Sanja stood atop the summit of the gods and surveyed the dusty plains of the world he belonged to. His eyes took in all its arid beauty, curbing his impatience with the habitual lateness of his peers. His mind saw visions of the world to come, mired in uncertainty and repeated disappointment.
And the weight of the safety of the people of that world rested on the shoulders of a man who had once been a god.
“You’re late.”
He turned to face the goddess whose presence brought forth thoughts of a cool, rainy day. Her hair hung down her back in thick black braids, and her golden dress shimmered with godly luminescence, as did her dewy ebony skin.
“I didn’t know we too were bound by the concept of time,” Ọ̀ṣun said, her lips pulling up in a teasing smile.
Sanja felt his cheeks heat up, and he smiled back. “I am living proof that we are. Especially now, when the lives of our worshippers are at stake.”
Her light laughter sounded like birdsong. “Don’t be so moody. It’s not like there’s a war coming.”
Sanja remained mute and watched as her bare feet moved toward him in a manner she knew was distracting and had worked many times before. Despite knowing his dark cheeks could not expose his arousal, he ducked his head. She pressed her lithe body along his slim one, letting her breasts brush his chest lightly.
“Your husband will be here soon,” he said.
She scoffed and walked ahead of him to the edge of the cliff. “That fat man? He’s not going anywhere, not when he and Oya are enjoying each other’s bodies.”
Sanja chuckled under his breath. All the gods knew of the eternal struggle between Sango’s two wives. He now understood why she was early and trying to seduce him. It was a ploy to soothe her bruised ego, which was visible in the tightness of her shoulders and the slight sheen of sweat on her neck.
But this was no place to placate a hurt goddess or pander to her whims, as was emphasized by the appearance of four other deities. The air crackled with power, and Sanja breathed in deep, wishing a thousandth time for the electric smell that would tickle his senses were he still a god. And to think, he had taken it for granted, when all he had now was the smell of wet mud and fresh grass to fill his nose.
“It is not every day an insect summons a lion,” one of the deities said as he tossed the edge of his dark wrapper to the side and tucked the corner in at his waist.
Sanja levelled an unimpressed look at the spider god.
“My age or standing does not make me less useful, and you know it. All it takes is one widespread thought, and the stories would say I killed you and took all your wives for myself.”
Anansi laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder with his slim fingers. A brown spider came out of his long locs and regarded Sanja with unblinking eyes. Sanja returned his friend’s wide-toothed smile with one of his own and petted the spider as his eyes moved over the other deities who had appeared.
There was Egun, the thickset goddess from the south whose shaved head reflected the knowledge and wisdom she bestowed on her people, the same wisdom that had saved Sanja when the other deities had ordered his death to protect their secrets.
Her plump arms were held onto by a Djinn who Sanja had only met in passing during his divine days. He’d recognized the supernatural glow emanating from the Djinn’s fair skin while attending a moonlight festival. They’d acknowledged one another with a simple nod.
The lack of familiarity didn’t stop them from stepping forward and greeting Sanja with a chaste kiss.
“When I saw the summons, I was only too glad to know its purpose,” they said with a straight face and a twinkle in their pupil-less eyes. Their lean frame was covered in a long white tunic Sanja did not see the practicality in as the mountaintop was chilly.
Then he remembered, and a bolt of pain went through him. They were gods; he wasn’t.
“Yes,” another god with hulking muscles and many piercings said. “Your message was… interesting.”
“Strange as it may have sounded,” Sanja said, shaking out his robe to make it look like he cared less about the cold. “You still came.”
“This isn’t even a proper council,” the war god muttered.
“Why?” Ọ̀ṣun asked in a mocking tone, “Because you do not have any Elder to hold your hand?”
The god narrowed his eyes, and Sanja could see the beginnings of an argument they didn’t need, but one he would undoubtedly enjoy.
“As long as we’re here,” he said. “It’s a council.”
“Is that why neither Olorun nor any of the other òrìṣàare here?” Egun asked.
A tense silence fell. They all knew how eager the western gods had been to accept the new gods and their people, along with the insinuation that their way of life was the best.
