The God of Thunder

CHAPTER 3 The Return of a Nobody

Egba Kingdom had changed.

The walls were higher, the gates heavier, the streets louder—but the soul of the land felt wounded. Omogun stood on a distant hill overlooking the city of his birth, a plain traveler’s cloak covering his powerful frame, his face hidden beneath the shadow of a wide hood.

The air tasted wrong.

Fear lingered where pride once lived.

“Twenty years,” he murmured.

Thunder answered softly above, restrained, obedient.

Beside him, Kemi adjusted the bundle on her back. Time had bent her shoulders, streaked her hair with gray, but her eyes were still sharp—watchful, protective.

“This is as far as I go with you,” she said quietly.

Omogun turned to her. For a moment, the God of Thunder disappeared, leaving only the boy she had carried into the mountain.

“You have already given me everything,” he said. “Stay safe.”

Kemi smiled faintly. “You came back alive. That is my reward.”

She hesitated, then reached into her robe and produced a small, worn cloth—red, faded with age.

Omogun’s breath caught.

“Kike’s ribbon,” Kemi said. “She dropped it the day you vanished. I kept it… in case fate remembered its promise.”

His fingers closed around it, carefully, reverently.

“I will remember,” he said.

Kemi stepped back as the wind rose. In the blink of an eye, Omogun descended the hill—moving not with haste, but certainty.

The kingdom gates loomed before him.

“Name?” a guard barked.

Omogun lifted his head slowly. “Ogun,” he replied. “A traveler seeking work.”

The guard scoffed. “Another hungry mouth. Enter—and don’t cause trouble.”

Omogun walked through the gates as a nobody.

The palace of Egba dominated the city like a predator.

Oba Adewole Ogunwole sat upon the throne of stolen gold, his fingers heavy with rings, his eyes sharp with suspicion. Age had thickened his body but not softened his cruelty.

A diviner knelt before him, trembling.

“My king… the signs are restless. The thunder has returned to the land.”

Adewole’s jaw tightened. “You said the child died.”

“I said… the spirits were silent.”

Adewole rose abruptly. “Silence means hiding.”

He turned to the council of chiefs—some loyal, others bought.

“Double the guards. Watch the markets. Watch the poor.” His eyes gleamed darkly. “Power always hides among them.”

Far below the palace, Omogun moved through the streets unnoticed.

He listened.

Merchants complained of crushing taxes. Farmers whispered of seized lands. Mothers spoke of sons taken by force into the king’s army.

Rage stirred.

But Compassion steadied him.

Not yet.

That night, Omogun found shelter in a broken shrine at the edge of the city. As he knelt, placing Kike’s ribbon carefully beside him, memories flooded back.

Her laughter.

Her faith.

The day she had looked at his empty hands and sighed.

“You dream too much, Omogun,” she had said gently. “Dreams don’t feed families.”

Pain tightened his chest.

“Would you recognize me now?” he whispered into the dark.

Thunder rumbled faintly—almost sadly.

The first injustice came before dawn.

A scream tore through the marketplace.

Omogun rose instantly.

A group of armed men surrounded an elderly trader, his goods scattered, blood dripping from his mouth.

“Taxes,” one guard snarled. “Or your life.”

“I paid already!” the man cried.

The guard raised his blade.

The wind stopped.

Omogun stepped forward.

“Let him go.”

Laughter erupted.

“And who are you?” the guard sneered.

No answer came—only movement.

The man flew backward as if struck by invisible force, crashing into a wall. The others froze, terror spreading through them.

Omogun pulled the hood lower.

Lightning crackled faintly at his feet.

“Leave,” he commanded.

They ran.

The old man stared, shaking. “Who… who are you?”

Omogun placed the man’s goods back into his hands.

“A passerby,” he said quietly.

But as he turned away, the clouds split—and thunder roared across Egba.

People whispered.

By nightfall, the rumors reached the palace.

“A masked figure,” a guard reported nervously. “Struck without touching. Vanished like smoke.”

Adewole’s face drained of color.

“Describe him.”

“Tall. Cloaked. The air moved when he spoke.”

Adewole dismissed the room with a wave—then smashed a goblet against the wall.

“He lives,” he hissed. “The thunder brat lives.”

He summoned his most trusted chief. “Prepare the hunters.”

Omogun stood atop a rooftop, watching torches move through the streets.

Thunder Olufemi’s voice echoed softly in his mind—through a charm bound by spirit and vow.

> The hunters are awake.

“Good,” Omogun replied silently. “Let them come.”

He pulled the mask from within his cloak—dark metal etched with ancient symbols.

As it covered his face, the air changed.

The ground vibrated.

Lightning surged—not wild, but obedient.

Omogun straightened.

The God of Thunder stepped into the night.

Far across the city, Kike sat beside a small oil lamp, staring at a familiar red ribbon tied around her wrist.

For reasons she could not explain…

Her heart began to race.