Part 4:Peace, Again
The rains came gently that year, falling not in torrents, but in steady silver curtains that kissed the soil of Amogudu. The villagers welcomed it with open arms and calabashes held high. Fields drank deeply. Children danced in the puddles. Old songs returned — not of war or conquest, but of planting, of patience, of peace.
The land had changed.
So had the people.
So had the names they carried.
King Ebitu — though he never again wore a crown — now sat at the center of a village known throughout the region. His name was no longer whispered, feared, or mocked. It was spoken with reverence in trade circles, sung by children in harvest songs, and invoked by elders when settling disputes.
He walked through his village without escort.
He ate in the common square, shoulder to shoulder with farmers and traders.
And when people bowed to him, he would raise them gently and say,
"Rise. Peace needs no kneeling."
Ezikpe, once a thunderous name, now lived in the quiet edge of the village — a humble hut near the western path, where he tended goats and taught young boys how to tie knots, carve wood, and guard against arrogance.
He spoke little.
But he was present.
And that was enough.
One morning, Uzuma walked the border path with Kalu, now one of the village's young leaders. They paused on the ridge overlooking the valley, where once only dust had ruled.
"You know," she said, "some still ask if my father will return to Eluoma… to rule them again."
Kalu smirked. "And what does he say?"
"He says nothing," she replied, smiling. "Because he knows Eluoma already returned to him."
They stood in silence, watching traders pass on the paths below — from Ugwueke, from Nkporo, even from Eluoma. No weapons in sight. Only sacks of food, bales of cloth, and long-handled hoes.
That afternoon, a storyteller sat in the shade of the old ukwa tree with a ring of children gathered at his feet. His voice, like smooth palm wine, rolled through the air:
"Long ago, a king was cast away because he refused to raise a spear.They called him coward.But he built a kingdom with silence and seed.And when his enemies knelt, he lifted them — not to punish, but to restore.That is why we eat. That is why we sing.That is why our land endures."
The sky darkened with dusk, but no one feared it.
The fires were lit.
The drums returned — soft, warm, steady.
Not for war.
For peace.
Again.
And always.
END OF CHAPTER 12— From Exile to Empire —