Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty-Six
A Dish Best Served Cold

The first thing you have to know is that I did not kill the gods.

Now, I’m sure you must have heard differently from your parents when they tell you bedtime stories, your priests who tell you their selfish desires rather than the will of the gods, or from your teachers who pretend to know what they’re talking about but are just as clueless as the rest of you.

Every single human in your world knows the tale of Éshu, the rogue god who stormed into the palace of the gods one evening and murdered them all with dark magic. The stories differ, of course, but they all have common aspects. And every version of this story paints me as the villain. They are not right, of course.

I could give you details about that day that the history books simply do not possess: the marble on the floor of the great hall was black as night, the gods were seated on ornate thrones carved from the living wood of the sacred iroko tree, a gentle breeze was blowing through the large windows and somewhere just out of sight, a spirit child was playing a haunting tune on a flute. I could tell you that the hall of the gods was guarded by a squad of heavily armored and armed inoki, fearsome giants created by the tinkerer god, Ọbàtálá. They loomed over the gods themselves and looked so fierce that nobody in their right mind would even think of fighting one, let alone an entire squadron.

But, you see, I wasn’t in my right mind.

The gods were celebrating some festival that you humans hold to praise them every year. It was one of the only times all the major òrìshà gathered in one place at the same time. I should have been there, of course. Though the holy books do not explicitly say so, I was once one of the major òrìshà, revered in my right as god of fate, trickery, and pathways. However, I was cast out of the pantheon a long time ago, when I tried to kill Ṣàngó and take his crown.

I know, I know. Doesn’t sound like what an innocent person would do. I agree with you.

I have not always been a perfect being. Actually, most of the gods were greatly flawed. It was an inherent part of us, a factor as important as our godhood itself.

But I digress.

I started this tale by claiming that everything you know is wrong and that I did not wipe out the strongest beings in the universe. Please, read my words with an open mind because for the first time in my long treacherous life, I am telling the truth.

Now, let’s begin.

• • • •

I was not invited to the feast, of course. My sentence was still in effect. Ṣàngó, the king of the gods, had sentenced me to ten thousand years in exile, and only a few hundred years had passed.

I wasn’t too bothered by my sentence. I had never liked the city of the gods, anyway. I preferred to roam the world of men, getting into mischief and stirring up trouble wherever I could.

I took on a simple and forgettable guise. Like the people who roamed the earth and like the gods who made them, I was dark skinned. I made myself a man, even though I have been other genders in the past.

Above all, I made myself forgettable because even among humans there are people strong enough to bend gods to their will.

I went sightseeing for several decades, marvelling at the ingenuity of man. I saw the moving cities of the nomadic northern kingdoms. I swam with the river-dwelling people of the southern riverlands. I picked pockets in the bustling markets of the eastern kingdoms. I wrote poetry and studied philosophy in the halls of the western schools.

I have never been really fond of humans, but during my exile, I found myself becoming one of them. I even fell in love with a human once, but that tragic tale is better left for another day.

You see, the thing about being a god is the belief of the worshippers. When I was exiled, my worshippers, who had never been much to begin with, reduced in number. In my mind, I still heard the occasional prayer from a thief or from a merchant who wanted the paths to be good and free of danger. But I didn’t answer prayers anymore. What was the point? The thief was lurking on the same path the merchant was about to travel through. Which prayer should I answer? I didn’t care enough to think about it.

Unanswered prayers led to loss of faith. The robbed merchant, the captured thief, the mother of a young man stolen by sudden death . . . they all cursed my name. I was not really a god anymore. I was just a being who had strange powers and couldn’t die.

After a few more centuries, I left the cities and let the woods swallow me. I had seen my fill of human cities. Nothing excited me anymore.

So I sat in a cave and closed my eyes, intending to seclude myself in a forgotten forest until the end of my exile.

I think it would have worked. I would have woken from my deep sleep after ten thousand years, ready to walk back to the city of the gods and rebuild my temples. I could spend the time gathering my energy and getting stronger so I could be strong enough to challenge Ṣàngó for the crown again sometime in the distant future.

But something woke me before the fixed time. I had no idea what it was. I didn’t see anyone or anything. Thick wild vines had grown across the mouth of my cave, plunging me into total darkness. Immediately I regained consciousness, I could feel that I was not alone. I felt the presence all around me and heard a clear, high voice in my mind.

Trickster god, arise. Let us seek our revenge.

“Revenge?”

