Chapter 5: The Living, The Dead, and the Riverland Secret

Mallam Sani see as we dey throw up, but him no send. He just smile, wipe hand with white cloth, face dey shine like say he serve honey.

"Na so e dey be the first time. After you chop am well, you go get used. The more you chop, the more chance you get to survive Baba Ojo Northern Campaign."

Him words cold as snake, men nod, others look away, shame for face. This war don pass ordinary—na abomination.

I shock. Baba Ojo Northern Campaign? But no be just now dem hang am?

I wipe mouth, shake. Nnenna just dey stare, lips dey tremble. Everything we know, scatter.

Horn sound outside—Northern Campaign army dey attack. Soldier burst enter tent, breathless, dust dey swirl, eyes wild. Horn wail again, call to arms—no time for talk.

When dust settle, enemy show: plenty Han soldiers, eyes empty, face blank. On top them, carriage with four wheels.

Night air thick, like harmattan dust. Soldiers march like spirit—no sweat, no life for movement.

Who dey inside? Na Han Elder, Chief of Wisdom, wey I see as dem hang am—Baba Ojo.

Crowd shout. Even bravest among us draw back. Dead don come mock living.

But this Baba Ojo, face white like chalk, rope mark still for neck. He dey fan self, but flywhisk don turn to only stick—hair don disappear.

Old women tear wrapper, wail for mourning. One small pikin ask, 'Mama, why dem do Baba Ojo like goat?' The crowd move like people wey see ogbanje matter. Somebody shout, "Abomination! This one pass ogbanje matter!"

"Wetin be this? No be Ikenna just kill Baba Ojo?"

I whisper, voice thin. Nnenna just dey grip my sleeve tighter.

I look Mallam Sani, but he just look me like say I craze:

"General Ifedike, which kind talk be that? Everybody sabi say Baba Ojo collect throne, kill Ikenna. Now, he no be Han Elder again, na new king of Han."

Air wrong, reality twist. Men dey murmur, stories dey shift. World don turn upside down.

I shock. Na that time I notice, Baba Ojo no wear white robe again—na yellow royal cloth dey him body. That one na cloth for kings, for ancestors. My heart dey pound—if dead fit wear yellow, then anything fit happen.