The silence in the throne room was a physical presence, thick and heavy as a funeral shroud. It was the silence of a held breath, a waiting wound, a kingdom teetering on the precipice. The grand chamber, usually a testament to Igala's power with its towering, carved wooden pillars depicting eagles in flight and its walls adorned with polished bronze shields, now felt like a gilded cage. The air, once fragrant with burning sandalwood to honour the Ata, was stale, tainted with the lingering scent of fear-sweat and the acrid smoke from the burned fields that seeped through the very mortar of the walls.
Ata Ayegba Oma Idoko sat upon his throne, a massive chair of ebony and ivory, but he did not fill it. He seemed to have shrunk, the great, muscular frame that had once wrestled lions and led charges now looking hollowed out, a shell draped in the regalia of a dying office. The leopard pelt over his shoulder felt like the weight of a dead beast, not a symbol of strength. The coral beads around his neck were a noose of office. His eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep and unshed tears, were fixed on nothing, staring at a crack in the mud-plastered floor as if it were the fissure splitting his kingdom in two.
The council had dispersed hours ago, leaving behind a residue of their despair. The arguments echoed in the hollow space.
"We cannot hold the walls for more than a week, Great Ata. Their big thunder-pipe… it will reduce our gates to splinters."
"The people are already on half-rations. The children's bellies are beginning to swell with hunger."
"The gods have turned their faces from us. We have offended them. We must atone."
Atone. The word was a worm, burrowing into his mind.
A single oil lamp guttered on a low table, its flickering light animating the carved faces on the pillars, making the eagles seem to writhe in agony. The deep, resonant boom that had shaken the very foundations of the palace an hour ago was not thunder. It was the Benin cannon, finding its range. Each impact was a hammer-blow to his soul, a promise of the annihilation to come. He could feel the vibrations through the soles of his feet, a dull, terrible rhythm counting down the last moments of his reign, his people, his world.
He had sent them all away—the generals with their maps of defeat, the elders with their proverbs of doom. Even his wives and attendants had been dismissed with a wave of a hand that felt like lifting a mountain. He needed to be alone. He needed to think. But thought was a tangled thicket of thorns, every path leading to blood and ruin.
A soft, shuffling sound broke the silence. Ayegba did not look up. He knew the step. It was Chief Priest Ohioga Attah, the Olu-Ata. The man moved with the sound of dry leaves whispering against stone, his aged body frail beneath the layers of white linen and the cascading necklaces of cowrie shells, python vertebrae, and polished river stones that clicked softly with each movement.
"My King," Ohioga's voice was a rasp, like stone grinding on stone. It was the voice of the earth itself, ancient and unforgiving.
"I have no answers for you, Priest," Ayegba murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion. "I have sent for more scouts. I have ordered the granaries opened wider. I have… I have nothing left."
"It is not answers I bring from you, Ayegba, Son of Idoko," Ohioga said, moving closer. The scent of him arrived first—a mix of strange herbs, dry dust, and the faint, metallic odour of old sacrificial blood. "It is a question I must ask. And you must answer it not with your mind, but with your spirit."
Ayegba finally lifted his head. The priest's face was a mask of wrinkled leather, his eyes sunk so deep in their sockets they seemed like pools of bottomless shadow. In the lamplight, he looked less than human, more a manifestation of the land's ancient, demanding will.
"What question could possibly remain?" the Ata asked, a spark of bitter anger flashing in his deep-set eyes. "Shall we fight? We are. Shall we pray? We have. Shall we die? We will."
Ohioga stood before the throne, unbowed. "The question is not of if, but of why. Why do we fall? The Benin are men, as we are men. Their Portuguese are men, with strange weapons, but men nonetheless. The spirits of the land, the river, the sky… they favour the righteous. Why have they withdrawn their favour?"
"You tell me," Ayegba challenged, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "You are the voice of the gods. Why do they sleep while my people burn?"
"They do not sleep," Ohioga hissed, his voice gaining a sharp, prophetic edge. "They are waiting. They have set a price for their intervention, and we have been too blind, too proud, to pay it."