My voice cracked, used for the first time in centuries. But there was no reply. Instead, I felt a great pressure in my head. I called on my powers to fight this unseen enemy but I was too slow, still trapped in the vestiges of my long sleep. I could feel a cold alien presence forcing itself into my mind, taking over my brain, and I was unable to muster enough strength to stop it.

We shall go to the palace of the gods. To kill them all.

I rose to my feet. My strength was returning now. I made a slight gesture and the vines covering the cave withered, letting the moonlight in. The forest outside the cave was deathly quiet, as if the night was holding its breath. I observed it all from a great distance, no longer in control of my own body. My mind was blank and when I spoke, I did not recognize my own voice.

“To kill them all.”

• • • •

I am the god of pathways, so traveling has never been difficult for me. I opened a portal to the palace of the gods right from the front of my cave and in an instant, I was standing before the massive doors of the great hall.

I could hear music and laughter beyond the door. The gods, celebrating and glorifying themselves.

Vain fools. Kill them. Kill them all.

The inoki had spotted me and knew at once that I was a party crasher. They dashed forward, their enormous weight making the ground tremble. If I had been alone, I might have been a little bit scared of the giants charging straight at me.

But I wasn’t alone. The alien presence was still in my mind and while I knew nothing else about the invisible force that now drove me, I was certain of one thing: whatever it was, it was as strong as the gods. No. It was stronger.

I snapped my fingers and spoke a command in the Old Tongue. Cords of black lightning appeared out of nowhere and struck the inoki, blasting the hulking guards out of my way.

For a split second, I gained control of my mind just enough to marvel at what I’d done. Usually, I wouldn’t be able to take down that many giants without enchanted weapons and lots of trickery. But I had just blasted them all to cinders.

Before I could do more than be stunned by how strong I had become, the voice regained control.

Go on, finish this quickly, it ordered.

I stepped towards the large golden doors and they swung open to reveal the hall of the gods. Even in my confused and distant state, I was impressed by the grandeur of the hall. Tall white marble pillars rose to support the ceiling, with living vines of gold wrapped around them. The floor was made of blackstone and studded with several precious stones. The hall seemed to have no walls or boundaries, stretching endlessly on every side. But in the middle of the hall was the long dining table where the gods had been feasting.

They rose as one as I made my entrance, all of them glaring at me. I could feel their power gathering. They weren’t fools. They knew I shouldn’t be here. They must have sensed the presence that now wore me like a glove. And judging from their expressions, they looked really unnerved.

I felt a smile carving itself onto my face. The high and mighty òrìshà, for once in their lives, openly regarded me with fear.

I looked them all in the eye, starting with those closest to me before finally settling my gaze on the god at the head of the table.

Ṣàngó’s eyes burned, his body crackling with lightning. A double-headed axe appeared in his hand, even though possession of weapons was prohibited in the hall of the gods. I guess my sudden appearance triggered a special exception to the rules.

“Elegbara, what are you doing here?” Ṣàngó boomed, never taking his eyes off me.

I grimaced at the name which referred to one of my many manifestations. It reminded me of days gone by, when I’d been content being the messenger of the gods despite my great powers. The mysterious force controlling my body stoked my resentment until all I knew was wrath.

“I am here to destroy you all,” I proclaimed in that strange, cold voice. I stretched out my right hand to summon my own weapon. Immediately, my white staff materialized in my hand.

Now, you might be wondering how a staff is useful if I’m about to fight the strongest gods in the pantheon. I mean, Ṣàngó had a massive double-headed axe, Ogun wielded a flaming sword, and Ọya fought with a terrible scythe. But what you don’t know is that my staff is more powerful than all those weapons combined. It can take whatever form I desire and since it was carved from the tree of immortality in the realm of the witches, it is more or less a living being itself.

“So you have chosen death,” Ṣàngó declared, hefting his hammer as he started to approach me.

I braced myself and felt my strength increasing. My staff thrummed with power and I was about to launch the first strike when a voice called out into the tense silence.

“Wait!”

I looked in the direction of the cry. Ọrunmila, the god of divination and white magic, approached me with open arms. He was clad in his usual pure white robe with a sheepskin mantle around his shoulders.

“Elegbara, I’m sure we can settle this amicably,” the wise god said.

I wanted to scream at him that I was not in control. He should have known. His oracles should have warned him. But my mouth couldn’t utter the warnings echoing in my head. I watched as Ọrunmila, my one true friend among the gods, walked up to me and grabbed my shoulder. His milky eyes focused on me in a way that made me feel like he could see the depths of my soul. Yet, not even he could foresee what happened next.

