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. Oranyan’s mother, a woman of the palace with eyes that saw through lies, held him up to the storm and laughed. “This one will not sit still,” she said. “He will walk until the earth gets tired of carrying him.”
