This is my lore submission for myths and legends of the DeusX NFT community. Join the discord here.
Hiding in a closet is the most terrifying thing, especially if you’re claustrophobic.
The air is taut as screams pierce the night, sounds of the wounded and dying cutting through the rainforest like the harmattan from the Sahara. Oyinda puts her fingers over her ears. Her mother, Ireti, is on her knees and sweating, praying to the Old Gods and the New.
“Mummy, would we see daddy again?”
“Quiet, child! Let us live till the morning. It will be fine if we can live till sunlight!”
Outside, it is raining. Echoes of thunder and flashes of Lightning fork through the night sky, illuminating the dead bodies and pools of blood around the gutters. The Valks have ravaged this settlement, attacking while the community slept and ripping through flesh and sinew like the butcher at the Oja Marketplace. In the big wooden closet, Oyinda clutches her Ere, a threadbare doll her father had given her for her 12th birthday.
Ere had been there when the monsters first attacked their house and eaten her baby brother. Ere had been there when her father left the house clutching his Dane gun and machete, swearing on Obatala to “Kill Every Last One of THEM!”. Ere had been there when he was brought back on a wooden stretcher, tied neatly in a body bag folded at the edges, his beautiful Nubian face split in half and his right eye missing.
Ere will always be here. Ere will protect me.
Just now, a crash of thunder. The sound is getting closer. This could only mean one thing.
“Mummy, I have to pee!”
“Oyinda, I beg you. Do not make another sound! We may be the last ones alive..”
“But Iya mi…”
Just then, there’s a loud bang as all the windows of their tiny home are blown to bits. Oyinda screams, running out of the closet in utter panic. Just then, a lone figure knocks on the front door.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The door creaks and opens.
She clenches her fist, grabbing a broken vase from the ground. Ere in one hand, weapon in the other, she turns around slowly to face the intruder.
It’s pitch-dark and with only occasional flashes of lightning, Oyinda could scarcely make out the silhouette of a man. Or was he?
Right in the center of her living room towered a 7-foot god, arms and torso chiseled like bronze and covered from head to toe in soft, delicate tattoos. He had the longest dreads she had ever seen, flowing graciously from the tip of his oblong head to the small of his back. In his left hand, he held an axe, still dripping with blood. With his right, he beckoned to her.
“Do you know who I am?”
A clash of thunder masks the sounds of two Valks devouring Ireti. A monster howls in the distance. Oyinda cannot breathe.
“I want to see my Daddy.”
The Ere drops from her fingers, a symbol of hope lost. The Lone figure stares at the threadbare doll, adorned with white chalk and tiny markings in Oro, an ancient Yoruba language native to the Ayan healers of the Hidden Hills.
“I am Sango, Son of Obatala, Maker of Rain and God of thunder, yet you do not fear me?”
Oyinda clenches her fist even harder and bites her lower lip, drawing blood.
“You have the blood of the old Gods and the Magun protects you. We shall meet again, Young Oyinda.” And with another flash of lightning, he vanishes into thin air.
Outside, the rain continues to fall. Inside, two Valks share her mother’s remains, totally oblivious to the petrified child still clutching her wooden toy.
The path had been ordained. It was time.