There is no delicate way to say this. I still have nightmares about it. What did I do to my naive best friend who was only trying to help?

I pushed my hand into his chest and ripped out his heart.

There was total stillness for a second. Ọrunmila gasped and looked at me, his face filled with confusion. I crushed the foolish pacifist’s heart and wiped my hands clean on his white robes. Then he disintegrated and was gone.

I had no time to mourn the death of my friend because immediately, the gods howled in outrage and attacked.

I have seen many terrifying things in my life. I have seen entire cities swallowed by the earth. I have seen oceans of blood and endless wastelands of bleached bones. I have seen the depths of the underworld itself. But nothing I have ever seen was as terrifying as the naked wrath of the gods.

I was immediately on the defensive. I parried a wild slash from Ṣàngó’s axe then ducked as Ọya tried to cut me in half with her death scythe. Before I could even draw a breath, Ogun launched a complicated and dizzying maneuver with his flaming sword and I stumbled back, overwhelmed by the war god’s brilliance. Two inoki, freshly created by Ọbàtálá, tried to stamp me to death. Yemọja summoned a wave and blasted me away with pounds of water. Ọṣun, tapping into her powers as the goddess of childbirth, opened her mouth and wailed so terribly that my eardrums almost erupted.

If I had been alone, I would have died before the end of that first barrage of attacks. But I was not alone. Drenched, burning, and bleeding, I stood and faced the gods.

“Is that all?” I snarled. And then I attacked.

Usually, when I fight, I prefer to use a lot of diversionary measures. I always carry my bottomless bag of tricks into battle, pulling one item of mischief after another and using them to befuddle my enemies. I rarely fought directly, but the voice in my ear urged me to attack, to change my strategy. Only the weak relied on tricks.

I moved faster than any of the òrìshà could see and grabbed Ọṣun by her slender throat. Her eyes bulged and she tried to scream again but with a slight flick of my wrist, I broke her neck and let her crumbling body fall to my feet. Behind me, Ṣàngó howled at his wife’s death and came for me again. I dodged him and slammed my staff on the back of his neck, causing him to stumble and fall to her side, stunned. The inoki came for me as well but I ignored them and commanded my staff to transform into a spear. Ọbàtálá, the creator and controller of the giants, was hiding behind one of the hall’s massive pillars. I threw the spear with all my strength. It shattered the pillar and embedded itself in Ọbàtálá’s heart. The inoki he had created fell apart along with him. I caught a glimpse of his shocked expression before I turned to the next god.

Ọya, Ṣàngó’s second wife, stood before me. Her dark robes billowed even though there was no wind. Her eyes were as dark as a starless night and her head was shaven. In her right hand, she held her death scythe. I knew from experience that the slightest touch by that blade was enough to suck out any being’s essence. It was one of the few weapons that could kill gods. Beside Ọya stood Yemọja, the sea goddess. Her body was covered in scales that changed colour in a dizzying manner. In one hand, she held a conical shell, which was how she summoned water despite being so far from the sea.

“I knew it was a matter of time before you gave yourself to the darkness,” Ọya spat, glaring at me. She never liked or trusted me.

I smiled and struck.

As I moved towards the two goddesses, my staff reappeared in my hand. I smashed the tip against Yemọja’s shell, shattering it. She cried out and tried to turn away but I was too fast for her. The staff rose and smashed against her head. I heard her neck break as she fell.

Ọya yelled and swung at me. I dodged the scythe easily. I could see her attacks before she made them. I smiled at her, making her angrier. She summoned a gust of wind to push me away and open up my defenses but I stood firmly and wouldn’t be shaken. I let go of my staff and stepped up to her. With a single word of power, I blasted her across the room. I didn’t wait to see her broken body hit the floor.

Ṣàngó had risen once more and now his anger was even more palpable. His plaited hair stood on end. His clothes had been burned away. He held up his axe and approached me slowly.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Ogun stalking me as well and I prepared myself to fight both the god of thunder and the god of war at the same time. Then Ṣàngó held out a hand to Ogun.

“Don’t bother yourself, Ogun. This bastard is mine,” he growled.

Laughter erupted from my lips. I laughed for a long time while Ṣàngó glared at me. When I was done, I grinned at him.

“Your pride will lead to your death. You have no idea what you face,” I told him.

“I know that you have made a deal with some dark power. But you are still nothing before me!” He thundered and then he attacked.

