Year: 1880
The rooster's cry came before the sun.
Akenzua was already awake, sifting through knowledge that didn't belong to him. He rose and dressed by candlelight—traditional Edo royal attire, coral beads for his neck and wrists.
Before leaving, he studied himself in the bronze mirror. Eighteen years old. The three ritual scars on each cheek marking him as a prince of the blood. Eyes that, according to his mother, had changed.
He could see it too. The boy who had lived in this body before the fever was gone.
"Prince Akenzua?" His servant Osagbomwen appeared. "The Oba requests your presence at the morning sacrifice."
The morning sacrifice. The words triggered nothing—no memory from the prince, no guidance for what to do.
"What time?"
"Now, Prince. The priests are waiting."
He moved quickly through the palace corridors, following Osagbomwen. The morning sacrifice—he had read about it in anthropological texts, decades ago. The Oba offered prayers to the ancestors. Simple enough.
The shrine courtyard was already crowded. Priests in chalk markings. Chiefs in ceremonial regalia. Warriors along the walls. And at the center, elevated on a carved platform, the Oba himself.
Akenzua approached the platform. Bowed formally.
Then he made his first mistake.
He stepped forward with his right foot.
The courtyard went silent.
The Oba's face registered nothing. But beside him, Chief Osaro's eyes lit with something that looked very much like triumph.
"The prince approaches the ancestors with the foot of war." A priest's voice, cold and formal. "Does the prince come to the morning sacrifice with hostile intent?"
Every eye fixed on him.
The prince's memories finally offered something—too late. The left foot first. Always the left foot when approaching sacred ground. The right foot was for battle, for challenge, for confrontation with enemies.
He had just told every witness that he viewed the ancestors as enemies.
"Forgive me." The words came out steady despite the ice in his stomach. "The fever... I am still recovering. My body forgets what my heart knows."
"The fever." Chief Osaro's voice was silk over steel. "It seems the fever has forgotten many things."
"The ancestors know my heart." Akenzua met the chief's eyes. "Even when my body betrays me."
"Perhaps." The Oba's voice cut through the tension. "Let the prince make the approach again. The ancestors are patient with those who are healing."
Akenzua stepped back. This time, left foot first. The formal bow. The correct sequence of gestures he was desperately pulling from fragmented memories.
The sacrifice proceeded. But the damage was done.
---
Two hours later, the main court convened.
The outer court was vast, its walls covered with bronze plaques depicting the deeds of Obas past. Chiefs in elaborate ceremonial regalia. Priests with chalk markings. Warriors along the walls.
"The court welcomes Prince Akenzua," a herald announced. "May his recovery continue under the ancestors' blessing."
The emphasis on "recovery" was not subtle.
Chief Osaro intercepted him before he could reach the throne. Head of the Iwebo palace society. Perhaps fifty, his face a mask of courtesy.
"Prince Akenzua. We feared we might lose you to the spirits."
"The court's concern honors me, Chief Osaro. My father tells me you visited daily during my illness."
A flicker behind the old man's eyes. Uncertainty.
"It was my duty and my pleasure."
"The palm wine you sent during my recovery... I'm told it was from your own private stores."
Silence. The chief's smile thinned.
Akenzua had learned about the wine from Osarobo. Mentioning it sent a message: I am watching you.
"A small gesture for the prince's health."
"Most generous. We must speak more of your generosity." He leaned closer. "And about what was in the wine. The physicians found it... interesting."
Osaro's face went carefully blank. "I don't understand the prince's meaning."
"Of course you don't." Akenzua smiled and moved past before the chief could respond.
The Oba acknowledged him with the slightest nod.
"My son. The morning sacrifice was... eventful."
"The ancestors test us in strange ways, Father."
Court business continued. Land disputes. Trade arrangements. Tribute from subject territories—the Urhobo villages had sent their annual gifts of palm oil, while the Itsekiri envoy from Warri awaited audience to discuss the river trade routes.
Then came the matter of the coastal trade.
"The British merchants at Ughoton request expanded access to our markets," Osaro announced.
"What do they offer in return?" the Oba asked.
"Cloth. Metal goods. Weapons."
"What weapons?" The words escaped Akenzua before he could stop them.
Silence.
"The prince concerns himself with trade matters?" Osaro's tone was mild. Patronizing.
"A practical interest. The white men's weapons have changed in recent years. I would know what quality they offer us."
"Trade muskets. As always."
"Not the new rifles? The breech-loading ones that can fire ten shots in the time our muskets fire one?"
More silence.
"The prince is remarkably well-informed."
"The prince reads. And wonders why kingdoms to our south have acquired modern weapons while we content ourselves with obsolete ones."
"The old weapons have served us well enough."
"Against other African kingdoms, yes. But times change, Chief Osaro. Berlin changes."