The word hung between them. Price.
"We have given offerings!" Ayegba's voice rose, echoing in the cavernous room. "Herds of the finest cattle! Jars of palm oil and honey! We have spilled the blood of a hundred rams at the altars! What more do they want? The breath from my lungs? The blood from my veins?"
The priest's shadowed eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire. "Perhaps. Perhaps it is a price so precious, so unthinkable, that we dare not speak it aloud. That is why we must ask. Not with the timid bleating of sheep, but with the desperate cry of a people facing extinction. We must go to the source. We must consult the Unseen in the place of seeing. We must go to the Sacred Grove of Ata, to the Oracle that has not been woken in three generations."
A cold dread, colder than the deepest river stone, seeped into Ayegba's bones. The Sacred Grove was not a place for casual prayer. It was the spiritual heart of the kingdom, a place of primal power where the veil between the world of men and the world of spirits was thin as a moth's wing. The Oracle that resided there was not a gentle guide; it was a raw, chaotic force. To wake it was to invite a truth that could shatter a kingdom as easily as save it. His own father had warned him never to seek its counsel unless the very existence of Igala was at stake.
Another distant BOOM shuddered through the palace. A fine dust of dried clay sifted down from the ceiling high above. The existence of Igala was at stake.
Ayegba closed his eyes. He saw Inikpi's face, her smile that could light up the darkest room, her intelligent eyes that questioned everything. He saw the faces of his people in the streets, their hope a fragile flame he was sworn to protect. He was the Ata. His comfort, his happiness, his very soul were currency to be spent for their survival.
He opened his eyes. The king was back in his face, the father locked away in a deep, dark cell within his heart.
"When?" he asked, his voice flat and hard.
"Now," Ohioga replied. "The moon is high. The spirits are restless. They are listening."
---
The journey to the Sacred Grove was a descent into another world. It lay in a deep ravine behind the palace, accessible only by a narrow, treacherous path that was guarded day and night by the most loyal and silent of the royal guards. These men, the Enehe, were chosen not just for their strength, but for their vow of perpetual silence. They stood like statues carved from night itself, their eyes gleaming in the torchlight as Ayegba and Ohioga passed.
Ayegba had shed his royal regalia. He wore a simple linen kilt, his torso bare. He was not here as a king, but as a supplicant. The night air was cool and damp, a shocking contrast to the feverish heat of the besieged city above. The path was slippery with moss and dew, and the air grew thick with the rich, loamy smell of decaying vegetation and the cloying perfume of night-blooming flowers he could not name. The sounds of the city—the distant shouts, the crying—faded away, replaced by the deafening chorus of the jungle: the chirping of a million crickets, the deep, resonant croak of bullfrogs, the occasional, haunting call of a night bird.
Torches held by two junior acolytes, boys with wide, terrified eyes, cast a frantic, dancing light. Shadows leaped and twisted, turning gnarled tree roots into grasping claws and hanging lianas into dangling serpents. The air itself felt alive, pressing in on them, watching them.
Ohioga led the way, his movements sure and fluid, as if he were walking through his own home. He chanted softly in the old tongue, a language of clicks and guttural sounds that predated the Igala kingdom itself. The cowrie shells around his neck rattled like dead men's teeth.
They reached a curtain of thick, hanging moss, veiling the entrance to the grove. Ohioga turned to the acolytes. "Wait here. Do not speak. Do not move, no matter what you hear."
The boys nodded, their faces pale. Ohioga then looked at Ayegba. "Prepare your heart, Son of Idoko. Strip away your crown. Come as a man, as a father of your people. The Oracle sees all disguises."
With a trembling hand that he hoped the priest could not see in the gloom, Ayegba pushed aside the mossy curtain and stepped through.
