As the sun dipped low, Ojadili gathered his farming tools and wiped the sweat from his brow. The earth had been generous today. The yam mounds stood firm.
He breathed deeply.
The world felt… quieter.
Not peaceful—no, peace was too fragile a word—but steadier
Yet the quiet did not sit well within him.
It felt arranged… like a room tidied too quickly before a guest arrives.
Once, he paused.
The wind brushed past him—soft, ordinary.
Still, his body remembered something else.
Watching.
. Since the gods, since the thunder, since the spring, his body no longer felt like borrowed flesh. His limbs obeyed him again. His thoughts no longer scattered.
He began the walk home.
The path took him past neighboring settlements, and word of his return had clearly traveled faster than his feet. Women paused their grinding stones. Children ran alongside him, barefoot and laughing. Girls sang songs half-made of praise and half-made of rumor.
He faced the storm and returned.
He stood where nine men would fall.
Ojadili walks, and death steps aside.
Elders nodded at him with solemn gratitude. Some placed their palms over their hearts. Others murmured blessings thick with meaning. Ojadili answered them all the same way—with a slight bow of the head, with humility, with silence.
Praise unsettled him more than insults ever had.
"Hey!"
The voice cracked through his thoughts too sharply.
For a moment—just a moment—his chest tightened.
Not every call was harmless anymore.
The shout came from behind, slurred and loud.
Ojadili stiffened.
For a brief, dangerous moment, his mind raced.
Are the shadows calling me?
His hand twitched near his farming blade as he turned—
—and found himself staring at a walking calabash.
Or rather, a man swaying so badly it seemed the calabash of palm wine he carried had learned to walk and simply borrowed a body.
"I'm Udonkanka, the—"
He tried to stand straight. Failed. Tried again. Failed harder.
Ojadili caught him just before he collapsed face-first into the dust.
The smell hit him immediately. Palm wine. Old gin. Fermentation strong enough to sting the eyes.
"I know the savior is here!" Udonkanka laughed, throwing his arms wide. "The mighty man in battle! The man worth more than nine men! He..."
"I think that's enough," Ojadili interrupted calmly. "I do not eat praises. I'm going home to get supper."
"Sure! Sure!" Udonkanka raised both hands in surrender. The wind nearly claimed him, but the stones stuffed into his pockets dragged him back down. He grinned proudly, as if this were wisdom. "Balance."
He followed Ojadili anyway.
Ojadili ignored him.
Udonkanka did not stop.
After several steps, the drunkard took a deep breath, sobering just enough for sincerity to slip through.
"Ojadili… after you saved me from those captives, something changed." His voice dropped. "I want to be like you. I want to save people. Teach me."
Ojadili slowed.
If it were anyone else, he might have answered gently. But this was Udonkanka—known across villages, praised for jokes, gifted coins, and notorious for turning every blessing into drink before sunset.
The man did not farm. Did not hunt. Did not stay in one place long enough to be missed.
And yet his eyes now held something uncomfortable.
Hope.
"Start with stopping," Ojadili said.
"Start or stop?"
"Stop."
"Does stopping include water?"
Ojadili sighed. "Will you survive without water?"
"Then I'll drink only what helps me survive."
"That excludes palm wine."
Udonkanka winced.
"I will do anything," he said quickly. "Anything."
Ojadili studied him, then nodded once.
"I'm going to the beer parlor. If you can join me and not drink palm wine or gin tonight, I'll train you."
Udonkanka's face fell.
This was worse than a curse.
But after a long pause, he clenched his jaw. "I will do it."
The beer parlor erupted the moment Ojadili stepped inside.
Cheers and laughter burst around him. A wealthy trader slapped a cowrie pouch onto the counter and declared Ojadili's bill paid—for the night, for the week, for however long joy lasted.
Udonkanka was recognized instantly too.
"Entertainer!"
"Story-weaver!"
"Lie to us, Udonkanka!"
