Two days after Mazi Agbu and his son, Ugochukwu, sought help from Dibia Ozo, the dibia made his way quietly to the secluded Oda Agu Owuru shrine belonging to the Agbu extended family.
The shrine was nestled about a hundred meters off one of the meandering footpaths that bridged the sleepy town of Ndikelionwu with its older cousin, Ndiowu.
Since the passing of Nwaburugo, Ugochukwu's enigmatic uncle, some fifteen years earlier, no spiritual custodian had been appointed for the shrine.
The Agbu family, now all self-declared Christians, avoided it like a cursed heirloom.
The thick forest surrounding the grove clutched the shrine like a secret. Wild pineapples with long, blade-like leaves stood as tall as banana trees, straining upward for their share of sunlight.
At the center stood the majestic Ikuku Tree, its bark dark and coarse, its branches stretching like arms of judgment. A once-white cloth now brown with age wrapped its base like a sash,
a declaration of its spiritual relevance. It was under this very tree, in forgotten seasons, that every leopard tethered to the Agbu bloodline returned after spiritual journeys—bleeding, victorious, or spent—to rest before vanishing into realms beyond the ordinary.
The shrine was astonishingly well-kept, which puzzled Ozo. He had expected disrepair. Instead, the modest hut with its corrugated iron roof remained intact.
Inside sat the akpati agwu, the sacred wooden chest, flanked by the tools of ritual: a straw broom, a piece of chalk-white nzu, a rusted machete, and the double-pronged ogene that punctuated every sacred rite.
The box rested on a stool no other human dared sit on—save the dibia in the performance of sacrifice. Beside it, a clay pot brimmed with water—cleansing agent for both mortal and divine hands.
Mazi Agbu had wisely chosen to avoid the shrine ritual. He feared, and rightly so, that the Catechist at the CMS Church would leap barefoot to the parish with excommunication papers in hand the moment his name was whispered at the shrine.
Ugochukwu, too, had wavered. At first, he was determined to expose Ozo as a clever manipulator. But that desire had long waned. The weight of the evidence was too crushing.
Even the goat incident was beyond rational denial. It had been confirmed: Mazi Oke's prized goat, black and white as ink on paper, was snatched that very night by a leopard.
To reach it, the beast had clawed through a newly reinforced pen barricaded with thorny lime branches. The goat's hair—discovered between Ugochukwu's teeth—matched precisely.
Even more puzzling was the distance the dead goat was dragged, through bush and thicket, until it lay lifeless beneath the udala tree—Ugochukwu's favorite hideout.
Coincidence had no place in this tale. What remained now was understanding, or at least management, of what he could not undo. He wasn't looking for power—only peace.
Later that evening, Mazi Agbu and Ugochukwu visited Dibia Ozo's compound to inquire about the ritual.
"How did it go?" Mazi Agbu asked the moment they stepped into the dibia's sitting room.
Ozo smiled and stood from his chair. "It went without a hitch. Sit down, both of you. Let us talk properly."
After offering a lobe of kola nut to the spirits and pouring fresh palm wine for his guests, Ozo leaned back in his chair with a relaxed sigh.
"You see," he began, "I wish the church allowed you to witness these things for yourselves. If you had followed me to my own Oda Agu Owuru shrine, just across the boundary of Umunze, you'd see where we keep the four pots—each covering a distinct lineage of the leopard. For ten years, I've sealed them. No beast has stirred from those pots unless I say so. And they won't stir unless we fail to observe the annual igwa aka sacrifice."
He paused and looked meaningfully at Ugochukwu. "I've done the same at your family shrine. The Oku Agburacha pots you brought—smooth as glass, as required—have been installed. One seals off Nwaburugo's spirit-leopard. The other now binds yours. Face-down they lay. Face-up stands the receptacle for annual offerings. That's how we ensure obedience. And containment."
Mazi Agbu nodded soberly. "How should we arrange the annual rite?"
"One white cock and six kola nuts. No wine. Wine disturbs the balance for these spirits. Leave that for men. If you wish, I'll do it myself. And you know my fees won't drown a widow."
Ugochukwu shifted uncomfortably. "Can someone… anyone… open the pots? What if someone tries?"
Ozo chuckled. "You know the answer already. Even foolish boys who once scraped bark off our own Ikuku Tree quickly learned the error of their ways. That tree is more than bark and roots. That tree… heals wounds no hospital can touch. I once reclined on it after being shot. The bullets… the blood... they came out through my mouth. My leopard stood up where it had lain gasping. Whole again."
He grew quiet, then continued, "Only a trained dibia can unseal those pots. You can't even command your own spirit-leopard without a second ceremony. And even I can only summon mine by invoking the ancestral cry: 'Nna n'agu!'—Father of the leopard. But for you? The pot will stay closed. Permanently. Unless you change your mind."
"God forbid," both father and son said together, almost instinctively.
Ozo gave them a long, knowing look. "Tomorrow," he said softly, "is always pregnant."
That night, as Ugochukwu lay in his room, he dropped to his knees beside his bamboo mat. He had barely eaten. Sleep evaded him. Tears welled up in his eyes—not of sorrow but release.
The past week had worn his soul thin. The diagnosis, the shrine, the leopard, the fear… and now, this stillness.
He bowed his head. "Lord," he whispered, "I didn't ask for this. Please let it be over. Let me forget. Let no one else find out—especially Emeka. Please, not him. Not the school."
He remembered Emeka's puzzled face when he was taken to Onitsha. Just a "fever," he had explained. Nothing more. Please let it remain so. If Emeka ever knew the truth…
He prayed harder, willing his friend to stay oblivious. For once, he did not ask to be great, to be wise, to be powerful. All he wanted was to be ordinary. A schoolboy again.
Rising from the floor, he dried his eyes and sighed. The pot was sealed. The dibia had promised. Now, it was time to return to Government College.
He would find a way to distract Emeka. Or humor him. Or lie, if he had to. So much depended on it.