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Chapter 1

 

No one had ever dared to challenge the entire village before.

Chikara’s heart pounded within his chest as he prepared himself, facing the crowd staring at him.

In the charged atmosphere, brimming with tension, a frail figure emerged from the assembly of elders seated at the forefront of the gathering. Pa Chinagorom, laboring under the burden of his advanced age, rose from his seat on unsteady legs, his eyes fixed on Mazi Okabi, the chairman of the village council. With a voice as weak as the rustling leaves, he beseeched Mazi Okabi to recognize the seriousness of the situation.

“Mazi Okabi,” he said, his words barely audible above the murmurs of the crowd. “It is time to speak.”

Under the vast canopy of the ancient ugba tree, Chikara readied himself to make history. For generations, any decisions taken by the elders of the village were never disputed. Their authority was absolute, their judgments never doubted. Yet, at this critical moment, while the entire community complied with their mandate without question, he alone resolved to oppose it, prepared to confront the direction they had chosen.

The morning sun shone over the village square, casting long, dancing shadows across the weathered pathways. Chikara felt the intensity of the moment bearing down on him like the heat of the coming day, acutely aware of the scrutiny of his fellow villagers. Their looks reflected a combination of curiosity, skepticism, and contempt.

This particular ugba tree had existed for generations as a silent protector, watching the steady rhythm of life in the village. Its twisted branches conveyed the narratives of history, embracing age-old customs, the events of birth and death, along with the contrasts of joy and grief. For many, it served as a sacred representation of their ancestry and a living testament to the relationship between humanity and nature.

Now that bond faced a threat. The village elders had decreed that the ugba tree must be cut down, its towering presence seen as a sign of dark omens and evil powers. And so, they had gathered beneath its timeworn branches, prepared to carry out the imposing task set before them.

Amid a tide of compliance, Chikara emerged as a lone figure of defiance, questioning the core of their beliefs, traditions, and way of life with relentless determination.

Chikara believed the ugba tree went beyond being a mere symbol. It acted as a fundamental part of the delicate structure of life that upheld their village and its inhabitants. Fear and superstition were no reason to destroy it. He refused to watch it happen.

Now Pa Chinagorom, the venerable village head with deep wrinkles of age and wisdom imprinted on his face, began to speak.

“We are gathered here today because Chikara has chosen to oppose our decree, and to defy the foundation of our way of life.” At ninety-eight years old, Pa Chinagorom had weathered countless storms and witnessed the passage of time with steadfast vigilance. For that reason, the people listened to him.

Mazi Okabi, a stout man with a serious expression, nodded at Pa Chinagorom’s words. Though he bore the weight of authority upon his shoulders, he knew this was a moment unlike any other in their village’s history. With a heavy sigh, he stepped forward, his voice reflecting the seriousness of his responsibility while he addressed the assembled crowd.

“My fellow villagers,” he said, somber and composed. “We stand at a crossroads, faced with an issue unlike any we have encountered before. Chikara, whom we supported and sent abroad to study, now stands before us as an adversary who seeks to overturn our traditions and beliefs by challenging the entire people of this village.”

A wave of whispers swept through the crowd, mingling with the ugba’s rustling leaves overhead.

Amid the uncertainty and doubt, Mazi Okabi continued his address.

“We must approach this matter with the utmost care and thoughtfulness,” he went on, “for it is not only the fate of the ugba tree that hangs in the balance, but the fabric of our community.”

With those words, Mazi Okabi stepped back and looked around at the gathered villagers. The air carried anticipation, uncertainty, and a strong impression that they were on the verge of something extraordinary.

Chikara listened to the chairman speak, his heart burdened by the gravity of the message being conveyed. Even so, he could not back down, not when the future of their village hung in the balance. He steeled himself for the battle ahead and took a deep breath, feeling steady and reassured that he fought for the ugba tree, as the soul of their village, as well as for the future of their children.

“Chikara!” Elder Uruka stepped forward, his voice piercing the whispers of the crowd. “You came back to this village only six months ago, after spending some years abroad. Do you believe that you, a mere boy, know better than all of us who have lived in this village for many, many decades? Because Unanka, your departed father, rest his soul, was a poor man, we—this entire village—supported your education. And now you oppose us?”

Chikara met Elder Uruka’s stare, his own eyes blazing with fierce resolve. “I am not here to challenge you, Elder Uruka,” he replied. “I am here to stand up for what I believe is right. This ugba tree is a symbol of our connection to the earth, to each other, and to our ancestors. If we destroy it, we destroy a part of ourselves.”

Some of the villagers nodded in acknowledgment, their response blending with the dissenting voices of those who remained unconvinced.

Chikara knew he had a long road ahead of him, but he refused to waver in his conviction. He had seen the devastation caused by changing weather patterns due to humanity’s reckless destruction of nature. Because of this, he would not rest until he had done everything in his power to protect this village he loved from further harm.

While the argument dragged on, a sudden hush swept through the crowd, which parted in worshipful silence as Pastor Udochukwu, the powerful man of God and the owner of Christ Is Able Pentecostal Church, made his entrance. His presence commanded respect, and many in the village feared him for the perceived miracles he performed.

Pastor Udochukwu approached Chikara with a severe expression, his eyes searching. “Chikara,” he began, his voice loaded with authority, “do you believe in witchcraft?”

Chikara met the pastor’s steady look. “Pastor, not in the case of this ugba tree, sir,” he said.

The pastor raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward the tree’s bark, covered with numerous nails. “And what do you make of these? Do you deny that these are the work of witches, as many in our village believe?”

“I do not believe that witches put them there as part of their rituals,” Chikara said, shaking his head. “There could be other explanations for nails in the tree. Personally, I have the feeling that some children may have hammered those nails into the tree.”

The pastor’s lips curled into a knowing smile, and he turned to address the crowd. “My brothers and sisters,” he proclaimed, “the word of God tells us to beware of false prophets who come to us in sheep’s clothing but are ravenous wolves. Let us not be deceived by the words of those who would lead us astray from the path of righteousness.”

A chorus of “Amens” and nods of agreement surged through the crowd, emboldened by the pastor’s statement.

Chikara felt a pang of frustration. Taking another deep breath, he stepped forward. “My fellow villagers,” his voice rang out clear and strong, his words laden with the sincerity of his convictions, “I am not here to deceive you or lead you astray. I am here because I care about the future of our village, our children, and our planet. I have seen first-hand the devastation brought by deforestation, global warming, and climate change.”

He paused, giving his words time to settle before he went on. “This ugba tree is more than a tree,” he said as the people fixed their eyes on him, waiting for every word. “If we destroy it, we will not simply be cutting down wood and branches. We will be tearing away something that has protected and sustained us for years. And when the air grows hotter and people begin to suffer because of it, what shall we tell the children who come after us? That we inherited a gift and destroyed it with our own hands?”

While Chikara spoke, he moved his focus from one face to another, searching each set of eyes in turn. He sensed a change in the crowd. The hard certainty that had marked many of their faces earlier had begun to soften. Doubt, faint but real, crept across some of the men and women gathered beneath the tree.

Although much still had to be done, the glimmer of hope in their eyes heartened him. For the first time, they were beginning to listen, to think about the weight of what they were doing. The battle was far from over, and Chikara knew it. That realization only deepened his resolve to see it through to the end.

As subdued chatter rose and fell within the gathering, an elderly woman stepped forward, trembling with irritation. “Chikara!” she shouted, her eyes searching his face, “have you not seen the numerous snakes that coil themselves atop the branches of this ugba tree?”

Chikara looked at the woman thoughtfully. Growing up, and even shortly before he left the country, he had known about the snakes living in the tree and had been afraid of them. Not anymore, after what he had learned about nature’s balance.

“Yes, Mama,” Chikara replied, keeping his voice steady against the rising noise. “I know the dangerous snakes live up there.” He pointed toward the tree. “Still, they do not crawl down to hunt us. They stay up high, hunting the rats and pests that destroy our barns. If we chop down their home, where do you think they’ll go? They’ll come pouring into our kitchens and bedrooms. That is what will happen.”

In the crowd, two women exchanged a terrified glance, their eyes wide with fear at the thought of snakes invading their homes.

For a long moment, a commotion of disagreements erupted as the people reacted to Chikara’s response.

When the noise quieted, a second elderly woman, leaning heavily on her walking stick as she stood, her aged features grappling with concern, spoke up. “Alright,” she said, “and have you not witnessed a branch of the ugba tree fall during a storm, destroying the market shades below?”

Chikara nodded with seriousness. “Yes, there have been instances of branches falling during storms. However, we must ask ourselves, is cutting down the tree the solution? Or should we find a way to trim some of its branches while we preserve its importance to our village?”

Chikara turned the question back on the villagers. But before he could elaborate further, a youth’s voice piped up from the crowd. “Have you ever seen one of those snakes bite anyone in this village?”

All eyes turned to Pa Chinagorom, the eldest among them, hoping for affirmation, while a heavy silence descended upon the square. The lack of confirmation from the eldest man implied that no such cases had ever been recorded.

Undeterred, the first elderly woman pressed on. “Must we wait until someone is killed before we act?”

Chikara shook his head. In a strong, steady voice he said, “No. But the life this ugba tree provides to our village outweighs your concerns.” He paused, letting his attention settle on the village elders. “Look around us. The rising temperatures we are enduring are a direct result of stripping the land bare. Every time we fell an ancient tree without a plan, we destroy a home, making the animals disappear, and inviting sickness upon ourselves.”

He stepped forward, deliberately gesturing so their eyes followed the sweep of his hand. “We cannot look only at what is right in front of us. Look up!”

Chikara pointed directly into the bare late morning sky. “When was the last time any of you saw a vulture circling above our village? They have vanished because we cut down the high canopies they perch on. When the shade is entirely gone, our soil will bake, our crops will die, and the heat will swallow us all whole.”

The villagers grumbled in shock, some exchanging worried looks, while others shook their heads in denial. Chikara’s words had suddenly struck a chord, drawing increased attention, though not in a positive light.

Pastor Udochukwu’s booming voice cut Chikara off before he could say anything more. “Vultures?” he shouted, his tone a mix of theatrical shock and deep distrust. He weaponized the word, emphasizing it heavily so it rang across the entire square. His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he glared at the young man.

Chikara met the pastor’s stare with his own unflinching expression. “Yes,” he answered steadily. He knew that even if the rest of the assembly missed the significance, the pastor would pounce on the word to turn it against him.