The Sacred Grove took his breath away. It was a natural amphitheatre, surrounded by immense, silk-cotton trees whose massive, buttressed roots looked like the walls of a primordial city. The air was perfectly still and eerily silent. The cacophony of the jungle was gone, as if someone had thrown a blanket over the world. High above, a sliver of moonlight pierced the dense canopy, illuminating a single, towering Iroko tree in the center of the clearing. Its bark was silvery and smooth, and ancient carvings of forgotten symbols spiraled up its trunk.
At the base of the Iroko was a pool of black, still water, so dark it seemed to be a hole punched through the fabric of the world into nothingness. This was the Eye of the Earth, the conduit to the Unseen.
The only sounds were the soft crackle of the priest's torch and the frantic beating of Ayegba's own heart. The smell here was different—ozone, like the air after a lightning strike, mixed with the scent of wet stone and something else, something ancient and cold, like the depths of a tomb.
Ohioga motioned for Ayegba to kneel at the edge of the black pool. The king did so, the damp, cool earth soaking through his kilt. The priest extinguished his torch in the dirt, plunging them into a near-total darkness, broken only by that single, ghostly beam of moonlight on the Iroko tree.
From a pouch at his waist, Ohioga began to withdraw the items for the ritual. A handful of alligator pepper, which he crushed between his palms, releasing a sharp, pungent aroma that made Ayegba's eyes water. A small, carved ivory box from which he took a grey, powdery substance—the ground bones of a past Ata. This he sprinkled onto the surface of the black water. The powder did not sink; it swirled on the surface, catching the faint light like a galaxy of dead stars.
Then began the chant. It was low at first, a rumble in the priest's chest that seemed to vibrate through the earth. It grew in volume and intensity, a cascade of ancient words, names of forgotten gods and spirits, pleas and demands woven together. Ohioga's body began to sway, his eyes rolling back in his head until only the whites showed, ghastly in the dim light.
The air grew colder. Ayegba could see his own breath misting before him. The silence of the grove became oppressive, a weight on his eardrums. The surface of the black pool, which had been still as glass, began to ripple from the center, as if something were rising from its unimaginable depths.
A sound emerged from Ohioga's mouth, but it was not his own. It was a chorus of voices, layered over one another—a child's cry, an old woman's cackle, a warrior's death rattle. The voice of the Oracle.
"AYEGBA… SON OF IDOKO… WHY DO YOU DISTURB OUR REST?"
The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, from the trees, the earth, the water, from inside Ayegba's own skull. It was cold, devoid of any human emotion, and it froze the blood in his veins.
He swallowed, his throat dry as dust. "Great Spirits… Ancestors… My people, the Igala, are dying. An enemy with weapons of thunder and fire stands at our gates. Our courage is not enough. Our offerings are not enough. I come to ask… what is the price? What must we do to earn your favour? What must I do to save my people?"
The ripples on the water intensified, churning now. The multi-layered voice spoke again, dripping with a terrible, ancient knowledge.
"YOU SEEK A PRICE, LITTLE KING? YOU OFFER THE BLOOD OF BEASTS, THE FAT OF RAMS. THESE ARE TOKENS. THE SPIRITS OF THE LAND, THE RIVER THAT GIVES YOU LIFE… THEY DO NOT FEED ON TOKENS. THEY FEED ON ESSENCE. ON SACRIFICE."
"Name it!" Ayegba cried out, desperation clawing at his throat. "I will give anything! My life! Take it! Spill my blood on this earth if it will save my people!"
A sound like dry, rustling laughter filled the grove. "YOUR LIFE? YOUR BLOOD? YOU ARE BUT ONE MAN. YOUR LIFE IS A CANDLE FLAME IN A GREAT STORM. THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE PEOPLE AND THE LAND IS WEAKENED. IT MUST BE MENDED WITH A CORD OF UNBREAKABLE SOULS. A ROYAL SOUL. A BRIDGE OF FLESH AND SPIRIT."
The water in the pool suddenly stilled. In its dark, mirror-like surface, an image began to form. It was not a reflection of the trees above. It was a face.
Inikpi's face.
Her eyes were closed, serene, as if in sleep. She was adorned not in royal finery, but in simple white linen, and around her neck was a single, stark necklace of river stones.
