The sun had barely risen, casting a golden hue across the village as Iyi stepped through the narrow footpath that led to the council hall. Each footfall crunched softly against the dry earth, muffled by the chorus of morning birds and the distant rush of the Obirin River. Dew still clung to the blades of grass, sparkling like fragments of broken light.
He wore his finest indigo robe, its patterns hand-stitched by the weavers of Efon Hill—threads of gold looping around the chest like a heartbeat trying to remember its rhythm. Yet despite his regal attire, there was no pride in his gait, only quiet deliberation. The village buzzed around him with restrained expectation. Women at the well looked up from their fetching, nodding in reverence. Children playing in the dust paused, sensing a weight in the air they didn't fully understand. Even the elders sitting beneath the palm shade, usually quick with banter, watched him pass in reverent silence.
Since the offer to become Agba Oye—the custodian of the people, the elder of voice and vision—had been made, the rhythm of his life had shifted. He was no longer merely Iyi the healer, the wanderer who had returned. He had become a symbol, and with that came burdens that not even the gods themselves always bore gracefully.
He slowed before the council hall, a square clay structure capped with a sloping thatched roof. It stood at the heart of the village like a sleeping beast, humble in size but colossal in influence. Carvings of ancestors adorned the entrance, their etched eyes watching, judging, remembering.
Inside, the elders waited. The room was dim, lit only by shafts of morning light that slipped through the open slats. Mats lined the floor in a semicircle, and in the center stood the chair—the throne of Agba Oye, carved from a single block of Iroko wood, dark and gleaming. Its arms curled like serpents, its back rose in a series of carved flames—symbols of vigilance, wisdom, and endurance.
Baba Femi, the eldest among them, motioned for Iyi to sit. His white wrapper was immaculate, his skin wrinkled but firm, eyes sharp with decades of leadership etched behind them.
Iyi sat, but he did not rest.
The chair seemed to resist him, as though it sensed his hesitation. It wasn't just a place to sit—it was a declaration, a commitment, a surrender.
"Iyi," Baba Femi began, voice low and layered with patience, "you have heard the voice of the people. You have seen the signs. You were not chosen by us alone, but by the land, by spirit, by fate. You are to lead, protect, and hold our past and future in balance."
Iyi gave a soft nod. "I have heard. And I am honored."
He looked up at the circle of eyes around him. The elders represented every quadrant of the village—north, south, the fisherfolk, the farmers, the hunters, the medicine-keepers. They had walked in storms, in drought, through seasons of bounty and death. And now they looked to him.
A long breath passed through his lips. The silence grew pregnant with anticipation.
"I must decline."
The words fell like a stone into a still pond, rippling outward in waves of disbelief.
A hush swallowed the room.
For a moment, no one moved.
Even the dust particles floating in the light seemed to freeze.
Baba Ajulo, the hunter's elder, frowned and leaned forward. "What do you mean, Iyi? You decline? This is not a gift that can be returned like a borrowed hoe."
Iyi did not flinch. His voice remained steady, though the weight of it sat squarely on his chest. "Because the throne is more than a seat—it is a responsibility that demands all of me. And I am not sure I can give what is required—not yet."
He stood, unable to remain seated on that waiting wood.
"I have walked through fire. I have lost what cannot be recovered. I have healed wounds that still bleed beneath the skin. To wear the title of Agba Oye is to stand at the threshold between what is and what must be. And I am still learning how to be."
Baba Femi's brow furrowed slightly. "You speak with depth, Iyi, but the village needs you now. A leader who waits is a river that dries when the earth thirsts."
Iyi took a slow breath. "I will not abandon the people. I will walk beside them. I will teach, I will heal, I will speak. But I cannot wear the title yet. Not while the lessons that shaped me still echo. Not while I carry doubts in my marrow."
He turned, facing each elder with the respect of a son before his elders.
"When I am ready, I will return—not just with knowledge, but with clarity. Until then, I ask for your blessing to serve in the way I know best. With my hands, my voice, my presence—not with a title."
The hall remained still.
Then Baba Yetunde, the elder of the weavers, spoke gently. "Sometimes, the strongest cloth is not the one already sewn, but the one still on the loom."
A soft murmur of agreement moved through the room.
"Iyi," Baba Femi finally said, "You have not turned away. You have told the truth of your heart. And that is more than many kings have ever dared. You are still Agba Oye—not by throne, but by the spirit you carry."
He stood and extended his hand.
There was something ancient in the gesture—an acknowledgment that true power did not come from position, but from presence.
Iyi reached out and clasped the elder's hand.
Relief washed over him like a tide. The tension that had shadowed his every step seemed to lift, replaced not with certainty, but with peace.
The other elders rose in turn, offering nods, hands, and quiet words of support. Even Baba Ajulo, initially skeptical, gave a grunt of approval. "Better to wait and lead right than to rush and ruin."
Outside, the village was already awake to his presence. As he stepped from the hall, a quiet cheer rose from the gathered crowd. Children scampered forward, offering wildflowers. Women called blessings. An old man shouted, "You are still our son, throne or not!"
A procession did not follow him, but something more honest did—acknowledgment. The people saw him, not as a crown, but as a man who dared to speak his truth.
He made his way slowly toward the grove where the baobab tree stood—his favorite place of reflection. Along the way, memories danced in his mind. He saw his mother's laughter, his father's final lesson before the fever took him. He remembered the war that had shattered his youth, the months spent wandering, and the day he returned to find the village singing his name.
At the base of the baobab, he knelt. Its massive trunk rose like a sentinel into the sky, branches sprawling like arms that had seen centuries come and go. He pressed his palm to the bark.
"I am not ready," he whispered. "But I will be."
The wind shifted, rustling the leaves above. It carried no answer, only the comfort of a world that listened.
Later that night, the village gathered in the square. Not for a coronation, but for a circle of stories. Iyi sat by the fire, surrounded by youth and elders alike. He spoke of journeys, of healing, of the scars that teach more than triumphs. He sang a song his mother once sang—soft, haunting, full of rivers and roads.
When the moon reached its peak, an elder stood and addressed the crowd.
"He did not take the throne," she said, "but he carried its spirit. That is enough for now."
And the people agreed.
In the days that followed, life resumed. The fields needed tending, the river nets untangling, the markets reopened. But something had changed—not in Iyi, but in how the people saw him.
He was no longer the man who might be king.
He was the man who knew himself enough to say no.
And sometimes, that was the leader they needed most.