All the other òrìshà I had defeated were nothing compared to Ṣàngó. Each strike of his axe was accompanied by lightning bolts. He switched that dreadful weapon between his two hands, making it difficult to guess his next move. I blocked every attempt but he only attacked even harder. Whenever I managed to score a hit, he ignored it and charged again. I growled in frustration and kept losing ground. He was too good. But he was alone and I wasn’t.

I dodged another one of his attacks then struck him with the same bolts of black lightning I had used on the inoki guards. Confident in his ability as the god of thunder and lightning, Ṣàngó thought he could absorb this strange black lightning as well so he made no attempt to dodge.

The bolts hit him squarely on his chest and blew him away with a loud boom. I could sense his life force fading as he fell.

I turned to the last god and settled into my battle stance. Ogun, the god of war and the hunt, fixed his steely eyes on me. He was clad in armor as always. He still held his flaming sword in one hand. In the other, he held a leash of a massive dog with fiery eyes.

“Have you changed your mind?” I asked. I had no idea what I was saying but Ogun didn’t look surprised. He just sighed and raised his sword.

“I would never let myself be used by you,” he replied then he attacked.

He was a better fighter than Ṣàngó. The best among the gods. His sword moved too fast for my eyes to follow as he forced me back rapidly, chanting under his breath. The dog attacked me as well, snapping at my limbs and trying to reach my throat. I held them off for a while, looking for openings. Ogun would never let me use the lightning and there was no gap in his defenses. I was getting desperate, a feeling amplified by the spirit controlling me.

My staff changed from a sword to a spear to a staff again but none of them could hurt the burning god of war. Then I spotted something out of the corner of my eye and carefully maneuvered Ogun to the spot I wanted. When the time was right, I allowed him to stab me with his sword and I fell to the ground. When he stepped in for the kill, I rolled away and came up with a new weapon clutched in my hands.

Ogun’s eyes widened and he leaned away but I was faster. I lunged forward and slashed his chest with Ọya’s death scythe. The god of war screamed as his life essence was sucked by the blade until he was nothing but an empty husk on the floor. His dog disappeared with him and I dropped the scythe. I looked around the hall. No god remained standing. All of them were dead. Well, almost all.

“You . . . bastard,” came a cry from my left.

I approached the fallen king of the gods and looked down on him. His body was broken. There were gaping holes in his chest from where the lightning bolts had struck him. His godblood pooled on the floor around him. Yet he had a fierce and proud look in his eyes and he still hadn’t let go of his axe.

“Ṣàngó, my friend,” I said in the voice that wasn’t my own. “Look at you, broken like a toy. I am sorry it had to be like this but you wouldn’t have allowed me to take control. This was the only way.”

“Let . . . Éshu . . . go,” Ṣàngó growled.

I laughed at him and his weak plea.

“This one is my puppet,” I said. “I will use him until he has served his purpose.”

Ṣàngó sighed and I briefly saw something like regret in his eyes. Then it was gone and that fierce look in his eyes returned.

“So be it,” he said. Then he raised his axe.

A pillar of lightning rose from where he had fallen, striking the roof of the hall. There was a deep rumbling all around as the hall shook and cracks appeared in the floor. Ṣàngó was destroying the hall of the gods and making it his grave. As well as mine.

I stumbled away and looked around but there was no way out. I felt fear for the first time since I had entered the hall and that was when I noticed that my mind was free. The voice was gone.

I should have been relieved but there was no time to feel anything. The roof came down and the floor split open. The last thing I remember is the intense pain that racked my body before I collapsed and slipped into unconsciousness.

• • • •

I woke up in a forest.

For a wild moment, I thought everything had been a terrible dream then the pain swept through my body and proved otherwise. I looked around me from my prone position and quickly realized that I was in front of my cave. I must have opened a portal just before the hall collapsed and somehow I was able to fall through it in time.

I crawled into the cave and sat with my back on the wall. My injuries weren’t too severe so I spent the next two weeks healing and fortifying myself. All the magic I had used in the fight against the gods had drained me. I tried to call on my powers but the response was slow. My body was functional again but my spirit was troubled.

I trained hard to get my powers back. I drank foul herbs and meditated for days on end. I chanted in strange tongues and danced naked under the moonlight. When I could feel the strength returning to my core, I stopped and thought about my next step.