With a triumphant sneer, Pastor Udochukwu turned to address the assembled villagers. “Are you all telling me that you did not hear what he said?” he cried out. “This young man speaks in favor of vultures which we dread in this land! It tells us that he must be in league with the witches and warlocks we fight against, that seek to bring ruin upon our village!”

The religious man’s assertions set off a wave of overlapping voices among the crowd, punctuated by exclamations of shock.

Pastor Udochukwu further seized upon the opportunity, quoting another passage from the Bible that seemed to lend credence to his accusations. “Ephesians 6:12!” he shouted. “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”

“I can bet you this Chikara wasted his time abroad, falsely claiming he went to university!” a young man shouted for everyone to hear. Chikara heard him clearly, and although he hoped the youths would be on his side, he never expected all of them to support him. Instead, he prayed he might secure the backing of a greater proportion of the young people in his village.

“Tell us the truth, Chikara—did you really go to school overseas, or did our money pay for a long holiday?” another young man demanded. “From the way you speak, it seems you were keeping company with witches rather than learning anything of value.”

All of a sudden, Chikara found himself surrounded by a sea of hostile faces, their accusations ringing in his ears like a thunderous uproar. Yet he held firm, unyielding in his principles. This fight was for the future of their community, he told himself.

As the tension reached its boiling point, Chikara’s voice sliced through the tumult. “My fellow villagers!” he cried, his words ringing with resolve. “I warn you—we cannot let fear dictate our actions. We must be guided by reason and compassion.”

He turned to face Pastor Udochukwu with an unwavering look at the man. “Pastor,” he said, his tone respectful but strong, “I understand your perspective. However, it would be a grave mistake to let superstition cloud our judgment. We must rely on science and evidence to guide us.”

There came an echo of agreement in the crowd, and for a moment, it seemed as though reason might prevail. But then, with a roar, Pastor Udochukwu raised his voice once more, his words filled with a righteous outrage.

“Blasphemy!” he shouted, eyes ablaze. “This young man dares to challenge the word of our Lord God Almighty Himself! He must be cast out from our midst, otherwise his wickedness will corrupt us all!”

The crowd exploded into chaos. The air grew thick with anger and confusion. Yet Chikara stood resolute at the center of the storm, unyielding, refusing to back down. His heart beat faster while he struggled to comprehend the depth of fear holding the people of his beloved village captive. Pastor Udochukwu had been the village’s religious guide for many years, but centuries of superstition still worked their way into his teachings. And it was becoming a dangerous combination.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the crowd, Chinwendu stood rigid and silent, her fingers clamped around the edge of her wrapper while she watched the villagers close in on her son with angry voices and sharp accusations. The noise around her rose from every direction, yet she remained fixed in place, unable to move.

Heat climbed into her face as whispers drifted among the nearby groups of women. Some turned toward her, their eyes lingering too long before they leaned together, whispering and shaking their heads. Chinwendu lowered her gaze for a moment, fighting the urge to disappear from the gathering altogether. Shame and fear turned over inside her chest.

What had her son brought upon himself and their family? she wondered, as another woman looked at her with an expression that cut deeper than words.

Her breathing thickened. No. This could not go on.

The shouting around Chikara continued. Chinwendu pressed her lips together and reached a hard decision. She had to speak to her son the moment he returned home. This fight over the ugba tree had grown too dangerous, too heavy for one family to carry. He must let it go and turn his mind toward something else before the village swallowed him whole.

In the midst of the crowd’s fury, their collective rage swirling around Chikara like a violent storm, ready to consume him in its chaotic grip, the village chairman, Mazi Okabi, raised his hands. “Enough!” he shouted, his voice slicing through the din like a knife.

The crowd continued with the noise; nobody seemed to be listening to the chairman.

“Enough!” Mazi Okabi shouted. “Everybody be quiet if you want this gathering to continue.”

When the heated discussion persisted, the chairman made a quick decision.

“This meeting is hereby adjourned!” Mazi Okabi yelled. “Everybody go home.” The village’s meetings normally did not end this abruptly, but the chairman and elders had earlier decided to make such a move if things were to go haywire.

The villagers, caught off guard, turned their attention to the chairman, their expressions a mix of confusion and frustration. But Mazi Okabi stood firm as he addressed the crowd.

“We will reconvene in one week’s time,” he declared, his tone now diplomatic. “In the meantime, let us all take the opportunity to reflect on what has been said here today. Let us consider the arguments put forth by both sides and come to this decision with clear minds and open hearts.”

With that, he and the other elders turned on their heels and strode away from the square. The villagers slowly dispersed in their wake.

The elders’ departure became an opportunity for Chikara to disengage himself from most of the villagers and avoid any physical confrontations. From a distance, he watched in silence as the crowd dissipated, a heavy weight settling in the pit of his stomach. Nevertheless, even as the villagers drifted off into the gathering dusk, their voices ringing in his ears, he remained resolute. When he turned to leave the square, a fresh wave of resolve ignited within him to persist; the future of their village depended on it.

Chapter 2

 

“We must put an end to Chikara’s arrogance,” declared Mmaugo, Pastor Udochukwu’s wife, the following morning, her tone laced with anger. She looked at her husband.

The luxurious master bedroom of Pastor Udochukwu’s newly completed five-room mansion glowed with the gentle tones of dawn as the early beams of sunlight streamed through the curtains. Mmaugo started raging, still nestled in the plush confines of their bed, the moment she woke.

“His audacity threatens to undermine your authority and, by extension, our influence in the community.”

Pastor Udochukwu furrowed his brow. “But my dear, we must not underestimate the power of Chikara’s arguments,” he countered. “Although he is young, his message resonates with many in this village.”

Mmaugo’s eyes tightened, a momentary flicker of irritation crossing her face. “Passion without direction is meaningless,” she retorted. “We can’t allow sentiment to cloud our judgment. The tree must come down!”

“What about the repercussions?” Pastor Udochukwu searched his wife’s face. “If we force the issue without addressing the concerns Chikara raised, we risk being alienated from the very people we seek to lead.”

Mmaugo sighed, her patience clearly wearing thin. “You are too cautious, Udochukwu. Bold action is necessary to maintain control. We can’t appear weak in the eyes of the villagers.”

Pastor Udochukwu contemplated his wife’s words with increasing discomfort. She may be right, yet the idea of suppressing Chikara’s opposition burdened his conscience. “Our fight against him is merely a struggle for authority, an attempt to retain dominance in the village—but at what cost?” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

“The greater cost comes if we don’t stand strong. Then the cost is our reputation, our influence.” Mmaugo’s voice was strong. “We have worked too hard to build our position in this community. We can’t allow one young upstart to tear it all down.”

With a heavy sigh, Pastor Udochukwu nodded in reluctant agreement. “Very well,” he conceded, a flicker of resignation in his eyes. “What do you propose we do?”

A look of satisfaction crossed Mmaugo’s face. She breathed in deeply, then outlined her plan, detailing the steps needed to secure their position of authority. Her somber tone reflected the seriousness of the situation.

“These three individuals hold the key to our success,” Mmaugo concluded with determination. “We must act if we want to be victorious in this battle.”

Minutes later, Pastor Udochukwu and his wife got up from the bed. They felt strong and determined, ready to crush Chikara’s rebellion once and for all. As they stepped out into the new day, they knew their own future in the community was at risk and were determined to do whatever it took to guarantee their continued dominance.

***

The morning light bathed their house as Chikara’s mother, Chinwendu, summoned him into her bedroom. She sounded weary. Filled with sadness, Chikara chose to sit on the bed, beside her.

“Take a look around, Chikara,” his mother said, troubled. “This room, this house, it shows the difficulties we have faced since your father’s passing.”

Chikara’s eyes scanned over the faded furniture and worn curtains. The weight of their hardships lingered in the room while his mother related her experience with three women after the village gathering days before.

“They insulted me, Chikara,” she said, quivering with emotion. “They questioned why they wasted their money to support your education abroad, only for you to return and start challenging the village’s decision to cut down the ugba tree. They accuse us of betraying the community.”

Guilt tightened inside Chikara as he absorbed his mother’s words, the sacrifices the village had made for his education pressing on his mind. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he muttered above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

Tears filled Chinwendu’s eyes. She spoke of her fears for their family’s safety. “You are my only son, Chikara,” she reminded him, her voice unsteady. “And your sisters. they are still young, and I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to any of you. Not after losing your father.”

The memories of his father’s unfortunate accident flooded Chikara’s mind like a tsunami, each recollection vivid and piercing. The sky that day was painted with hues of orange and pink as his father climbed the tall palm tree, his silhouette outlined against the skyline. Then came the sudden snap of his old, weathered oil-palm-fiber rope gear, and the sickening thud. His father plunged to the ground, his body twisting in anguish upon impact.

Chikara had rushed to his father’s side. His heart was racing. He saw his beloved father writhing in pain, with blood pooling beneath him. Panic surged through Chikara’s veins. He struggled to comprehend the severity of the situation, refusing to accept the cruel reality unfolding before him.

In the days that followed, Chikara, just seventeen years old, watched his father’s condition deteriorate. The once strong and lively man was now just a shadow of his former self. Traditional remedies offered little relief. And then, in a heart-wrenching twist of fate, Chikara’s father passed away, leaving him, his mother, and his two sisters to bear their loss.

The memory of that terrible day still haunted Chikara. It reminded him how fragile life was and how hard the world could be.

But in the midst of their grief, a ray of hope had emerged when Chikara received news of a scholarship to study abroad. It brought an opportunity for him to escape the poverty that had afflicted their family since his father’s death, a chance to pursue a brighter future, and a way to honor his father’s memory in the process.

While the scholarship covered seventy-five percent of the expenses, the remaining twenty-five percent became a major difficulty for their family. They raised the rest of the money thanks to the kindness of their community, which came together to support them in their time of need—a gesture that demonstrated the enduring bond of kinship and solidarity that ran deep within their village.

As Chikara meditated on these memories, an invigorated ambition ignited within him. His journey abroad had been a testament to his father’s sacrifice and his community’s support. This was why he must fight for the community, he determined, even if they didn’t understand why.

Chinwendu’s voice pulled his mind back. Her words boomed in his ears—a plea infused with desperation.

