Part 2: Crowned in Dust
The road to Amogudu had never seemed so long.
The delegation from Eluoma walked without song, without banners, without armor. Their spears were strapped to their backs — not in readiness, but in surrender. Each of them carried a wrapped offering: yam heads, jars of oil, feathers of apology. No one spoke unless necessary.
At their front walked Elder Mba, once a proud voice against King Ebitu. Now, his back was hunched, and his hands trembled not from age but shame.
As they approached the edges of Amogudu, they were greeted not by soldiers, but by silence. Fields lay full and untouched. Children played in clean courtyards. Traders smiled — not the tight smiles of suspicion, but the calm of people who lacked nothing.
No guards challenged their entry.
No eyes burned with hatred.
Instead, a young man named Kalu stepped forward and said quietly, "He is expecting you."
They found Ebitu seated in the open square beneath the ukwa tree, surrounded by villagers, weavers, council members, and his daughter Uzuma, who sat with a carved staff across her knees — no crown on her head, but bearing the weight of one.
Ebitu stood as they arrived.
He did not smile.
He did not sneer.
He waited.
Elder Mba stepped forward and knelt low, his forehead pressed against the red earth.
"We come not with pride, but with brokenness," he began."Eluoma has fallen. Not to spears, but to hunger. Not to enemies, but to arrogance.""We remember now the peace you gave us — and the peace we cast away."
He raised a wrapped cloth bundle and placed it at Ebitu's feet.
"We do not ask for punishment. Only help. Even your mercy… would be more than we deserve."
The crowd murmured, but Ebitu raised his hand and all fell silent.
He looked at the delegation — the same people who had once removed his name from the earth, who had sung songs of his weakness.
He looked at the cracked hands of the warriors, the sunken cheeks of the elders, the empty eyes of those who once called him coward.
And then he spoke:
"When I left Eluoma, I carried nothing but shame.""I built this land not to prove you wrong, but to survive.""But you have returned — not with drums, but with dust.""And for that, I will not turn you away."
A collective sigh passed through the gathered crowd — not from Eluoma alone, but from Amogudu's people as well. For they knew what it meant to extend kindness to those who once inflicted pain.
Uzuma stepped forward next and knelt beside the elders.
"We have enough," she said simply. "Enough food, enough land, enough wisdom. Let us share it."
Even Kalu nodded, though his eyes lingered on the battered armor of the Eluoma men.
"Let them see how peace feeds where pride fails."
Ebitu gave his answer not in ceremony, but in action.
He ordered that granary stores be opened to the delegation.
He invited their children to the weaving circles.
He offered their traders space in the next market rotation.
He did not claim Eluoma as his own — he had no need to.
But the gesture was clear:
Amogudu would feed them. Teach them. Heal them.
That evening, as the fires flickered and storytellers began to recount the tale of the quiet king, Elder Mba turned to Uzuma and asked softly:
"Will he ever return to Eluoma?"
She smiled without looking at him.
"He never left. Eluoma left him."
And now, crowned not in gold, but in dust and humility, the king had returned.