“Then let them wag, the girl should be grateful. Does she know how many young women would like to be the wife of a king?”
Omotole laughed coldly. “You should at least wait a few days before leaving her like that Odion, it is cruel and believe it or not, I sympathise a little.”
“Silence!” Oba Odion stood abruptly and tightened the dropping cloth around his waist.
“I thought this was what you wanted?” He reminded her.
“Yes but you must at least play the dutiful husband for sometime, let things settle eh?”
“Who is the king of Benin, you or me?”
She moved towards him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You are king, Oba of Benin and strong in your ways and will.”
As she settled her ample frame into his, Oba Odion parsed a single thought and it was this: that he envied simple men, with their simple ways and trivial problems. Yet again that night he abandoned his new wife and stayed in Omotole’s quarters. While they slept, the spirit of his father, Oba Anuje chuckled outside Omotole’s door. And knocked. Twice.
Wahala Don Wear Shoe
The fall of a great kingdom did not always start with war. Sometimes, it took a vicious wish shrouded by the hot breath of a bitter woman, or rebellious words broken out of the mouths of ambitious councillors desirous to form their own army, perhaps even the good intentions of a craftsman, locked in an arm wrestle with the voice of a king’s slain rival.
Ere was such a craftsman who had toiled in the service of Oba Odion for many years. He worked leather, clay, wood and brass. There was nothing his touch could not mould or caress into life and there was no royal emblem that Ere had not had a hand in since Oba Odion fought his way to rule over Benin. These included the crown, ritual swords, the throne, showpieces and art brass pieces he had created, to celebrate Benin and the power the Oba possessed. Oba Odion also had a wealth of weavers, carvers and potters who threw their backs into his biddings without the slightest hesitation. Ere did as he was told, how could he not? But despite being hailed as one of the finest craftsmen in the land, he was just a fleck of spit in the Oba’s river until surprising circumstances delivered a new assignment.
Two weeks after the Oba married Adesua a golden nugget dropped into his lap and propped his back straighter. Some of his soldiers had captured Ogiso, a rival of Oba Odion who had been plotting the end of the Oba’s reign and steadily gathering supporters in villages like Ego and others dotting the back end of Benin. Once upon a time Oba Odion and Ogiso had been boyhood friends. They had chased the same girls, run through the dirt tracks of unidentifiable animals and collapsed against each other many times under the influence of much food and drink at Igewhi festivals, the memories of which, as they grew older, weakened in their grips like a slippery rope. It pulled and they let go.
Eventually it became who could outperform the other and this created a litany of rivalries like tiny stones in Odion’s eye. Ogiso did not know his place. One day they argued, worse than ever before. But this argument did not come from thin air. It had been sniffing at them for years, waiting for the scent of distrust and resentment to line their dealings the way soft silk lined the inside of a decadent outfit. Fuelled by anger and full of simmering resentments Ogiso left the kingdom but vowed to return one day to reclaim what he insisted was also rightfully his. He was warned to never return again.
Ogiso was found in the town of Epoma, amongst a plethora of like-minded bandits, caught in his bed, in that sweet induced state between being half asleep, half awake. They brought him to the palace in heavy, hard chains that cut into his wrist. Oba Odion fought with the burden that landed his way. He sought out his council for advice and they insisted Ogiso be tried; if found guilty, nothing less than death should be his punishment or the Oba would look like a weak king. Strangely, Ogiso did not plead for Oba Odion’s mercy. He accepted his fate, switching between whistling merrily and laughing hysterically. Four days after he arrived at the palace he was tried, and found guilty of scheming to overthrow the king by every single member of the council. All fourteen of them.
Ogiso’s last words were to insist Oba Odion have the courage to personally tell his mother what he had done to her son. Oba Odion did show a mercy of sorts; instead of being beheaded, Ogiso was hung. He was taken to a spot deep within the heart of a near forest. When his neck snapped and his feet spasmed next to the trunk of a bewildered ebony tree, a crushing pain exploded in Ogiso’s mother’s head and shot all the way down to her toes at the same moment. After she was told the news of her son’s death, she was unable to move the right side of her body. It was paralysed by despair and loss. From that day onwards until she passed, Ogiso’s mother would slur from the far left corner of her mouth every morning the mantra that Oba Odion should receive a fate worse than his father before him. Her daily ritual was done, without fail.
Craftsman Ere was called to one of the king’s chambers on an afternoon when the sun was intent on punishing the inhabitants of Benin. It was so hot that a person could be tempted to walk around naked had it not been for social etiquette. People were gulping pails of water as if Benin had turned into a desert overnight. Little children waded into the shallow ends of rivers to cool down and older ones splashed their faces enthusiastically. Ere met the Oba standing next to the wide square window that overlooked the main courtyard in the palace. There were intricately designed, plump, dark brown cushions on the floor. Throws in hues of amber, gold and maroon covered the circular, tall chairs made from the finest teak wood. A large, straw coloured mat trimmed with red beads lay on the ground. The high ceiling was golden and copper plaques showing old battles decorated the walls. The room had a subdued glow, as if it was waiting for a soldier from a plaque to come to life, pull the ceiling off and let it combust with light.
“Oba, you called for me?” Craftsman Ere said, bowing his head. Oba Odion faced him squarely, unlocking his hands from behind his upright back.
“I want you to make a brass head in Ogiso’s likeness for my collection.”
Craftsman Ere sprang back, startled. “Surely you cannot be serious Oba?”
The Oba’s face crumpled, “Do I look like a jester? Explain yourself!”
“Oba, I know it is tradition to often make pieces in honour of your conquests but I think in this case you should make an exception.”
The Oba stroked his chin as though it had suddenly grown a beard. “Why make an exception this time? Ogiso was an enemy, who showed no regret for his actions.”
“Oba, he was your friend, and like a brother to you before.”
Oba Odion raised his hand abruptly. “Have you forgotten who stands before you?”
“No Oba, I feel this is not right, my concern is for you. It is asking for trouble.”
“Ere, I will be the judge of what or who is trouble. Never question my authority again, or you and your family will find yourselves thrown out of the palace. It is only because of the great work you’ve done that I am sparing you.”
Craftsman Ere, being a man who knew when he was beaten, gave up and held his tongue from arguing any further.
“I expect this to be a wonderful example of your skill, Ere and remember as much in Ogiso’s likeness as possible.”
Craftsman Ere nodded and only the pulse in the side of his neck fluttered. It was his final sentence of protest.
The next day Craftsman Ere began to work on producing the brass head. He recalled every feature of Ogiso’s. He set about sharpening his tools and choosing the best brass the palace stocked. First Ere made a wax model of Ogiso which was framed over a clay core. When he finished the model, he painstakingly applied the clay over the wax, almost tenderly, pausing now and again to admire the lines of the figure. Ere started to detail the dead warrior: the flared nose, wide forehead and tribal markings. He was so saddened by the death of this man, he barely realised he’d made a small tear of betrayal at the corner of the model’s eye.