“My son,” she said, “you celebrated your twenty-fourth birthday the other day.” She looked her son in the eyes. “I am so proud of who you are becoming—handsome, strong, and wise. Yet, I fear for you. You are too young to start going into the politics of our village. A lot of things are involved, and if anything happens to you, the world of this family ends.”

Chinwendu took a deep breath and paused for a long moment. “This small shop I run is no longer enough for us. You know you helped me open it with all the money you sent while you were abroad. But your sisters are growing, and so are my responsibilities toward them. What I earn is no longer sufficient.”

Chikara felt a quiet happiness knowing he had been able to support his mother while studying in the United Kingdom. He had worked part-time during term and full-time during the holidays, and from the little he earned, he sent money home so she could set up a shop in their village.

“I want you to leave this village and go to Lagos,” Chinwendu said. “I have discussed it with my younger sister, your aunt, to accommodate you and assist you in finding employment.”

Chikara’s chest tightened as he listened to his mother’s request. It was a clear sign of her deep worry and the heavy sacrifices she was willing to make for their family. He recognized the fear and hesitation visible on her face, deepening the lines of worry that had appeared in the wake of his father’s passing.

Even as his mother urged him to leave, Chikara felt the depth of her pure love and unwavering devotion. He couldn’t help but feel a swell of gratitude and admiration. “Thank you, Mama,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I am thankful to you for all that you have done for us since Papa’s death.”

To reassure his mother, Chikara stretched out and took her right hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “But I cannot leave,” he went on. “Not now. I think our community needs me the most at this time.”

Chinwendu’s eyes widened in surprise and concern. “I don’t understand this fight of yours, Chikara. Going against the village is not good.”

Chikara noticed the uncertainty in his mother’s voice and took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he knew would be a difficult conversation. Unable to find the right words, he stood up and went to the window, looking across the land that had been theirs for generations until his strength found its voice. “I want to make a difference, Mama,” he said earnestly. “I want to honor Papa’s memory and the sacrifices he made for us. And I believe that staying here, fighting for what is right, is the best way to do that.”

“But I would rather you, yourself, be honored among us now, not hated.”

Chikara returned to his mother’s bed and gently grasped her hand. “Mama…” he hesitated, choking a little on his words, “this fight is bigger than me and bigger than our family. I am fighting because when people live in a good environment, life becomes easier. When trees are protected, the land stays fertile, rain comes as it should, food grows well, and people can farm, trade, and earn a living. Trees protect our water, our soil, and our future. A healthy environment helps free people from poverty and the deep sadness that comes with it. I want our community, and the children yet unborn, to grow up with hope instead of struggle.”

He met his mother’s look; the warmth of her love was reflected in her tear-filled eyes.

“I can’t turn my back on the village that raised me, that supported me through our toughest times,” he went on, with a quiet commitment. “Nothing would bring me greater joy than to repay its people’s kindness, to give back to them as they have given to me.”

Chikara’s mother listened. She seemed to be starting to understand.

“And Mama,” Chikara added, “part of the agreement with the university that granted me the scholarship was that I would return to our country and use my education for the improvement of our society. It is a promise I still have to keep.”

He started to withdraw his hands from hers but found himself unable to. His touch felt like a comforting anchor in the storm of uncertainty. “You know that I am already in the process of getting employed here in our state,” he assured her with quiet confidence. “There is no need for me to go to Lagos. My place is here, fighting for what I believe in, alongside the people who have always stood by me.”

***

A surge of pride and admiration welled up in Chikara’s mother’s heart. She tried to let herself relax. Though the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, she now believed her son possessed the strength and dedication to face them head-on, to forge a path of hope and resilience for their family and their community. And while they sat side by side, intertwined by love, she understood they were capable of facing any adversities that awaited them. She suddenly felt united in her son’s resolve for a better tomorrow.

***

“Mama,” Chikara said gently, “I believe that Agba and Acha-ere, these diseases that plague our community today—may be linked to the environment, especially the rising temperatures caused by climate change.”

Chinwendu drew back, staring at her son. “You are not serious, Chikara,” she cautioned. “These two ailments are not ordinary. They are of a spiritual nature. Wicked individuals plant them against their enemies like a poison. They are even sold in the markets.”

Chikara laughed at his mother’s final remark. “I am serious, Mama, although I have not scientifically proven the connection between these two diseases and the temperature rise yet. Perhaps other factors could be the causes. But spiritism? No, Mama.”

Chikara paused, searching for the right words to convey the urgency of the situation. “We need to educate people about the disastrous effects of these environmental changes and empower to act before it’s too late.”

From what Chikara knew, Agba attacked without warning, draining vitality and leaving its victims weak, disoriented, and overpowered with fatigue. It rose like the unyielding midday heat, persistent and harsh. The villagers believed that it affected people more often when the weather became very hot. For Chikara, the symptoms seemed to mirror those of malaria, dehydration, or heatstroke, intensified by the relentless heat of the sun. It could even be a localized form of illness.

On the other hand, Acha-ere adhered like the dampness of the early hours—a sickness that persisted and refused to vanish. Its symptoms would not go away, as though it had settled within the bones. An untrained eye mistook it for tuberculosis or an autoimmune disorder.

“Mama,” Chikara called, tightening his grip on her hand. “It is not a curse bought in the market. Doctors call it Buruli ulcer. It is caused by a tiny bacterium. It damages the skin, not because anyone hates us, but most likely because the land is changing and the water is no longer clean. Our environment is growing worse, and if we do not protect the trees, the heat may only help it spread.”

“If this is your calling,” Chinwendu said after a moment, “you have a heavy burden on your shoulders.”

Chikara nodded. “This is my purpose, Mama: to use my education and knowledge to make a difference for our community.”

He continued to hold her hand, a soothing anchor in the turbulent waters of doubt. “I promise you, everything will be alright,” he said with resolve. “I will be careful as I pursue the case of the ugba tree. We will get through this together.”

Chinwendu nodded hesitantly. As they sat together in the tranquility of the room and conversed, Chikara could sense her restless mind beginning to settle.

Chikara knew the path was uncertain. He understood the unpredictability of the journey. However, with his mother’s steadfast support, he had confidence he could overcome any challenges, make a difference in their community, and honor his father’s memory.

Later that same day, Chikara’s friend Obinna paid a visit. Even though they were from two different kindreds, the two had developed a strong connection during their time together in secondary school. While Chikara went on to excel in academics, Obinna chose to pursue trade skills, now finding success as a skilled furniture maker.

The two young men greeted each other with a warm embrace and handshakes, then settled onto the aged benches located within Chikara’s father’s compound, sheltered under the branches of a mango tree. The air was thick with the fragrance of ripening mango fruits, and the shade created by the leaves provided some serenity.

With an expression of concern, Obinna lowered his voice. “Chikara,” he said uneasily, “there is something troubling I need to discuss with you.”

Chikara frowned, curiosity written across his face. He turned his attention to his friend. “What is it, Obi?”

Obinna gave a heavy sigh. “You have become the most hated individual in the village,” he said with regret.

A deep wave of despair engulfed Chikara. He struggled to process what his friend had just revealed. Confusion and sorrow clouded him. “Why?” he asked, unable to believe it.

Obinna hesitated in choosing his words. “The younger members of the community feel you are disrespecting the village leadership — especially Pastor Udochukwu.”

“I didn’t intend to cause discord,” Chikara protested with both frustration and sorrow. “I am just standing for what I believe is right.”

Obinna looked at his friend with empathy. He nodded, his eyes conveying a deep understanding of Chikara’s struggles. “I understand, Chikara.” He rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “However, it is important to know that advocating for what is just may lead to resentment within a community bound by tradition.”

Chikara sighed. “How does one make a positive impact without being seen as a troublemaker?”

Obinna gave a supportive smile. “You will find a way, Chikara. I have faith in you. Don’t let others discourage you from your path. Your courage to stand up for what is right is a rare quality that I admire.”

Chikara’s eyes flickered. “Thank you, Obi. I find comfort in your sincere support. I will continue to fight for what I believe is right, no matter the challenges I may face.”

The mango tree continued to cast a peaceful shade over the two young men.

Chikara and Obinna sat there for a long time in quiet companionship with a bond strengthened by their mutual belief in the power of standing up for justice and integrity, even in the face of adversity.

Obinna then leaned in closer to Chikara, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes. “You know, Chikara,” he said with a playful grin, “I was the one who asked if anyone had ever seen one of those snakes bite anybody.”

“I had a feeling it was you,” Chikara smiled as he nodded. “Thank you for speaking up, Obi.”

Then Obinna leaned back, his face tightening with genuine concern. “I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand by and watch them tear you down.” He paused for a moment, then added, “But at the same time, I must warn you to be careful over the next few days. You know what Nonso is up to, don’t you?”

Chikara shook his head. “I don’t.”

“He was one of the people shouting, asking if you really studied abroad. I hear he’s planning with some other guys to come to your house and attack you. My source says he and his buddies want to ‘teach you a lesson.’”

Chikara frowned. “I didn’t offend him in any way.”

“You know he’s very religious, a regular churchgoer. He’s been fuming since you said we should preserve our trees for vultures.”

Obinna’s tone suddenly shifted as he moved to the more serious topic. “Why did you bring up the issue of vultures?” he asked. “That single statement made the situation worse. You know our people view those birds as agents of misfortune and death.”

“I see your point,” Chikara replied. “But sometimes, we need to question conventional beliefs and look at things from a different perspective.”

Chikara leaned forward to elaborate. “Consider this, Obi,” he raised his head and looked up into the sky, as if hoping to spot a vulture, “vultures don’t just eat dead animals; they clean up nature’s waste in a way that helps protect human health and wellbeing.”

Chikara gestured with enthusiasm as he sought to paint a picture of the interconnections within ecosystems. “When an animal dies in the forest, or sometimes, around our villages, its carcass can turn into a breeding ground for disease,” he explained. “Vultures eat dead animals before harmful germs can spread from the carcass. Without them, remains would lie around longer, becoming breeding grounds for diseases such as rabies, which is associated with dogs. And the uncontrolled spread of these infectious microorganisms can threaten us humans living in nearby communities.”

Obinna seemed to be understanding. “So, by eating up these dead animals, vultures help to stop the spread of dangerous disease?” he summarized, glowing with this new knowledge.

“That’s it,” Chikara nodded. “It doesn’t stop there, however. Vultures have acidic stomachs that can neutralize even the deadliest bacteria. Therefore, the risk of contamination is further reduced.”

