Chapter Two – Blood on the SoilThe horns of war cut through Ajeromi like the cry of a wounded beast. Deep, mournful, and commanding, they summoned men from every corner of the town to the palace square. Drummers pounded skins until the air trembled, and warriors assembled in their ranks, spears upright, shields clashing, chants rising like thunderclouds before a storm. The moon hung pale above them, and the torches that lined the courtyard cast long, swaying shadows that seemed like spirits joining the call to battle.
Ajagunla stood at the forefront, a lion among men. His armor, worn from countless campaigns, bore scars that told of victories hard won. His braids swung as he turned his head, surveying the men who would march under the banner of Ajeromi. His eyes blazed, not with fear, but with that fire which made men believe no enemy could stand against him.
Behind him, Oyemekun clung to his cloak, his small hands gripping the rough fabric as though holding back fate itself. His voice quivered, but he forced the words out. "Baba… must you go again? You just came home."
Ajagunla crouched, his massive frame folding so that his eyes met his son's. His hand, calloused and scarred, rested gently on the boy's shoulder. "This land bleeds, Oyemekun. As long as it bleeds, I cannot rest. Remember what you swore. When Ajeromi calls, we answer."
Tears pricked the boy's eyes. "But what if you don't come back?"
For a moment, silence passed between them. The chants of warriors, the beat of the drums, even the cry of the horns seemed to fade. Ajagunla smiled faintly, though sorrow lingered in the curve of his lips. "Then you will carry my oath. And I promise you this if I fall, I will march with you in spirit. You will never stand alone."
Oyemekun pressed his fist against his chest, trying to hide the tremor in his hands. Ajagunla's words were a balm and a blade all at once. Pride lifted him, but fear clawed at him. He wanted to beg his father not to go, but the warrior's fire already blazed in his blood.
From the palace steps, Oba Adelugba emerged, draped in crimson and gold. The staff of kingship gleamed in his hand as he raised it high. His voice rang out across the square, heavy with command. "Men of Ajeromi! The warriors of Ijemo march against us. Their drums beat upon our borders, their fires darken our skies. But Ajeromi shall not bow! Tonight we fight for our fathers' graves, for the soil that raised us, for the children who carry our name!"
A roar shook the square as spears lifted skyward. Shields struck shields, the ground trembled beneath stamping feet, and the warriors surged with fury.
Ajagunla stepped forward, his voice rising above them all. "Ajeromi! Tonight you do not fight for crowns or for gold. You fight for the soil beneath your feet! Let the earth drink their blood before it drinks ours!"
The roar that answered was like thunder rolling across the land. Oyemekun's chest swelled with pride as he watched his father lead the men through the palace gates and into the night. Yet in that pride lay dread, sharp and unyielding.
The march to the battlefield was long, the rhythm of drums echoing in the night. When the first clash came, it was sudden and furious. Arrows streaked the sky like burning stars. Spears struck shields, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the war songs of men. The earth shook with the weight of their fury.
Ajagunla was a tempest. His blade rose and fell like lightning, cutting down enemies on every side. He shielded his men, drove them forward, roared their courage into being. The name Ajagunla rolled across the field as both fear and hope. Men fought harder when he passed, and enemies faltered at the sight of him.
But amid the chaos, a messenger from the palace reached him. His face was pale, his steps hesitant, but his voice carried the weight of authority. "The king commands you to push deeper into the enemy line. Alone."
Ajagunla's eyes narrowed. "Alone? That is no command, it is a death sentence. Where are my men?"
The messenger looked away. "Orders are orders, great warrior."
Ajagunla's jaw clenched. In that instant, he understood. Betrayal. Yet his oath chained him. He raised his sword high, rallying his men one last time. Then, with a roar, he charged into the thickest of the enemy.
They came upon him like a tide. Spears pierced his arms, arrows tore at his flesh, yet he struck them down with a fury that defied death. Each step was thunder, each strike a storm. His blood stained the soil, but still he fought, his roar echoing above the screams. Only when spears lodged deep in his body and his strength bled out of him did he finally drop to one knee. Even then, he lifted his blade skyward, a final defiance, before darkness claimed him.
News reached Ajeromi before dawn. The wails of women carried through the streets. Orisabunmi collapsed when she heard, her voice shattering the night. "No! Ajagunla cannot die like this! He was more than ten men!"
But even as grief swallowed her, Prince Adebowale found her. His eyes glistened, not with sorrow, but with desire and arrogance. "Your husband is gone, Orisabunmi. But you need not suffer. I, Adebowale, heir to the throne, can make you mine. Say yes, and you will never know hunger again."
Her grief turned to fury. She spat on the ground before him. "Never! I would rather starve with my son than lie with a vulture. My husband's blood is still fresh, and you insult his spirit with your lust?"
Adebowale's pride burned. His voice dropped to a threat. "Careful, woman. No one rejects a prince and goes unpunished."
Orisabunmi stepped close, her eyes blazing even through her tears. "Then punish me, Adebowale. But know this—my heart died with Ajagunla. You will never own me."
The prince turned away, but the hatred in his eyes was sharper than any blade.
Days later, whispers poisoned the air. Orisabunmi was accused of witchcraft, her name blackened by lies planted by the prince's allies. The night came when fire consumed her hut. Oyemekun awoke to the roar of flames, the crack of wood, his mother's screams tearing through the night.
"Mama!" he cried, racing toward the blaze. But strong arms held him back, neighbors muttering in fear. "Stay away, boy. A curse burns tonight."
He struggled, fought, but no one helped. The flames devoured everything. His mother's voice, once strong, broke into a final cry and then silence. The hut collapsed in a storm of sparks and ash.
By morning, nothing remained but smoldering ruins. Oyemekun fell to his knees in the ashes, his fists clenched, his face streaked with soot and tears. His voice was hoarse but unbroken. "They took Baba. They took Mama. But I swore I swore I would rise when Ajeromi calls. And when that day comes, they will remember the name Oyemekun."
The soil was black with blood and fire, but it was not done with him yet.