LEVERAGE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DIVIDED THRONES

The arrival of the colonial message changed everything.For days, arguments consumed the village.

Every gathering became a debate.

Every debate became a quarrel.

And every quarrel ended with the same question:

Should they accept the white man's offer?

At the ama-obi, the elders assembled once more.

The afternoon sun burned fiercely overhead.

Obi Okwudili sat quietly, listening.

Chief Ezeani was already on his feet.

"We cannot trust them!"

he shouted.

"First they ask for friendship. Tomorrow they ask for land. Next year they ask for our kingdom."

Several elders nodded in agreement.

But Chief Okafor disagreed.

"What kingdom will remain if our people continue starving?"

The square grew silent.

"Our farms are failing."

He pointed toward the road.

"Trade has stopped."

Then toward the women in the market.

"Our children are hungry."

The argument intensified.

Voices rose.

Accusations followed.

The council nearly descended into chaos.

Obi Okwudili finally struck his staff against the earth.

The sound echoed through the square.

Silence returned.

"We are forgetting something important."

The chiefs looked toward him.

"The white man is not our only problem."

A murmur spread.

"The greatest danger comes when brothers become enemies."

His gaze moved slowly across the gathering.

"If we divide ourselves, we shall save the British the trouble of conquering us."

The statement landed heavily.

Nobody spoke.

That evening, George sat beneath the mango tree outside Mama Nneka's compound.

The sky was painted orange and gold.

Nneka arrived carrying a basket of roasted corn.

She sat beside him.

For a while neither spoke.

Then Nneka broke the silence.

"Do all white men think the same way?"

George smiled sadly.

"No."

She handed him a cob of corn.

He accepted it.

"My father believed Britain was helping the world."

George stared at the ground.

"My mother believed every people deserved to govern themselves."

Nneka listened carefully.

"They argued constantly."

He laughed softly.

"But somehow they loved each other."

Nneka smiled.

"Sounds impossible."

George shrugged.

"So does peace."

The two shared a quiet laugh.

Across the village, however, another conversation was taking place.

A dangerous one.

Inside a hidden compound near the river, several chiefs met secretly.

Oil lamps flickered against the walls.

Their voices remained low.

Chief Nworie leaned forward.

"The British are offering weapons."

Silence followed.

Chief Udemba looked shocked.

"Weapons?"

Nworie nodded.

"And protection."

Another chief frowned.

"In exchange for what?"

The answer came quickly.

"Loyalty."

Nobody liked the sound of that.

Yet nobody left.

Because loyalty bought survival.

At least in the short term.

The meeting continued late into the night.

Unknown to them, a young hunter had been hiding nearby.

Listening.

Watching.

Memorizing every word.

By dawn, the information reached Emeka.

He listened carefully.

His expression darkened.

"They are preparing collaborators."

The hunter nodded.

Emeka clenched his fists.

"If the chiefs begin choosing sides, this village will break apart."

The hunter looked worried.

"What do we do?"

Emeka stared into the distance.

"We expose them."

Meanwhile, George received unexpected visitors.

Two colonial officers arrived quietly at the edge of the village.

Both wore khaki uniforms.

Both carried revolvers.

George immediately recognized one of them.

Captain Harrington.

His blood ran cold.

"George Wellington."

The officer smiled.

"It has been a long time."

George's face hardened.

"What do you want?"

Captain Harrington stepped closer.

"The administration wants you back."

George laughed bitterly.

"To do what?"

The captain's smile disappeared.

"Finish what you started."

A dangerous silence followed.

George shook his head.

"No."

The captain looked surprised.

"No?"

George stood firm.

"No."

The officer's eyes narrowed.

"You would betray your country?"

George answered calmly.

"No."

A pause.

"I refuse to betray my conscience again."

The two officers exchanged looks.

Captain Harrington stepped forward.

"You have until the end of the week."

George remained silent.

"After that," Harrington continued, "you will be considered an enemy of the Crown."

The officers mounted their horses and departed.

George watched them disappear into the distance.

His heart pounded.

For the first time, there was no going back.

That evening, he told Emeka everything.

The threats.

The ultimatum.

The colonial plans.

The weapons.

The chiefs being recruited.

When he finished, silence filled the compound.

Mama Nneka finally spoke.

"They will not stop."

George nodded.

"No."

Emeka looked toward the darkness beyond the village.

Then toward George.

"We may have less time than we thought."

Far away, at the colonial district headquarters, Captain Harrington sat in his office writing a report.

When he finished, he stamped the document.

Across the top were the words:

SUBJECT: EASTERN RESISTANCE ACTIVITY

Outside his window, soldiers drilled in formation.

Weapons gleamed beneath the morning sun

And slowly—

the shadow of a larger conflict began moving toward the village.

Unity sounded simple.

Achieving it was another matter entirely.

Chief Obiri finally spoke.

"The villages are divided."

"Then we must unite them."

Chief Ezeani laughed bitterly.

"You make it sound easy."

Obi Okwudili nodded.

"It is not easy."

A pause.

"But it is necessary."

The discussion continued for hours.

Messengers would be sent.

Meetings would be organized.

Neighboring communities would be approached.

If conflict came, they needed allies.

