The Weight of Gold
Chapter 79: Offer of the Throne
By S.A. Akinola
The village hummed with quiet anticipation as Iyi stepped into the central square. The late afternoon sun painted the sky in warm shades of gold and amber, stretching the shadows of the baobab tree like long, protective arms over the earth below. The air was thick with the scent of dry dust, crushed leaves, and the faint aroma of smoke from distant cooking fires.
All around him, the village paused. Women tending stalls hushed their chatter. Children, mid-game, slowed to watch. Traders folded their wares. Faces, young and old, turned expectantly toward the figure walking steadily through the crowd.
There was a different energy in the air—an unspoken tension woven with hope.
For months, Iyi had lived quietly among his people. He had healed wounds both visible and invisible, offering salves for bodies and balm for spirits. His days were spent tending to the sick, teaching the curious, and nurturing the fragile light of hope that had begun to grow once more in the village.
Yet, today was unlike any other.
At the heart of the square, beneath the sprawling branches of the ancient baobab tree, the council of elders awaited. Their presence commanded respect, their quiet dignity filling the space like the roots of the great tree beneath which they stood.
Iyi's steps slowed as he approached the circle. The elders' faces were a tapestry of time—etched with lines that told stories of long winters, hard summers, laughter, and loss. Their eyes, bright with wisdom, were fixed upon him.
Among them, Baba Femi—the eldest and most revered—rose with deliberate grace. His hands trembled slightly as he steadied himself on his carved staff, a relic passed down through generations, fashioned from the wood of a sacred iroko tree.
"Ọmọ Iyi," Baba Femi's voice was deep and steady, carrying the weight of countless ceremonies and council meetings. "You have walked paths few dare to tread. You have faced shadows within and without, and you have brought light to those lost in darkness."
He paused, letting the gravity of his words settle over the gathered crowd.
"For this, we offer you a place among us—not just as healer, but as leader. The throne of Agba Oye is yours, should you choose to accept."
The declaration hung heavy in the humid air, rippling through the gathered villagers like a stone cast into a still pond.
The throne of Agba Oye—the highest honor one could receive in the village. It was no mere seat of power or privilege. It was a sacred mantle of responsibility, an ancient trust bestowed upon those chosen to guide the village's spirit, preserve its traditions, and carry the weight of its future.
Iyi's heart thundered in his chest as the words echoed in his mind. His gaze flicked to the faces around him—those of the children playing nearby, the women tending their stalls, the elders seated with quiet pride—and then back to Baba Femi.
"Why me?" Iyi asked quietly, his voice steady but carrying a thread of humility.
Baba Femi smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Because you have walked the path with courage and heart. Because you understand the delicate balance between the seen and unseen. Because you carry not just knowledge, but compassion."
The elders nodded solemnly in agreement.
Iyi looked down at his hands—the same hands that had once trembled with hunger and fear, now steady and sure. He remembered the journey that had brought him here—the hunger that had clawed at his insides, the lies whispered in shadowed corners, the trials faced in the spirit world, and the sacrifices made beneath the watchful eyes of the stars.
And then there was the girl with burns, the boy named Tunde who now walked beside him as apprentice, the villagers who had begun to place their hope in his hands.
The weight of the offer settled upon him like a familiar cloak—heavy, yet warm.
He knew the throne was not a prize to be claimed, but a burden to be borne.
"I will not take this throne lightly," Iyi said at last. "I will serve not for glory or wealth, but for the healing of this village and all who call it home."
The crowd held its breath.
Baba Femi stepped forward, extending his hand.
"Then rise, Agba Oye. May your reign be one of wisdom, strength, and light."
Iyi took the elder's hand and rose, standing tall before his people as the new Agba Oye.
The village erupted in celebration—songs of joy rang out, drums beat a rhythm of welcome, and voices lifted in praise that echoed beneath the vast African sky.
Yet beneath the jubilation, Iyi's thoughts swirled with the certainty that the path ahead would be lined with trials.
As the festivities wound down and the stars began to prick the night sky, Iyi found himself alone at the riverbank. The water shimmered under the moonlight, whispering secrets only the night could hear.
He knelt beside the river, dipping his hands into the cool current. The river, ever-flowing, ever-changing, held stories—of ancestors, of seasons, of struggle and triumph.
Closing his eyes, Iyi listened.
He could feel the presence of those who had walked the path before him—the previous Agba Oyes who had borne the weight of this sacred trust. Their voices were soft, carried on the breeze, urging him to be strong, to be humble, to be a servant to the people and the spirits alike.
He remembered the lesson taught by his master long ago: leadership was not a throne of gold, but a vessel of service.
His fingers trailed through the water, tracing patterns that dissolved into the current.
In his heart, he made a solemn promise.
To honor the past.
To serve the present.
To shape a future where the village could thrive in harmony and peace.
The throne was not a position of power, but a calling.
And Iyi was ready to answer.
The next morning, the village woke to a new day marked by the presence of their Agba Oye. Word of the ceremony had spread beyond the village borders, and travelers arrived bearing gifts—woven cloths dyed in vibrant hues, jars of honey, carved wooden figures, and baskets heavy with fruits.
As Iyi walked through the village, people bowed their heads in respect and gratitude. Children ran to touch his hands, and elders smiled knowingly.
Yet Iyi felt the weight of their hopes pressing upon him. To lead was to carry not only his own heart but the hearts of all those who looked to him.
Later, beneath the baobab once more, the council convened.
Baba Femi spoke again, his voice steady.
"Agba Oye, the village looks to you now. You must guard our traditions, but also guide us through the changes that come with the world beyond."
The words echoed with the reality of his new role. The village was no longer isolated; trade routes had expanded, and the outside world pressed closer each day with promises and threats.
"I will walk the path with humility and strength," Iyi replied. "I will listen to the elders and the young alike. I will carry the wisdom of our ancestors and seek new light where it can be found."
A murmur of approval rose from the council and the villagers gathered outside.
In the days that followed, Iyi began his duties as Agba Oye. He mediated disputes, oversaw rituals, and sought counsel from the spirits beneath the baobab roots. He taught Tunde the sacred songs and the art of listening beyond words.
Though the responsibilities were many, Iyi found strength in the community's support and in the quiet moments by the river where the current seemed to whisper encouragement.
Yet the path of leadership was not without its challenges.
Old wounds resurfaced among the people—resentments passed down through generations, fears of change, doubts about the future. Some questioned his youth, others his vision.
At times, Iyi felt the familiar sting of isolation.
But in those moments, he remembered the light carried by the sponge—the symbol of healing passed down from his master. It was fragile, requiring constant tending, yet capable of banishing darkness when nurtured.
He vowed to keep that light burning.
One evening, as the village settled beneath the vast canopy of stars, Iyi sat with Tunde beneath the baobab tree.
"Master," Tunde said softly, "what does it truly mean to be Agba Oye?"
Iyi smiled, his gaze lifted to the glittering sky.
"To be Agba Oye is to be servant and guardian. To walk between worlds—between the past and future, the seen and unseen. To carry the hopes of many, even when your own heart is heavy."
Tunde nodded thoughtfully.
"Will it change you?"
"Perhaps," Iyi answered. "But I hope it will make me stronger. More compassionate. More true."
He reached out and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Together, we will carry this village forward."
As dawn broke over the village the next day, the drums began again—slow at first, then rising into a joyful crescendo. The village was alive with song and dance, celebrating the promise of new beginnings.
And at the heart of it all stood Iyi, the Agba Oye—ready to lead.