A cold, sharp terror, more profound than any fear of battle, seized Ayegba's heart. "No…" he whispered, a denial not just to the spirits, but to the universe itself.
The Oracle's voice boomed, no longer a chorus, but a single, deafening pronouncement that shook the leaves on the trees.
"THE PRICE IS THE PURE OF HEART! THE CHILD OF THE KING! THE DAUGHTER OF THE LAND! ONLY THE LIVING BURIAL OF THE ROYAL DAUGHTER, PRINCESS INIKPI, AT THE RIVER'S EDGE, CAN SATIATE THE EARTH'S HUNGER! HER SPIRIT MUST BE GIVEN WILLINGLY TO THE SOIL, A PERMANENT OFFERING TO BIND THE PEOPLE TO THE LAND! ONLY THEN WILL THE RIVER SWELL TO DROWN YOUR FOES! ONLY THEN WILL THE EARTH SWALLOW THEIR THUNDER! ONLY THEN WILL THE SUN OF IGALA RISE AGAIN! THIS IS THE DECREE! THERE IS NO OTHER WAY!"
The image of Inikpi in the pool smiled, a gentle, sorrowful smile, and then dissolved back into the blackness.
The grove fell utterly silent. The cold vanished. The oppressive weight lifted. The normal sounds of the jungle night cautiously returned.
Ayegba remained on his knees, paralyzed. His mind was a white-hot void of denial. He could not breathe. He could not think. The words echoed in his skull, each one a hammer blow. Living burial. Princess Inikpi. The river's edge.
"No," he said again, this time a raw, guttural sound torn from the very core of his being. He stumbled to his feet, backing away from the pool as if it were a physical enemy. He looked at Ohioga. The priest had collapsed, his body spent, sweat pouring from his brow. But his eyes, now returned to normal, were filled with a terrible, resigned certainty.
"You heard," Ohioga whispered, his voice hoarse.
"I heard the babbling of demons!" Ayegba roared, his voice cracking. The sound was swallowed by the trees. "This is not the wisdom of our ancestors! This is madness! She is my daughter! She is a child! I would burn this kingdom to the ground myself before I would allow such an abomination!"
"The Oracle has spoken, Ayegba," Ohioga said, struggling to his knees. His voice was grave, empty of persuasion, only stating a fatal truth. "It is not a suggestion. It is a law of existence. The land demands a royal soul. Inikpi's spirit is the bridge. Without it… all is lost."
"NO!" The scream was one of pure, unadulterated agony. Ayegba turned and fled, crashing back through the moss curtain, past the startled acolytes and the silent guards. He ran back up the path, not like a king, but like a man possessed, a man fleeing his own damnation. Thorns tore at his bare skin, branches whipped his face, but he felt nothing. The only thing real was the image of his daughter's face in the black water and the terrible, absolute decree that had just condemned her to a living tomb.
---
He burst back into the throne room, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat and dew. The few guards and attendants present jumped at his sudden, wild entrance. He must have looked a fright—eyes wide with horror, his body trembling, his simple kilt torn and dirty.
"My Ata… are you alright?" one of his captains asked, stepping forward cautiously.
Ayegba didn't answer. He strode to the throne but could not bring himself to sit in it. That throne, that symbol of power, had just demanded the life of his child. He leaned against it, gripping the ebony arms until his knuckles were white.
Soon, Ohioga arrived, moving with a slow, deliberate pace that contrasted sharply with the king's frantic energy. The senior priests of the various cults—the priest of the river, the priest of the earth, the priest of the ancestors—had been summoned and filed in behind him, their faces grim. They had heard. The news had travelled through that silent, spiritual network that connected them to their chief.
They formed a semi-circle before him, a wall of white robes and solemn, unforgiving faces.
"You must listen to reason, Ayegba," Ohioga began, his voice regaining its strength. "The Oracle has not been wrong in a thousand years. It guided Ata Aku to the promised land. It showed Ata Ocholi the secret of the iron ore. It speaks only the absolute truth, however bitter."
