The heat was unbearable. Even by Lagos standards, the day seemed unnaturally warm. The market, usually bustling with laughter, shouts, and the colourful chatter of vendors, now hummed with a different kind of energy. People moved slower, sweat trickling down their faces, and the scent of roasting fish and burning wood from roadside fires filled the air.
Then came the first sign: a faint rumble, distant like a hungry growl. No one paid it much mind. Thunder was common enough during the rainy season. But soon, the sky began to darken, and a strange wind swept through the crowded market, lifting the edges of cloth coverings and sending papers fluttering into the air. A moment later, a loud, ear-splitting crack of thunder tore through the market, and suddenly, there was smoke.
Thick, black smoke poured out from the
upper floors of a nearby shopping complex, rapidly billowing and obscuring the
afternoon sun. The fire spread swiftly, jumping from stall to stall, licking
the wooden structures with a ravenous hunger. Panic erupted. Vendors abandoned
their goods, grabbing their children and fleeing toward safety. Some brave
souls tried to form a human chain to carry water from a nearby well, but they
were clearly fighting a losing battle.
From the distance came the blaring
sirens of fire trucks, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
"Move! Move!" came the
urgent shout of Sean Adedayo, his deep voice commanding attention even over the
cacophony. Clad in his fire-resistant uniform, the sweat on his dark skin
mingled with the soot in the air. His heart pounded, not from fear but from the
anticipation that always came with the fight against the flames.
Sean's team halted their truck at the
building's entrance, and he barked orders to his men. "Get those hoses
ready! We’re going in from the west side; the east is too exposed!"
As he moved forward, he could feel
something shifting inside him. He had felt this sensation before — a flicker of
energy deep in his chest, a gathering storm he had been trying to suppress for
centuries. He paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself. The others didn’t
know who he really was. To them, he was just a brave firefighter, always a step
ahead when it came to dangerous situations. But today, the flames seemed
different. Hungrier. Almost alive.
He rushed forward, leading his team
into the smoke-filled building. Visibility was near zero. The flames danced and
twisted around them, their heat like a physical force pushing against Sean’s
body. He could hear the faint cries of people trapped inside, their voices
barely audible over the roar of the fire.
As Sean moved through the smoke, he
felt the weight of every gaze upon him, the heat pressing against his skin. His
tall frame cut a commanding figure against the inferno. His broad shoulders,
sculpted by years of battling both fires and fate, strained against the fabric
of his uniform. Sweat beaded on his deep brown skin, glistening in the
flickering light like polished mahogany. His jaw was set in a hard line, the
strong, angular shape of his face marked by a determination that seemed almost
etched into his features. Thick, dark brows framed his piercing eyes — eyes
that held the color of a stormy sky, a strange grey-blue that shifted with his
moods. It was those eyes that had earned him more than a few second glances,
eyes that seemed to see more than what was in front of him, as if they peered
into the very heart of the world. A close-cropped beard traced his jaw, a
contrast to the tight coils of his hair, which he kept neatly trimmed. He had
the kind of presence that made people step aside when he walked, not just
because of his size, but because of the quiet intensity that radiated from him.
There was something about him — a latent power, barely contained, that made
people instinctively know that he was not one to be crossed.
“Dayo! We need to pull back!” shouted
one of his men, coughing through the thick smoke. “The fire’s too strong! It’s
like… it’s like it’s fighting us!”
Sean clenched his jaw, feeling the
familiar surge of power rushing through his veins. He knew what he had to do,
but every second he delayed was a second closer to exposing himself. He looked
up and whispered, “Olodumare, guide me.”
He stepped back from his team, moving
into a shadowed corner where he hoped no one would see. He closed his eyes,
feeling the crackle of electricity behind his eyelids. His heart beat faster as
he raised his hand to the sky and whispered, “Come rain.”
As he raised his arm to command the
storm, muscles flexed beneath his uniform, moving with the effortless grace of
someone who understood both strength and restraint. His fingers, long and
calloused from years of hard work, seemed to grasp the very air around them,
coaxing the elements to obey his silent command. Sean's breath was steady,
though his heart raced with the thrill of the moment. His lips moved in a
whisper, and for a second, the fierce lines of his face softened, revealing
something deeper — a flicker of vulnerability, perhaps, or the weight of a
secret too heavy to bear.
Almost immediately, the wind shifted.
Thunder rumbled again, louder this time, and a few raindrops began to fall. The
drops quickly turned into a torrent, and in seconds, the downpour was so fierce
it felt like the heavens had split open. The flames hissed and recoiled, smoke
rising in thick plumes as the rain battered down upon them. Within minutes, the
fire was reduced to smouldering embers. The team stood, stunned, looking up at
the sudden storm.
Sean lowered his hand and took a deep
breath, trying to calm his racing heart. "All clear!" he shouted,
leading his men further into the building to rescue the remaining victims. As
they worked to bring out the last of the trapped tenants, a crowd had gathered
outside, whispering and pointing. Sean could feel their eyes on him, their
gazes heavy with suspicion and awe.
From across the street, a young man
with a camera slung around his neck watched intently. His name was Akin Ajayi,
a journalist with a reputation for sniffing out stories that others missed. He
had arrived at the scene moments before the fire trucks, drawn by the thick
smoke and the chaos. He had seen many strange things in Lagos, but nothing like
this.
Akin’s hand shook slightly as he reviewed the footage on his camera. He had caught it — that moment when the storm seemed to come from nowhere, almost at Sean's command. He rewound and watched it again, slow-motion, zooming in on Sean’s face just before the rain began. “What are you hiding, Sean Adedayo?” he murmured to himself, his mind racing with the possibilities.
To be continued …..
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While this blog draws upon Yoruba mythology, the specific expression, interpretation, and reimagining of the deities and stories presented here are the original creations of the author, Kunle. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or creation of derivative works based on this unique content is strictly prohibited without explicit written permission from the author.
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