If you know anything about me, you’ll know how independent I am. Some people might call me rebellious but don’t listen to them. I have always made my own decisions, always been in control. As the god of fate, this is expected. So I was understandably enraged that I had been used as a puppet by the mysterious voice. Yes, I was angered by the death of the gods, too. I may not have liked most of them very much, but I would never have massacred them so distastefully. It would have been a work of art.

I tried to remember something that would give me a clue of the identity of the voice, but I couldn’t come up with anything. There was no psionic footprint for me to follow. But I remembered the short conversation with Ogun. The god of war had known who controlled me. They had probably approached him previously but he turned them down. There’s no way to know for sure, though. Ogun, like all the other gods, was long gone from this world, banished to the void of nothingness leagues beneath hell itself.

This left me with only one way to get information. I had to go to the witches.

In your bedtime stories, witches are evil old women who torment people and eat disobedient children. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

The witches are neutral forces existing in the liminal space between the realms of gods and men. They were given power by me in the days of old, when humanity was still trying to learn how to walk the earth. They are balancing forces that help the world to remain on course. But just because I gave them power doesn’t mean I lead them or that they must obey me. They have grown and evolved for centuries, becoming more powerful and seeing deeper into the realms. Babalawos, priests who dabble in gray magic, often consult them in place of the gods when they need help.

The witches are countless in number but at the same time, they are one. Like me with my two hundred and fifty-six manifestations, they exceed understanding.

I stepped out of my portal into their midst. Of course, they were expecting me. They’ve probably been watching me since the strange voice took control.

They could have chosen any form, but they decided to appear in the likeness of the gods I’d murdered.

I bowed to them and they bowed back.

“Great witches, the ones who wrap themselves in a thousand clothes that never touch the ground. I greet you today.” I said.

“Éshu Elegba, cunning god of fate,” they said as one, a cacophonous greeting. Then their voices rose into higher octaves as they launched into one of the panegyrics my human worshippers often used to praise me.

“Éshu turns right into wrong, wrong into right.

When he is angry, he hits a stone until it bleeds.

When he is angry, he sits on the skin of an ant.

When he is angry, he weeps tears of blood.

Éshu slept in the house—

But the house was too small for him:

Éshu slept on the verandah—

But the verandah was too small for him:

Éshu slept in a nut—

At last he could stretch himself!

Éshu walked through the groundnut farm.

The tuft of his hair was just visible:

If it had not been for his huge size,

He would not be visible at all.

Lying down, his head hits the roof:

Standing up, he cannot look into the cooking pot.

He throws a stone today

And kills a bird yesterday!”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed when they finished. I love being adulated, especially by the powerful. But I sobered up almost immediately when I remembered why I’d come. Now that we’d gotten the greetings out of the way, I approached the witches. Only seven witches had appeared, even if they sounded like a thousand. They took the forms of Ọbàtálá, Ọrunmila, Ṣàngó, Ogun, Ọṣun, Ọya and Yemọja. They didn’t look as strong and powerful as the gods had been in life. Instead, they looked broken and pitiful as they had been when I killed them.

I looked at one who appeared as Ṣàngó. Their chest was marked by the holes the black lightning ripped in the thunder god’s chest. I looked at my feet instead.

“I am sure you know why I have come,” I said.

“We cannot hear you until you offer tribute. You know the rules.”

I smiled and reached into my bag. I brought out the dried skin of a snake with two heads, the tears of an abiku in a bottle, a strand of hair from a pregnant woman, and a cowrie taken from the stomach of a blind whale.

The items vanished as I placed them at the feet of the witches, a sign of acceptance.

They spoke then, each one ending where the previous stopped. The one with Ṣàngó’s appearance spoke first.

“The one you seek is not alone . . .”

Then Ọya.

“. . . nor is he weak or easy to vanquish . . .”

Then Ọrunmila.

“. . . his sole weakness is the water from the sea . . .”

Then Ogun.

“. . . but beware the eaters of war . . .”

Then Ọṣun.

“. . . beware the killers of children and devourers of kingdoms . . .”

Then Yemọja.

“. . . beware the pockmarked god who afflicts his enemies with smallpox . . .”

Finally, Ọbàtálá.

“. . . beware the outcast god in his palace of bones. Beware, Éshu. Beware.”

Then they opened a portal and promptly sent me through it, leaving me to piece together their riddles.