Udonkanka climbed onto a low wooden stool, almost crawling and nearly missing it, and steadied himself with a laugh that spilled louder than the palm wine.
Ojadili did not sit immediately.
His eyes stayed on Udonkanka.
The man laughed easily—but his hands trembled when no one watched.
This was not just a test of discipline.
It was a war the man had already lost many times.
"People of strong liver and weak legs," he announced, spreading his arms, "gather close before I fall and become a story myself."
Laughter rippled through the bar.
"You all know I have traveled," he continued, tapping his chest, "not with legs alone, but with destiny chasing me like a debt collector."
" Tell us more !" A man shouted from the back .
"This one," he said, lowering his voice, "is about the night I tried to outdrink a masquerade."
The bar quieted.
"I thought he was just a tall man who refused to blink."
Laughter broke out.
"So we drank. I sang. He did not. I fell—he did not."
He leaned forward slightly.
"That was when I knew… no man stays standing after seven rounds except two things—"
He raised two fingers.
"A god… or trouble."
The bar roared.
"And when I woke up," Udonkanka concluded, "my clothes were on a tree, my money was gone, and the masquerade had left me a gift."
"What gift?" someone yelled.
"A headache so powerful," he said solemnly, "that even today, it greets me before my shadow does."
The bar exploded with cheers and laughter. Cups were raised. Coins clinked.
Ojadili watched silently.
For the first time, he did not see just a drunkard.
He saw timing. Awareness. Control over the crowd.
And something else — something sharp beneath the laughter.
The crowd roared.
Even Ojadili smiled.
Then Ugomma arrived—with Obiageli beside her.
Udonkanka froze.
Their eyes met.
Something unspoken passed between him and Obiageli—something soft, unexpected. He cleared his throat.
"Ahem. Behold," he said grandly, pointing, "beauty so sharp it could sober a drunkard."
Obiageli laughed despite herself.
Ugomma leaned into Ojadili, whispering. "You're smiling."
The laughter stretched longer than it should have.
Something in the air shifted—subtle, wrong.
Ojadili's smile faded first.
Then Before he could answer
someone choked.
A man collapsed.
His body struck the ground violently, limbs jerking, foam spilling from his mouth.
Panic rippled.
Ojadili moved before thought.
He knelt, hands steady, breath controlled. As he pressed his palms down—
Thunder cracked.
Not from the sky.
From him.
A spark leapt. The man gasped. His body went still.
His back arched once, violently, then fell flat. A silence fell over the bar —
No one spoke.
Not out of fear—
but confusion.
What they had seen did not fit into words.
Ojadili slowly withdrew his hands.
His fingers tingled faintly, like echoes of something that had already left.
He did not look at them.
He did not want to know.
Then he inhaled.
Deep. Whole.
A cry broke out. Someone shouted a prayer. Another dropped to their knees.
Ojadili stepped back slowly.
His chest felt tight — not with fear, but with recognition.
The air around his hands still tingled, faintly, like the memory of thunder after rain. He flexed his fingers, once.
Nothing.
Yet… something had passed through him.
Not force. Not command.
More like an answer.
He looked at the man on the floor — now sitting up, confused, alive. Their eyes met for a brief moment.
Just a moment.
The man frowned slightly, as if trying to remember a dream already slipping away.
Ojadili looked away first.
His heart beat once. Hard.
It was not me, he told himself.
But the thought did not fully settle.
Somewhere deep, something shifted — not awakening, not power — just attention, as if the world had briefly noticed him… and moved on.
Ojadili wasn't comfortable in the bar , he moves outside to take some air.
"Let me ease myself , I'll be back" he said to Ugomma and obiagheli.
As he went outside , he saw udonkanka with a calabash used for palmwine in his mouth.
" Finally, you yielded "
"It's water," he said." I just need to deceive my mind that's why I put it in a calabash"
Ojadili sipped.
It tasted like water.
The drunkard smiled.