Before Elegosi rose, before the ink of civilization dried, before even Amaedukwu birthed its first drumbeat, there was a mask—a face carved not from wood, but from truth.
It was called Okara-Ihe, the Mask That Could Not Lie.
No one wore it without consequence.
It exposed the soul.
And until now, it had been hidden for centuries.
Odogwu received it not from a priest or prophet, but from an errant courier who mistook Oru's office for a ceramic gallery.
The package came wrapped in dried banana leaves, sealed with wax, and smelled of camphor and sweat. No return address.
Inside, the mask blinked.
Yes—blinked.
Ngozi screamed.
But Zuru leaned in. "It's waiting."
A note lay beside it:
"Only the one with nothing to hide may wear me. Only the one who seeks not power, but purification."
Odogwu knew it was not a gift. It was a summons.
They consulted Professor Madu.
Her face turned grave.
"This is not a mask. It is a mirror with memory. Once worn, it shows you—and the world—not who you think you are, but who you are when the drums stop."
Zuru asked, "Can it kill?"
She replied, "No. But it can unmake."
Still, Odogwu announced a ceremony.
It would be public.
He would wear the mask.
"Truth must not hide behind language," he said. "Let me be read."
Aisha begged him to reconsider.
But he had made peace with whatever lay behind his own curtains.
"I will walk through the mirror," he said, "so that no one else has to alone."
The Grove filled.
Elders came from distant villages.
Children painted their faces with ancestral sigils.
The mask sat on a stone.
Odogwu stepped forward.
The wind stopped.
The birds ceased.
He wore it.
And the sky tore open.
First came light—not blinding, but unveiling.
Odogwu saw himself as a boy, stealing kola from Orie's barn.
Then as a youth, shoving a friend during an argument and never apologizing.
Then as a rising star at Omeuzu, laughing at a janitor's accent.
Then as a leader, silently relishing the fall of a rival.
Every crack, every shadow, every unspoken vanity bloomed before the crowd.
They saw.
And murmured.
But then—the unexpected twist.
The mask turned.
It showed the crowd themselves.
Their cruelty.
Their silence when they should have spoken.
Their smiles at injustice, their shortcuts, their betrayals.
One man ran. A woman fainted.
The mask did not discriminate.
It unveiled everyone.
Zuru stepped forward. "Enough!"
But the mask spoke:
"You cannot pluck fruit from a poisoned tree and call it sweet. You are all branches of this root."
Silence.
Odogwu removed it.
Tears ran freely.
He bowed low.
Then said:
"Now we begin. Not as perfect people, but as honest ones."
The crowd stood still.
Then one by one, they dropped to their knees.
Not in shame.
In relief.
Truth, it turned out, was heavy—but it could also be shared.
The mask was placed in the center of the Grove.
Not as an artifact.
But as a test.
Once a year, any citizen could choose to wear it.
Not all emerged the same.
Some left and became monks.
Others became healers.
One child wore it and then began to speak in riddles that solved court cases.
And Elegosi changed again.
Now, no one ran for public office without wearing the mask.
No marriage was officiated without both partners facing it.
No festival began until a child volunteered to wear it.
Odogwu sat alone weeks later, watching the mask in moonlight.
Zuru joined him.
"You did not break," he said.
Odogwu smiled. "We all cracked. But now, the light can enter."
And far off, in the quiet of the Grove, the mask blinked again.
Waiting.
Always waiting.