I used to have festivals.
Let us begin there.
Because if I begin with my current circumstances, I may become emotional. And gods should not become emotional. It ruins the image.
Three hundred years ago, people crossed rivers for me.
Entire villages prepared for my arrival weeks in advance.
Drums echoed through forests.
Goats disappeared mysteriously.
Priests suddenly became very busy.
Children learned songs about me before they learned multiplication.
I was important.
Respected.
Feared.
Occasionally misunderstood.
But mostly feared.
Fear is excellent for a deity’s self-esteem.
Nowadays, however, my shrine shares a fence with a public toilet.
I wish I were exaggerating.
I am not.
The toilet arrived six years ago. The builders never consulted me. Which is unfortunate. Because had they consulted me, I would have expressed my concerns.
With lightning.
Yet here we are.
Every morning, I wake to sounds that no ancient god should ever hear.
People arguing about toilet paper.
Children banging on doors.
Somebody’s phone ringing with an extremely irritating ringtone.
This is not how immortality was advertised.
The world has changed.
Human beings have changed.
Even prayers have changed.
In the old days, people approached the divine with seriousness.
Respect.
Reverence.
Now they send voice notes.
Last month, a young man entered my shrine. For one glorious moment, I thought worship had returned.
Finally.
Recognition.
Respect.
A restoration of the natural order.
Instead, he stood in front of my altar, adjusted his hair, and spent twenty minutes recording videos for social media. That the lighting was good.
The lighting.
At a sacred shrine.
I watched him dance.
Then watched him leave.
I considered cursing him. Unfortunately, divine power is difficult to maintain when nobody remembers your name. That is perhaps the cruelest thing about being forgotten.
Not the loneliness.
Not the neglect.
Not even the toilet.
It is the fading.
The slow realization that every year makes you slightly less real.
Humans believe gods die when they are killed.
Nonsense.
Gods die when they are forgotten.
A deity exists because somebody remembers.
Somebody tells the story.
Somebody whispers the name.
Somebody believes.
Remove those things and we begin to fade.
Not immediately.
It takes time.
Centuries.
Like a fire slowly running out of wood.
That is what has been happening to me.
A little less power every year.
A little less certainty.
A little less existence.
Sometimes I struggle to remember my own beginning.
Imagine that.
An immortal being losing memories.
The irony would be funny if it weren’t happening to me.
The only person who still visits regularly is Baba Tunde.
Eighty-four years old.
Bad knees.
Terrible eyesight.
Excellent manners.
Every Thursday, he arrives with a walking stick and enough determination to challenge death itself. He sweeps the shrine. Mumbles prayers. Complains about politics. Then leaves.
I like him.
Not because he worships me.
He doesn’t.
Not really.
I think he simply feels sorry for me. Which is somehow worse.
Last week, while sweeping, he looked directly at me. Not unusual. Some very old people occasionally see more than they admit. Then he sighed.
“Akan,” he said.
My name.
My actual name.
The first time I had heard it spoken aloud in years.
Years.
Do you understand?
Years.
I nearly manifested out of pure excitement.
Instead, I maintained my dignity.
A god must have standards.
Even forgotten ones.
Still, hearing my name felt strange.
Like opening a door you thought had disappeared.
Like finding an old photograph.
Like remembering who you used to be.
For several days afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Akan.
The Keeper of Waters.
The Listener Beneath Rivers.
The One Who Carries Secrets.
At least those were some of my titles.
Humans used to be very generous with titles.
I miss that.
Now if somebody remembers me at all, they call me “that old shrine near the road.”
History can be remarkably disrespectful.
Yesterday brought a new humiliation. A goat entered the shrine. Not as an offering. Not ceremonially. Not spiritually. It simply wandered in.
Ate some leaves.
Stared at me.
Then urinated on a sacred stone.
I have never felt less divine.
This morning wasn’t much better. Rain fell steadily across the village. The shrine roof leaked in three places. A lizard stole my breakfast.
Technically it wasn’t my breakfast. Nobody brings offerings anymore. But I had become emotionally attached to a mango somebody dropped nearby. The lizard took it. I hope karma finds him.
Then, shortly after noon, something happened.
Something unusual.
Something impossible.
Something that has not happened in over a century.
A young woman entered the shrine. Not to escape the rain. Not to take photographs. Not to record videos.
She walked in deliberately. Purposefully. As though she knew exactly where she was going.
I watched carefully. Humans rarely surprise me anymore. This one did.
She crossed the threshold.
Paused.
Then looked around slowly.
Very slowly.
Then her eyes stopped.
Directly on me.
My stomach dropped.
Now, I realize gods are not supposed to have stomachs. That is beside the point. The feeling remains accurate. Because she wasn’t looking through me. She wasn’t looking past me.
She was looking at me.
At me.
The actual me.
The deity nobody had properly seen for over a hundred years.
I froze.
She froze.
The rain continued falling outside.
Then she spoke.
Just four words.
Four impossible words.
“I know you’re here.”
I cannot adequately describe what happened inside me.
Shock.
Confusion.
Hope.
Fear.
Excitement.
Suspicion.
Centuries of loneliness suddenly colliding with possibility. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I felt something dangerous. Something powerful. Something I thought I had lost.
Expectation.
The young woman stepped closer.
I remained perfectly still.
Not because I was afraid. Gods do not become afraid. We become… strategically cautious. There is a difference.
The rain grew louder.
The air felt heavier.
The shrine seemed to hold its breath.
Then she smiled.
And somehow, I knew. My life, or whatever remains of an immortal life, was about to become much more complicated.