Chikara paused to allow his comments to sink in.

Obinna’s eyes widened as he understood the seriousness of it. “So, if vultures disappear, the natural environment suffers,” he said, worried. “And that means public health is at risk?”

“That is the case,” Chikara agreed. “That is why it is important for us to protect these misunderstood birds and recognize the valuable role they play in maintaining the delicate balance of nature.”

“Thank you, Chikara.” Obinna’s gratitude radiated as he looked at Chikara. “You have taught me more in this conversation than I ever learned in secondary school.”

Chikara smiled. “It is my pleasure, Obi. I am just sharing what I came to understand through my studies and experiences. I need to remind you that I was as surprised as you were the first time I learned about the importance of vultures.”

Obinna leaned in closer. “The way things stand now, what can I do to help stop the cutting down of the ugba trees?”

Chikara smiled, considering the question. Then his shoulders slowly sank as the full weight of what lay ahead settled on him. “It won’t be easy, Obi. Our people’s belief in witchcraft is ingrained in every aspect of their lives. Nevertheless, we can’t afford to give up. We need to educate our fellow youths, empower them with knowledge about the importance of preserving our natural resources such as the ugba tree. They are the future stewards of our planet, and it is very vital that they understand the impact of their actions.”

Obinna nodded and declared, “I agree with you and will do whatever it takes to support you in this fight, Chikara. We may face opposition, yet standing together will help us protect our community’s future.”

Chikara clenched his fists. “Indeed, Obi. Saving the ugba tree is only part of it. We must also address the broader issue of climate change.”

Chikara drew in a long breath and lifted his eyes toward the sky before speaking again. “Our planet is facing a danger greater than anything we have known before,” he said. “The heat keeps rising, seasons no longer behave as they used to, forests disappear, rivers shrink, and the land keeps losing strength beneath our feet.”

Obinna looked at him seriously. “So, what can we do?”

Something stirred harder inside Chikara. He leaned forward, his voice gaining force. “We must begin with the things around us,” he pointed out. “The trees, the water, the land our people depend on. If we keep destroying them without care, one day we will realize we have ruined the very things keeping us alive. But if people understand what is at stake, then we still have a chance to change things together.”

Obinna inclined his head for a moment before looking back at Chikara. “You are right,” he said, nodding. “Sometimes I wonder what kind of world our children will inherit if we continue this way.” He placed his hand on Chikara’s shoulder. “I have faith in what you are doing.”

“I believe in you too, Obi. I need your help. The youth respect you. If you stand beside me, many will listen.”

Obinna nodded. “I will speak to them before the next village meeting. I will also try to talk to Nonso and calm him down. At the same time, you need to be careful. Once Nonso sets his mind on something, he rarely backs away from it.”

Chikara looked at Obinna with gratitude and nodded. “Thank you, Obi. I will watch out.”

 

Several minutes after Obi left, Chikara remained seated under the mango tree. His elbows rested on his knees. His fingers locked together, then loosened, then locked again. His attention drifted across the ground, catching on nothing, moving from one thought to the next without rest.

A sound slipped into the quiet. At first it broke apart in the air, thin and uncertain. Then it gathered shape. Voices rose and fell together. Beneath them, metal struck metal. The gongs rang out in steady blows, each one sinking into the afternoon like a warning.

Chikara lifted his head. His body stilled. He listened.

“Do not touch the tiger by the tail, dead or alive!”

The chant came again, fuller now, carried by many throats joined into one. The sound rolled through the village paths and pressed against the trees. Birds burst from nearby branches and scattered. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked several times and fell silent.

Chikara sprang to his feet.

He hurried toward the entrance of the family compound. Though there was no gate, the old block fence surrounding the compound still stood high enough to shield the inside from the road. Chikara pressed himself against one corner of the wall and leaned carefully around it.

A number of village youths filled the narrow untarred road from one side to the other, moving like a single body toward his house. Some carried sticks and fresh branches torn from trees. Others beat the gongs while they marched. Dust rose beneath their feet. At the front, Nonso led them forward.

Chikara’s throat tightened and he pulled back from the wall as if the sight itself could touch him. The chant no longer sounded like a warning. It moved like a judgment already decided, waiting only to fall.

He turned and rushed back into the compound. His eyes swept across the space. The house stood open. The yard lay bare. Every corner felt exposed.

He kicked off his sandals and flung them across the compound. They landed apart from each other in the dust.

The mango tree. He ran to the mango tree and caught the bark with both hands. His body took over.

His fingers dug into the grooves. His toes searched for holds. His chest brushed against the trunk as he pulled himself upward. The movement came without thought, shaped by something older than fear.

A memory rose within him: his father standing beneath this same tree, one hand raised, pointing upward. Young Chikara clung to the trunk, his arms shaking, his feet slipping.

“Climb again.” The voice had carried no laughter. Only insistence.

Back then, Chikara had smiled through the strain, thinking it a game meant to fill empty hours. Yet his father watched with steady eyes, guiding each movement, correcting each mistake. Day after day, he pushed him higher into the branches, until the climb settled into his body.

Now that voice returned with weight. Chikara climbed faster.

Leaves brushed across his face. Bark scraped his skin. His breath grew thick in his chest, yet he did not stop until the ground fell away beneath him. He pressed himself into the cover of the branches, drawing the leaves around him.

Footsteps thundered into the compound. Nonso and the others surged in, voices cutting through the air. They spread out at once, moving around the house, along the walls, across the open ground. Sticks struck against doors. Feet crushed dry twigs underfoot.

“Find him!” Nonso’s voice rang out. The youths scattered further.

“Search everywhere!”

Chikara pressed himself closer to the branch. He drew in a breath and held it.

Then Nonso stopped. His focus dropped to the sandals lying in the dust.

“He has run away.”

Heads turned. Eyes followed. Several of the youths nodded.

“Chikara!” Nonso shouted. “Come out here!”

No answer came.

Nonso stood in the center of the compound. His chest rose and fell. His hands opened and closed at his sides. “You are daring this village, yet you cannot stand before us!” he roared. “Why are you hiding?”

He took a step forward, scanning the compound. “I know you can hear me wherever you are. From today, this battle is between you and me if you refuse to stop this nonsense of testing our elders’ patience!”

From the branches above Nonso, Chikara watched through the leaves.

Even alone, Nonso was not someone he would rush to confront. Years at the local gym he built in his father’s compound had transformed him into something hard and intimidating. The singlet clinging to his body revealed thick arms, broad shoulders, and a chest shaped by endless lifting of iron and concrete weights. Because of this, some village youths followed him almost like soldiers.

Chikara remembered secondary school. One fight. One stupid fight.

They had exchanged blows after an argument and Chikara knocked Nonso to the ground twice before teachers separated them. Since then, Nonso had never truly warmed to him again.

Could that single humiliation still burn inside him after all these years?

Clinging to the branch, Chikara felt sweat crawling down his neck. His shirt stuck to his body. Then his heart slammed against his ribs.

One of Nonso’s men had wandered beneath the mango tree.

The young man stopped directly below him.

Chikara froze.

Slowly, he wiped the sweat gathering on his forehead and smeared it against his shirt. If even one drop fell through the leaves onto the man below, everything was finished.

“Everybody!” Nonso called out at last. “Bring the branches here!”

He pointed to one corner of the compound. The youths piled the branches and sticks there, then headed back toward the entrance.

Nonso snapped his fingers sharply. “Let’s go.”

The group began filing out of the compound, their voices fading slowly back toward the road, while Chikara remained hidden above them, barely daring to breathe.

Minutes after Nonso and his men had gone, Chikara saw his mother rush into the compound. From his hiding place, he watched her turn from side to side in panic, her wrapper swinging around her legs as she searched the compound with desperate eyes.

“Chikara!” she shouted. “Chikara, where are you?” Her voice shook with fear.

Chikara tightened his grip on the mango tree branch for a moment before climbing down at once. Bark scraped against his palms and chest as he descended, and the moment his feet touched the ground, Chinwendu spun toward him. For a second, she simply stared at him drenched in sweat and dust covering his bare feet. Then both hands flew to her chest.

“Chikara!” she cried, lifting her face toward the sky. “Thank God in heaven you are alive.”

She hurried toward him, breathing hard. Someone had informed her at the shop that trouble had erupted in her compound, and she had abandoned everything and run home.

Before Chikara could speak, Chinwendu’s eyes shifted past him and landed on the heap of branches lying in the middle of the compound. Her expression hardened at once.

“What is this?” she burst out, pointing toward the heap. “Chikara, what have you brought upon this family?”

The words struck Chikara harder than he expected.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he protested. “Nonso brought some people here to attack me. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Chinwendu repeated, her voice rising as she pointed again at the branches. “You still do not understand what this means? Those branches are a message. A warning. They came here ready for violence.”

Chikara looked from her face to the mountain of branches, and for the first time since the youths left, the full weight of what had happened settled deeper into his chest.

“Chikara!” Chinwendu shouted, stepping closer. “You are no longer a child. You must understand what people mean when they carry out acts like this.”

Chikara opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out.

“From today,” Chinwendu said, cutting through the silence, “you must stop this fight against the will of the village. End it now!”

Chikara stared at her. “Mama, I cannot do that,” he said at last, his voice firm. “I thought you understood what I am trying to do.”

“I don’t want to understand anything anymore,” Chinwendu fired back. “All I understand right now is that my son is dragging himself toward death because of a tree.”

The words hung heavily between them.

Chikara lowered his eyes as exhaustion swept through him. His arms still trembled from clinging to the tree, and the fear he had held back while hiding now pressed down on him with full force. Without another word, he turned and began walking barefoot toward the house.

“Chikara!” Chinwendu shouted after him, stunned by his silence. “Come back here! I forbid you from continuing this battle over that ugba tree!”

***

The early morning sun poured its warmth over the village, bringing to life the rural surroundings and enveloping the landscape in a serene and soft morning light. Inside the grand sitting room of Pastor Udochukwu, characterized by its elegant furnishings, a mood of tranquil expectation permeated the environment as he looked forward to the arrival of Elder Uruka.

The elderly man made his way into the room, leaning on his walking stick for support. Pastor Udochukwu greeted him with a warm smile, his demeanor gracious yet calculated. Without wasting a moment, the pastor reached into the pocket of his well-tailored suit and withdrew a bundle of money, the bills neatly stacked.

