Silence took over the palace's courtyard the morning after Julius's sentencing, an eerie silence that whispered of guilt and secrets too heavy to bear. The air was thick with dust from the Harmattan winds that blew in from the north, coating every surface in a thin veil of ash-colored powder, like a shroud mourning an injustice.
Inside the palace, King Amos sat in his private chamber, staring at the judgment scroll resting on the table before him. The ink had dried, but the weight of the decree it carried had not. He had signed it with his own hand. Julius Okechukwu was now a prisoner of the state, doomed to rot in the cold belly of the palace dungeon for the rest of his natural life.
Sleep evaded him like a frightened child fleeing punishment. Every time he closed his eyes, Julius's face appeared in his mind not as a prisoner, but as the man he had known: honest, humble, hardworking. A man of the earth, who spoke little but smiled often. A man who, in any other world, would never have stepped foot in a courtroom, let alone been declared a thief.
Amos rose from his chair and walked to the window overlooking the palace gardens. Below, servants moved in silence, whispering among themselves, eyes darting toward the palace gates. The rumors had begun to spread not just of Julius's alleged theft but of the rushed trial, the flimsy evidence, the king's silence throughout the ordeal.
The golden statue that had gone missing was no ordinary artifact. It was said to be a sacred emblem passed down through generations of Rulers, a symbol of divine right and protection. Its theft, in the eyes of tradition, was an affront to the gods and a potential curse on the land.The real thief had been Ogbuefi, his younger brother.
Ogbuefi had confessed in private, on bended knee, tears streaming down his face. He had taken the artifact to settle a gambling debt with foreign traders. He had not meant to let it be discovered, only borrowed, he had said. He planned to return it before anyone noticed.
When palace guards found the bracelet buried near Julius's barn, a bracelet that Ogbuefi had planted in a panic, the decision was made.
The law was clear: anyone who stole from the crown must either be executed or imprisoned for life. He had chosen to sacrifice one innocent man to save the royal name, to prevent scandal, to uphold the laws his ancestors had sworn to protect. But at what cost?
A knock came at the door. "Enter," he said, his voice hollow. It was the Chief of Guards, a stern man named Bako. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing low, "the prisoner has been transferred to the lowest cell, as you commanded."
Amos nodded slowly. "No visitors?"
"None except his wife, Adaora. She came yesterday. She was not allowed entry."
Amos sighed, walking back to his seat. "She should have been allowed to see him," he said." "She caused a disturbance. The guards feared she might harm herself. Or attempt to free him."
Amos waved his hand. "Let her see him. From now on, she is permitted to visit once a week. No shackles during their meetings. That is my decree." Bako hesitates that other criminals will see that as a favor, They already whisper about your connection to the farmer."
"Let them whisper. I will not deny a woman her husband. Not after what we've done."
The guard bowed again and took his leave.
Amos leaned back in his chair and covered his face with both hands. He had created a wound that could not be bandaged with silence.
That evening, a royal announcement was made in the town square. A crier stood on the raised wooden platform, reading aloud from a scroll with the king's seal. "Hear ye, people of Gambe!" he shouted, the crowd gathered in growing numbers. "By decree of His Royal Majesty, King Amos of the House of Ekechi, the farmer known as Julius Okechukwu has been found guilty of theft against the royal family and sentenced to life imprisonment in accordance with the ancient laws of Gambe."
Immediately after the announcement cries of protest rippled seriously through the crowd.
No! Lies! He is innocent!. But the crier pressed on. "His wife shall be allowed to visit once every seven days. Let all remember that the law is sacred, and none shall steal from the crown without punishment."
As the crier stepped down, an eerie stillness followed. People looked around, waiting for someone anyone to speak up in defense of Julius. But no one did. Fear of the crown had returned, and with it, silence.
Adaora stood near the back of the crowd, her veil drawn low over her face, holding Jordan close to her chest. The baby cooed softly, unaware of the storm swirling around his tiny existence. A woman beside her touched her shoulder gently.
"He will be remembered," she whispered. "No matter what they say, we know who your husband truly is."
Adaora nodded once. She was past tears now. What she felt was colder, something like steel hardening inside her chest.
In the dungeons, Julius lay curled in the corner of his cell. The air was damp and foul. Water dripped rhythmically from the ceiling. Chains clinked in the distance as other prisoners shifted in their sleep or cried in silence. The only light came from a narrow window too high to reach, casting a thin beam across the dirt-covered floor.
His back arched,His hands were bruised,His soul was tired. Footsteps echoed in the corridor,Julius sat up slowly as a shadow approached.
A small barred window slid open, and a bowl of watery soup was pushed through.
"Eat," a voice grunted. "King's orders."
Julius looked at the bowl but didn't touch it. "Tell the king I have no appetite for pity."
The guard didn't respond. The window slammed shut. For a long time, Julius stared at the ceiling. His mind swam with memories of home, Adaora's laughter, the smell of fresh yams, the sound of Jordan's first cry. He could see the stars above his house, the same stars that now mocked him from behind layers of rock and grief.
"If I die here," he whispered to the shadows, "let my soul not rest. Let the earth remember. Let the wind carry my name. Let justice, even if delayed, rise like fire in the hearts of men." A rat scurried past him. Somewhere, a prisoner groaned in his sleep. And the beam of light from the high window dimmed, swallowed by the night.
Back in the palace, King Amos sat on his throne as the fire crackled in the hearth. Ogbuefi stood before him, arms crossed, trying not to meet his brother's gaze. "You have not slept," Amos said.
"Neither have you." There was a long pause.
"You understand," Amos said quietly, "what if this ever comes to light" "It won't," Ogbuefi interrupted. "No one will speak. The evidence was found. The servant testified. The law has been fulfilled."
Ogbuefi's expression hardened. "Justice is what you made it, Brother. You chose me over him. That's your cross to bear, not mine." With that, he turned and left. Amos sat in silence for a long time, staring into the fire. For the first time in his reign, the crown felt like a shackle.
In the weeks that followed, Julius's name began to vanish from public discourse. People stopped speaking of the trial. His friends visited less and less. Fear had wrapped its icy fingers around their throats. Even those who believed in his innocence grew quiet, but his wife Adoara kept visiting and thinking of him.
Every seventh day, she came to the palace gates, waited for the guards to fetch her, and walked the cold stone path down into the darkness of the Prison. There, she sat across from Julius in a dimly lit room with bars between them. They held hands through the iron.
She told him stories of Jordan, of how he was learning to walk, how he giggled when he saw birds fly, how he was always cruel on his bed looking for him. She sang him some songs they once sang together. She smuggled in messages from those who still supported him. And each week, when the hour passed, she kissed his hand and left, tears filled all over her eyes, she could do nothing rather than always coming to check up on him with food and other items.
"I will never stop coming," she whispered once.
"I know," Julius replied. "And I will never stop waiting." But the winds of Gambe were changing. A quiet unrest was brewing, though the king did not yet know it. And far beyond the town borders, deeper forces had begun to stir. Something ancient. Something vengeful. Something not of this world. The decree had been signed. But fate, it seemed, had not.