Part 3: The Kneeling Rivals
The sun was low when Ezikpe finally approached the gates of Amogudu.
Unlike the delegation before him, he came alone.
No drums. No guards. Not even a walking staff. Just a faded wrapper, a worn face, and the weight of years carried in his silence.
The journey had aged him. Not in body — he was still broad, still tall — but in spirit. His steps no longer shook the ground. His gaze, once sharp as an unsheathed blade, now lingered at the feet of strangers.
And yet, the villagers recognized him. The children pointed. The elders murmured. Some drew back in instinctive fear.
"The man who dethroned the king…""He's come here?""Is it shame, or surrender?"
Kalu found him waiting near the eastern path, where the cassava rows began.
"You shouldn't be here alone," Kalu said, voice hard.
Ezikpe didn't lift his head. "That's the only way to come."
Kalu stared at him for a long moment, then turned without a word. Ezikpe followed.
They brought him to the courtyard, where Ebitu sat beside the low hearth. No crowd. No guards. Just the two of them — the beginning and end of Eluoma's rise and fall.
Ebitu looked up slowly. "So. You've come."
"I have," Ezikpe said, and fell to one knee.
The air went still.
"I do not ask for position. I do not ask for favor. I come only to say what I never said."
Ebitu waited.
"I was wrong."
The words came like stones pulled from the throat.
"I mistook fire for strength. I mistook peace for weakness. And I mistook your silence for fear."
He paused.
"I wanted to build a name for myself. But I burned the name we had."
Ebitu stood, his eyes searching the face of the man who had once ripped the crown from him.
"Do you know what I've built here?"
Ezikpe nodded. "More than I ever did — and without lifting a spear."
Ebitu said nothing for a long time. Then:
"Do you hunger?"
Ezikpe blinked. "Yes."
"Then eat. There's food in the granary."
"Do you thirst?"
"…Yes."
"Then drink. There's palm wine in the calabash."
"Do you still seek power?"
Ezikpe hesitated. "No. Only peace."
Ebitu stepped closer.
"Then stay — not as a rival, but as a brother."
The next morning, the village woke to a quiet sight:
Ezikpe, the man who had once claimed a throne through rebellion, now weaving mats beside the traders' children. He did not speak much. He did not try to lead. He only listened.
And in his listening, he began to learn what true leadership had always been.
Ebitu, now spoken of as The Builder of Peace, did not take revenge.
He had no need.
For in Amogudu, power did not come from war… but from the hands that fed, the minds that planned, and the hearts that endured.