The Oba's Shadow

The palace of Benin did not have walls. It had bodies.

Osaze had to push through three layers of guards, chiefs, and priests to even see the courtyard. The air was thick with camwood powder and sweat. The great wooden pillars, carved with Portuguese faces and leopards, looked down on him like they were judging him.

Oba Ovonramwen sat on the dais. He did not look like a man about to lose a kingdom. He looked tired.

"The white man says I am a slave owner," the Oba said. His voice was not loud, but everyone went silent to hear it. "He says he comes to free my people. But who asked him? My people are here. They are not in his country."

A murmur ran through the chiefs. Osaze knelt at the back with the other scribes and bronze-casters, his satchel of paper hidden under his agbada.

"The British want our palm oil, our rubber, our bronzes," the Oba continued. "They want the road open so they can take it. I closed it because the ancestors told me to. If we open it now, we will never close it again."

General Ologbosere stepped forward. He was a big man, with scars on his chest like roads. "Then let them come. We killed their men at Ugbine. We will kill them again."

That was the mistake. Everyone in the courtyard knew it. The seven British officers killed at Ugbine village a few weeks ago — that was the excuse the British needed. They didn't come to negotiate anymore. They came for punishment.

The Oba looked at Osaze. For a second, their eyes met.

"You," the Oba pointed. "Igun boy. You write on white paper, yes?"

Osaze's heart stopped. Someone had told.

"Come here."

He walked forward on shaking legs, past the chiefs who stared at him with disgust. A boy who writes instead of casts was a strange boy.

"They say you write our stories like the white men do," the Oba said.

"I... I try to keep it safe, my king. Bronze can be stolen. Paper can be hidden."

The Oba was quiet for a long time. Then he leaned forward.

"My grandfather's grandfather's story is in bronze. But bronze is heavy. A man cannot run with a bronze head. Can you run with your paper?"

"Yes, my king."

"Good." The Oba clapped his hands. A palace servant brought a small wooden box. Inside was not gold, but a single, old bronze pendant, in the shape of a fish — the symbol of protection.

"Then you will run," the Oba said loud enough for all to hear. "If the city falls, you will not fight. You will take what you have written and you will take the stories of the Igun, and you will go to the river. You will live. So that one day, someone will know we were here before the ash."

General Ologbosere scoffed. "My king, we should fight, not -"

"We will fight," the Oba cut him off. "He will remember. Both are needed."

Outside, the war drums started again. But this time they were not from the palace. They were answering drums, from the villages in the forest. And they were beating fast.

The British were closer than anyone thought.