In Amaedukwu, it is said that every great journey ends where it began—not in body, but in spirit.
And so, after months of triumph, betrayal, silence, and thunder, Odogwu found himself boarding a small aircraft bound for Onuiyi, a land nestled between the fabled hills of Okenwe and the whispering waters of the River Edemili. He was not returning to visit—but to plant.
In his breast pocket, beneath his kaftan, was the carved palm kernel his father had given him twenty-five years ago. The seed that had not touched soil… until now.
But this was no ordinary soil.
The Edemili Hills were sacred. Said to be the dwelling place of the Anyanwu Oracle, a spirit that watched over those whose destinies were burned but not broken. Only few ever returned to Onuiyi. Fewer still walked out with their minds intact. And yet, Odogwu felt drawn—as if a voice from the river itself had whispered his name.
"The seed must return.
The circle must close."
He arrived at dusk.
The villagers gathered quietly as he passed. No drums. No dance. Just bowed heads and murmurings of an old name he hadn't heard in decades:
"Nwa Orie... the boy who left with the wind."
The elders of Onuiyi received him with solemn chants. They took him to the Shrine of the Three Stones, an ancient structure where light bent differently and the earth hummed under bare feet.
A priestess, her eyes pale and clouded, greeted him.
"You carry the fire and the wound.
The gift and the price.
Speak, child of soil and sky.
Why do you return?"
Odogwu stepped forward and knelt, placing the carved kernel on the sacred stone.
"I came to plant what was given,
To return what was borrowed,
And to become what I was destined to be."
The wind howled suddenly—without trees, without warning.
From the center of the shrine, the stone cracked open—not wide, but enough for a silver mist to rise.
The air thickened. The past stirred.
And then, a vision.
He saw his younger self, barefoot in Amaedukwu, chasing dragonflies.
He saw his dismissal letter at Omeuzu.
He saw the silent faces of children in forgotten schools, the tired eyes of mothers in clinics built from policy dust.
And then he saw Oru Africa—not as an institution, but as a living being:
It had wings made of woven wisdom. Eyes like blazing suns. Feet that stood on injustice like mountains on mist.
And behind it… the shadows of those who had tried to destroy him—shrinking, fading, swallowed by the flame.
Then he heard the voice again.
"To be truly reborn,
The abandoned must bless the wound that made him."
When he opened his eyes, the priestess was gone.
Only the stone remained—now glowing faintly, the carved seed no longer wood but crystal. Transformed.
He picked it up.
Suddenly, knowledge flooded him—not taught, but inherited. The Map of Forgotten Roads, the Tongue of the First Builders, and the Law of Balance—ancient teachings reserved for one in every generation.
Odogwu stood slowly.
The fantasy had become reality.
He had been chosen—not by boards, brands, or ballot—but by the ancestral force that guided the rise of the True Custodians.
That night, in a hut made of reed and clay, Odogwu dreamed.
He stood atop the Edemili River, walking on water. The moon bent low and whispered,
"Now, you must walk between worlds.
A foot in the boardroom,
A foot in the shrine.
And your words… will carry the weight of prophecy."
By morning, he left Onuiyi.
He said no word. Took no pictures. Shared no visions.
But his eyes had changed.
They no longer looked to win. They looked to awaken.
As he boarded the plane back to Lagos, a child beside him turned and asked:
"Uncle, are you a king?"
He smiled.
"No. I am just a seed... that refused to die."