“Good morning, Elder Uruka,” Pastor Udochukwu said, his voice smooth and persuasive. “I trust you are in good health this fine morning.”

“Good morning, Pastor.” Elder Uruka bowed his head with gratitude, his aged face lined with thankfulness. He took the bundle of money from the pastor’s outstretched hand. “I am deeply thankful for your kindness.”

“You know we’ve always been there for you, Elder Uruka,” the pastor said with a smile. “Whenever you needed help, we stood by you, and we always will.”

Elder Uruka nodded, his expression serious and humble. “Yes, Pastor. I remember everything, and I am thankful for your kindness.”

Their conversation drifted to his two sons, who had left the village years ago with their families, leaving him to manage alone in his old age.

“It has not been easy, Pastor,” Elder Uruka admitted, sadness on his face. “My sons are distant, and they hardly remember me. I have been on my own ever since my wife passed away fifteen years ago.”

The pastor reached out to console the elderly man, in a gesture of compassion. “You are not alone, Elder Uruka,” he assured. “We are here for you, now and as long as life takes us.” He renewed his commitment to support Elder Uruka in comfort and dignity.

“Now,” he locked eyes with the man, and took a more commanding tone. “Elder Uruka, you must remain strong in your backing for the cutting down of the ugba tree. This is the intention of my wife and me, and it must be carried out.”

The pastor leaned forward to emphasize the importance of their cause. “Chikara knows nothing about the ins and outs of the spiritual realm,” he stressed. “He is too young and too inexperienced to confront us, his wiser elders, on this.”

Elder Uruka smiled. He straightened his posture, the weight of his age seeming to ease fueled by the pastor’s words. “I understand, Pastor Udochukwu,” he nodded, as he cleared his throat. “I don’t blame the young man. It is obvious that the five years he spent overseas have distanced him from the realities of our culture and traditions.”

“You can depend on me, Pastor. I will stand by you,” Elder Uruka said in a strong voice, pledging his steadfast support to the pastor and his wife.

Pastor Udochukwu gave a contented smile, and with a casual wave of his hand, he ushered Elder Uruka to the door and bid him goodbye.

Once the elderly man had departed, the pastor’s mood darkened, the disdain evident. He mumbled under his breath, “A common drunk. It’s no wonder his sons left.” The pastor dismissed the matter with a scornful shake of his head and turned his attention back to his plans, his resolve strengthened by Elder Uruka’s vow of loyalty.

Pondering his next move, Pastor Udochukwu’s attention turned to Mazi Okabi, the village chairman. He knew that Mazi Okabi, like Elder Uruka, could be swayed by the promise of financial gain. He would pay the chairman a visit later in the evening with a substantial amount of money to grease his palms.

While Pastor Udochukwu considered his strategy, contentment overcame him at the idea of exerting his influence over another influential figure in the village. Mazi Okabi, although entrusted with the responsibility of leading the community, had a familiarity with corruption, and the pastor knew he could exploit this weakness to his advantage.

Later in the evening, as darkness began to settle, Pastor Udochukwu made his way to Mazi Okabi’s house. The sound of his footsteps reverberated on the dirt path, his thoughts preoccupied with the task at hand. In his hand, he clutched a bulging envelope stuffed with money.

Pastor Udochukwu knocked.

“Come in,” Mazi Okabi’s voice answered from within.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The sharp scent of fresh palm wine hung thick in the air. Across the room, the chairman leaned back in his chair, a cup resting loosely in his hand.

“Good evening, Pastor,” Mazi Okabi said, studying him. “You look troubled.”

Pastor Udochukwu did not sit.

“I did not come to exchange pleasantries, Mazi,” he said. “There is something you must hear from me, now.”

The chairman’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup before he set it down.

“I am honored to listen to you, Pastor. That said, before we continue,” he glanced toward the clay jar on the table, “the wine is fresh. Will you take some?”

“No, no,” the pastor returned. “Palm wine is good. But this is not the time for me to take it.”

Mazi Okabi shrugged. “Very well. Sit down, Pastor. Heavy words do not need standing legs.”

After a brief pause, the pastor took the seat opposite him. He did not lean back. His hands rested on his knees, his back straight. “I will speak plainly, Mazi,” he said.

In the course of their polite conversation, Pastor Udochukwu hinted at the reason for his presence, carefully evaluating Mazi Okabi’s reaction. The chairman’s eyes narrowed, curiosity flickering within them. He seemed to be absorbing the pastor’s puzzling statements, hanging onto every word with an intense sense of intrigue.

When he sensed he had the chairman’s full attention, and believed he would cooperate, Pastor Udochukwu introduced the subject under discussion. With careful expertise, he handed the envelope to Mazi Okabi. His attention remained fixed on the man’s face as he awaited a response.

Mazi Okabi felt the weight of the money in his palm and his eyes widened in surprise, his expression a mixture of shock and delight. “Pastor, what is this?” he exclaimed, excited.

With a sly smile, Pastor Udochukwu leaned forward in his seat to draw closer to Mazi Okabi, his tone hushed but confident. “Consider it a token of my appreciation, Mazi. This is a gesture of goodwill from a friend.”

Mazi Okabi stared at the envelope in his hand, then at the pastor. He cradled the gift, a warm smile across his face. “Thank you, Pastor,” he said. “I am determined to stand by you in any way I can.” He examined the envelope again, aware of the responsibility that the pastor’s trust had placed upon him.

Motivated by Mazi Okabi’s zeal, Pastor Udochukwu wasted no time in outlining his expectations. “I want you to mobilize support for our cause,” he urged. “Gather men and women who share our vision, and I will make sure you are always rewarded.”

Mazi Okabi looked the pastor in the eye. “My commitment never wavers as I pledge my full support to your cause. Consider it done, Pastor. I will mobilize the villagers and make sure your goals—our goals—are accomplished.”

While the discussion progressed, Mazi Okabi voiced his thoughts. “Chikara has no legitimate argument,” he pointed out. “And he needs to be focusing on securing a good job for himself. Other young people like him are contributing to their families, not engaging in conflicts with their elders.”

Pastor Udochukwu tilted his head in thoughtful agreement. “You speak nothing but the truth, Mazi. Chikara’s priorities are misplaced, so it’s up to us to guide him back onto the right path.”

Having set their plans into action, Pastor Udochukwu extended a cordial handshake to Mazi Okabi before exiting the warm sitting room. He walked away, a sensation of accomplishment flowing over him, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The pleasant evening air ruffled his clothes as he walked home.

Pastor Udochukwu’s confidence grew with the realization that both Elder Uruka and Mazi Okabi were behind him. He was one step closer to fulfilling his objectives and keeping his hold on power in the community.

The following day broke with a certain level of resolve for the pastor as he strode towards Pa Chinagorom’s home. Clutching another bulging envelope in his hand, he found it difficult to rid himself of the sense of unease within.

When Pastor Udochukwu got close to the dilapidated door of the weather-battered house, he hesitated for a moment. His eyes scanned the faded paint and aged wood. With a resigned sigh, he knocked on the door.

After what seemed like a long moment, the door creaked open. Pa Chinagorom was standing in the dim interior. Despite the simplicity of his surroundings, an air of quiet dignity about the old man commanded respect.

“Ha!” Pa Chinagorom struggled. “Good morning, Pastor.” His voice revealed a hint of curiosity. “It’s good to see you in my house today.” The elderly man waved his wobbling hands and gestured the pastor to a simple wooden stool. “Take a seat, my son.”

The pastor returned the greeting with a polite nod. “Good morning, Pa Chinagorom. I come with a gesture of gratitude for your invaluable contributions to our community.”

Pastor Udochukwu stepped into the dwelling, his eyes scanning the sparse furnishings with a faint air of distaste. He settled himself upon the seat, closer to Pa Chinagorom’s, his expression carefully neutral.

With a slight bow of his head, Pastor Udochukwu extended the envelope towards Pa Chinagorom. His fingers trembled while he prayed that the old man would accept the goodwill, despite the ulterior motives that lay beneath.

Pa Chinagorom took the envelope with a gracious nod, the lines around his mouth tightening with quiet amusement as he examined its contents. “You are very kind, Pastor,” he said in a low voice. “Your generosity has no limits.”

The response from the old man filled the pastor with joy. His veins throbbed with a sensation of victory. But his excitement soon vanished.

“Ah, Pastor,” Pa Chinagorom said. “You are aware of the proverb that, ‘When a visitor brings a drink, whether there will be agreement or not, the drink must be accepted and not returned to its owner.’”

Pastor Udochukwu’s heart sank as the old man’s statement pierced through the air like a dagger. He realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the elderly man resisted being swayed by gifts.

“I understand, Pa Chinagorom,” the pastor replied. “Your wisdom is unequaled, and I am humbled by your insight.” Pastor Udochukwu meant what he said. He had always admired Pa Chinagorom’s longevity and had wondered what made the old man still live, and in good health. It did not seem to the pastor or anybody in the village that Pa Chinagorom’s time to leave the earth was drawing closer.

“Can you tell me what you know about the ugba tree?” The old man watched the pastor with attention.

“I don’t know enough about the history of the ugba tree,” the pastor admitted, with uncertainty. Aware of the old man’s inquisitive nature, Pastor Udochukwu further sensed a wave of uneasiness rise within him.

“I only meant to drop off this gift,” he said, “not to take up your valuable time.” He stood up from the seat, and took a step in preparation to leave the elderly man’s house before the conversation got uncomfortable.

“Please, Pastor, sit down for a few more minutes,” Pa Chinagorom said, gesturing towards the seat again. “Allow me to enlighten you on how important the ugba tree is to our village.”

Pastor Udochukwu obeyed with evident reluctance. His muscles stiff, he eased himself back onto the plain wooden stool. The hard surface did little to alleviate his unease, and despite his best efforts, he could not dispel the sense of discomfort that lingered at the back of his mind. His fingers drummed nervously on his knee.

Pa Chinagorom cleared his throat, and his voice rang with authority while he spoke. “The ugba tree,” he began in the Igbo language, “holds a special place in the history of our village. Don’t look at it just as a tree, because it serves as a powerful emblem of our ancestral legacy and our relationship with the land.”

Pa Chinagorom’s words carried the weight of centuries of tradition and wisdom. He created a colorful depiction of long-standing ceremonies, important communal meetings that were held, and crucial decisions made beneath the extensive branches of the ugba tree, with every story steeped in the rich heritage of their collective experience.

