Chapter One – The Warrior's Oath
The drums of Ajeromi rolled through the night like the heartbeat of the gods. Their echoes bounced off mud-brick walls and palm-thatched roofs, filling every alley, every courtyard, every soul with the knowledge that the warriors had returned. From the palace square, where torches blazed and shadows of spears danced against the walls, the sounds of chanting men and jubilant women mingled with the cries of children racing barefoot across the dusty ground. The market, though closing, was alive with smoke and spice: roasted maize, yam pottage simmering in clay pots, calabashes of palm wine being offered to those who marched past.
But victory in Ajeromi was always laced with grief. For every drumbeat of triumph, there were wails rising from homes where warriors would not return.
Far from the noise of the square, Ajagunla sat in his courtyard. The fire in the hearth glowed low, casting a reddish sheen across the deep scars on his arms. His braids, streaked with gray, framed a face carved from stone hard, proud, and weary. Across his lap rested a long sword. Slowly, deliberately, he drew its edge across a whetstone. Sparks leapt into the night, each scrape a harsh note in the rhythm of the silence.
At his feet sat his son, Oyemekun. Barefoot, with a small wooden spear across his knees, the boy watched the blade with wide, curious eyes. The sparks seemed alive to him, a fiery promise of strength and greatness.
Ajagunla did not look up as he spoke. His voice was deep and rough, yet steady as the sound of the stone.
"Do you know why steel sings when it touches stone?"
Oyemekun shook his head quickly, braids bouncing against his small face.
"No, Baba. But I love the sound. It makes me feel strong."
Ajagunla's lips curled faintly, though his eyes remained on the sword.
"It sings because it must always be ready. A warrior who is not prepared is already dead before the battle begins."
The boy leaned closer, clutching the wooden spear as if it might come alive in his hands. He hesitated, then asked the question that had burned inside him all evening.
"Baba… will I be a warrior like you?"
The scraping stopped. Ajagunla lifted his head, turning his amber eyes upon the boy. For a moment, the stern warlord disappeared, and only a father remained. He laid the sword across his knees and leaned forward until his shadow fell over the child.
"You will be greater than me. But listen well, Oyemekun. Your path may not be chosen by you. One day, Ajeromi will call upon you, and you must not turn away. Swear it now swear you will rise when your people need you."
The boy's throat tightened. His small hands trembled, but his voice came steady, trembling with both fear and pride.
"I swear, Baba. Even if they forget me, even if they cast me away, I will answer when they call."
Ajagunla's eyes softened. He nodded, though there was sorrow in his gaze, as though he feared the weight he had just placed upon such young shoulders. He lifted the blade and turned it so the fire danced along its edge.
"Good. Remember this: loyalty is heavier than blood. But betrayal…" He paused, the reflection of flame glinting across the steel. "…betrayal is sharper than a blade."
At that moment, the clay gate creaked open. Orisabunmi stepped inside, a pot of water balanced on her head. She stopped when she heard those words, and her face hardened. Setting the pot down, she crossed her arms.
"Ajagunla, must you fill the boy's head with shadows and swords? He is still a child."
Ajagunla chuckled, not turning to face her. "A child of a warrior must be sharpened early, Orisabunmi. The world does not wait for him to grow."
She knelt beside Oyemekun and cupped his cheeks, her voice lowering, soft and urgent.
"My son, do not let war steal your heart. Promise me that."
The boy looked between them his father, fierce and unyielding, and his mother, tender yet trembling with fear. His lips quivered.
"I… I promise, Mama," he whispered.
But deep inside, Oyemekun knew he could not keep both promises.
The fire crackled, sparks flying upward into the dark sky. A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, and from beyond the gate a shadow moved. An old man appeared bent, thin, wrapped in tattered white cloth, leaning on a crooked staff. His eyes gleamed unnaturally, reflecting the flames.
He stopped just inside the gate and pointed a bony finger at the boy. His voice rasped like dry leaves dragged across stone.
"The boy swears tonight, but blood will test his oath. Loyalty will bind him, betrayal will cut him, and his name will be written in fire."
Orisabunmi gasped, dragging Oyemekun against her chest. "Away with you, spirit of shadows!" she cried, voice breaking.
Ajagunla leapt to his feet, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. His voice thundered.
"Old man, do not speak doom in my house!"
The stranger only smiled. He tapped his staff three times against the earth. With each strike, the flames flared higher, and somewhere in the distance, a dog began to howl. Then, as swiftly as he had appeared, the old man turned and melted into the shadows.
The courtyard fell silent. The flames lowered. Ajagunla sheathed his sword with a grim look. "Pay him no mind," he muttered, though the tremor in his jaw betrayed unease.
