The Breaking Before the Temple
Psalm 7:9 (NIV)
Bring to an end the violence of the wicked and make the righteous secure— you, the righteous God who probes minds and hearts.
The sun had begun its slow descent, yet the air still burned. Heat shimmered above the temple stones and wrapped the crowd like a fever. Dust clung to every face and shoulder. The smell of sweat, smoke, and old fear lingered.
Mahogany Village stood gathered before the temple gate, where the wooden doors, carved with the symbols of Uwa, stayed tightly shut. For months those doors had been the line between pleading and silence, between offering and deceit.
The chief sat on a low stool near the steps, his robe open at the chest, beads of sweat darkening the cloth. His eyes were tired but sharp, tracking the murmuring crowd. The people no longer looked like petitioners—they looked like witnesses at a trial that had taken too long to begin.
He said nothing. His silence had weight, a warning and a shield at once.
An old woman, the same who had knelt before Teuwa that morning, broke through the line of villagers. She moved like a gust of wind: thin, bent, yet fierce. Her gray hair clung to her damp temples. When she reached the front, she struck the ground with her palm, and the sound cracked the air.
"Why are we all silent?" she shouted, voice raw and trembling. "Do you think our daughters are chickens for slaughter?"
Her spit hit the dust, dark and final.
The murmur spread like dry grass catching flame. Men shifted their weight, women muttered behind their headscarves, children peered from between legs. A ripple of courage moved through them—uncertain, but real.
From the shadows of the doorway, Teuwa stood. The priest's robe clung to his belly, dark with sweat. His face was red, glistening with anger. The cords in his neck stood out as he stepped forward.
"What nonsense is this?" he thundered. "Get away from the temple, you ungrateful fools!"
His voice rang off the wooden doors behind him, sharp enough to startle a bird from the nearby tree. The crowd stiffened but did not retreat.
Teuwa's eyes darted across their faces. He had ruled them for years through fear, through his control of prayer and sacrifice. He had known them as sheep, docile and hungry for hope. But now their eyes had changed. They no longer pleaded; they measured him.
A voice rose from the right, strong and low. "We've given you everything," someone said. "Our goats, our chickens, our faith. Yet the witches still threaten, and our god is silent. What else do you want?"
Teuwa's mouth twisted. "You think you can understand the will of Uwa? You think I am your problem? Maybe your own sins have blocked the god's ear!"
"Then why is your stomach full while ours are empty?" the same voice shot back.
The priest's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, but another voice cut through—Ye's, steady and unshaken.
"You've eaten what belongs to Uwa," Ye said. "All the goats, the hens, the sheep. We've seen your fat belly grow while our children starve."
Heads turned toward him. Ye stood in the open, sunburned and lean, his face shadowed with dust. He didn't shout; his calm was sharper than rage.
A murmur swept through the crowd. "It's true," someone whispered. "I saw sacks of grain carried to his house." "His wives eat meat every night," said another.
Teuwa's throat bobbed. "Shut up!" he barked. "What proof do you have? You spread lies like disease!"
Ye didn't move. "Proof?" His voice was dry. "Let everyone search your house then."
The words hit like a hammer on stone. The crowd stilled, their collective breath held between disbelief and exhilaration.
Teuwa froze. For the first time, his authority wavered in his voice. "You cannot search the priest's house," he said, each word measured. "It is sacred."
"Sacred?" Ye took a step closer. "You made it your storeroom."
The old woman nodded fiercely. "We brought offerings to the temple, not to your table."
Teuwa's hands shook, barely hidden in his sleeves. He pointed at Ye, his finger trembling. "You! You're the reason Uwa hasn't answered! Your doubt has cursed us all!"
Regbolo barked a laugh from the side. "If doubt curses, then we're all cursed. Maybe Uwa turned His face because of your greed."
Laughter—bitter, short—ran through the crowd. Teuwa's eyes widened. He felt it: the crowd slipping away from his grasp, the lie unspooling faster than he could gather it.
