Long ago, before shadows learned how to follow a man, Ọbatálá walked through a village that had lost its sense of balance. People blamed each other for every small thing. No one swept their front step unless someone else swept first. Arguments grew faster than crops. Peace was something they remembered, not something they practiced. Ọbatálá arrived quietly, dressed in white so clean it hurt their eyes. He carried no staff, no sword, no thunderbolt — only a small calabash filled with cool water.