Year: 1882
The gunboats had withdrawn. For now.
But the message was clear. The British were watching. Mapping. Preparing.
Akenzua gathered the circle for what he knew would be the most difficult meeting yet.
"We have a choice to make. One that can't be undone."
The map dominated the table. Benin in the center. Vassal territories spreading outward. British positions marked in red along the coast.
"The Itsekiri delegation arrived this morning. They're requesting—demanding—a formal treaty. Not tribute. Alliance. With specific military guarantees."
"What guarantees?" Erebo asked.
"If the British move on Warri, we defend it as our own territory. With our forces. Our weapons."
"That's a commitment we can't fulfill right now," Igue said. "The mobilization drill proved that."
"They know. But they also know we're their only alternative to British control." Akenzua met each person's eyes. "If we refuse, they'll sign with Britain within the month. And we'll lose the river access that makes everything else possible."
"So we agree to something we can't deliver?"
"We agree to something we'll have to deliver. Whether we're ready or not."
The silence stretched.
"This is the irreversible moment," Akenzua said. "Once we sign, there's no going back. The British will know we've chosen to resist. They'll respond accordingly."
Idia spoke quietly. "And if we don't sign?"
"Then we've already surrendered. Just slowly."
---
The circle voted. Five in favor. One abstention—Igue, who understood better than anyone what the commitment would cost.
"Production will have to accelerate," Akenzua said. "Immediately. Not sixty rifles a month. A hundred. More."
"That's impossible without—"
"Without what?"
Igue's face was drawn. "Without abandoning quality standards. Cutting training time. Rushing processes that can't be rushed."
"How many failures would we see?"
"Twenty percent. Maybe more. Rifles that might explode. Ammunition that might misfire. Soldiers who might die because their weapons failed."
"What's the alternative?"
"Slower production. Higher quality. Fewer weapons, but weapons that work."
"And if the British don't wait for us to be ready?"
No answer. Because there was no good answer.
"Accelerate production," Akenzua said. "Accept the failure rate. And pray we have enough time to improve before it matters."
The cost was immediate. Within two weeks, three smiths were injured when a rushed casting failed. One lost an eye. Another lost three fingers. The third was burned so badly he would never work again.
Igue brought the report personally.
"These are my people. My responsibility." His voice was hollow. "This is what your acceleration bought us."
"I know."
"Do you? Do you really understand what we're asking them to do?"
"I understand that if we don't, everyone dies. Not three smiths. Everyone."
"That's the general talking. Not the prince."
"The general is what's keeping the prince alive."
They stared at each other across the workshop. The burned smell of the accident still hung in the air.
"I need you," Akenzua said finally. "I need your skills. Your loyalty. Your anger. All of it."
"Even when that anger is directed at you?"
"Especially then. Someone has to remember what these decisions cost."
---
Idia found him in the garden that night. The same garden where, two years ago, she had demanded to know what had happened to her son.
"You're carrying too much."
"I'm carrying what I have to."
"No one has to carry alone." She sat beside him. "Not even princes with ancestor memories."
"What do you want me to say? That I'm tired? That I question every decision? That I dream about Fallujah—"
He stopped. Fallujah. The general's memory. The mistake that had never stopped haunting him.
"What's Fallujah?"
"A place. From the memories. A battle that went wrong because I was too confident. Too certain I knew better." His voice cracked. "Soldiers died. Good men. Because I didn't listen. Because I thought my plans were perfect."
"And now?"
"Now I'm doing the same thing. Making decisions for thousands of people. Ordering production that hurts my own smiths. Signing treaties I might not be able to honor."
Idia was quiet for a long moment.
"When you were born, I held you and thought: this child will be king someday. He'll carry burdens I can't imagine. And I prayed that when those burdens came, he would be strong enough."
"I'm not sure I am."
"Strength isn't certainty. Strength is moving forward when you're not certain." She took his hand. "My son—whatever he's become—is moving forward. That's enough. It has to be enough."
"What if I fail? What if everything I'm building comes to nothing?"
"Then you will have tried. Which is more than most. Which is more than I ever expected."
---
Esohe found him later, still in the garden.
"Your mother told me about your conversation."
"She shouldn't have."
"She's worried. So am I." Esohe sat where Idia had been. "You've been disappearing lately. Into work. Into planning. Into memories that aren't entirely yours."
"I don't know how to do this any other way."
"Neither do I. But I know we're supposed to do it together." She turned his face toward hers. "Tell me about Fallujah."
"I already—"
"Tell me. Not the surface. The truth."
So he told her. The general's memory, bleeding through. A city in a country that didn't exist yet. A battle against an enemy using tactics no one expected. The decision to push forward when every instinct said to wait.