The word dropped like a stone into still water. Berlin. The conference that was even now dividing Africa among European powers. A topic that was technically not supposed to be discussed outside the Oba's inner council.
"The prince knows of Berlin?" The Oba's voice was flat.
"The prince hears things. Reads things. Thinks about what they mean."
"We will discuss this matter further." The Oba's tone brooked no argument. "In private council."
As the court dispersed, Akenzua caught Osaro's eye across the room.
The mask of courtesy had slipped. Behind it was something cold. Calculating.
And something else—satisfaction. The prince had revealed too much. Had shown knowledge he shouldn't possess. Had confirmed the whispers that something was very wrong.
---
The summons came within the hour.
Not from the Oba—from Idia. The Queen Mother's chambers were in the eastern wing, removed from the main palace but connected by covered walkways.
She was waiting when he arrived. Not seated. Pacing.
"Close the door."
He did.
"Sit."
He didn't. "I prefer to stand when being examined."
"You know why I called you."
"The morning sacrifice. The court session. Everyone is talking."
"Everyone is wondering." She stopped pacing. Faced him directly. "The chief priests came to me after the sacrifice. They wanted to know if the prince is possessed."
"What did you tell them?"
"I told them the fever damaged his memory. That the ancestors were testing him. They accepted it—for now."
"And Chief Osaro?"
"Chief Osaro is already telling anyone who will listen that the prince has returned 'strange.' That spirits may have taken the real Akenzua and left something else." She stepped closer. "You made it easy for him. The wrong foot. The comment about Berlin. You might as well have announced that you're not the same person who fell ill."
"I am the same person."
"Are you?" Her voice was soft. Dangerous. "Then tell me this: what was the last thing we discussed before your fever? The last conversation, the last words between mother and son?"
The prince's memories flickered. Fragments. A courtyard. Evening light. But the words...
"You spoke of my responsibilities." A guess, based on pattern. "My position. What would be expected of me."
"I asked you about a girl. A chief's daughter you had been watching at the market. I teased you. You blushed like a child and told me to stop." Her eyes bored into him. "What was her name?"
Nothing. The prince's memories offered nothing.
"I don't remember."
"You don't remember because you were never there. Because whoever you are, whatever you are, you only have pieces of my son's life." Her voice cracked. "He's gone, isn't he? My boy is gone."
"Mother—"
"Don't." She held up her hand. "Don't call me that. Not until you prove you have any right to."
The silence stretched.
"What do you want me to prove?"
"That some part of him remains. That this isn't possession or replacement. That I'm not sheltering a demon wearing my son's face."
"How?"
"The girl. The one from the market. Find her. Learn her name. Learn what my son saw in her." She moved to the door. "If any part of him lives in you, you'll understand why this matters. If not..." She opened the door. "If not, then the priests may be right after all."
---
"Prince."
Akenzua turned. A man approached in the corridor—military bearing, scarred face, eyes that had seen combat. Ezomo Erebo. Commander of the Oba's personal guard.
Something stirred in the back of his mind. A memory that wasn't his: assessing officers at the Pentagon, reading posture and gait for signs of real combat experience versus desk service. This man had seen blood. Had made hard choices.
"Victor of three campaigns. The man who held the northern border against the Nupe raids."
Surprise flickered across the scarred face. "You know much about me, Prince."
"I make it my business to know about the men who keep my father alive."
"Some would say you speak too freely about ruling while your father still holds the throne."
"I prefer truth to comfortable lies."
Erebo studied him. "You've changed since the fever."
"So everyone tells me."
"You walk like a commander who expects ambush at every corner." He paused. "The morning sacrifice. You approached with the wrong foot."
"A mistake."
"Or a test. To see how the court would react. To identify who would use it against you."
Akenzua met the warrior's eyes. "That's an interesting interpretation."
"I've commanded men who play games like that. Men who seem to make mistakes but are actually measuring their enemies." Erebo stepped closer. "Are you measuring us, Prince?"
"I'm trying to survive. The fever showed me things. Changed things. Now I'm learning how to live with what I've become."
"The British weapons—the new ones. You asked about them in court. Have you seen them?"
"Once. A breech-loader. Fire ten rounds in the time a musket fires one."
"And their artillery?"
"Guns that fire explosive shells. That can destroy stone walls from a mile away."
"If a thousand British soldiers with those weapons marched on Benin City—"
"We would die bravely. But that's not victory."
Erebo's eyes narrowed. "What would victory look like?"
"An army that can match them shot for shot. Walls that can survive their cannons. Tactics that use our knowledge of the land against their technology."
"That would take years to build."
"We have years. Maybe seventeen. Maybe less."
"How do you know this?"
"The fever." Always the fever. "It showed me what's coming."