“That ugba tree still standing there now has observed the passing of time,” Pa Chinagorom continued. “It has withstood turbulent weather and has been a witness to both successes and misfortunes, its roots planted deep in the earth.”

Pa Chinagorom’s words permeated the air, each syllable laden with the weight of generations past. He referred to the ugba tree as a lifeline that had sustained their village for centuries.

“That ugba tree that you seek to cut down has been a fundamental source of food for this village throughout many generations,” Pa Chinagorom began again after what Pastor Udochukwu considered a very long pause that enabled the old man to gather some strength. “It has provided sustenance for our families, nourishing us in times of plenty and scarcity alike.”

Pastor Udochukwu became very attentive as Pa Chinagorom spoke further, his initial discomfort transforming into a deepening sense of humility. It became difficult to deny that the ugba tree served as the foundation of their local economy and offered a livelihood to many families.

“The tree you want removed provided the business of petty trading for my late mother,” Pa Chinagorom said, his voice nostalgic. “It fed my family, and every other family in this village, including your own grandfather’s.”

Pa Chinagorom’s words struck deeper than he expected. He had been thinking only of profit and position. The consequences beyond himself had meant nothing to him.

“I hadn’t realized that,” Pastor Udochukwu said above a whisper. “I hadn’t understood the true value of the ugba tree to our community.”

Pa Chinagorom continued to maintain a steady watch as he observed the pastor. “There is much you have yet to learn, Pastor,” he said gently. “But it is never too late to seek understanding and wisdom. Do you want me to tell you more?” the old man asked.

Pastor Udochukwu nodded silently.

“For over a century, the branches of the ugba tree provided canopy and shade as the village used it as a market square. And yet, from what I can recall, and from what my father and grandfather told me, none of those branches ever caused harm to anyone.”

Pa Chinagorom’s last statement gave Pastor Udochukwu pause, prompting him to consider the implications of the tree’s apparent peaceful presence. Could there be a deeper meaning to its branches, a hidden truth waiting to be revealed?

“Do you know why that was, Pastor?” Pa Chinagorom asked.

Pastor Udochukwu’s mind racing as he searched for an answer. “I’m not sure I do,” he admitted, clearly perplexed.

Pa Chinagorom tilted his head in understanding. He explained. “It is because the weaker branches come loose in the depths of night, when the world is at rest. This phenomenon has continued to baffle many of us, but you may agree with me that it reflects the wisdom nature possesses.”

Pastor Udochukwu pondered Pa Chinagorom’s words with some admiration. There was something humbling in the way nature stood — ordered, patient, untouched by human pride. In moments like this, he was certain it could only be the work of God.

“Thank you, Pa Chinagorom,” the pastor said after the old man had finished. “You have given me much to think about.”

For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine the tree as the elder described it — rooted, patient, part of a design greater than man. But almost at once, another image rose in his mind: the rusted nails hammered into its trunk, the whispered stories of rituals performed beneath its shade. He had seen the fear in his congregation’s faces. He had prayed against it.

“Will you reconsider your position about the removal of the ugba tree?” Pa Chinagorom asked gently.

The question struck deeper than the pastor expected. Doubt pressed at the edge of his thoughts. Was he mistaking tradition for evil? Was he acting from fear rather than faith?

He straightened.

“No,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “For religious purposes, the cutting down of the tree must be carried through.”

Pa Chinagorom acknowledged the pastor’s words with a smile characteristic of his age, his demeanor reflective as he contemplated the message. “I understand,” he said, his head turning in the direction of the venerable ugba tree that stood watch in the distance, visible through his window.

The pastor went on, somber as he revealed the true motivation behind his unrelenting desire. “The ugba tree may have been vital in the life of the village in the past, but today witches and wizards have converted it into a death camp,” he explained. “They must be destroyed for the safety of our community and our children.”

Pa Chinagorom kept his face blank as he listened in silence to what Pastor Udochukwu said.

What Pastor Udochukwu would never confess to the village’s eldest man stemmed from the fact that he did not call the shots. His wife held the authority, and had been adamant in her insistence that the tree must come down. He could almost hear her saying it again, just as she had the night before. She had spoken with such conviction, such urgency. In their home, her word carried weight he rarely challenged.

Pa Chinagorom’s gratitude cut through the tension like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds, bringing warmth to the air. “I thank you for the money you have given me, Pastor,” the eldest man said with genuine appreciation. “May it serve its intended purpose well.”

The elder’s gracious remarks gave Pastor Udochukwu some relief. “Thank you, Pa Chinagorom. I appreciate your understanding.”

Pa Chinagorom gestured towards the door. With a firm compassion he said, “Go in peace, my son. And may your day be blessed.”

Pastor Udochukwu made his way out of the humble home, feeling some gratitude towards the elderly man. Despite their differences in opinion, Pa Chinagorom had shown him kindness and understanding.

He regretted having to stand against him.

Chapter 12

Two days after the campaign, Governor Nnamdi Ozobia sat at his executive desk, absorbed in some paperwork when a knock sounded at his door. His chief of staff entered, carrying a newspaper in his hand. The pages he wanted the governor to see were highlighted in red.

“Good morning, Your Excellency,” the chief of staff said, bowing his head in a formal show of respect.

Without raising his eyes from the documents, and with a mix of impatience and routine, the governor asked, “What is it?”

The chief of staff moved closer to the desk, placing the newspaper in front of the governor. “Your Excellency, I thought it necessary to bring this to your attention. It’s a report from the Daily Tune newspaper.” He pointed to a section on the page where the words had been circled in red ink.

The heavyset governor raised an eyebrow, setting aside his work. “What’s this?” His eyes scanned the bold caption in front of him: A YOUNG ENVIRONMENTAL ADVOCATE LAUGHS AT THE GOVERNOR AND HIS RIDICULOUS, UNSUSTAINABLE CITY DESIGN.

His fingers clenched the paper, and the governor began to read aloud, his voice growing sharper with each word. “A young environmental advocate has questioned the wisdom behind the governor’s decision to uproot all the natural trees and flowers in the capital, replacing them with plastic trees, which hurt, rather than help the environment…”

Without finishing the article, Governor Ozobia slammed the paper onto his desk, his face tight with disbelief. He shot an intense, angry look at his chief of staff. “Who is writing this? And who is this… this so-called advocate who dares to criticize me?” His voice rose. “I want his name!”

The chief of staff flinched, knowing how quickly the man’s temper could flare. He took a careful step forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “Your Excellency, sir, according to the report, the advocate is from—” He named the local government area. “—and he works there as a staff member at the council.”

The governor stiffened and narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. A sudden realization struck him, and his face darkened with worry. Could this be the same young man I planned to use at the state level for those land grabs? he wondered. The same one I wanted to promote? He just hoped it wasn’t.

“Look!” The governor’s voice snapped the chief of staff back to attention. “I want you to find this person, wherever he is, and teach him a lesson he will never forget so that no other individual dares try this nonsense again.”

The chief of staff swallowed. “Yes, Your Excellency. It will be done right away, sir.” He turned and began towards the door.

“No wait!” Governor Ozobia shouted with an icy tone.

The chief of staff turned. “Your Excellency?”

“Leave it to me. I will take care of this myself.”

The chief of staff paused, his eyes uncertain. “It is well understood, Your Excellency, sir.” He bowed again and left the room, the hefty door closing behind him.

Alone in his office, Governor Ozobia stared at the mobile phone on his desk. His jaw set in determination, he reached out and dialed the number for the state’s commissioner of police.

***

While Chikara rode his bicycle to work, his mind wandered in harmony with the motion of the pedals. The sky’s brightness signaled a day without rain. This simple fact brought him joy, as it allowed him to ride without the anxiety of weather-related disruptions. The sun’s warmth against his face offered him a subtle pleasure, providing an appropriate start to a day that appeared to be full of promise.

Chikara’s thoughts were elsewhere, preoccupied with the progress of his environmental sustainability advocacy. Things had gone well so far, and that success filled him with immense satisfaction. His advocacy had brought awareness to his community as well as fulfilled his commitment to the scholarship that enabled his education. He often reflected on what could have been if he had stayed abroad after completing his studies. By now, he might have been wealthier, his family more comfortable. Yet the thought of breaking his agreement with the scholarship provider had worried him. It was more than just a contractual obligation, but a moral one tied to his identity and the expectations of his village.

He reflected, “Had I not come back, how would the people of my community have become aware of the environmental problems afflicting them? Would they have remained ignorant to the consequences of plastic pollution and deforestation?” These questions drove him. They reaffirmed his decision, making his work all the more meaningful.

He pedaled on, passing familiar sights: small shops opening for the day, children playing in front of their homes, and the occasional cars parked by the roadside. One vehicle in particular caught his eye: a black Toyota SUV with semi-tinted windows idled by the edge of the road. Inside, he could see three men seated in silence. Chikara’s attention lingered on them for only a moment before he looked ahead again. Their presence did not seem unusual at this time, and he dismissed them from his mind, returning to his reflections.

Two minutes later, the sudden roar of a vehicle speeding up behind Chikara shattered the peaceful morning. With the violent sound, it seemed as if the driver intended to run him down. Startled, Chikara veered off the road, braking hard and diving into the roadside bushes to avoid being hit. The black SUV skidded to a stop where his bicycle had been moments earlier, dust swirling around it. Before Chikara could regain his footing, the three men leapt out of the vehicle and charged toward him.

Chikara lay motionless, his heart beating in his chest, unable to process fast enough before they were upon him. In a flash, their machine guns were trained on him. He froze in terror and shut his eyes, trembling as he waited for a hail of bullets.

No gunshots came. Instead, he felt the sting of a hand slapping him across the face, snapping his eyes open. One of the men, his face hidden behind dark goggles, stood over him. “Get up!” he shouted with a voice laced with contempt. “Stand up, you fool!”

Chikara cried out, pain coursing through his body as one of the men yanked him to his feet. “What have I done?” he asked, shuddering. One of the men kicked him hard in the chest, sending him sprawling back to the ground.

“Idiot!” one of the attackers spat, speaking in broken English. “You think you can laugh at His Excellency and make him look like a fool?” The words hit Chikara like another blow.

