Part 3: The Dethronement
The drums of Eluoma had never sounded like this.
They did not dance. They warned. They did not praise. They declared. The deep, deliberate rhythm rolled through the village like thunder in the chest.
In the village square, every path led to the stone platform — the Ishi-nta, the sacred place where kings are crowned… and sometimes, where kings are unmade.
Ezikpe, dressed in leopard skin and a red wrapper tied high above his waist, stood at the center of the platform. His eyes glinted like wet iron as he looked over the crowd. Behind him, young men stood with ceremonial spears and chalk-painted chests — the self-styled Umu-agha, sons of war.
Villagers filled every corner of the square. Some came out of duty. Others out of fear. A few — too many — out of excitement.
At the edge of the crowd stood Elder Urum, arms folded. His face was carved with shame.
Beside him, Uzuma watched the ceremony unfold, her face stone-cold. Her father's absence — the real king — made the day feel like a funeral.
The Master of Rituals, an elder with white cowrie shells braided into his beard, stepped forward to speak.
"By the will of the council, and by the silence of the gods,""We crown a new son of Eluoma.""Let him who dares to wear the crown… step forward."
Ezikpe did.
A loud cheer erupted from the young, and hollow claps followed from the old.
The crown of Eluoma — a wide band of brass with woven coral — was placed upon his head.
But it sat uncomfortably, almost too big. And for a heartbeat too long, it tilted.
"Long live the new king!""Long live the lion of Eluoma!""To war! To glory!"
Their chants filled the sky, but the wind refused to carry it far. A stillness lingered. Even the birds did not sing.
Far beyond the hills of Obonta, a small caravan moved quietly toward the border village of Amogudu.
King Ebitu walked with no guards, no drum, no title. Only his name.
His wife, veiled and silent. Uzuma beside her, head held high. A small group of elders and loyal families trailed behind, their wagons filled with what they could carry — books, seeds, trade cloths, carved tools, a single goat.
The road was dry. The sun was cruel.
But there was no anger in Ebitu's face. Only a kind of quiet focus — the look of a man who had seen kingdoms fall not once, but twice.
When they reached Amogudu, they were welcomed with humility.
The local chief, Okenyi, bowed low. "We have little, my lord, but our homes are open."
"I am no lord now," Ebitu said gently. "Only a man seeking soil where his children can grow in peace."
Back in Eluoma, the weeks that followed were not filled with glory.
Yes, there were parades. Young men marched in lines. Spears clashed against wooden shields. Ezikpe gave speeches from the balcony, promising expansion, dominance, and strength.
But behind the celebration… trade slowed.
Travelers from Ugwueke stopped coming. Nkporo merchants redirected their goods elsewhere. Rumors began to drift: "Eluoma has turned to conquest. They forget the palm tree that grew them."
Still, the war drums beat.
Still, the new king smiled.
And far away, in Amogudu, King Ebitu — now a farmer, a builder, a teacher — planted the first of many cassava stalks into the borrowed soil and whispered a prayer that no one heard.
"Let this land bless those who remember peace.Let those who traded silence for steel find what they seek."