Chapter 1: When Chief Stand, Hope Fit Wake

The thirty-first year of the Ogbuefi Chukwuma era finally waka reach last bus stop.

For Umuola people, dem dey count years with the chief’s name, each year heavy with tori, each one full of memory—festival, wahala, loss. This year, the palm wine sellers for evening market dey argue loud: 'My brother, this year na wahala! Even yam no gree swell for ground,' one of them complained, slapping his calabash. As if even harmattan refuse to end because e wan witness how things go finish for Ogbuefi Chukwuma.

The broken walls of Palm Grove, the never-ending thunder of cannon by River Niger—all those things fade for Ifedike’s eyes. E be like say him mind pause, then begin rush again: the stubborn harmattan for the northern desert, blood flow like river inside the Hall of Elders.

He taste dust for mouth, hear the distant cry of a night bird—like spirit dey call name. He remember the taste of dust when wind go slap face for dry season, how the sand dey cut skin, and the scent of iron—blood too much for one lifetime. Ifedike chest dey rise and fall as the memory dey bite deep; na as if thunder dey roll inside him head. Sweat, cold like morning dew for Oji River, begin gather for him brow.

All these scenes, full of blood, rush come back, like dem wan use am catch him weak point, make am shake.

He squeeze hand, knuckles white, like say if he no hold himself, e fit fall. The weight of dead men’s voices, the spirits of ancestors wey never rest, dem dey waka near am, whisper for ear, try scatter him mind. But na only stubborn heart dey keep am for ground.

The evening sun red pass palm oil. All of a sudden, Ifedike just burst laugh.

People wey dey near the palace gate look up, some sef cross themselves, others pinch small children to make dem keep quiet. The laughter waka like masquerade for village square—sharp, sudden, get meaning pass wetin ear fit carry. One woman hissed, dragging her child away, muttering, 'Abeg, make chief no dey craze for our front o.'

That laugh sharp like cutlass, and as e shine, the old lion wey dey near death just breathe out: “Me, I be ordinary person from Umuola, sweep everywhere clean, bring this land back, chase corrupt people, finish proud chiefs, change old ways, connect North and South. With my law, even market woman fit drag chief for council, no fear. Even after thousand years, ten thousand generations, I no go regret, I no dey fear. Even if dem tell me to do am one thousand or ten thousand times, I go still—”

The elders, wey dey kneel, their faces pressed to red earth, some dey weep, some dey pray inside them mind. Palm fronds dey wave outside the window, like say even wind dey pause for the chief’s last word. Some women for outside dey whisper, ‘Eziokwu!’, their wrappers tight round waist. As they kneel, they pray: 'Chineke, carry our chief well, no let him spirit waka lost.'

Him voice just cut off. The light for Ifedike’s eye begin fade small small. People wey dey kneel for inside and outside the chief’s palace door—servants, elders—don already start to cry.

One of the young boys, barely reach age to hold cutlass, begin sob, while the old women start to beat chest, calling ancestors to guide the chief safely home. The smell of burning camwood for sacrifice dey hang thick for air.

Ifedike grit him teeth, one thought dey inside him head: I never finish talk—who wan try make I die!

His teeth clamp together, jaw sharp as blade. He squeeze spirit like man wey refuse to let snake enter him house. The pride of a true son of Umuola dey stubborn for his soul.

For that moment, e be like say him dey drag with Death, force life come back by power. With one rough, cracked shout, he yell three words:

“KILL! KILL! KILL!”

The shout scatter fowl for compound, old men begin to shiver. Even the ancient talking drum for palace corridor stop as if spirit hold am. That kind voice na only person wey dey look Death in face fit get.

For Umuola, when chief stand, hope fit wake from grave.