The youths went on a rampage.
Smashed his barns.
Trampled his fields.
They burned Ojadili's home .
The fire did not burn evenly.
It chose.
The doorway his father built with his own hands collapsed first.
The carved beam above it split down the middle—clean, final—like a judgment passed long before today.
The grinding stone his mother used every morning cracked under heat, a sharp sound that cut through the chants.
Someone laughed.
Not out of joy—
out of fear trying to sound like obedience.
Ojadili stood still.
Not because he accepted it.
But because stopping it would mean breaking more than tradition.
It would mean breaking them.
Everything were reduce to ash and broken earth.
Only the yam farm was spared.
That crop was untouchable.
Between man and gods, it still held weight.
This was not rage.
It was obedience.
A rule older than grief. It was believed that if the punishment was not carried out fully, the stain would return—to the village, to the youths themselves.
Ojadili never even touched his belongings. By the time he reached what was once his home, it had been reduced to ashes.
His mother collapsed into him, her body shaking as she clung to his chest, tears soaking his skin.
She did not speak at first.
Just held him.
As if her arms could argue against what the village had already decided.
Her fingers pressed into his back—hard enough to hurt.
"You came back to me," she whispered finally.
"You came back… and this is what they do?"
Ojadili closed his eyes.
He had no answer that would not break her further.
"Say something," she demanded, pulling back just enough to look at him.
"Tell me this is not the end."
He opened his mouth—
then stopped.
Because for the first time…
He really felt loosing more than that he did at the contest or with the goddess or death .
He felt loneliness about to rip him apart .
They moved him .
He looked at the his mentor and warchief , Ikedi who had helped him and trained him to be what he is .
He nods at him.
Telling him to bear it that everything will still unresolved itself .
Also the nod signals the youth
Chants rose .
The chants were not loud at first.
They built—slowly, deliberately—like something rehearsed long before today.
Each step Ojadili took felt measured against them.
The rhythm did not belong to anger.
It belonged to order.
To law.
To something that did not care if he was innocent.
Children watched from behind their mothers' wrappers.
Some confused.
Some afraid.
One boy raised his hand slightly—
as if to wave.
His mother pulled it down quickly.
"Don't," she whispered.
Not unkindly.
Just… firmly.
As if kindness itself had rules.
A lady spat on the ground as he passed.
Ugomma broke into a run.
She did not think.
Thinking would have slowed her down.
The world narrowed into one thing—
him.
The chants blurred.
The bodies became obstacles.
Obiagheli shouted at her.
" Stop you will hurt yourself"
She ignored it.
Her feet slipped once—
she didn't stop.
If she stopped, even for a moment—
she knew she would lose him.
Their chants drowned the village, their hands firm on his arms and shoulders.
Behind them, the elders followed — not pushing, but watching, staffs in hand, eyes fixed on order.
Her father caught her arm and yanked her back.
She twisted free, desperation lending her strength—but the elders moved quickly, forming another wall.
"Please," she cried. "Just goodbye."
They refused.
"You cannot touch a soiled man."
"Ojadili!" she screamed.
He turned.
His eyes searched the crowd wildly.
Ugomma waved, her arm shaking.
He saw her.
"Please," Ojadili begged, his voice breaking. "Just a second—"
No one listened.
The youths pushed harder.
Ojadili moved back suddenly, forcing his way through the bodies.
Ugomma fought the elders holding her, nails digging, breath ragged.
That's when an idea struck Obiagheli.
She need to do it for her best friend.
Hee ride or die .
Obiagheli moved without thinking about the consequences.
She believes she's cunny enough.
She reached down, scooped a soldier termite from the earth, and pressed it beneath the clothing of one elder.
He shouted.
The scream was raw—
Uncontrolled.
It broke the rhythm of the moment.
For the first time since the procession began—
something went wrong.
He dropped his staff.
His grip broke as he clawed wildly at his skin, cursing, stamping, drawing startled gasps from the crowd.
The second elder tightened his hold — too late.
Ugomma twisted free.
For a heartbeat, the crowd fractured.
She reached Ojadili.
Their fingers brushed —
For a moment—
everything slowed.
The chants faded.
The hands holding them loosened—just enough.
Her fingers reached.
His followed.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Careful.
Like they both understood—
this might be the last time they would ever try.
Then—
it was taken from them.
Hands seized them both.
The world narrowed.
Not to the crowd.
Not to the chants.
Just them.
Ugomma struggled against the hands dragging her back, her fingers stretching forward as if distance itself could be broken by will alone.
"Ojad..."
It fractured in her throat.
Ojadili leaned forward against the force pulling him away, muscles straining, not to escape—
Just to reach.
For a moment—
Still, she shoved a small bundle into his grip.
Clothes and necessities tied tightly in a cloth bag.
"It's okay," Ojadili said quickly, his voice steady despite the tears in his eyes. "It will be alright. I will find my way."
Then they dragged him away.
His feet felt it as he crossed the boundary.
It was not just a feeling.
It was not immediate.
Not at first.
Then—
Something shifted.
The air changed weight.
Not heavier.
Not lighter.
Just… unfamiliar.
The sounds of the village—the murmurs, the footsteps, the life behind him—
faded too quickly.
As if distance had been forced between them.
Not walked.
His next step landed—
and the ground did not answer the same way.
It held him.
But without recognition.
Like soil that accepted his weight—
but not his presence.
Ojadili paused.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to feel it fully.
He no longer belonged to where he stood—
and whatever lay ahead…
had not accepted him either.
Then the wind passed through.
Cold.
Not from weather.
From absence.
And he understood.
This was not just exile.
This was removal.
Everything begins to feel strange to him .
The air carried no familiarity.
Even the wind seemed to pass him by…
as if it no longer recognized his name.
He turned once—
just once—
The village stood where it always had.
But it already felt distant.
Like something he had imagined.
From a distance, the Chief Priest watched, unmoving. A thin smile crept across his face as he whispered to himself.
"The land will surely breathe again."
As Ojadili walk , his mind wanders on where he could spend the night .
He could not go to his uncle's village; the bond between them had rotted long ago, especially after his father's death. No door waited for him.
His feet grew heavy.
Each step pulled at his bones.
He felt something behind him.
Not attacking.
Not retreating.
Just… present.
Sometimes he thought he heard footsteps that did not match his own.
Sometimes he felt breath—
not on his neck…
but inside his thoughts.
Waiting.
When he reached a lonely path, the silence pressed in.
He whispered a prayer—not for safety, just for companionship.
Instead, the shadows gathered closer.
Then—suddenly—they scattered.
Wow… did my chi intervene? he thought.
A tap landed on his shoul
der.
His heart slammed.
"Evil spirits—?" he gasped, spinning—
He saw him stood behind him.
Udonkanka.
Not out of breath.
Not startled.
Just… there.
"Phew" he sighed in relief.
Then Ojadili notice something wrong.
Ojadili stared at him.
He had not heard footsteps.
Had not seen him follow.
And somehow—
Udonkanka had arrived before the silence settled.