Tufuo nwa ruru ala! Echi ozo, amuta ozo!
Tufuo nwa ruru ala! Echi ozo, amuta ozo!
The pre-dawn chorus of jubilation erupted from the six night watchmen stationed across the compound of Government College, Ahia. Each man's voice rose in unison with the rhythm of their feet as they paraded in front of Niger House, hoisting a heavy, ragged bundle that swung lifelessly between two bamboo poles. The chant wasn't rehearsed, yet every beat was triumphant. The source of their celebration? The end of a reign of terror.
Josiah, the head watchman, marched ahead of the parade, his cracked, palm-strapped sandals thudding against the gravel path. He barged into the first dormitory, his voice loud and jubilant. "Wake up, wake up! Victory is ours! The beast is dead!" he declared, startling even the heaviest sleepers into action.
From both dormitories of Niger House, the floodgates opened. Senior boys, juniors, fags—clad in boxers, pyjamas, or just wrappers—streamed out to behold the legendary creature that had haunted their nights. From School House and Nile House too, bodies joined the swelling crowd as the chorus shifted:
"Be prepared! Zonga Zonga Bom Bom!
Be prepared! Zonga Zonga Bom Bom!"
The march wound toward the Principal's bungalow, snaking through the central quad like a triumphant army returning from conquest. Josiah beamed. This was more than a personal victory—it was history.
Weeks ago, he had stepped into the Principal's office, cheeks sunken, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights, and declared, "Dis leopard, sah. Just gimme two weeks. I go end am."
The request was bold: a double-barrel shotgun and two more night watchmen. The Principal, skeptical but desperate, agreed after consultations with the VPGC and Resident. The gun had arrived from the provincial armoury just days later.
Tonight, the trap had worked. The creature had returned, trying to slide a hooked pole through the corridor grating—just as before. Only this time, Josiah was waiting. The shot was precise, and instead of a roar or growl, what echoed through the dark wasn't animal at all.
"Chineke me! Anwuola m!" came the scream.
Now, the bundle was presented before the Principal. The students formed a semicircle, pressing close. The Principal, dressed in a green flannel robe, stepped forward with a lantern.
"Where is it?" he asked.
Josiah pointed to the bundle. "We no kill am sah. We bring am alive."
"Alive?" The Principal raised an eyebrow.
With a sharp nod, Josiah motioned to his men. They unfolded the fabric, revealing not claws, but human fingers. Not fur, but brown skin. And then, unmistakably—Benneth. The soft-spoken school groundskeeper, barely five feet tall, his eyes rolling in pain and confusion, still wearing a detailed leopard skin that had fooled the school for weeks.
A gasp swept through the students like a gust of wind. "Benneth?" they cried in unison.
The mask had been expertly crafted, a masterful assembly of whiskers, hide, and tail. Whoever had made it had understood the anatomy of fear. The Principal crouched for a closer look, lifting the mask. "Incredible craftsmanship," he muttered.
One crack shot had exposed the truth: it wasn't a mythical transformation. It was deceit, cloaked in superstition. With his identity revealed, Benneth was now just a man—fragile, wounded, and frightened.
The Principal ordered the St. John's Brigade Captain to administer first aid, then have Benneth secured at the clinic for further questioning. "We will decide what to do with him in the morning," he added gravely.
Then, with a deliberate pace, he turned to face the boys. "Ugochukwu N.!" he called.
"Sir!" Ugochukwu stepped forward. He wore a navy wrapper and a striped singlet, his eyes wide.
"Chukwuemeka Form One!"
"Here, sir." Chukwuemeka appeared from the shadows in cream pyjamas, his voice hollow.
The Principal's voice dropped to a disappointed tone. "With your background, Chukwuemeka, one would hardly expect you to traffic in bush superstition. Yet you've accused a fellow student—your classmate—of being a leopard. Do you realize the damage your words have done?"
Chukwuemeka, cornered by guilt and shame, nodded mutely.
"Will you now apologize to Ugochukwu, publicly, for spreading this falsehood?"
"I… I am sorry," he murmured.
"Louder."
"I am sorry, Ugo."
The Principal nodded. "Shake hands. You are classmates."
The boys reached out tentatively, their palms meeting in a hesitant but sincere clasp. A murmur of relief passed through the students.
"This should be a lesson to all," the Principal said, scanning the crowd. "This institution exists to liberate your minds, not enslave them to ancient fears. From today forward, any student caught spreading wild tales will face severe punishment. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir!" came the collective chorus.
"Now back to bed. Any student not in bed within ten minutes will be booked for detention."
The boys scattered like birds at the crack of a gun, their slippers slapping against the stone paths, their laughter rising once more into the night.
Inside the dormitories, however, laughter gave way to reflection.
In his cubicle, Ugochukwu sat on his mattress, arms clasped around his knees. Tears, long held back, spilled freely down his cheeks. Not from sadness—but from release. Weeks of suspicion, isolation, and paranoia had been lifted from his shoulders in one sweep of a leopard mask.
But though his name had been cleared, a deeper uncertainty remained.
The Principal had insisted: "All that talk about men becoming leopards is utter rubbish." And for a moment, Ugochukwu wanted to believe it. To shed the weight of Dibia Ozo's teachings, of ancient rituals and mysterious linkages. If it were all false, he could return to life as a normal schoolboy—free of fear, free of secrecy.
And yet… his memories wouldn't let him.
The pain in his arm the night the trap closed. The flash of vision when the leopard had groaned in the distant bush. The dream that paralleled reality. Too many signs, too many alignments.
Should he tell the Principal everything?
He imagined it: walking into the office, narrating the truth about Dibia Ozo, the rituals at the Oda Agu Owuru shrine, the omu nkwu, the sealed pot. Would they believe him? Would they understand?
He recalled Mr. Ebube's warning—his lone ally among the staff.
"Chew your stick in your room, boy," the teacher had said one quiet evening. "Don't parade it in front of the town square. Not everyone has ears ready to hear."
No. Ugochukwu decided he wouldn't go to the Principal. Not yet. Let things stand as they were—for now. The leopard was a memory, the mystery momentarily shelved. There was peace to be had. A term to complete. Exams to write.
But one thing was clear: he would not rest. Not until he understood. Not until he could separate myth from mystery, fear from fact.
He reached under his pillow and drew out a slim notebook. On its first page, he wrote:
"There is truth somewhere between science and tradition.
And I will find it."
Then, he closed the book and finally allowed himself to sleep.