“They made their choice,” Sanja said. “And now we must make ours.”
The air crackled again, and this time, Sanja wished he could disappear back into his mother’s womb from centuries before.
“I should have known you would be the leader of this mutiny,” Amadioha said, thunder crackling in his beard and white eyes.
Sanja felt a spark of anger in his chest. How dare he accuse him of being an upstart? Sanja had nothing to gain from being here, except perhaps a tryst with Ọ̀ṣun. But she always knew where to find him anyway, and him her.
“It’s not mutiny, and you know it. What I’m proposing is in all our best interests.”
“Ha!” the thunder god exclaimed. “You forget you are not a god anymore. We don’t care about you.”
Ọ̀ṣun winced, and Sanja’s fists balled of their own volition. The other deities watched with contemplative expressions.
“And,” Amadioha continued, uncaring. “What you are suggesting will require more work from us than we have ever done.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Sanja saw Ọ̀ṣun roll her eyes. “Lazy goat,” she muttered.
A sneer painted Amadioha’s mouth, and he pointed at Ọ̀ṣun. “I do not need your whore to speak for you.”
Rage filled Sanja, and he saw red, growling and taking a step forward before a hand on his chest stopped him.
“Enough,” Anansi’s fourth companion said. Her voice was quiet and raspy, powerful enough to silence them all. She turned her petite frame on the angry thunder god.
“You come here and pass judgment on what we have only speculated. I myself may not be inclined to agree with him. But let us hear what he has to say first.”
Sanja watched with bated breath as the sparks around Amadioha’s face lessened and the god went silent. Relieved, he looked carefully at each divine face surrounding him to gauge their moods and how willing they were to listen to him.
And suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to have Amadioha screaming again. Because if he was, it meant less attention on Sanja, less pressure. Nobody could save him now.
“The òrìṣà have betrayed us.”
Never before had Sanja been so grateful to hear Ọ̀ṣun’s voice, not even in the throes of their passion.
“Is that not too harsh?” Anansi said, checking his reflection in a mirror he pulled from thin air.
“It is not.” Sanja finally found his voice. “If it is left to them and the other Elders, the rest of us would fade from existence, forgotten as only they are remembered.”
“And yet, I am here,” Amadioha said with barely concealed contempt, “among all of you.”
Hostility filled Sanja at the insult, and he saw the same anger reflected on the war god’s tawny face. To the thunder god, the slur was a way for Amadioha to keep him underfoot. To Sanja, it was a reminder of what he now was: powerless.
“If I am able to convince you who are as stubborn as the calf of the woman from which he was born,” he said, forcing down the bile that rose in his throat from the posturing, “everyone else would listen and see reason.”
Amadioha was silent, his face pensive. The pelt across his shoulders constantly shifted, from tiger to deer to panther, the mark of kings. Sanja knew his flattery had worked when the pelt stopped changing and the god’s shoulders relaxed. A large throne materialized behind him, precious jewels glinting in the bone frame.
“Alright. I will listen.” He sat on the throne and conjured up roasting corn, its sweet smell drawing Anansi and the small goddess’s fingers and mouths.
Sanja inclined his head respectfully and tried not to let the smoke bother him.
“Something is happening across the heavens, something that will reduce you to nothing if you are not careful. The foreigners in our land care for little else but power and control.”
“Eh, it’s the same for humans everywhere,” Egun interrupted with a wave of her jewelled fingers. “We knew this already.”
There were murmurs of agreement, and Sanja forced his irritation down and spoke through gritted teeth.
“They care for it at our—your—expense. To them, you are too much, as many as the grains of sand in one’s palm. They would rather you be forgotten, condensed in favour of the gods they perceive as superior.”
“But even in our humans’ minds,” the quiet goddess said, clapping her hands to remove flecks of corn. “Are we not the lesser?”
“We are no less important,” Anansi said, saving Sanja from an outburst.
“Don’t be a fool,” Amadioha said, crossing his legs. He looked almost happy. “We are a creation of human thoughts and their need for a sovereign being to believe in. What agency do we have over our perceived existence, let alone the hierarchy of our importance?”