"Do you not fear God?" he shouted. "Do you think you can mock His priest?"
But his voice no longer sounded divine. It was human now—sweaty, cornered, afraid.
"Are you trying to twist this?" someone yelled back. "We only want truth!"
"Let's search his house!" another called, and others echoed until the chant swelled like thunder.
Teuwa moved fast, planting his heavy body before the temple door. "No one enters!" he roared. "This is the house of Uwa! You will defile it with your doubt!"
The chief stood now, his shadow long across the ground. His voice came low but steady. "If it is truly the god's house, then let the god defend it. Step aside, Teuwa."
For a moment, even the heat seemed to pause.
Teuwa's face twisted. He looked at the chief, at the villagers, at the temple behind him. Sweat rolled down his cheek. He knew that once they crossed that threshold, his lies would collapse. He pressed his back against the door.
"You cannot!" he gasped. "Uwa will curse you!"
Ye took one more step. His eyes met Teuwa's. "Then let Him curse the liar first."
The words hit like a spark in dry tinder. The villagers surged forward—not running, but moving with a collective, heavy will. Teuwa spread his arms wide, blocking the doorway, his breath coming fast. The wood behind him creaked under the press of bodies.
"Stop!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Stop, I said!"
"Isn't your fear the proof?" Ye's voice carried above the noise. "If you were clean, you'd have nothing to hide."
The priest's eyes flicked wildly. For the first time, he looked small.
A woman in the crowd whispered, "He's finished." Another answered, "Not yet—but soon."
Then came the word that sealed it. Someone shouted, "Liar!"
It rang out, pure and final, and the others took it up until it filled the air like a bell.
Teuwa's arms fell to his sides. His mouth worked soundlessly.
The chief turned away, his shoulders heavy. "If you have truly lied to us, Teuwa," he said quietly, "then may Uwa deal with you as you have dealt with us."
He motioned to his son and began to walk down the slope. Dust rose around his sandals. The crowd parted for him but did not follow. They stood together in the fading light, eyes on the trembling priest, the silence after rage thick as smoke.
Then, slowly, they began to leave—one household at a time. They didn't scatter as before. They moved with purpose, speaking in low voices, their anger cooling into something harder and more certain.
The sound of their departure was strange: not defeat, but awakening.
The crowd drifted apart like smoke pulled by a tired wind.
No one spoke. Even the flies seemed to hush, circling over the trampled dust where Teuwa had stood. The old woman who had dared to challenge him was the last to leave. She gathered her shawl about her shoulders and shuffled away without looking back.
Teuwa stayed by the door long after they were gone. The wooden panels behind him seemed to breathe with the trapped heat of the day. His own shadow, long and warped, stretched down the steps toward the dust.
By sunset the temple yard lay empty—save for the wind and the priest.
Teuwa remained at the gate, jaw clenched, sweat drying into white salt lines down his cheeks. The air smelled of dust and pig fat, a stench that clung to him no matter how he wiped his hands.
He turned toward the great doors. For a heartbeat he thought he heard whispering from within—soft, mocking, familiar. He spat on the ground and muttered, "Liars."
The whisper stopped.
He pushed the doors open a crack and peered into the dark. The unoffered animals stirred, eyes catching the faint light like dull coins. A pig squealed, then went silent. Teuwa slammed the doors shut again and slid the heavy bar into place. His breath came rough, uneven.
Somewhere deep inside him, a small sound rose—a tremor between anger and fear.
The mountain wind thickened as night came on, carrying the dry rustle of leaves and something else beneath it—a distant hum, almost a chant. He told himself it was only the wind
By nightfall, Mahogany Village would no longer be the same.
The wind rose from the mountain, carrying the faint smell of rain. Doors closed early that evening. Fires burned low. And for the first time in years, the temple yard lay empty — no chants, no drums, only silence.