• • • •

I traveled through Aye, the world of humans, for fourteen months before I reached my destination. I traveled through unfamiliar lands, fighting monsters and other nameless things risen from hell. Every obstacle only confirmed that I was on the right path. The real killer of the gods knew I was coming and didn’t want me to arrive. But I was strong. After my meeting with the witches, I prepared for the battle ahead. I sat at the bottom of the ocean and drew power from the restless spirits of the deep. I sat on top of the world’s tallest mountain and drew strength from the unyielding rock. I sat suspended in a drop of rain and gained knowledge of infinitesimal things, the secrets of unmaking the world. I don’t expect you to understand the actions of a god. But the obstacles on the path did little to stop me.

The most disturbing thing about my journey was the state of the world. The deaths of the major òrìshà had left a vacuum and something dark had stepped into that vacancy. I had a good idea what it was.

Disease ravaged the earth. War broke out between kingdoms for meaningless reasons. People slumped and died out of nowhere. The creatures of the sea died and corrupted the water. Monsters roamed the world devouring humans unlucky to cross their path. There was no corner of the world that knew peace.

I wished I could help the people. But there was nothing I could do. This was beyond my powers as the god of balance. I had to cut this affliction off at the neck. And that is what led me to the lost city.

Located at the very edge of the world, far from the many people suffering and dying, the lost city is a densely populated city that had no walls. No war raged through this city. No sick children with distended bellies. No beggars with missing limbs.

No one stopped me as I entered the city. I looked around, noting that the one thing everybody had in common was the sign written on their forehead with white chalk. It is a sign I am very familiar with, a confirmation of the identity of the godkiller.

The palace of bones sat in the middle of the lost city. It was a grand building made entirely out of . . . you guessed it. Bones.

Once again, nobody stopped me from gaining entrance. I had already made it this far. Obstacles were meaningless.

I stepped into a deserted passage with a large door at its end. The inside of the palace hummed with energy, as if the bones used to build the place held some sort of power. I shivered despite myself but I kept walking until I reached the door which swung open by itself.

The hall was oddly similar to the hall of the gods. Pillars of bone rose to the ceiling. The floor was also painted black. But unlike the hall of the gods, there was only one throne here, carved from the ribcage of some giant creature. And on the throne sat someone in a simple black robe and with a golden mask on his face.

The mask depicted a handsome face. All the features were stunning. It was beautiful and handsome and powerful. It was perfect. Too perfect. I tore my gaze away from the bewitching mask, shaking off its magic but not before I saw the mark on the forehead. A white hand was drawn in chalk on the mask, the same mark on the heads of everyone I had seen in the city.

At the masked figure’s foot, a naked man knelt. From my place at the door, I could see his white leprous skin. He was the first diseased person I had seen in the lost city. His head was shaved and he had the mark on his forehead. His eyes were fixed on the golden mask and I could tell he was lost in its magical beauty.

Then the masked man leaned forward and revealed his right hand. It was an ugly thing, gray and mottled and desiccated. I wasn’t even the one he was trying to touch but I recoiled. The leper didn’t even blink. He just stared at the mask as his god touched a pale forefinger to his forehead.

Immediately, the man’s skin started to change. His leprosy seemed to move like water, rushing up to his head until it concentrated on his forehead and was sucked up through the masked man’s finger.

The kneeling man, now totally healed with dark skin, sighed contentedly and collapsed. I could see his chest rising and falling, so it was probably from exhaustion. The masked man didn’t seem affected. He just returned his hand to the folds of his robe. Then two attendants appeared from a side door I hadn’t noticed before with a stretcher. They loaded the former leper on it and carried him out. Finally, it was just me and the masked man. Or should I say, the masked god.

He looked up at me and I could almost feel him grinning.

“Ah, my guest is here!” He said, his voice sounding like a death rattle. “Welcome, trickster! I have waited so long to see you again.”

I stepped farther into the hall, closer to the throne of bones. As I got closer, the masked man stood and that hideous hand appeared again. This time, he reached up and took his mask off.

I gazed upon the face of the killer of the most powerful beings in the universe. His pockmarked face was terrible yet I couldn’t look away. His eyes burned with hate and pain and anger. His lips were twisted in a permanent sneer. His skin was pale as death.

Before me stood the god of diseases. The smallpox god. The god of healing. The outcast. Adopted son of Yemọja.

Before me stood Ọbalúayé the Terrible. And I was very afraid.

• • • •

The story of Ọbalúayé is an interesting one.

He was born diseased, killing his mother as he was taken out of her. The midwives also died when they touched him. Disease followed him from the womb. Death greeted him upon birth.

