Long before the word “empire” was ever whispered across the Yoruba lands, there was a boy named Oranyan who was born with thunder in his blood and an ego big enough to fill a calabash.
His birth was not quiet. The sky cracked open the moment he drew breath—lightning split the night over Ile-Ife, thunder rolled like a thousand talking drums, and rain fell so hard it sounded like the gods themselves were applauding.