Twelve soldiers dead. Names he still remembered. Faces that appeared in nightmares.
"The general carried that weight for decades," Akenzua said. "It made him careful. Maybe too careful. He spent the rest of his life trying to prevent other Fallujahs. Sometimes successfully. Sometimes not."
"And you carry it now."
"I carry everything he carried. Plus everything that's mine."
"Then let me carry some of it." She gripped his hand. "Not the decisions. Not the memories. But the weight of being the only one who knows. Let me know."
"You already know more than anyone."
"Then let me know more. All of it. The doubts. The fears. The memories you can't escape." Her eyes were fierce. "I married you knowing something impossible had happened. I didn't marry perfection. I married a man fighting against extinction. That's enough. That's more than enough."
---
The treaty signing happened at dawn.
Prince Ejo of Warri represented the Itsekiri. Akenzua represented Benin. The terms were formal but simple:
Mutual defense. Trade cooperation. Reduced tribute in exchange for military alliance.
"You understand what this means," Ejo said as they signed. "The British will see this as provocation."
"The British will see anything less than submission as provocation."
"Then we provoke them together."
They exchanged documents. Witnesses marked their observations. The alliance was sealed.
Irreversible.
"One more thing." Ejo's voice dropped. "My sister Ere. The original marriage clause. It's been... superseded by your wedding to the Ezomo's daughter. But my father wants to know if there's still a place for Itsekiri blood in the royal succession."
A secondary wife. Political complexity that Esohe would have to accept.
"We'll discuss it. After the current crisis passes."
"My father may not live that long."
"Then we'll discuss it sooner."
Another complication. Another thread in a web that grew more tangled every day.
---
That evening, the circle gathered one final time.
"Phase One is complete," Akenzua announced. "The foundation exists. Weapons. Networks. Alliances. A trained core that can expand."
"And Phase Two?" Erebo asked.
"Begins now. But it's not expansion—not yet. It's consolidation. Strengthening what we already have. The Itsekiri treaty is first. The Ijaw trading houses next. Then the Urhobo and Isoko relationships."
"Timeline?"
"Two years. Maybe three. Long enough to make our foundation unshakeable."
"And if the British don't give us two years?"
"Then we fight with what we have." Akenzua looked around the table. "We've been preparing for this since the fever. Every rifle. Every soldier. Every alliance. It all leads to one moment—the moment when preparation becomes action."
"You think that moment is coming soon."
"The gunboats at the river mouth. The questions about our activities. The treaty we just signed." He nodded slowly. "The British are moving. We need to move faster."
---
The messenger arrived as the meeting ended.
"Prince Akenzua. News from the coast. Urgent."
Osarobo intercepted the message first. His face went pale as he read.
"What is it?"
"The Berlin Conference. It's been advanced. Not 1884. This year. The European powers are meeting to formalize their African claims."
"How soon?"
"November. Four months."
Four months. Not two years. Not even one.
Four months before Europe decided who owned Africa.
"There's more." Osarobo handed over a second document. "British movements along the Niger. Three expeditions. Military. Surveying approaches to the interior."
"Our interior?"
"All interiors. But yes—including routes that lead to Benin."
The room fell silent.
Everything they had built. Every preparation. Every sacrifice. All predicated on time they no longer had.
"What do we do?" Erebo asked.
Akenzua stared at the documents. The general's memories screamed warnings. The prince's heart pounded with fear.
"We do what we've always done. Build. Prepare. Fight." He looked up. "The timeline has changed. Our purpose hasn't."
"Four months isn't enough."
"Then we make it enough." He stood. "Meeting adjourned. Everyone knows their responsibilities. Execute them faster."
---
Later, alone on the palace walls, Akenzua watched the sun set over his kingdom.
Two years of awakening. Two years of building something from fever visions and desperate hope.
Now the real test approached.
The Berlin Conference would carve Africa into European spheres. The British expeditions would probe Benin's defenses. The treaty with the Itsekiri would be tested.
Everything was about to change.
Esohe found him there.
"You're not sleeping tonight."
"I'm thinking."
"About what comes next?"
"About what we've done. What it cost. What it might all be for." He turned to face her. "The awakening is complete. But I don't know if it's enough."
"It's what we have. It has to be enough."
"And if it's not?"
"Then we fight anyway. And we lose with honor. And we hope that somewhere, someone remembers what we tried to build."
The sun disappeared below the horizon. Darkness spread across the kingdom—the ancient walls, the bustling markets, the hidden forges where weapons emerged day after day.
The awakening was complete.
Now came the storm.
---
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
END OF SEASON ONE: THE AWAKENING