Part 2: Broken Spears, Empty Granaries
The wind that blew across Eluoma was no longer fragrant with the smell of roasted yam or oil-slicked egusi. It carried dust now. And silence.
Granaries that once brimmed with harvest now held echoes. The yam barns were hollow; the clay pots stood dry. Fields once worked by strong hands now sat neglected, the soil cracked and sunburnt.
The warriors no longer marched.
Their spears, chipped and rusted, leaned in corners or lay forgotten under mats.
Even the songs of Eluoma had changed. Where once children sang of bravery and glory, now they murmured lullabies of hunger.
The council house had grown still. Meetings were shorter, voices more cautious. Many elders who once supported Ezikpe now sat with their wrappers pulled high and their eyes lowered.
One of them, Elder Mba, finally spoke what others feared.
"We have lost our way. We chased thunder… and forgot the rain."
Another muttered, "We have strength, but no food. Name, but no trade."
Yet another: "We once had peace — and called it weakness. Now we beg for it in silence."
Outside the palace gates, women began protesting with empty calabashes.At the market square, traders demanded fair prices, but there was no surplus to haggle over.
Even the younger warriors — once proud of their battle chants — now whispered:
"There is no glory in returning home to crying mothers."
"Our spears won fear, but fear does not feed."
One evening, Ezikpe walked alone to the hill above the village, looking toward the distant paths that led beyond the border.
From there, if the sky was clear, one could almost see the far end of Amogudu — faint smoke rising from steady hearths, movement along quiet trade paths, faint echoes of singing and laughter.
He clenched his fists.
"We taught them fear," he muttered. "And they returned us shame."
But even he could not lie to himself anymore. The fire he had lit had scorched only his own house.
That same night, the last of the Eluoma traders returned from Nkporo with nothing but words.
"They refused our oil. Said they had enough from Amogudu."
"They refused our ivory. Said Ebitu's men carve better."
"They refused our warriors. Said they wanted peace."
The words spread faster than fire.
The next morning, Elder Mba stood before the gathered villagers and said aloud what they had all known deep down:
"We need help."
"And the only man who can save Eluoma… is the one we cast out."
At first, there was resistance.
"He is no longer one of us," some muttered.
"He will not receive us."
But others answered:
"He has helped strangers. Why would he not help his own?"
Finally, the council met one last time — not to plot war or chant pride, but to draft a delegation. A humble one. One without drums or warriors. One bearing calabashes of kola, wrappers of red cloth, and broken spears as symbols of surrender.
They would go to Amogudu.
They would kneel.
They would ask the man they once called coward… to save them.