Sanja blinked and felt his anger slowly creeping back, turning his body rigid and forcing him to cause his fingers to vibrate.
“So, you would rather we have our identities erased? Those pale foreigners would rather forget us because we are too much for them to remember to control.”
Sanja thanked the skies he had not forgotten to invite Egun. The goddess could not stand stupidity. That very moment, her eyes glinted in anger, her arms folded across her heaving bosom.
Amadioha only smiled, making Sanja’s heart sink.
“See his face now,” Ọ̀ṣun said with derision. “He knows if all the other minor deities fade from existence, he will not. E wori e bi igo epa.”
“Do not pretend to speak for those deities,” Amadioha said, wagging a finger at the goddess. He pointed at all the gods assembled, none of whom could look him in the eye. “You are all hypocrites. If you truly cared for the other gods, they would be here, deciding their own fate.”
The words were a blow to Sanja’s conscience, and he nearly staggered. Judging from Amadioha’s smirk, he did not hide his misstep well enough. Heat suffused Sanja’s cheeks, and he turned away from the gods and goddesses, his feet moving to the mountain’s edge, his mind wondering how Amadioha had come and managed to tear everything apart.
“What is it?” Ọ̀ṣun asked quietly. The other deities talked about mundane things behind them, Amadioha presiding over them on his throne.
Sanja didn’t reply immediately. He stared out at the plains, at the few people gathering herbs for their evening meal. Intermittently, they approached the mountain base, picking a few plants and genuflecting before moving away. The scene made Sanja smile. They must have seen the peculiar plant which grew wherever there was a gathering of gods. His hand quivered beside him, and he made a tight fist against the ground, the little rocks digging into his knuckles.
“He’s not supposed to be right,” he mumbled, looking into his lap. “He wasn’t even supposed to be here. And he just made me look like a fool.”
“You’re a god who became human,” Ọ̀ṣun said, rubbing his back. “You’ll always look like a fool to the rest of us.”
Sanja smiled a little at her bluntness. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? I’m the biggest hypocrite of all; not a god, not even a minor deity, just a man.”
Using a finger under his chin, she tilted his head up, looking straight into his eyes. “This is bigger than you or your pride. Just because Amadioha doesn’t care what happens doesn’t mean he can’t see the solution. Listen to him.”
Sanja shook his head.
“I saw it,” he replied in a whisper. “It just felt like too much, too much for a human to do. To gather that number of deities?” he hung his head and screwed his eyes shut.
Ọ̀ṣun made a low sound in her throat. “And you did not want another reminder of your humanity.”
Sanja had nothing to say, and they stayed that way for a long time, the sweet smell of roasting corn comforting them. A few thoughts went through Sanja’s head. The first was gratefulness for the humans who had immortalized him as a god hundreds of years ago, followed by resentment for those same humans. For if not for them, he would have died peacefully as a renowned king, instead of now being a deity who had been dethroned to flesh and blood when his worshippers’ cult died out.
Deeper resentment burned for the race he was trying to save, who would not even know his name or what he did for them. He would only be a footnote in an epic that did not exist.
“You have forgotten how to be human,” a voice said behind them, startling them out of their brooding. “And that is your problem.”
Sanja turned to find Egun pinning him with a disapproving look, her head shining in the light of the setting sun.
“What do you mean?” he asked with a frown.
“When was the last time you prayed?”
Bile rose up in Sanja’s throat and he abruptly spun his head back towards the plains. That was the one thing he would not do. He was the one that should be prayed to. He was the one incense should rise for. To pray would be to give up every ounce of pride he had left. It would be to admit that he was what he feared: nothing.
“You think prayer makes you weak,” Egun said, ignoring his stubbornness. “But you forget it is merely mortals asking us to do things for them.”
Sanja stubbornly remained silent. Logic didn’t matter. Nothing could make him pray. He could feel Ọ̀ṣun’s eyes on him, making his skin prickle with awareness.
“Sanja—”
“Don’t,” he bit out. He turned to face Ọ̀ṣun and her beautiful pleading face. “If you say anything else, you’ll never see me again.”
Her face fell in disappointment. “So, you would condemn hundreds of gods and thousands of humans just to salvage your pride. You are no different from Amadioha.”