“I don’t understand. Please!” Chikara tried to plead, struggling to catch his breath. But his words were met with another kick to his leg. The two men flanking the leader began to hit him without mercy, their fists and boots pounding his body. The pain deepened until it became almost unbearable

“Please, stop!” Chikara begged, his voice just more than a whimper. “What did I say?”

“Shut up!” the man leading the attack snarled. “Next time, before you write nonsense about a sitting governor, you will remember today. If you survive.”

Chikara’s mind raced. The article. The interview criticizing the governor’s environmental direction. This must be what they were referring to. He tried to explain, but blood gushed out as another blow struck his mouth.

The man who had been yelling gave a cruel ruthless laugh. “Break one of his knees!” he ordered in a chilly, disinterested attitude. In a flash, one of his men raised his revolver and slammed the butt down hard on Chikara’s knee. A sickening sound erupted from the crack of bone. Chikara screamed in agony, before everything went black.

From a distance, a crowd had gathered, horrified but frozen in place. No one dared intervene, intimidated by the sight of the machine guns wielded by the armed men. Fear hung in the air as they watched the assault, powerless to stop it.

“Let’s go.” The leader sneered in the direction of the watching crowd, then fired his gun into the air, the sharp cracks causing the bystanders to scatter in panic. The three plain-clothed policemen jumped back into their SUV and sped away, leaving Chikara lying motionless by the side of the road.

The men left behind a chaotic scene. Some onlookers rushed to Chikara’s side, their faces pale with shock. Others fled, not wanting to be associated with what had just happened, concerned the aggressors might reappear. Chikara’s still form lay in the dirt, his bike twisted and abandoned nearby.

***

An hour later, seated in his expansive office, the commissioner of police reached for his phone and dialed the governor’s private line. He smiled smugly as the governor picked up.

“Good morning, Your Excellency,” the commissioner said respectfully. “I wanted to inform you that the matter has been handled, as per your instructions.” There was a brief pause on the line. The commissioner waited, knowing the significance of the information he delivered.

The governor’s voice came through, calm but with an undertone of approval. “Is that so?” he asked, although the question bore more rhetorical intent than a desire for confirmation. “Tell me. How did it go?” The governor’s interest in the details of the task was clear, his mood lifting as he anticipated hearing about the outcome.

The commissioner smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Everything went with ease, Your Excellency. They dealt with the young man. We made sure that he learned the consequences of his actions. I don’t believe he will be a problem again. I doubt he will even dare to speak on such matters in the future.”

Governor Nnamdi Ozobia chuckled with amusement and satisfaction. “Good,” he replied. “That is what I wanted to hear.” A brief moment of silence passed before the governor added, “I knew I could count on you to handle this with efficiency.”

Even though the governor could not see it, the commissioner recognized the importance of the governor’s praise with a respectful nod. “Of course, Your Excellency. Anything for the peace of the state, and to ensure that those who think they can undermine your authority understand their place.”

Governor Ozobia let out a louder laugh this time. “Undermine my authority, indeed!” he said with a hint of pride. “These people forget who runs this state. But now, I believe they will be reminded. It’s good to have a powerful man like you on my side.”

The men’s mutual laughter, though brief, carried with it an understanding: they both knew the implications of their actions but spoke as though it were merely a matter of routine business.

“Well then, Honorable Commissioner,” Governor Ozobia said, his voice still light with pleasure, “I will leave it in your capable hands from here. I trust you to ensure that this matter stays quiet.”

Ever the diligent subordinate, the commissioner said with confidence, “Consider that done, Your Excellency. There will be no more talk of this, I assure you.”

With that, the governor gave a final word of thanks, and the two men ended the call.

The commissioner placed the phone back on his desk with a quiet feel of accomplishment. He knew the governor’s approval did not come through without effort, and today he secured it. And for the commissioner of police, it meant more riches to his coffers.

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PROLOGUE

NIGERIA. JUNE, 2004

 The young man strolled into the building, unaware of the trouble ahead. Most Sundays, when he got back from the church service, and had his lunch, he went to visit his best friend since childhood, and spent the rest of the afternoon with him.

He stepped inside the bathtub-size, ramshackle one-room apartment. A thick curtain covered the aperture that formed the only window in the room, preventing him from getting a clear view of the inside. He waited a few seconds before his eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness. Sappy lay on the bed, face down.

“Hey, wake up, I’m here!”

No response. Sappy may be having a nap, the young man thought. He looked around and spotted an old rusted metallic chair in the corner – the only one in the room. He sat down on it. Sappy didn’t want to be disturbed, he believed.

Five minutes later, the body lying on a mattress with almost no foam, fitted over a small old six-spring Vono bed, stirred.

“We’re going to make some cash,” Sappy said. To the other man, his voice had never been so icy.

“You talk about money all the time,” the young man said, irritated. “OK. Yes, we’re broke, but we’ll wait for our time to come.”

“No, it’s tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” the young man repeated, his flickering eyelids revealed his surprise. “How do you mean…tomorrow?” He then sat in horror as he stared down the barrel of the gun trained at him.

“How about this?” the holder of the gun asked him.

The young man said nothing, but remained transfixed by the weapon, his eyes wide open, his jaw sagging, and his heart thumping as the gun remained pointed at his chest. It occurred to him that in any moment a red-hot bullet would fly out and pierce his heart. And he would be dead, murdered by the friend he’d known since childhood.

“Oh, Sappy,” he said in a whisper. “Please, don’t kill me!” He raised both hands up above his head.

Sappy laughed aloud. “Cool it down, Rhino. There are no bullets inside this thing. This,” he tapped on the barrel of the pistol with his left hand, “is a Beretta automatic. It belongs to one politician.”

The young man dropped his hands and clutched his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in, struggling to control the rapid beating of his heart, trying to reduce the effect of the shock he had just experienced. He opened his eyes and looked up at the man who he had thought was his friend. “Sappy, you’re going too far! I thought you wanted to kill me!”

“Why would I want to kill you, Rhino?”

“I don’t know. You have been going through some rapid changes since we came into Lagos. Why?”

“Are you asking me that question?”

Rhino nodded slowly.

“Because it’s what life’s all about in this country, my man: change.” Sappy looked hard at his best friend. “But from good to bad, not from bad to good, as you are pushing.”

Rhino returned the look just as firmly. “What are you doing with a politician’s gun?”

Sappy ignored the question. “Let me teach you how to load and cock a gun, man.” He jumped out of the bed and went to Rhino, now no longer pointing the gun at him. The boxer shorts and the dirty white singlet he wore revealed the well-formed contours of his masculinity in a perfect manner. “I know you’ve not had the opportunity to see and touch a gun before.”

“Don’t teach me anything,” Rhino said, “I want nothing to do with a gun!” But that was already changing as he rested his eyes on Sappy’s hands, while his friend fed bullets into the device.

“Come on now,” Sappy said as he finished loading the pistol. “Me, you, DJ Trouble and the Giraffe, we’re going to rough up a certain man tomorrow. We’re going to teach him some good lessons, say, break one of his kneecaps so he gives up his intention to run for next year’s councillorship elections for this ward. When the job is done, he will bow out of the race. And my friend, the other politician, pays us fifty thousand Naira for our efforts. What do you think about that, man?”

Rhino sat dumbfounded, gazing at Sappy.

“We’re not going to do him with the gun,” Sappy went on, smiling at the now loaded automatic and fondling it. “But in case anything goes wrong, you know what I mean.” His smile widened. “This thing is just personal protection belonging to my friend, the politician. You know him, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” Rhino said, his voice harsh and tense. “And I don’t want to know any politician any more than I want to know about that gun.”

Sappy stopped playing with the loaded gun and stared at his friend. “Why are you sounding very hostile?”

“I can’t make money through harassing politicians for other politicians. It’s very bad, because these people keep using the poverty and ignorance of the masses to commit unbearable atrocities in this rich country.”

“What has our making money got to do with the wealth or poverty of this country?” Sappy stared at him, appearing furious. “Look now, I keep wondering why you have changed from the ever-respected man who was always in command of the English language and very strong with fisticuffs ‒ the Rhinoceros I used to fear back in secondary school days ‒ to a good-hearted, patriotic citizen of Nigeria. This quality will only make you a wretched man.” Sappy paused for a moment and smiled at his friend. “Why don’t you make good use of your brilliance, Rhino? You’re the kind of machinery politicians are seeking.”

Rhino stood up from the chair, but remained silent.

“Let me ask you something,” Sappy said, looking hard into the eyes of a man dwarfing him by almost a foot.

“What is it?”

“How long ago did you leave the east for Lagos in search of a visa?”

“A year and nine months. How does that matter?”

“And you’re twenty-one right now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, like you.”

“And you still want your old parents to sell the only remaining piece of their precious land to sponsor your travelling overseas with the money.”

“Well,” Rhino thought for a moment, “as long as the money doesn’t come to me in a bad way.”

“Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish!” Sappy paused, then continued. “Six months ago, they sold one out of their two tiny pieces of land, your family’s only landed property, and you took the money to Senegal, wanting to hit Europe through the shores of Dakar.” Sappy paused again, as if trying to choose his words correctly. “But what happened? Your liver failed at the sight of the sea, and instead, you ran back here in search of a visa. You wasted a huge sum of their money. Now you’re still depending on help from your miserable old parents.”

Rhino stood speechless, listening.

“You know what, Rhino?”

“What?”

“Your actions are so abnormal that I think something has gone terribly wrong with you.”

“Something wrong with me?”

Sappy ignored him, looked away and continued to ramble to himself, demonstrating with both hands. “I mean, in this prime time of our lives when every young man in Nigeria is cracking his brain, hustling to grab fast cash.” He turned back to Rhino. “Somebody here is thinking beyond his limits.”

Sappy waited for a response. But none came. Only a firm stare. He placed the palm of his left hand on Rhino’s right shoulder, elevated his head and again locked his eyes with Rhino’s.

“Listen guy, nobody thinks good for this country as you think you’re doing. The best thing you would do for yourself and for the sake of your family is to forget about this nasty honesty you are trying to build up. The country is a bad one. It has been bad, and it will continue to be bad. It’s a society of survival of the fittest, so the only way to survive here is to harden your mind.” Sappy pounded his right fist, which held the gun, on his chest. “We have to raise the money with which to travel abroad ourselves.” He took his hand off Rhino’s shoulder.

“We have to do that by terrorizing politicians’ opponents?”

