Part 2: The Rumbling Voice
The village square of Eluoma had always been a place of joy — home to market laughter, wrestling songs, and harvest dances. But not this moon. Not this morning.
Now it bore witness to a gathering thick with suspicion and smoke.
Ezikpe stood beneath the old udara tree, hands raised, his voice like a blade sharpened on fear. Behind him, half a dozen young men — former palmwine tappers, yam farmers, cloth traders — now stood with spears they barely knew how to hold.
The crowd that had gathered stretched like a living river through the square. Even the children were silent.
"They call us cowards," Ezikpe barked."They say Eluoma is fat with riches but thin with courage!""And they are right."
Gasps rose. Not in disagreement, but in shock that someone dared say it aloud.
Ezikpe paced slowly. "We have gold, but no guards. We have trade, but no teeth. The warriors of Agboji — you've seen them! They walk past our borders and laugh. We grow yams while they sharpen swords. And yet you still believe a king who tells you that peace will protect us?"
The crowd murmured, tension tightening like a pulled bowstring. Elder Urum watched from the edge of the gathering, lips tight, fingers curled around his walking staff.
"And what happens," Ezikpe shouted, "when the traders stop coming? When our silence is seen as surrender? Who will defend your wives, your children? Will King Ebitu fight with his scrolls and proverbs?"
A smattering of nervous laughter followed. Too many heads nodded.
From the balcony of the palace, Uzuma watched with her hands clenched.
She turned sharply. "Father, they cheer him. Do you hear it?"
King Ebitu sat in silence beside the carved lion throne, eyes closed. He was dressed not in royal cloth, but a simple wrapper of white and blue.
"He tells them what their fear wants to believe," he said calmly. "That a loud spear is mightier than a full barn. That blood buys respect faster than patience."
"But they believe him."
He opened his eyes — ancient, wounded, unwavering.
"Yes. And that belief will cost them."
That evening, a secret council was held in the hall of drums — an old chamber used only when the village was divided. Twelve elders gathered under torchlight. The air was thick with unease.
Elder Nnechi, once a supporter of the king, now cleared his throat.
"We must speak truth tonight. The people grow restless. Many believe our king has become… too gentle. Too slow. Too passive."
Urum slammed his staff against the floor. "Too wise, you mean."
"Urum," Nnechi said carefully, "wisdom that blinds us to danger is no longer wisdom."
"Do not dress cowardice in royal cloth!" Urum barked. "Ebitu has given this land everything — trade routes, safe roads, wealth without war. And now you spit at his feet because a few boys beat their chests?"
Another elder spoke, his voice dry like old bark. "We must decide. The council will vote. If the people no longer trust their king… then tradition demands we appoint a new one."
There it was. Spoken aloud for the first time.
That night, King Ebitu stood in the palace courtyard beneath a sky of restless stars.
Uzuma joined him, wrapping her shawl tighter. "What will you do, Baba?"
"I will not fight my people for the right to serve them," he said quietly.
She blinked. "You'll let them take the throne?"
"I will let them learn."
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"They want fire. Let them feel the burn."
By the end of the week, the council's decision was made public.
King Ebitu was to be removed — dethroned in honor, but exiled in shame.
Ezikpe would be crowned within the fortnight. Already, his warriors-in-training patrolled the borders. The drums beat louder in Eluoma — not in celebration, but in warning.
And as the sun set on the day of the announcement, King Ebitu left the palace he built, walking barefoot through the gates with his family beside him and a trail of elders behind.
No one stopped them.
No one bowed.
Only the wind carried their names into the trees.