Orisabunmi pressed her forehead against her son's hair, whispering a prayer so softly that only the gods might hear. Oyemekun, held tight against her, stared into the fire and felt his oath burning deeper within him..
The courtyard remained tense long after the stranger vanished. Ajagunla sat heavily on the low wooden stool, his hand still tight on the hilt of his sword. His eyes lingered on the gate as though expecting the old man to return. Orisabunmi paced restlessly, her fingers fumbling with the edge of her wrapper. Oyemekun stayed silent, his mind full of fire and shadows, the weight of both promises pressing on his small chest.
When at last Orisabunmi disappeared into the hut, muttering prayers under her breath, Ajagunla gestured for his son to follow him. Together they crossed the courtyard to the weapons shed. The boy hesitated before stepping inside. It smelled of oil, iron, and smoke. Torches revealed racks of spears, shields with dented surfaces, broken helmets, and old war banners hanging limp like ghosts of battles past. The walls seemed to whisper with memories of steel and blood.
Ajagunla ran his hand over the scarred edge of a shield and then lifted one small enough for the boy to carry. He pressed it into Oyemekun's hands. The child nearly staggered beneath its weight.
"Do you feel it?" Ajagunla asked.
Oyemekun nodded. His arms trembled, but he tightened his grip. "Yes, Baba. It is heavy."
Ajagunla's gaze sharpened. "It is heavy not because of wood and iron, but because it carries lives. This shield once belonged to Adeyemi, my brother-in-arms. He raised it when spears rained upon us, but he faltered, and it cracked. He died because he forgot that a shield guards more than the body—it guards the man beside you. When you carry this, you carry every warrior who trusted you not to fall."
The boy's breath hitched. His small hands shook, but he did not let go. "I will not drop it, Baba," he said, voice quivering yet fierce.
Ajagunla laid a hand on his shoulder. "See that you never do."
He turned then to the long sword resting on the wall. Its blade shimmered in the torchlight, etched with faint marks that looked like rivers of fire. He lifted it slowly, reverently, and let it rest across his palms.
"This sword has taken many lives," he said, his voice low, almost mournful. "But the deepest wound it ever gave was to me. Each time it strikes, it asks: For whom do you fight? I have fought for kings, for friends, for land. One day, Oyemekun, this question will face you as it faced me. When that day comes, may your answer be worthy."
The boy swallowed hard, staring at the gleaming blade. In that moment, he felt both awe and fear, as though the weapon could swallow him whole. He thought of his father's scars, of his mother's trembling hands, of the stranger's prophecy. His young heart did not yet understand destiny, but it knew enough to fear it.
That night, Oyemekun lay on his mat unable to sleep. The images of fire, steel, and shadows tangled in his mind. He pressed his hands together and whispered into the dark, "If destiny comes, let it find me ready." His voice broke, but he did not cry. He could not. The oath already burned too deep.
Dawn came with the sound of roosters and the scent of dew. Ajagunla woke his son before the first light touched the horizon. Without a word, he led him out of the compound, past sleeping huts, past the fields of cassava and yam, until they reached the edge of the forest. There, towering against the pale morning sky, stood the sacred iroko tree. Its roots spread wide and deep, its branches stretched like arms embracing the heavens.
Ajagunla knelt before it and pressed his palm to the earth. "Kneel, my son. This is where warriors bind their spirits."
Oyemekun obeyed, sinking to his knees in the cool soil. The air felt different beneath the tree—thicker, alive, as though unseen eyes watched from every leaf. Ajagunla drew his sword, turning the flat of the blade against the boy's palm until it stung.
"Repeat after me: When Ajeromi calls, I will rise."
"When Ajeromi calls, I will rise."
"Even if betrayed, even if forgotten, I will not turn away."
"Even if betrayed, even if forgotten, I will not turn away."
Ajagunla's voice dropped lower, heavy with sorrow. "Even if the crown is false, even if blood betrays you, you will stand for the soil that gave you life."
The boy's voice faltered, but he repeated it. "Even if the crown is false, even if blood betrays me, I will stand for the soil that gave me life."
The wind surged suddenly through the branches. The leaves rattled like thousands of whispering tongues. Ajagunla pressed his forehead against his son's, his eyes closing for a moment.
"From this day," he murmured, "you carry the oath of a warrior. Never forget that it is both your burden and your strength."
Oyemekun's chest rose and fell quickly, his heart pounding as though it too had sworn. He felt the soil beneath his knees, the blade against his skin, and the fire in his blood. His childhood ended beneath that tree. What stood up afterward was no longer merely a boy, but the beginning of a warrior.