Sango | Adeoye Shobakin

I did send rain! He wrathfully bawls at the gates.

A rumbling follows in the sky. The earth shakes beneath. Mothers draw their children closer, while fathers check roofs for strange holes that could leak in bolts of thunder. Droplets of dew strike Sango’s body, and then sizzle off him like a million buzzing bees. It all irks Sango. Seize! The globules stop.

They do not wait for his call; all the nymphs, priests, witches and rainmakers dash out of their grottos. He towers above them gladiatorial, ready to roast the thief and all who have conspired with him. They cower beneath. His voice rings with the threat of thunder: Who stole the rain? Cocks and hens, fathers and mothers, kings and queens; all present cringe at his feet, their voices cut by fear, bracing for his bolt to split the earth in half.

Except a boy walks up to him; a tiny boy, no taller than Sango’s knees. He tugs at the god’s skirt and whispers: you gave rain to the fair skinned woman.

Sango’s eyes meet hers again. Just like the year before; and like that which approaches. Beyond her, he sees no one. He hears only her voice, answers only her prayers, and the furious smoke curls back inside him.

Now there had been no rain a while, and Sango, bloated with fury, marched onto the land.

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