Part 1: Ashes and Departure
The first rain in Amogudu fell sharp and sudden, soaking the red earth and drumming hard on the thatch roofs of the small village. It washed away the dust of the dry season — and with it, some of the shame that clung to Ebitu's name.
The people of Amogudu watched him from behind half-opened doors. They whispered his name carefully, as if afraid it might bring consequences.
"That is the one who ruled Eluoma...""They say he was too peaceful.""They say he let others shame him."
But they also saw the way he walked with dignity, how he never raised his voice nor lowered his eyes. He did not ask for pity. He only asked for a place to grow food and shelter his people.
And Chief Okenyi, though wary of what politics might follow, gave him a patch of land on the village's eastern edge — dry, unused, close to the thick bush.
The first week was brutal.
The sun scalded their backs. The soil was cracked. The huts they built were crude and leaning. Even the goats refused to graze.
But Ebitu did not rest. He woke before the first bird cried, split wood with his own hands, tied thatch with his own rope, planted every seed as if planting faith itself.
Uzuma helped teach the village girls how to dye cloth and prepare herbs.Elder Urum gathered the loyal men to craft tools and trade charms for salt and grain.The elders who followed Ebitu bartered with their minds — offering knowledge in exchange for livestock, sharing secrets of soil fertility and water harvesting with the local farmers.
By the second moon, the first green shoots broke through the earth.
By the third moon, the goats had returned. The soil had softened.
And the people of Amogudu, for the first time in years, began to taste hope again.
In the quiet of night, Ebitu would sit beneath the ukwa tree near their new compound, staring at the stars with a carved staff across his lap.
Elder Urum joined him there one night, chewing kola slowly.
"You've turned exile into a beginning," Urum said.
Ebitu smiled faintly. "There is no exile for a man who carries his purpose."
Urum nodded toward the nearby hills. "They still talk about you in Eluoma. Ezikpe leads training every market day. But the people say traders no longer come like before."
"They will learn," Ebitu said, "but not through words. Through hunger."
He picked up a clump of damp earth and crumbled it between his fingers.
"This land… listens. Unlike men. If you feed it, it feeds you.If you fight it, it swallows you."
As Amogudu slowly changed under the exiles' touch, messengers began arriving from neighboring settlements.
A trader from Nkporo stopped by with a wagon of salt and soap, whispering:
"I heard the old king plants truth in this land."
A spice woman from Ohafia returned days later with her son and two baskets of pepper.
"I want my boy to learn from your people. I hear you build without noise."
Soon, a small market sprouted near the border — informal at first, then steady. Cowries clinked. Palm oil jugs lined the stalls. Cloth dyed in Uzuma's hues began appearing in other towns.
What began as survival became a silent movement.
What began as shame became shelter.
But in Eluoma, the fire Ezikpe lit had begun to flicker.
He had taken up the spear… but not the harvest.
He had chased warriors… but forgotten the weavers.
And the people had begun to murmur — not in rebellion, but in regret.
Back in Amogudu, Ebitu stood atop a newly carved platform beside the village square — the same kind of raised wood he once stood on in Eluoma.
But this one had no crown. No throne. Only shade, and soil, and people who had seen what patient hands could build.
"We did not ask to rule," he told the growing crowd one morning."We only asked to be left in peace.But if peace builds strength, then we will let that strength speak for us."