"The truth?" Ayegba laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "The truth is that I am her father! The truth is that I held her in my arms when she was but a breath old! I taught her to walk! I swore to her mother on her deathbed that I would protect her! That is the only truth that matters!"
"You are the Ata of all Igala!" countered the Earth Priest, a stern man named Ugwu. "Your first vow is to your people! To the thousands who look to you for salvation! Is your love for one child greater than your duty to a nation?"
"Do not speak to me of duty!" Ayegba thundered, pushing himself away from the throne to stand before them. "I have bled for my duty! I have spent my life for my duty! This… this is not duty. This is butchery! This is a betrayal of everything it means to be a father, a king, a man! The gods cannot ask this! If they do, they are not gods worth worshipping!"
A collective gasp went through the priests. Such blasphemy, especially now, was unthinkable.
"The gods do not ask, Ayegba," Ohioga said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "They demand. They have set the price for our survival. We can pay it, or we can perish. There are no other choices. Look around you!" He swept a skeletal arm towards the city beyond the walls. "Can you not hear the cries of your people? Can you not smell their fear? Every moment you delay is a moment closer to the final assault. When their cannon breaks our walls, it will not be a quick death for warriors. It will be a slaughter. The old, the women, the children… your other children, Ayegba! They will be put to the sword, or taken as slaves. Is your refusal worth the extinction of our bloodline, our culture, our very name?"
The logic was a vise, tightening around Ayegba's heart. He saw the faces of his other children, his sons, their futures erased. He saw the faces in the streets—the old man, the hungry baby, the grieving mother. He saw the river of Igala blood that would flow if the walls fell. Weighed against that ocean of suffering, was one life, even the life of his beloved Inikpi, too high a price?
The thought was a poison in his soul.
"There must be another way," he insisted, but his voice had lost its fury, replaced by a desperate, pleading exhaustion. "A symbol? A effigy? We can… we can perform a mock ceremony. The gods will understand."
"The Oracle was specific, my King," said the River Priest, his voice like the flow of water. "Living burial. At the river's edge. Her spirit must merge with the spirit of the land as she draws breath. A symbol is a lie, and the earth knows only truth. A lie would bring a curse ten times worse."
Ayegba felt the last of his strength leave him. He sank to the steps of the dais, his head in his hands. The priests stood over him, not as comforters, but as judges.
"Give us the decree, Ayegba," Ohioga pressed, relentless. "Give us your blessing to prepare. The ceremony must be done at dawn, when the river mist is thickest. Her spirit must be given before the sun is high, before the enemy begins their final assault. There is no time."
"Get out," Ayegba whispered, his voice muffled by his hands.
"My King, you must see—"
"GET OUT!" he roared, lifting his head. His face was a mask of torment, tears now streaming freely through the grime on his cheeks. "All of you! Get out of my sight! I will not hear another word of this! I am the Ata! My word is law! And I forbid it! I FORBID IT!"
The priests recoiled from the raw anguish in his voice. They looked at one another. The king's will was absolute, but the Oracle's decree was divine. They were caught in an impossible conflict.
Ohioga was the last to leave. He bowed his head, not in submission, but in sorrow. "The world does not bend to our wishes, Ayegba, not even for a king. The sun will rise, with or without your permission. And the enemy will come. We will pray that you find the strength to do what must be done before it is too late for all of us."
He turned and shuffled away, the clicking of his cowrie shells the only sound in the vast, empty chamber.
Ayegba was alone again. The silence was back, but now it was filled with the phantom echo of the Oracle's voice and the ghost of his daughter's smiling face. He curled in on himself on the cold steps of his throne, a king brought to his knees not by an enemy army, but by a choice no father should ever have to make. The walls of his kingdom were crumbling, and the first to fall was the wall around his own heart. The decree was given. The terrible price was named. And in the deepening night, Ata Ayegba Oma Idoko began to weep, great, shuddering sobs that held the grief of a nation.