They say the gods never truly die. They vanish into dust, into memory, into stories whispered at night. But sometimes—when the drums call loud enough and the wind stirs just right—they return.When the skies above Ọ̀yọ́ split with fire, a boy was born whose cry shook the earth like thunder. He was no ordinary child. He was prophecy.Sàngó.The Fire Unborn. The Birth of Thunder. The prince whose bloodline carried storms in its veins.From the first moment, priests and warriors alike feared him and worshiped him in the same breath. He could tame a leopard with a whisper. He could walk th...