“It’s their time. Ours is coming. We get to Europe and hunt for the cash, wherever it is. When we make the money, we come back here and buy our ways into the political forum. Then we’ll have the chance to join in cutting the national cake ‒ with a big axe.”

“The national cake?” Rhino said, surprised at the new terminology coming from his friend’s mouth.

“Of course, we’ll join in looting the country’s treasury. That’s how it goes. That’s where every politician’s eyes are – from the head,” Sappy touched his head, then bent down to his toe, “to toe, since the country’s independence.”

Rhino was shaking his head.

“Look man, I want Nigeria to remain bad until I’ve got my own share of the national cake,” Sappy emphasized. “I need to enjoy my life, and then save things for my children, and children’s children, before I die.”

“Not even thinking about the welfare of the Nigerian populace?”

“I am out to earn for myself and my family, man. We have seen poverty and lived with it.” Sappy’s annoyance with Rhino’s words registered in his voice. “No politician is concerned with the welfare of the Nigerian populace. The problems of Africa are eternal, so we live with them.”

“Sappy,” Rhino called out in a husky tone, tired of listening. “Stop, please. Anything that has to do with a gun, a politician, just count me out.” He turned and began walking out of his friend’s room, no longer caring whether a bullet would hit him.

“Rhino!” Sappy called out abruptly. “You must keep to yourself what you know; else…you know I own a gun now.”

*

At the end of a long, narrow passage, Rhino emerged from inside the dilapidated building housing the miniature room where Sappy lived. Sappy shared the small room with two other guys he referred to by their nicknames, DJ Trouble and the Giraffe, who had both gone out to do anything in search of livelihood. He, Rhino, lived with a distant relative somewhere in the neighborhood.

Rhino reached the edge of the smelly open sewage system that crossed by the building and stopped. Instead of walking over the wooden platform, he first did what he did each time he wanted to cross a sewage system around there. He stared at the numerous number of the small diameter PVC pipes running on the floors of the open sewage system and shook his head in the knowledge that the water he drank everyday came through those same pipes. He took a closer look at the leakages of the poorly fitted pipes that enabled the sewage water to seep into the drinking water.

How horrible!

This was the source of the hepatitis, typhoid fever and many other sicknesses from which the people of the neighborhood, and numerous other neighborhoods across Lagos, suffered.

Rhino considered thoughtfully. Sappy said he was thinking beyond his limits. Could this be true? But he didn’t see any benefit in not wanting to be morally good as he moved on from the juvenile stage of his life.

Rhino left his standing position, praying to God to grant him the grace finally to be able to get out of this ghetto synonymous with hard life and poverty, and travel to a world where there was an easy life, electricity and good health; a place where he could put in energy, work harder and help his family out of the present poor situation. He walked across the sewage through the wooden platform, into the half-tarred and half-muddy street.

Little children of the slum swarmed from one end of the long street to the other, many naked, some in tattered clothes. Rhino looked up at the sky and knew why. The cloud had come down. It was going to rain soon, and the ghetto children were waiting for the rain to begin so that they could start their street football in the rain, play away their problems and their distress.

That’s what’s experienced in Ajengunle, Rhino thought, an overpopulated, dirty district in the city of Lagos, known to have produced stars – famous Nigerian footballers and musicians. Yet Ajengunle is famous for hoodlums and bandits.

Rhino looked again at the mammoth crowd of children in the street, his expression pained. He knew that just a few of them would turn out to be well-known footballers – the likes of Samson Siasia, Emmanuel Amunike and Taribo West. Some would become famous musicians, like African China, Daddy Shokey and Baba Fryo. A few others, film actors, maybe.

But what really troubled Rhino was that he knew his was a society where the rulers lacked good public service and leadership ideas; where due to their voracity for money, the government cared little about the citizens. The majority of these small children out here in the street would become infamous hoodlums and bandits, machines for political killings for politicians. Just as Sappy his friend had suddenly become.

*

The next day, the news came to Rhino: Sappy and his men had beaten a certain man into an unconscious state. And the man had immediately surrendered and backed out of the councillorship race, for which he had been a better candidate.

Sappy and his men were not satisfied. They had to turn back to their employer and demand more money with a life-threatening seriousness. Their employer, having heard about what had happened to his opponent, then tripled their payment.

Chapter 1

DECEMBER 26, 2008

He lay in a pool of his own blood.

“The money, the money, the money,” the masked gunman sang out slowly. “Where is it?” He was squatted beside the dying man, tapping the muzzle of the pistol he held on his left palm.

The African lay face down, shivering on the floor of his family house, covered with thick blood oozing out from the back of his head. The gunman looked at the opening in the African’s skull as blood gushed out of the hole he had created with the butt of his gun. But he didn’t care. Breathing in the smell of human blood turned him on during an operation of this nature.

The gunman stopped tapping the pistol, lowered it once more and pointed it at the African’s left ear, threatening further. “I must have all that money or you will be dead in the next few minutes!” He was shouting now.

Not yet satisfied, the gunman turned the butt of the gun and struck the African twice on the same bloody spot, widening the wound and creating more gushing of the red body fluid.

The African cried out and violently recoiled on the floor as more waves of pain swept through his body.

The broad-shouldered gunman stood like a looming creature with a vicious temper burning inside. It was better for the man lying on the floor that this gunman was in a mask, because his face represented that of a monster, born out of bottle and knife injuries he sustained over a multitude of fights in public places and during the robbery incidents the gunman had been carrying out since he was fourteen.

The African lay writhing in pain, dying. But a little part of his mind still stirred him back to life. His mind raced in thought: why couldn’t he fight this gunman? Yes, despite the African’s own tallness, the man towered over him. And the man also possessed a more intimidating chiseled physique than the African could have imagined. But the man on the floor knew he possessed some skills that could help him to fight back. Somehow he couldn’t find them and make use of them. Where had his little skills gone?

The African heard his own groaning voice, “Please… please don’t kill me. I…I have given you all the money that I came back home with. Please…please search this whole room. If you discover that I have lied to you, then kill me―”

“Shut up, you stinking fool!” his assailant roared, angrier now because of what the man on the floor just said. “I am working on information.” He bent down and went to the African’s ear, making sure the man on the floor heard the next important statement correctly.

“Listen, you fool, if you ever thought I undertook the long journey to this lifeless village to waste my time with you, then you’re a loser. You hear me? A big loser! I was properly informed that you’re loaded with ten fucking thousand Euros, and that’s what I came here for.”

The gunman stood up, pulled out a packet of Benson and Hedges from his trouser pocket. With ease, he selected a cigarette and lit it with a match.

“Now let me ask you, if you didn’t have money, why did you come back for Christmas, big fool? Why did you?”

Not waiting for any response, as he wasn’t ready for one, the gunman began kicking the African with his legs. This time he kicked and jabbed the man on the floor many times in the rib cage with the strong military boots he wore. The impact broke one of the African’s ribs.

“Did you forget you were going to pay your tax as soon as you landed home? Did you forget that you had certain people to pay homage to?”

“What is two thousand Euros, fool?” the gunman continued to rage. “What were you doing abroad? Washing dishes, I guess.”

The African wriggled in pain at his cracked ribs. A trickle of blood dripped from his mouth. He no longer heard the gunman’s words. He had lost a lot of blood and was beginning to fade away. Yet as he went fainter, he wondered what might have happened to all the people sleeping under the same roof as him this night, including his parents. Had this lone gunman killed everybody and then turned on him? he asked himself as he waited for the moment when a bullet would cut through the back of his head and end his dejected life. Why couldn’t the whole lot of them fight back together and subdue this lone gunman?

And why did he even come back from Spain? Why? He remembered.

His parents!

He was here to see his parents: his bed-ridden father and his aging mother whom he had missed so much, after a long period away from home. He had saved all the money he could to be sure he came home to spend the Christmas with his beloved parents and other family members and extended relatives. But it didn’t happen the way he had wished. Now, instead of being happily asleep, with all the relatives who came out here to welcome him, he lay in his own blood, death knocking at his door. And nobody could save him.

Outside the house, an owl hooted from one of the numerous tall trees surrounding the small village. The African heard the sound distantly. But he understood its significance: Death was around the corner.

      Where on earth are the police? Oh God, this is not happening to me. I am dying. God, I am dying.

He heard the harsh, icy voice again. “I am going to search your boxes now, fool,” the gunman said. “If I take the pains and discover where you hid the money, I will hack your breath away.”

The African didn’t respond. He had no strength. But he never knew though, strength or no strength, the gunman never left any traces after his operations. He was a condemned man.

The gunman crossed over through the African’s head to where his legs rested on the floor, moving towards the wardrobe. But things changed all of a sudden. Somehow, the gunman slipped on the African’s blood and skidded. He stumbled, lost balance and crashed down on the floor.

Abruptly, something in the African energized him and within a split second, he was up. He broke away from the gunman, turned and began running with his last strength. He must be away from the gunman as much as he could before the man recovered from the fall. The African ran, cupping his throbbing opened skull with his left hand to prevent the increasing oozing of blood from his head; holding his broken ribs with the right hand so as to prevent it from disintegrating.

The African drew nearer to the main exit of his family house and forced himself to shout out to the neighbors inside the compound. His mouth formed the words, “Help, please… help me!” But no sound would come.

Still he ran. He knew that even if he shouted and they heard him, nobody would come to his rescue. Everybody was scared of being hit by a bullet. He had some strength to run, he thought. Thank God, at least.

But some force was drawing his legs backwards.

The gunman was back on his feet. The African glanced over his shoulder a trifle, in time to see the man raise the pistol, aiming it at him. But there was nothing he could do other than to keep running. He ran.

He dashed out of the building into a blinding darkness, in confusion. Then he remembered that there had been a power outage, and that the gunman was using a beam of light from his own touch. In the blindness, the African’s drive hauled him to an obstacle, which he felt with his hands and understood quickly. It was the high, aging block fencing guarding their house. He clamped both hands on the fence, struggling with last effort, his body throbbing. He hopped up and was almost on the outside of their house.

The gunman was out too, and closer. He targeted and fired. He didn’t miss his aim. The bullet hit the African at the back of his right shoulder and shattered the scapula into fragments.

His breathing almost halted now, the African scaled over the fencing with the gushing blood and dropped outside the family compound. He gritted his teeth and ran without direction.

He was still running when he felt the vibration of his mobile phone that he always kept under the right side of his pillow before going to bed.

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