Erebo was silent for a long moment. Then: "Come with me."
---
The room was beneath the palace, accessed through a door that Akenzua had passed a hundred times without noticing.
Weapons lined the walls. Not ceremonial pieces—functional ones. Swords of various lengths. Spears. Bows. And in one corner, a collection of firearms.
"Six rifles." Erebo gestured. "Three different makes. British, French, Portuguese. Captured or traded over the past decade."
Akenzua moved to examine them. The general's knowledge flooded back—the mechanisms, the calibers, the relative advantages of each design.
"This one." He picked up a Martini-Henry. "Single shot, but the mechanism is simpler. Easier to manufacture."
"You know weapons."
"I know what we need to survive."
"And the prince who fell ill? Did he know these things?"
A trap. Erebo was testing him, just as Idia had tested him.
"The prince who fell ill was a boy playing at being a man. The fever burned that boy away." He set down the rifle. "What remains is someone who understands what's at stake."
"And what is at stake?"
"Everything. The British are coming. The French are coming. All of Europe is dividing Africa like hunters dividing a carcass. In a generation, every kingdom that doesn't adapt will be dust."
"You sound very certain."
"I am certain. The question is whether anyone else will listen before it's too late."
Erebo picked up a rifle. Checked the action. Set it down.
"There are others who think as you do. Officers who have seen European weapons in action. Chiefs who hear the reports from the coast. They need someone to lead them."
"They need my father."
"Your father is cautious. He survived his own succession by being cautious. But caution won't save us from what's coming."
"And you think I can?"
"I think the fever changed you into something the court doesn't recognize. Whether that something can save us..." He shrugged. "We'll see."
---
Osarobo found him that evening.
"Prince. You wanted information."
"The girl. A chief's daughter. She was at the market before my illness. My mother mentioned her."
"What about her?"
"I need her name. And why the prince—why I—was watching her."
Osarobo's expression flickered with something that might have been confusion. Or understanding.
"You don't remember."
"There are... gaps. The fever took things."
"Her name is Esohe. Daughter of Chief Aiguobasimwin. You watched her because she was beautiful. And because she argued with a merchant over the price of cloth and won. You told your servant you admired a woman who could bargain."
The words triggered nothing. No memory. No feeling.
"Anything else?"
"You planned to speak to her. The day before the fever, you sent a message asking if she would meet you at the craft market. She agreed."
"And then the fever."
"And then the fever. She's still waiting, Prince. Wondering why you never came."
The information was useful—it would satisfy his mother, prove that some part of the prince remained. But it was hollow. He was going to perform a role, pretend to feelings he couldn't access.
Another form of deception. Another lie layered on all the others.
"Where does she go in the mornings?"
"The Igbesanmwan quarter. She's learning ivory carving from a master there. Unusual for a chief's daughter."
"Then I'll find her there."
Osarobo nodded and began to leave. Then stopped.
"Prince. The rumors are spreading faster than expected."
"What rumors?"
"That the sacrifice was no mistake. That you challenged the ancestors deliberately. That the spirits have returned you with hostile knowledge." He paused. "Chief Osaro's son told three different chiefs that you spoke of Berlin in council. By tomorrow, everyone will know the prince has learned forbidden secrets."
"Forbidden?"
"The Oba declared the Berlin conference a matter for the inner council only. Knowledge of it was restricted. The fact that you spoke of it publicly..." He shrugged. "It suggests either that someone in the inner council is feeding you information, or that the spirits themselves showed you things they shouldn't have."
"Either way, dangerous for me."
"Either way, dangerous. But perhaps useful. Fear can be as valuable as respect."
The boy was growing sharper by the day.
"Keep listening. Keep watching. Come to me with anything unusual."
"Always, Prince."
---
The Igun quarter smelled of fire and iron.
Akenzua walked the narrow streets with Osarobo trailing at a distance. The smiths watched him pass—hammers pausing, conversations dying.
Master Igue emerged before he could knock.
"Prince Akenzua. Word travels fast. The prince who asks questions about weapons."
"May I see your forge?"
"Most princes want finished bronzes. Ceremonial pieces."
"The making interests me more than the made."
Igue's eyes reassessed. "Enter, then. But touch nothing."
The interior was a revelation. Multiple furnaces. Sophisticated bellows systems. Tools organized with military precision. Bronze castings that flowed like frozen water. And in one corner, pieces of steel that gleamed with an edge no bronze could match.
"You've been experimenting."
"Iron that's harder than iron. It took twenty years to discover." Igue's voice held quiet pride. "The guild doesn't know about this section. Only me."
"Why show me?"
"Because you're the first prince who ever asked about making instead of owning." He walked to a workbench. "And because the fever changed you into someone who might understand what I'm trying to do."
"What are you trying to do?"
