank look.

An incarnate of a What? She must be mad, Kola thought.  Absolutely deranged. She makes him seem like some kind of Yoruba Jesus.
Of all the people to kidnap him and use for ritual, it had to be a Yoruba religion fanatic.

"I know it's hard to believe, but it’s true. The Yoruba’s have always believed in atunwa; reincarnation." Omítọ̀nàdé said earnestly "I am an Olorisha; mother of mysteries. I can divine and I get visions of the past sometimes."

"Okay...," Kola said getting aggravated—a ghost of a frown on his face. “Are you going to kill me or not? I don't see why I need to know all these nonsenses before I die."

"Make I teach am small lesson Iyalawo."

Ogun sneered cracking his knuckles whilst taking slow predatory strides towards him.

Kola gave Ogun a measuring glare whilst making a quick calculation and effect of escape. Ogun paused in his tracks
arms widespread to catch Kola but he eluded him, nimble as a cat, ducking under his upper limb as he raced for the door. Just before Kola got to the exit, a blaze erupted around the portal, slightly blinding him. He had to raise his hands to shield his eyes from the unexpected light.

An apparition burst into existence within the fire and slowly stepped out of the flames.

The fire went out almost as quickly as it appeared so he put down his hands.
When his eyes became fully readjusted to the dull light of the shrine, he saw the newcomer was a female who appeared to be in her late teens. She had on an orange coloured buba which did little to conceal her ample bust and a purple and yellow stripped Iro hooked at waist barely hiding the emphatic flare of hips. Her feet were bare.

She also had the face of a goddess, beautiful to the point of absurdity, Kola could almost believe the nonsense about divinities Omítọ̀nàdé had told him. Almost.

The ring of fire didn't seem to have affected her in anyway.

"Olúwèkù; The controller of those who wear the Ancestral masquerade," The babalawo announced her praise name. "Olori Oya."

"Ka a ale baba." Oya greeted.

"Ẹ ku abọ" the Old man welcomed her. Oya looked around the hut; her gaze settling on Kola.

"Who is this?" she inquired looking at him from head to toe.

"The boy is supposed to be one of us but I don’t believe it," Ogun informed her in his heavy Yoruba accented tone "He's too cowardly. If he is, then he should be a minor Orisha."           

Oya sauntered towards Kola. She stopped right in front of him and studied him closely like a specimen under a microscope. As if entranced, she lifted a hand and slowly placed it on his left shoulder. Immediately, thunder clapped hard like an entertained crowd and from the brightness outside the hut's door lightning was making false daylight.

Kola’s eyes light up with red ashe.

The others in the hut stood still and watched awestruck, till the old man prostrated "Kabiyesi!!! Oba Koso; the King who does not hang," He called out "I am sorry I did not recognize you right away." he apologized.

"Ko si possible." Ogun muttered in astonishment. Omítọ̀nàdé followed suit the babalawo in the ìyíká position and greeted "Mo yíká ọ̀tún, mo yíká òsì, ki adé pẹ́ l’órí, ki bàtà pẹ́ l’ẹ́sẹ̀, ki ìrùkẹ̀rẹ̀ pẹ́ l’ọ́wọ́, ki àṣe pẹ́ l’ẹ́nu, kábíyèsí, Oba awon Orisha."

Kola took several steps back; away from Oya till his backside hit the wall. He could go no farther.
He had actually understood what Omítọ̀nàdé had said. It was "I turn to the right, I turn to the left, may the crown last on the head, the shoes on the feet, the irukere in the hand, the command in the mouth, hail the king of the orishas"

"I don't understand" he said looking bewildered.

Oya offered him an understanding smile "I’m sure this is a lot to digest but try to stay calm and don't run. Okay." Then to Omítọ̀nàdé she said "Please put two ijoko(stools) outside so we can sit and talk alone."

She placed emphasis on alone. Omítọ̀nàdé nodded and set out to do as told.