Into the lion's Den
1096 Words
Chapter 7: Into the Lion’s Den
Three days passed in Ubia community like a dream. The air was still thick with the scent of burnt torches and the rhythm of victory chants. The Iroko now glowed faintly each night, a symbol of resilience. But Ada’s heart remained restless. She knew the battle had only begun.
King Esan had not forgotten. His pride would not let him. And Ada, guided by visions and voices older than her lineage, knew that unless the root of corruption within the palace was exposed, peace would be fleeting.
“I must go to the palace,” she told Baba Ogun again.
He shook his head. “It is dangerous. Even now, Dogo sharpens his blade. You embarrassed the king’s army. He will not forgive that lightly.”
“I’m not going to challenge the king,” Ada replied. “I’m going to awaken him.”
The elders gathered in a circle beneath the Iroko. Ada stood in the center, holding the pendant that once belonged to her grandmother.
“I need your blessing,” she said.
Old Mala raised an eyebrow. “You carry the voice of the spirits, child. You already carry our blessing.”
With that, Ada set out.
Her journey to the capital was long. She walked through savannas under a sun that burned like truth. She crossed rivers whose waters whispered tales of old. At night, she slept beneath acacia trees, listening to the dreams of the land.
On the fifth day, the walls of the royal city loomed before her—high, white, and intimidating. Guards patrolled the gates with spears and suspicion.
“I seek audience with King Esan,” Ada said boldly.
The guards laughed. “You and half the kingdom.”
But when she held up her pendant, the wind suddenly changed. One of the guard’s spears snapped clean in two without being touched.
Another stumbled back, clutching his chest. “She is the witch-child! The one from Ubia!”
Word traveled fast. Within an hour, Ada was brought into the palace—not in chains, but with cautious reverence. She walked through golden halls decorated with carvings of conquests and gods, past fountains that sang of vanity.
In the throne room, King Esan waited.
He was regal in appearance—tall, broad-shouldered, with robes of red silk embroidered with lion heads. But his eyes were tired, clouded by something deeper than pride.
“So,” he said, his voice echoing through marble pillars, “the girl who talks to trees walks into my court.”
“I walk for truth, not glory,” Ada replied.
The courtiers murmured. Some laughed. Others watched her with wary curiosity.
Esan stood. “You defied my decree. You bewitched my soldiers. Why should I not have you executed for treason?”
“Because your land is dying,” Ada said. “And your throne will soon crumble if you do not listen.”
A tense silence followed.
Esan descended from the dais and approached her, standing eye to eye.
“You are brave. Or foolish.”
“Perhaps both,” she said.
He studied her, then gestured. “Speak.”
Ada took a breath. She placed the pendant on the floor before her and began to tell the story—not just of Okwe the guardian, but of the Ubia, of the storm, of the fire that almost came, and of the voice of the land that had cried out through her.
As she spoke, the room darkened. The pendant glowed. Images shimmered in the air—memories of the spirit realm, of Dogo’s attack, of the glowing roots protecting the village. The courtiers gasped.
Esan’s face tightened. “Trickery.”
“No,” she said. “Memory.”
He turned from her, gripping the back of his throne.
“Do you know why I began this expansion?” he asked, his voice low. “Not for greed. But because of prophecy.”
Ada tilted her head. “What prophecy?”
“A dying seer once told me that the palace would fall unless I rooted it deeper into the land. I thought he meant walls and foundations. So I ordered the expansion.”
“You misunderstood,” Ada said gently. “The roots are not stone—they are spirit. You were meant to root your leadership in truth, not territory.”
He looked over his shoulder. “And how do I do that now?”
“Return to the people. Hear their voices. Restore what you’ve broken.”
For a moment, silence hung heavy.
Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged—Commander Dogo.
“My king,” he said. “This girl poisons your court with tales and light shows. Let me end this now.”
But before Esan could answer, the pendant flared. A force knocked Dogo backward. He hit the floor with a grunt.
From the pendant rose a mist. A figure emerged—it was Nana Ife, Ada’s grandmother, or at least a spirit that bore her form.
“You betrayed your ancestors,” she said, pointing at Dogo. “You stole offerings meant for the spirits, sold sacred lands to foreign merchants, and blamed it on the king’s decree.”
Gasps filled the hall. Esan turned sharply. “Is this true?”
Dogo snarled. “Lies!”
But then, more mist rose. The spirits of past courtiers and guardians appeared, revealing hidden truths—Dogo’s deals, his sabotage of the king’s vision, his hunger for power.
Esan stepped back, his face pale.
“I trusted you,” he whispered.
Dogo tried to flee, but the palace guards seized him. The throne room erupted in chaos, but Ada remained still.
The spirit of Nana Ife turned to Esan. “Now you know the rot. What will you plant in its place?”
The king fell to his knees.
“I was blind,” he whispered. “Guide me.”
Ada approached and helped him to his feet. “Come to Ubia. Speak to the Iroko. Let the land forgive you.”
Esan nodded.
And so, for the first time in generations, a king made pilgrimage not to conquer, but to confess.
The journey back to Ubia was quiet. Ada walked beside the king. The people in the villages along the way stared in awe as the ruler of the realm walked beside a barefoot girl.
And in the heart of the forest, the Iroko waited.
For kings and children.
For wrongs and healing.
For roots to run deep once more.
- Writer