"Survive. The British have better weapons because they have better metal. If we can match their metal, we can match their weapons."
"I know techniques that might help."
"So you said yesterday. Show me."
Akenzua selected a piece of iron stock, placed it in the coals. Watched the color change. Orange. Yellow. Edges beginning to white.
The knowledge came unbidden—lectures at the War College on industrial capacity, years of studying how nations built weapons. Heat treatment. Carbon migration. The mathematics of metallurgy.
He pulled the iron out. Worked it quickly—folding, drawing, layering. Pattern welding. The technique required precise temperature control.
He quenched the piece. Held it up.
Not beautiful. But functional.
Igue took it. Examined it. Tested the edge.
"This is beyond what our guild knows."
"It's basic metallurgy. What European smiths learned generations ago."
"Then the Europeans have been hiding more than we realized."
"They've been hiding everything. The knowledge that built their weapons, their ships, their cannons. They share only what keeps us dependent on them."
Igue set down the blade.
"The rumors from the palace say you're possessed. That spirits have replaced the prince with something dangerous."
"And what do you think?"
"I think you're exactly what you appear to be—someone who knows things he shouldn't. How you learned them doesn't interest me. What you do with them does."
"I want to build weapons. Factories. An army that can survive what's coming."
"That will take years."
"We have years."
"And enemies. The chiefs who profit from the current arrangements. The Europeans who don't want competition. Your own court, which fears change more than conquest."
"I know."
"Then you know this." Igue stepped closer. "If we do this—if we truly try to change everything—there's no going back. The people who want to stop us will kill us if they can. Are you prepared for that?"
The ghost of Fallujah stirred. Thirty-seven dead because of his decisions.
"I've sent men to die before." The words came out quiet. "I've lived with the consequences. If I have to do it again to save this kingdom, I will."
Igue studied him for a long moment.
"Partners, then. Tomorrow we begin properly. Bring whatever else the fever showed you. We'll see what we can build."
---
Night came, and with it, the reports.
Osarobo appeared at his window after midnight, climbing the walls like a spider.
"The chief priests met this evening. Osaro was there."
"What did they discuss?"
"You. The sacrifice. The things you know that you shouldn't. One of them suggested consulting the Oracle about whether the real prince died in the fever."
"And?"
"Osaro argued against it. He said there were other ways to determine the truth. Simpler ways."
"What ways?"
"He didn't say. But three of his personal guards left the palace tonight, heading toward the coast."
Toward the coast. Where the British merchants waited. Where information could be bought and sold.
"He's checking to see if the real prince might have somehow learned about Berlin from European sources."
"That's what I thought. But there's more." Osarobo's voice dropped. "A servant overheard the chief priests talking after Osaro left. One of them said the wrong-foot approach proved the spirits were hostile. Another said it proved nothing. But the eldest priest—the one who speaks for the ancestors—said something interesting."
"What?"
"He said it didn't matter whether the prince was possessed or changed or simply traumatized by the fever. What mattered was that the court's confidence was shaken. That once confidence is lost, it rarely returns. That princes who lose the court's confidence rarely live long enough to regain it."
The threat was clear. Not Osaro acting alone, but a growing consensus that the changed prince was dangerous. A consensus that could turn into action.
"What do they want?"
"They want the old prince back. The boy who knew his place. The heir who would maintain traditions." Osarobo paused. "They want you to pretend to be someone you're not. And when you fail to convince them, they want permission to replace you."
"With whom?"
"You have a younger brother. He's eight."
Egogo. Akenzua had barely registered the boy's existence—too young to matter, lost in the chaos of fever memories and strategic planning.
"They would put a child on the throne rather than accept what I've become."
"They would put anyone on the throne who would let them keep things as they are."
Akenzua moved to the window. Below, the palace slept. But somewhere in those chambers, men were planning his destruction.
"Then we move faster than they expect. Tomorrow I meet with Igue again. By the week's end, I'll have approached Erebo formally. If Osaro wants a conspiracy, I'll build one of my own."
"And the Queen Mother?"
The girl. Esohe. The proof his mother demanded.
"I'll find the girl. Give my mother what she needs to believe some part of her son remains." He turned back to Osarobo. "But we both know the truth. The boy who loved that girl is gone. What's left is someone who will use that love—fake it if necessary—to survive."
Osarobo's expression didn't change. "Survival is all that matters, Prince. Everything else is luxury."
He slipped back out the window and vanished into the night.
Akenzua stood alone in the darkness.
By morning, every chief in the palace would know: the prince who returned from the fever was not the prince who fell ill. The whispers had become a flood. The court had turned its measuring eye on him, and what it saw frightened them.
Good.
Let them fear what they didn't understand.
While they whispered, he would build.
---
END OF CHAPTER TWO