The neighbors called the priests who came in to look at the child. They proclaimed him cursed, a demon sent from hell to afflict the world. The priests instructed the neighbors to leave the squealing baby alone until he died of hunger but after crying for three days and three nights, he was still alive. So one of the neighbors, a brave hunter, went into the house and wrapped the baby in a raffia mat. The hunter took him to the sea and threw him in, hoping to end the baby’s torment and spare the world from the destruction he was prophesied to bring.

But Yemọja saw it all. She rose from her palace beneath the waves and saved the baby. She raised him as her own and in time, he became very powerful. He performed several feats and was raised to godhood. But he was never accepted among the major òrìshà. Even humans only remembered him when they were sick. He was cast out of the city of the gods and was thought lost in the world of humans.

But I found him. And I wished I hadn’t.

He seemed incredibly tall even though he was my height. I was rooted to the spot as he stalked closer. His robe covered a thin body ravaged by every disease known to man and then some. Yet he lived.

Ọbalúayé was inches away from me, his hand stretched towards my head. I was still caught in his hypnosis but I knew if he touched me, I would die. That was why the gods had been so scared of him that they cast him out. He could kill even the high òrìshà with a single touch, making their bones rot or their blood become diseased.

I kept back just before he touched me, covered in sweat. I hadn’t even started fighting and I was already tired. I could feel my eyes trying to close. I was exhausted. I gasped as if I’d just ran several miles.

Ọbalúayé stood watching me, that terrible sneer on his face. He dropped his hand.

“I don’t want to destroy you, Éshu,” he said. “You are an interesting òrìshà. I want to know more about you. Perhaps, we can be friends.”

“Friends don’t use each other like tools,” I spat, readying myself to fight.

“I thought you would understand, above all others. The òrìshà had to go. They were in the way. And they didn’t really do much to help, if you think about it. A bunch of powerful beings who did whatever they liked. They had to be removed.”

I snorted.

“Do you think I’m a fool? We both know that’s not the reason.” I said.

The god of diseases chuckled.

“Well, that’s right. I have no lofty morality in me. I want to create something new in this world, Elegbara. I want to create a world where I am the only god. It’s quite simple. People will come to me to heal them. I will take on their suffering and pain and they will adore me. They will give me power.”

His eyes gleamed. His permanent smile widened.

I just shook my head.

“You don’t know what you’re doing. Maybe you’ve finally gotten a disease in your brain. You don’t know what you’ve allied yourself with. They will use you like you used me and discard you. You can’t trust the ajogún.” I said.

Ọbalúayé flinched, as if I’d doused him in hot water. He hadn’t been expecting me to know that he had partners or to know their identity. But the witches had given me the clue. The ajogún, also known as the eaters of war, were a legion of powerful forces that were mainly evil but necessary. They were created to balance the gods. As the god of balance, I was their leader and made sure they didn’t tip the scales too much. But I lost that authority when stubborn Ṣàngó banished me. So the ajogún must have rebelled and found a god they could use to wipe out the òrìshà once and for all.

“You are wrong, trickster,” Ọbalúayé said, recovered from his surprise. “The ajogún are my partners. Didn’t you see the world outside? Without the meddling of the òrìshà, the ajogún reign supreme. They disrupt the world and I’ll swoop in to save the day. The humans will have no choice but to worship their saviour!”

I shook my head.

“You’re wrong. I created the ajogún, remember? They will continue to devour until nothing is left. When they’re done, there will be no one left to worship you.”

Ọbalúayé snarled and turned away from me.

“I am giving you one last chance, Éshu. Join me. Join us. Don’t be foolish like Ogun. I went to him, you know. Thought he would see the appeal in a world constantly at war but he turned me down. I particularly enjoyed killing him through you.”

“And what of Yemọja? She raised and taught you when you were left to die.” I said.

I couldn’t see his face but a note of sadness entered his voice.

“She had to die. They all had to.”

I sighed and summoned my staff. Ọbalúayé’s shoulders dropped in resignation. He could sense me gathering my power.

“I really liked you, Éshu. But you’ve chosen death.”

I attacked first, staff transforming into a sword. The god of diseases didn’t try to avoid me or counterattack. The sword pierced his back and protruded from the other side, covered in blood. Unlike the other gods, Ọbalúayé’s blood wasn’t silver. It was blank and stank so badly that my eyes watered. I stumbled away, squinting and wondering if I’d scored a fatal hit. But Ọbalúayé merely turned around and pulled the sword out of himself. And I watched as the wound closed up immediately.

