Chapter 1: Thunder Over Palm Grove

When the boom of foreign war cannons—this time from Japanese ships—rumbled over the Atlantic coast and the fortress of Bakassi was shaking like a basket of eggs about to fall, Queen Mother Adesuwa still dey for Palm Grove Estate, busy arranging her own sixtieth birthday party. The heavy scent of ripe mango and fried akara mixing with the sweat of her servants.

In the thick evening heat, as thunder cracked like a masquerade drum, Adesuwa’s laughter floated over trays of fried plantain, her servants fanning her gently. Her gold-trimmed lace wrapper caught the lantern light, and she eyed the row of party planners with the gaze of a lioness. No war fit spoil my shine, she thought, not today. To her, the war outside was just distant noise—no fit spoil her party mood. The mango trees in the estate swayed and dropped fruit, but she barely noticed, already dreaming of the mountain of gifts her guests would bring.

Obinna Ifedike, who don transmigrate come the dying days of the Garba Kingdom, just dey grind him teeth for corner, ready to scatter Garba and bring back the old Umuola dynasty.

Somewhere in the shadow of a broken verandah, Obinna’s hands clenched and unclenched. His eyes, sharp like blade, see through palace wahala like clear water in calabash. Old bitterness sat on his tongue, like bitterleaf that no matter how you wash am, e still dey bite. He watched the sky; the clouds gathered as if to mourn, and the palm trees creaked as if whispering secrets only the ancestors could hear.

But nobody fit predict say Ibrahim go suddenly run that Council of Elders Coup, or say, not too long after, he go scatter the Royal Guards system.

Whispers passed from compound to compound, palm wine sellers and groundnut hawkers all gasping, ‘Ehn! Who fit believe say king pikin go turn table like that? Na wahala wey pass pepper soup!’ Even the old men playing draughts by the roadside paused, pebbles suspended mid-air, as the news swept through the kingdom faster than dry season harmattan.

The guy come claim say him na from the Eze Nri bloodline, change him surname to Nri, cut off him royal braid, start dey train new soldiers, embrace Western book, and even rename the country to Nri Kingdom.

All the palace elders’ jaws dropped like cracked kolanut. One chief even choke on him palm wine, cough scatter everywhere. ‘See wahala!’ Some grumbled, while market women in faded Ankara hissed, ‘Which kain king wey go cut im own braid and dey do oyibo style?’ Obinna, deep in the shadows, watched the transformation with the cold amusement of someone who knew this stage before the curtain rose.

Obinna Ifedike:

To overthrow Garba and restore Umuola—no be my own work be that?

He whispered it in the old tongue, voice barely above the coo of mourning doves perched on the zinc roof. ‘Na my destiny, be dat? Me wey the earth never forget, me wey ancestors dey whisper for my dream—dem go soon see.’

Okay na, since na so you wan do am. If I no fit overthrow Garba and bring back Umuola, then nobody go be king.

He spat quietly onto the red earth floor, chest swelling with the stubborn pride of his fathers. His lips twisted in a smile that tasted of bitterleaf and unfinished stories. ‘Na me or nobody. Thunder fire any pretender.’

But outside, thunder still dey rumble, as if the ancestors themselves dey warn: party today, wahala tomorrow.