Part 3: The Quiet King
The harvest moon rose fat and golden above Amogudu, casting long shadows across yam barns stacked to their roofs and clay pots brimming with dried pepper and fish. Drums thudded softly in the distance — not for war, not for ritual, but for celebration.
For the first time in living memory, Amogudu was overflowing.
Traders from Ihenta, Nkporo, and even parts of Uzuakoli now made regular stops. The once-quiet market square buzzed like a beehive every five days. Children no longer went to bed hungry. Families built newer, stronger homes with wood and stone. Even the air seemed richer.
But with growth came a question none could ignore:
"Who leads us now?"
It started as whispers between elders.
Then it became conversations over firelight. Then debates during evening meetings.
They had a council — yes — made up of elders from both old Amogudu and the exiles from Eluoma. But the village had grown past council matters. Traders asked for border agreements. Visitors asked for seals and signs. Other villages asked to ally, to merge, to be governed fairly.
They didn't just need wisdom now.
They needed authority.
The final nudge came during a gathering under the large ogilisi tree, where Chief Okenyi, Amogudu's former voice, stood before the people with a solemn heart.
"I led this village when it was dust," he said, "and I am proud of what we have become. But even I must admit… this land now speaks with a louder voice than mine."
He turned to the center of the gathering.
"To whom does it belong now?"
Eyes turned, all at once, to a man sitting calmly beneath the shade, sipping palm wine from a wooden cup.
Ebitu.
He did not flinch.
Later that night, the elders gathered. Elder Urum stood to speak.
"We were once proud people cast into shame. We carried only our wisdom and our hands. This man"—he nodded to Ebitu—"did not ask to lead us again. But we followed him, and in doing so, we found purpose."
One of the younger men from Amogudu spoke next."Before, I thought peace was weakness. But now… I see strength in what endures."
Another woman added, "We need a leader who knows how to build — not just speak."
They turned again to Ebitu, who stood slowly.
"I am not a king," he said. "I was one… and it was taken from me. And in losing that crown, I found something heavier than gold: the burden of rebuilding."
"But you built," someone whispered.
He looked across the fire, face lit by flickering flame.
"If you ask me to lead you, I will not refuse. But know this — I do not lead with war drums. I do not rule with fear. I will plant more than I cut. I will teach more than I command. And I will never carry the title of king to feed pride."
There was a long silence. Then a voice called out:
"Lead us, even if you do not crown yourself."
Another voice:
"We will follow peace, even if others call it cowardice."
And slowly, one by one, they stepped forward and knelt — not in ritual, but in respect.
The Quiet King had returned — not to reclaim a throne, but to prove a better one could be built.
And though he wore no crown and held no scepter, word spread quickly through the neighboring lands:
"There is a king in Amogudu — and under his rule, wealth blooms, walls stay standing, and sons return home."
And in Eluoma, the whispers turned bitter.
Even Ezikpe, now surrounded by declining trade and restless youths, began to feel the shame settle in his bones like cold rain.