“You have so much to learn, Éshu. Like me, you were human once. You should remember how difficult it was. You should understand me.”

He stepped back to the throne and drew out a sword made of bone.

“I don’t like fighting, trickster. I prefer cursing my enemies to slow and painful deaths. But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

And then he struck. Too fast for my eyes to follow, he was suddenly past my defenses, swords coming up to cut my head off. I barely ducked and brought up my own sword to block. He recited incantations as he attacked, summoning gusts of wind and fireballs to assail me. I managed to avoid every one while chanting as well. I split into seven, confusing him. He attacked my duplicates while I retreated and struck from his blindside. My sword cut into his left shoulder and severed his arm.

Ọbalúayé screamed in rage and destroyed the clones with a single word of power. Then he turned to me. He was changing before my eyes. He grew taller and his eyes became dark orbs that threatened to suck me in. His body filled out until he looked as muscular as Ṣàngó had been. The arm I had cut off was regrown in an instant.

He was channelling the power the ajogún had given him. This was what I’d been waiting for. This was why I had not used the weakness the witches revealed to me. I wanted to see what kind of power they had given him.

I reached into my bag and retrieved a bottle, pouring all its contents into my mouth.

“No potion can help you now, trickster,” Ọbalúayé said. His voice had changed as well. He sounded like a beast. “I will destroy you and then no one will stand in my way.”

He lunged forward, even faster than before. I gave up ground, throwing random things from my bag of tricks to slow him down. Ọbalúayé was invulnerable. He kept coming, slashing the air with his bone sword. He had gained incredible strength and a single hit would be enough to end me.

But if I wasn’t struck, I couldn’t get close to him. So I let him stab me in the shoulder. I felt sickness spreading through me, weakening me. I couldn’t reach my powers. But I didn’t need them. I spat in his face.

The seawater I had taken from the bottle was like acid to him. It burned his face and he stumbled back, crying in pain. His sores started to vanish and his skin lost its deathly palor. The seawater was healing all his sicknesses. This was why he’d left Yemọja’s abode after she raised him. Seawater weakened him. It washed away the diseases that gave him his abilities. It was why he made me destroy Yemọja’s conical shell in the fight against the gods, despite the greater threat of Ọya and her death scythe . . . because the shell could summon seawater. It was why he had built this city at the edge of the world, thousands of miles from the nearest ocean.

The pain in my shoulder increased and I could feel the rot spreading but I stepped close to the wailing god and stabbed him in the chest. Without his powers, he couldn’t regenerate. He started falling apart, melting into a disgusting brown sludge.

“They will come . . . for you, trickster . . .” He said. And then he was gone.

I fell to my knees, extremely weakened. But I couldn’t rest. Not yet. The palace of bones trembled and just like the hall of the gods, it started to fall apart at the death of its builder.

I cursed and reached deep into my core to stoke my ashe, the force that gave me life. With it, I did one final act of power. For the second time in my life, I fell through a portal to avoid getting crushed to death by a dying palace.

• • • •

So, that is the story.

I know it’s a lot to digest. But the truth must be recorded. Especially since I have no idea what tomorrow holds.

In the aftermath of the fight against Ọbalúayé, I lost all my powers. I almost lost my life.

Without my powers I couldn’t visit the witches for help. I couldn’t do much. The portal had sent me back to my starting point, my cave in the deep forest.

Whatever disease Ọbalúayé struck me with, it undid my godhood. I was mortal again.

It scared me. I didn’t leave my cave for days, scared of the world in a way I hadn’t been for a long time. But on the third day, I was forced to go out by another sensation I hadn’t felt in ages: hunger.

I ate wild berries and caught small animals to eat. I couldn’t even summon a spark so I ate everything raw. I lived like this for weeks. Then one day, I reached into my bottomless bag, the only remnant of my godhood, and my hands grazed the cover of this book.

Within its pages, I found a recipe for cooking the immortality soup. A meal that would grant godhood to any who ate it. I had forgotten about this book, you see. When I lost my powers, I also lost a lot of my memories.

But now, I’m on the hunt for the ingredients. I’m on a quest to find myself again. The road ahead is dangerous, especially in these turbulent and godless times, but I cannot give up.

The ajogún will rip the world apart and nobody can stop them. Not the strongest wizards or any of the remaining minor òrìshà. So I have to reclaim my powers and make things right. I have to put this fractured world back together by myself.

I must go now. Farewell, human. Till we meet again.