She stood and walked back to the gathering with Egun, leaving Sanja reeling in shock. To be compared to that…that…inconsiderate buffoon, and know the comparison to be true filled him with more shame than one person should ever have to feel.
With tears running down his face, he bid farewell to the last hold he had on his divinity, rose from his seated position to his knees, put his forehead to the ground, and prayed for the first time in a hundred years.
“Please, if you can hear me, come.”
His tears fell to the rocks beneath his face, hissing where they met the ground, their salty scent, a heady incense to deities far and wide. Power pressed against his skin as he felt them appear in their droves, extending far beyond the top of the mountain into the air around it, their magnitude blocking out the sun and their luminescence providing enough light to penetrate Sanja’s eyelids.
Sanja waited for the tears to cease before getting to his feet and opening his eyes to look at the crowd of beings he had summoned. The air bubbled with the amount of power emanating from them. There were those he knew personally, those he’d had dalliances with or once kept as friends. There were Bòòríí, Arusi, and the Vodun deities. There were even gods that he didn’t know existed.
The knowledge that he, an ordinary mortal, had summoned them all here set him reeling, though he knew some were filled with glee at his shattered pride. Amadioha and the other gods gaped at their number while Egun smiled at him, proud. Still, he could not find his voice.
“Why have you brought us here?”
Several tongues spoke at once and coalesced into one clear voice in Sanja’s head.
Sanja thought of what he could say, every flowery word that would make him sound like an orator of the gods. But there was nothing pretentious left in him anymore, nothing but the bare, honest truth.
“You are all on the verge of death,” he said.
A ripple of confusion passed through them, and whispers of “Die? How?” popped up from every corner.
“A time is coming when most if not all of you will be swallowed up by history and forgotten, left to become mortals and live out eternity powerless.”
Fear and pity showed on their faces. They all knew how he’d been forgotten and condemned to live as an immortal human. And none of them wanted to be him.
“You need to come together and fight for yourselves,” he continued.
“Have you seen the new people?” a voice in the multitude asked, and others murmured their agreement. “They have weapons and knowledge we have never seen.”
“That does not give them the right to erase us or what we stand for.”
Sanja could see how his words affected different factions. Faces closed off; those who believed the newcomers were better and would gladly serve under them. Eyes burned with pride and anger; those that would fight till their dying breath to preserve their land. And still, some were undecided, whose ambivalence would keep them too busy to care about what mattered.
“So, what do you suggest, o wise one?” a lilting, mocking voice asked. Sanja could see the speaker was a small creature with eagle wings and ram horns and a baby’s body covered in white tattoos. He reflexively forced his hand to twitch to dispel the anger building in him and turned from the creature.
He prayed a second time and opened his mouth after taking a deep breath.
“You need to remind your people that you still exist.”
“How?” The same lilting voice asked. “We are nothing but a manifestation of their thoughts.”
Sanja felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Anansi step forward out of the corner of his eye.
“Thoughts recur,” the spider god said, “and they evolve. Let the colourless foreigners see only the few, big strong gods they want, and let us be left in the darkness of their minds while at the forefront of our people’s, growing just as their minds and thoughts do.
“A day is coming when our people will need to fight back for our freedom and everything we want. Will they win with what they are allowed to know, with the little they are spoon-fed by those invaders, or will they win with this?”
He indicated their sheer number which was enough to block out even the sun. Sanja felt a prick of satisfaction as he saw understanding dawn on the faces of the deities. Anansi’s words had painted a better picture than he ever would have done.
Hours passed, which felt like a drop in the pool of eternity as the deities spoke among themselves and deliberated the merits of remaining unseen but influential forces of nature. He could see the faces of those who wore their jealousy like their burnished naked skins. They wanted — hungered for — the global recognition Anansi and his brothers and sisters were soon to receive.
But what gave him hope were the gods and creatures that began to disappear from the gathering — letting in pricks of moonlight and starlight — and the memories of gods old and new, whispering at the back of his mind.
Never forget.
A single tear rolled down Sanja’s cheek, and he turned and began to make his way down the mountain.
