Chapter 3: The Shadow of Garba the Conqueror

As he dey think this one, Musa Garuba just freeze, him eyes dey shake.

A cold wind seemed to blow through the chamber. Musa’s hands trembled, the gravity of forgotten danger pulling at his spirit.

Since he cross over, na only the Nupe wahala full him mind, he forget something else.

He sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the memory claw its way back. His mind raced, eyes darting as if searching for a lost calabash in the river.

Second year of Oyo campaign, apart from Oyo-Nupe war, e get another big thing.

He remembered now—this was the year the whole north shifted, like thunderclouds gathering for a storm.

Musa Garuba push Queen Morayo commot, she fall for ground with shout, he rush go study. All the palace boys and maids just dey panic, no know wetin dey do king.

The suddenness of his move sent a shiver through the palace. Voices rose outside, quick steps on the marble floor. Musa barely noticed, his mind burning with urgency.

Musa Garuba just dey turn file upon file, paper dey fly everywhere like harmattan leaf, until he finally see the news wey he dey find.

He tore through old scrolls, the smell of ink and dried palm leaves filling the air. The king’s study became a whirlwind, Musa’s hands moving faster than the palace scribes could follow.

For one corner wey nobody notice, dem write say six or seven months ago, after plenty fight, the far northern grasslands don unite.

He paused, breath short, the words on the page jumping out like thunder in a quiet night. The ink seemed to glow with the power of hidden prophecy.

For sun, Fulani chiefs and kings of all tribes kneel for ground, everywhere dark, only one man stand for light like wolf.

He imagined the scene: powerful men, proud and stubborn, all bowing before a single figure. The sun blazed down, casting long shadows over their humbled forms. The air must have cracked with history.

Drum dey beat, kings and chiefs dey shout, dey give title to the hero wey unite the grasslands.

The image was clear: the drumbeat rising like thunder, the cheers of warriors echoing to the hills. Musa’s blood stirred, recognizing the weight of this moment.

The title: Garba the Conqueror.

His heart stopped for a moment, then hammered against his ribs. Even the name sounded heavy, thick with danger and promise.

So second year of Oyo campaign na first year of Sarki Danjuma.

The timelines twisted together in his mind, the fate of kingdoms balanced on the edge of a blade.

Na the year Garba settle all the tribes, become the great Emir, start to dey look the whole world.

He saw Garba’s face in his mind—a man carved from stone and wind, eyes cold, ambition hotter than the northern sun. The Emir’s rise was like wildfire: fast, hungry, unstoppable.

Musa Garuba breath dey rush, heart dey pound, head dey swell, all the confidence wey he get for Nupe matter just dry up.

He braced his arms on the table, sweat pouring down his face. He remembered how war with Nupe felt like palmwine after a long day—bitter, but not deadly. But Garba’s threat was a different thing entirely.

This na Garba the Conqueror!

The name rang in his ears, a challenge and a warning. "If I fail now, na the end of Oyo as I know am," he thought, teeth clenched.

Five years to fix army, eight years to finish Nupe—if na only that one, e go soft.

He did quick mental calculation, counting warriors on his fingers, hope rekindling for a moment. "Five years, I fit build something."

But this one no be soft mode; na hidden boss dey wait!

He pictured Garba lurking at the edge of the map—silent, deadly, ready to pounce once the dust settled. "Real wahala dey come," Musa whispered.

In eight years, Garba fit destroy Zamfara, Kebbi, even thief Nupe join.

He traced the path with his finger, seeing towns and kingdoms fall one by one, like broken beads scattering from a string. The north would become a single iron fist.

By then, to even match Fulani strength go hard, talk less of fight their horsemen for field.

He imagined the thunder of Fulani cavalry, hooves pounding the earth, banners flying. No Oyo army, no matter how strong, could withstand that charge—unless something changed now.

Wetin person go do now?

Musa gripped the table edge, searching for any path, any opening. His mind raced through every old story, every trick he’d learned on battlefield and council floor.

Musa Garuba just hold table steady. Outside, queen and all the palace people dey wait. Paper cover everywhere, west wind dey blow am up and down.

He took a deep breath, letting the chaos around him fade away. The world outside could wait; now, it was just him and the ancestors, staring each other down.

Time just slow down. Musa Garuba no hear anybody voice, na only him own heavy breath dey ring for ear.

It was as if the spirits of old kings gathered in the room, silent, watching. Musa’s heart beat a funeral rhythm, but his eyes hardened—he would not bow, not even to history.

Gbo gboom—him heart dey beat like talking drum, but him eye just dey strong. All the suffer wey he don pass, from street boy to king, na so the fire just dey burn for him eye.

He remembered the orphaned boy sleeping on bare ground, the laughter of bullies, the first time he tasted real hunger. Every hardship was a lesson, every scar a badge of survival.

Blood and wahala, dead body everywhere—Musa Garuba always dey play life for hard mode.

He smiled, a little mad, remembering how he once said, "Life no dey give soup without pepper." This was just another test, another mountain to climb.

Suddenly, laughter just burst from Musa Garuba mouth, loud reach sky. That laugh scatter the soft life for Oyo, shock all the coward chiefs for council, leave only strong spirit full everywhere.

The laugh echoed through the halls, rattling windows, making palace cats run for cover. The guards looked at each other—this king no dey fear, even thunder dey respect am.

Garba the Conqueror na true warrior for this world; to get this kind opponent, real man fit die without regret.

He lifted his chin, pride washing away fear. "To face lion, you must be lion," he thought, and felt the old hunger for battle return.

All the heavy breath, vein wey dey swell, no be fear—na ginger dey rush am. Him eye dey shine, mouth dey raise, whole body just dey vibrate with excitement.

His skin tingled, the taste of danger sweet in his mouth. "Let them come," he whispered, smiling at the spirits. "Let them see what true Oyo fire be."

Come, Garba! If anybody for this world fit stop your great Emirate from chop everywhere, or even take your place and unite all the nations…

Who else if no be me?

He drew his wrapper tighter, fists clenched in resolve. "I go show dem," he swore. "Oyo never die while Musa still dey breathe."

Musa Garuba slap table, look up, shout outside: "Go tell everybody: in fifteen days, I go summon all chiefs to talk war and peace."

His voice rang down the corridors, palace servants jolting into motion. Even the lazy cats and old guards straightened up. The word would travel like wild fire.

Still dey talk peace? Abeg, go talk am to your mama! To face Garba the Conqueror, no time for slow step.

He muttered, "Person wey dey fear masquerade no go fit dance for festival." He spat on the floor, the taste of challenge burning his tongue.

Musa Garuba look west wind: "This Northern Campaign, I must win."

He squared his shoulders, looking out at the gathering clouds, knowing the road ahead would be rough—but his spirit burned brighter than ever. The west wind carried his vow to the ancestors, and the land itself seemed to listen.