Part 2: The New Ground
By the time the seventh moon had passed since their arrival, Amogudu no longer resembled the village King Ebitu first set foot in.
The huts were taller now, their thatch woven tighter with techniques the Eluoma builders taught. The once-barren land behind the village had been turned into structured plots — cassava, yam, cocoyam, maize, and even a small patch of okra near the riverbank.
Trade paths, once narrow and unused, had been cleared and widened. Young boys from Amogudu now carried goods on their heads to nearby towns, returning with more than what they left with. For the first time in generations, Amogudu was exporting.
And it wasn't just the goods. It was the way.
The traders whispered it in places like Ugwueke, Ohafia, and even Nkporo:
"There is a king in Amogudu — one without a throne, but with wisdom.""He does not rule with the cane, but the calendar. He times the rains.""He has made the forgotten village rich — and peaceful."
Kalu, the young man who once scoffed at the exiles, now wore a beaded belt and walked alongside Elder Urum every market day, helping organize the traders.
"You were right," he admitted one morning, watching as two caravans from Igbere arrived.
Urum didn't look up from his cowries. "About what?"
Kalu grinned. "That strength is not always loud. That sometimes… a silent root grows the tallest tree."
Urum chuckled, his mouth stained with kola. "You're learning. Perhaps you'll become a voice of the land one day."
"I'd rather just be its ear," Kalu said, "so I never miss a truth."
Back at the edge of the village, Uzuma had started a weaving circle — not just for cloth, but for girls to learn reading, herbs, and trade math.
The women of Amogudu had never seen anything like it.
"She is more than a princess," one of the elders' wives whispered."She teaches like one who knows what tomorrow looks like."
Ebitu, though still called "Chief" or "Elder" by many, remained distant from titles. But he was far from passive. Every morning, he walked the boundaries of the land. Every evening, he sat with the elders, drawing maps with charcoal on wood and teaching them how roads could bring wealth as much as warriors.
He taught them to read the stars for planting seasons.
He taught them to count not just cows and goats — but time, patterns, behavior, and risk.
And slowly, Amogudu began to resemble a kingdom. A kingdom without a crown.
One night, as the moon glowed over the full yam barns and laughter floated through the village square, Elder Urum approached Ebitu beneath the ukwa tree again.
"They speak of you in Uzuakoli now," he said, voice soft.
"I did not send word," Ebitu replied, slicing open a pawpaw.
"You didn't need to. Peace speaks for itself."
Ebitu looked out toward the hills, toward the place he had once ruled and been rejected.
"Let them come if they will. Let them ask, not kneel."
But even as Amogudu grew stronger, Eluoma began to stumble.
The trading stalls near the river had grown empty. The roads leading to Agboji had been torn up by constant patrols. Young men once eager to become warriors now wandered without purpose. Ezikpe had spent more time in strategy halls than in yam fields.
And the rumors reached him too.
"Amogudu thrives.""The old king has built what we abandoned.""Even the gods listen to him now."
It burned his pride. And fear began to flicker in his chest.
Back in Amogudu, a messenger arrived from Ihenta, a small village caught between feuding warbands.
He carried a folded wrapper and a string of broken cowries — a symbol of desperation.
He knelt before Ebitu and whispered:
"We heard you build without blood.Our village is dying.Will you teach us how to live again?"