Not isolation.

As evening approached, the council ended.

But one question remained unanswered.

Who among them could be trusted?

Because if colonial agents had already begun recruiting local chiefs, information could leak at any moment.

And that danger frightened Obi Okwudili more than armed soldiers.

A divided people were easier to conquer.

History had proven that many times.

That same evening, George sat alone beneath the mango tree.

The notebook rested on his lap.

His thoughts drifted to his parents.

He remembered their laughter.

Their arguments.

Their stubborn belief that justice mattered.

For years he had ignored their lessons.

For years he had chosen convenience over conviction.

Now he finally understood what they had tried to teach him.

The realization brought little comfort.

Because understanding arrived too late for them.

Footsteps approached.

George looked up.

It was Iheanacho.

She was stronger now.

Still recovering.

But walking without assistance.

"You sit here every evening."

George smiled.

"I suppose I do."

She sat nearby.

For a moment neither spoke.

Then Iheanacho asked quietly,

"Are you afraid?"

George looked surprised.

"Of what?"

She shrugged.

"Everything."

George laughed softly.

Then the laughter faded.

"Yes."

He answered honestly.

"I am."

Iheanacho nodded.

Outside Captain Harrington's office, the sound of boots striking the ground echoed through the colonial barracks.

Rows of soldiers drilled beneath the scorching afternoon sun. Orders were barked in sharp English accents. Rifles glistened. Horses stamped their hooves impatiently.

Captain Harrington stood by the window for several moments after sealing his report.

His eyes remained fixed on the training ground.

The report would reach higher authorities within days.

Once approved, the operation would begin.

He did not enjoy what was coming.

But he believed it was necessary.

Order had to be maintained.

At least that was what he had been taught.

At least that was what every colonial officer repeated to justify their actions.

Yet George Wellington's refusal lingered in his mind.

The young man had changed.

And that worried him more than the growing resistance.

A man who doubted himself could still be controlled.

A man who found conviction was far more dangerous.

Harrington sighed heavily.

"Prepare a patrol," he ordered an aide.

The young officer saluted.

"Yes, sir."

The wheels had begun turning.

And once colonial machinery began moving, it rarely stopped.

Back in the village, the atmosphere had changed.

Fear now lingered beneath every conversation.

The news George brought spread quietly among trusted families.

Nobody spoke openly.

Nobody wanted spies listening.

Yet everyone knew something was approaching.

Even the market women discussed it in whispers.

Even children sensed the tension.

At Mama Nneka's compound, preparations were already underway.

Emeka sat beneath the mango tree sharpening a machete.

Not because he expected battle.

But because keeping his hands busy prevented his thoughts from consuming him.

Nearby, Nneka sorted cassava into baskets.

Mama Nneka stirred soup over an open fire.

The familiar routines brought comfort.

Yet none of them could ignore reality.

The war outside their village was moving closer.

And now colonial interests were moving in as well.

Two storms were approaching at once.

George emerged from the house carrying a small notebook.

He had spent most of the morning writing.

Recording names.

Places.

Events.

Memories.

Everything he knew about the colonial network operating in the region.

Emeka looked up.

"You have been writing all day."

George nodded.

"If something happens to me, people should know the truth."

Mama Nneka paused.

"You speak as though death is waiting outside the gate."

George smiled weakly.

"Perhaps it is."

Silence followed.

Nobody laughed.

Because nobody believed he was joking.

Later that afternoon, Obi Okwudili summoned another council meeting.

This time attendance was smaller.

Only trusted elders were invited.

The meeting took place inside the Obi itself.

The thick mud walls helped keep conversations private.

Oil lamps flickered despite the daylight.

The atmosphere was tense.

Chief Obiri sat quietly near the entrance.

His face carried the exhaustion of recent months.

Across from him sat Chief Ezeani and several respected elders.

Obi Okwudili waited until everyone settled.

Then he spoke.

"We have little time."

The elders nodded.

"The colonial administration is preparing something."

Murmurs followed.

Chief Ezeani folded his arms.

"We expected this."

"Perhaps."

Obi Okwudili replied.

"But expectation does not make us prepared."

Another elder leaned forward.

"What do you suggest?"

The old ruler looked around the room.

"We need unity."

Several chiefs exchanged skeptical looks.

Unity sounded simple.

Achieving it was another matter entirely

"So am I."

The admission seemed to ease something between them.

"When my father sent me away," she continued, "I thought he no longer loved me."

George listened carefully.

"But now I think he was trying to save me."

George nodded.

"Sometimes people make terrible choices while trying to protect those they love."

The statement carried more meaning than either acknowledged aloud.

Night gradually covered the village.

One by one, lanterns appeared.

The sounds of conversation drifted through the darkness.

For a brief moment, life felt normal again.

Then the dogs began barking.

Immediately, several villagers looked toward the road.

The barking grew louder.

More aggressive.

Emeka stood.

George followed.

A young messenger appeared moments later.

Breathing heavily.

Covered in dust.

He nearly collapsed upon reaching the compound.

"What happened?"

Emeka asked.

The messenger struggled to catch his breath.

"Soldiers."

Silence.

"What soldiers?"

"Colonial soldiers."