Good morning, people!
It’s a cold morning in this part of the world, and my brain has frozen.
Where are my manners? I missed you bitches.
Ice Prince: I missed y’all because I was trying to be fit, call that a misfit.
You see? We all missed you people. Ehen. Back to the story.
I read all 5 books of Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series and I was wondering, why doesn’t Nollywood ever tell stories of our gods? Nobody even writes about them. And I decided I was just gonna do something about that.
Wasn’t gonna publish this until I was done with the book, but my brain haff freeze like that Chris Brown & T-Pain song.
Mehn who the fuck said I didn’t have bars again? FuckWithMySenseOfHumorYouKnowIStillGotIt.
I suck as a story-teller, as most of you that have read my blog before know, so don’t expect too much.
And just so you know, the star of my story is none other than… Icey Princey!
Read, and do drop a comment. And let it be something I can pick up. (Mehn fuck I’m on form. See bars everywhere)
Urrrrgh! I’m so sorry.
Adio Belubelu & The Blackberry of Secrets
Thunder boomed throughout the skies, shaking the buildings to their very foundations and making the people around scatter for shelter.
Someone very important had just gotten very angry, and the aftermath could not be good.
My name is Adio, and this is the story. Not just any story, THE story.
While I’m known to many people of this age as Ice Prince, I am actually an immortal, known amongst fellow immortals as Adiomiran Belubelu, Eleri awon Orisa.
The witness of the gods.
I know what you must be thinking. That this is just another one of those mythological stories told in secondary school Yoruba classes just to pass time.
No. This is real. Realer than the slap that MOPOL gave Davido. Very real.
Over time the myths have changed. The stories have evolved. The gods, and all other immortal beings, have also evolved with time. For example, the Alpha Shrine, where all the gods convene when they need to, has moved from Ife to Lagos.
It is located above Ikeja City Mall, to be precise. The gods have always had a soft spot for humans, and their fear and attitude provides the gods with a good dose of entertainment. You wouldn’t know it, but there is a lot of fear at the mall.
“This girl fit give me ela if I try toast am”.
“If I buy this N6million TV shey no be garri I go drink till next year?”
The gods love watching humans battle with such decisions, and when they are in a good mood (which they are rarely ever in), they even make bets on what the person would eventually do.
Of course, no one ever wagers against Orunmila. Orisa imo. The god of knowledge.
The gods also do not look anything like what the old stories and movies describe them like. The human sight cannot see clearly metaphysical, and usually see what the gods want them to see.
The natural form of the gods is quite hard to explain, and can’t stand in the presence of each other in their natural forms. Hence they have human forms they take when they want to have meetings or step into the human realm.
These human forms were created for them by the god of fashion and disguises, Denrelu. Most of them have a variety of disguises, except those who rarely go into the human realm.
The ever-aggressive god of lightning, Sango, for example, likes to the take the form of an okada rider wearing a black Chelsea jersey. Osun, the goddess of sexuality, usually appears as a UNILAG student dressed in a black short Versace gown (which I think is fake).
Thunder rumbled in the distance again, and lightning struck two dogs having sex under a shade.
Someone was really pissed.
My official post as Witness made me the only non-god who had to attend all meetings of the gods, and I had a very bad feeling there was going to be one very soon.
I hoped that I was wrong, and was just about to put the finishing touches on my new song with French Montana when I got the telepathic message from Emu, the messenger of the gods.
Everyone wished Emu would evolve with the times and get a phone that could download Whatsapp, but the old messenger preferred to go with his traditional way of sending his shrilly voice through the winds into the minds of his recipients.
“Hear! Hear! Hear! Them don call meeting oh! Carry your big head dey come Alpha Shrine oh!”
In my defense, my head is not big.
It took me a few seconds to get Emu’s voice out of my head, and I left my song half-done to prepare for the meeting. Not all the gods were too happy that I was a compulsory face at all their meetings, and Kondonmu, the god of partying, weed, alcohol and all other vile substances had tried to turn me into a dildo once. Being late would just make things much worse.
In case of emergencies like this, I had connected the toilets in my studio to the Alpha shrine. Only the gods can travel via space, so they built connecting passages for other immortals and humans who, for one reason or the other, needed to get to the Alpha Shrine.
I remember when the gods invited Yakubu Aiyegbeni to explain his goal-line miss at the 2010 World Cup. Even Orunmila didn’t understand how it happened.
I stepped into the toilet and hoped if anybody was angry, it wasn’t Sango. Dude had severe anger issues, and it was almost impossible to cool him down. I turned the lever and said, “Alpha Shrine”.
A door immediately materialized in my front, and I said a little prayer as I stepped into the Alpha Shrine.
Contrary to what Africa Magic Yoruba makes you think a shrine looks like, the Alpha Shrine is not located in a bush nor is it filled with calabashes and skulls. The Alpha Shrine is a big room with a large table in the middle, surrounded by huge chairs made out of thick, red wood.
There was a large plasma TV placed on the wall on one end, with a fridge and Shawarma stand located just beside it. All was done by the god of creation, Obatala.
I looked up to see an almost full room, with a lot of murmurs from all directions.
“He will always come late. I will still turn to him to a Durex condom one day.”
“What is the cause for this meeting? Who dey vex?”
There was a sudden silence as Orunmila, dressed in white robes that were evidently washed with Ariel, stood up and addressed the gathering.
“Brothers and sisters, we have an issue on our hands. Obatala, please speak.”
Obatala, who had the appearance of a Hausa politician, rubbed his potbelly as he stood.
An eerie silence fell as he spoke in a deep Hausa accent.
“My pello fifu… The Blackberry of Secrets has been stolen.”