Part 1: Drums of Conquest
The sound of drums still echoed in Eluoma, but they no longer stirred pride — only dread.
At first, the people had clapped when Ezikpe led warriors out through the great gates. They had cheered as fire was lit along the village boundary. They had shouted songs of conquest, imagining tales of glory that would spread beyond Abiriba.
But now the songs had grown hoarse.
The warriors returned bruised, many fewer than they left. Some came back limping. Some did not come back at all. The spoils of war — yams, livestock, captured goods — grew lighter with each campaign. And yet Ezikpe beat the drums louder.
"Strength must be feared!" he declared from his raised stool in the council hut."Let them tremble when they hear our name!"
But behind him, his own council looked away. Even the youths in training were beginning to ask questions in whispers:
"Why are we always fighting?""Why are our barns half full?""Why does the market in Ugwueke overflow while ours is dry?"
In the corners of the village, a new rumor had taken root — dangerous and unspoken at first, then bold and persistent:
"The coward king has built a kingdom without spears."
"Amogudu now trades with five villages, while Eluoma chases shadows."
"Ebitu's people eat three times a day. We sharpen knives."
"We mocked him… and now we beg for cassava."
One morning, a caravan from Nkporo that used to stop in Eluoma took a different path — straight past their border and down toward Amogudu.
That same week, two of Eluoma's traders returned empty-handed. Uzuakoli's market had refused their cowries, preferring the seals of "the quiet king."
At the shrine, even the chief priest muttered in frustration.
"The gods are tired of blood," he said under his breath. "They once demanded sacrifice. Now they demand wisdom."
Ezikpe, meanwhile, grew more erratic. He ordered new forges for weapons. He doubled training schedules. He sent spies to Amogudu.
He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"They have no army.""They do not lock their granaries.""And yet, no one dares touch them."
How could this be? How could peace — that shameful, soft thing — protect them better than war?
One night, Ezikpe called his most loyal warrior, Nnaoma, to his side.
"Tell me the truth," he hissed. "Have we become weak?"
Nnaoma hesitated. He had fought in five raids. Buried his brother after the third. Lost his cousin in the fourth. Returned with a wounded leg after the fifth.
He looked into the king's eyes and spoke plainly:
"We are strong… but we are hungry."
Ezikpe's jaw tightened. "So we fight harder."
Nnaoma shook his head.
"No. We stop. Or we will have nothing left to fight for."
The next morning, Ezikpe called a gathering in the square. His tone was thunderous.
"They whisper against me," he roared. "They speak of the exiled one. They call him king again. Shall we bow to a man who ran from war?"
The crowd was silent.
He looked to his elders.
They did not meet his gaze.
He looked to the warriors.
Their spears were in hand… but not raised.
In the days that followed, the drums beat quieter. Patrols slowed. Markets shrunk. The once-proud throne of Eluoma stood tall but empty of cheer.
And in its shadow, the memory of King Ebitu — once mocked — became a haunting ghost.