Chapter 3: The Festival of Lies

As I enter the town, I just know say something no pure. The first thing I notice na the smell. No incense, no fresh kola nut wey dem dey burn for mourning. Instead, market dey full, people dey hawk akara, young boys dey play ayo for roadside. I wait for sound of crying, but na only small noise I dey hear. For olden days, if big man die, whole town go turn upside down. Here, everything just dey normal.

On the way, as we dey pass villages, everybody dey cry for the Chief Adviser. Na so history talk am—when the Great Elder die, the whole land cry. As we dey pass, for village edge, women cover head with black scarf, dey pour sand for hair, dey wail loud. Old men sit for ground, dey tap chest with palm. Even hunters tie red cloth for arm, show say dem dey in sorrow. For main road, I see small girl kneel, dey sing old song for Chief Adviser. My eyes near tear, but I swallow am. Grief dey everywhere, but e no reach Umuola heart. As elders dey talk, "When big tree fall, forest suppose cry."

But for Umuola, wey suppose dey full of mourning, everywhere just dey as e be. People dey play draughts, women dey fry plantain, children dey dance small time for square. Some people dey argue about price of goat for market. For palace street, person dey repair bicycle. The difference shock me, as if this place dey live another life.

People still dey do their normal life; only small small compounds lock their door say dem dey mourn. I spy some houses wey dey lock, big black cloth for gate, palm fronds tie for doorpost—dem dey follow old way. I salute those ones for my mind. But majority just dey do anyhow. No drum for mourning, no community gathering, no night vigil. I feel say even the ancestors for shrine go vex.

And the nearer we dey reach palace, the less sign of mourning I dey see. Palace road clean, servants dey sweep like say dem dey prepare for festival. No single ash or tear for anybody face. I dey check every corner—e be like say this side of Umuola dey float for air, away from sorrow.

When Uncle Baba carry me enter palace, wetin I see shock and vex me well. Palace gate wide, music loud, smell of pepper soup and palm wine full everywhere. Drummers dey play, women dey dance, young men dey throw up gun powder for air. Even goats dey tie for backyard, ready for slaughter. I dey expect to see big shrine with candle, but instead na festival.

Inside palace, everywhere dey jolly, people dey celebrate. Chiefs wear new wrapper, gold chain for neck. Women dey laugh, dey spray money for dancers. Children run up and down, dey chase each other. Big bowls of jollof, roasted fish, and goat meat dey everywhere. My stomach turn. E be like say person die, but people dey do owambe.

I hold my anger, waka go front, wan ask the Later Lord wetin dey happen. But as I reach the hall, na there I understand why the Chief Adviser give me those secret pouches. The way the hall bright, dem burn oil lamp everywhere. I see Later Lord dey sit for lion skin, eyes red from wine. The music dey loud, but as I near, my body cold. I feel say my feet dey carry me enter shrine of lie.

Oluwa Kenechukwu, wey don round like ball, just dey lie down with palace maiden for hand, dey watch nonsense dance, dey chop jollof, dey lead all the chiefs and warriors dey drink anyhow. Him skin dey shine, eyes dey half close. Two palace maidens dey fan am with peacock feather, while others dey bring more meat. All the elders dey sit low, dey nod head like agama lizard, dey laugh fake laugh. The music and laughter dey make my head ache. My blood boil, but I still dey hold myself.

I no fit bear the sight, but I force myself talk well: “Your Majesty, abeg wetin we dey celebrate for palace today?” I try speak like person wey respect tradition. My voice low, I bow small, but my eye dey sharp. If to say I fit throw curse, I for do am, but for now, na only wisdom fit save me.

Oluwa Kenechukwu burst laugh, point me. “Chief, you no know say Chief Adviser don die?”

E laugh loud, spit small pepper soup for ground. Even some of the young chiefs laugh join, like say na joke. The women for back cover mouth, dey giggle. I dey vex, but I still dey hold my mouth. For inside me, spirit dey war with body.

I nod, wan talk say as Great Elder don go, everywhere suppose dey mourn. But the Later Lord just continue:

He wave hand, make musicians stop small. "Na so? The biggest traitor for Umuola don die—how I no go happy?"

“The biggest traitor for Umuola don die—how I no go happy?”

His voice loud, pride full for am. Other chiefs dey clap hand, dey shout "Yes o!" Like say person wey dey help dem don finally commot.

I just freeze, and the next thing wey he talk make cold sweat begin run my body. My hand cold, my feet dey shake. The noise for room just vanish, my ears dey ring. Na only the voice of the Later Lord dey enter my skull, like iron bell wey dem knock for shrine.

He open him half-close eye, look me with serious face:

The way e look me, na like person wey dey talk to spirit, not human. I see small line for him forehead, and e eye no blink.

“And you, na that old fox disciple.”

E say am like curse, the kind way elders dey talk when dem wan pour anointing oil for ground. Some elders nod, some just dey look me up and down. I feel sweat drip for my back.

“Tell me, Chief—make I finish the work commot the problem from root?”

The way he talk am, e be like say knife dey inside every word. For that moment, even the wine for my hand taste like blood. I fit hear my own heart dey drum, dey beg for help.

All the air for palace freeze. Even my own shadow no fit move.