Obinna walked into the Ụlọ Nze na Ụzọ (Council House) with the weight of a thousand eyes pressing against his back.
The air outside was was already filled with whispers, hushed voices of men who still struggled to comprehend what they had seen with their own eyes.
He had died.
They had seen him fall in battle, struck down like any other man. His warriors, men who had fought beside him, bore the grief of his loss as they pressed on to secure victory.
And yet, when they returned, their spears raised in triumph, they saw him standing, whole, untouched by death.
No wound, no blood, nothing to show that his life had been taken.
Some had dropped to their knees in fear. Others had fled, refusing to be near what they believed to be an apparition.
His closest brothers-in-arms had approached with hesitation, staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, as if looking upon something that should not exist.
Now, in the dimly lit Obi (meeting hall or parlour…), the highest elders of the land sat in a semi-circle. They had been arguing his fate long before he arrived, their voices raw with emotional intensity.
He wanted to panic but something kept him calm. The Chijioke in him knew he didn't have the internal courage to stand unaffected in presence of this pressure.
The elders sat before him, their akwete robes draped over thin, aging shoulders, their eyes sharp and piercing. The dibịa (spiritualist) sat in the shadows, his presence a silent reminder that this was no ordinary trial.
Smoke from the burning ọkụ nsọ (sacred fire) curled in the air, the scent of camwood and incense thick.
At the center of it all sat Ichie* Okafọ, the oldest and most respected of the council.
His face was unreadable, his white beard resting on his chest. Next to him sat Ichie Ume, his expression twisted in barely contained anger.
"Obinna nwa* Anozie," Ichie Okafọ's voice finally broke the silence, deep and measured. "You have been brought before this council to answer for what has happened. You were dead. Your men saw you die."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the elders. The Chijioke in him found it amusing how similar this scene was to those trashy Nollywood movies he watched as a kid.
But the intensity of the moment snapped him back to reality as Ichie Ume interjected "But when they returned," his voice sharp with accusation, "you were there. Alive. Unharmed. This is not the way of men, Obinna." His wrinkled hand slammed against the wooden staff he held. "This is not natural."
Obinna remained silent, his jaw clenched. He understood the implications of his situation from the memories he inherited.
"Some say you are an ajo mmụọ (evil spirit)," Ichie Nnanna added, his eyes narrowed. "That you wear the skin of the dead but are not truly our son."
Some of the elders nodded in agreement. Others frowned, unwilling to accept such a claim.
Ichie Okafọ lifted a hand to silence them before turning back to Obinna. "Tell us, nwa m (my son), what do you say to this?"
Obinna took a deep breath. "I do not know how I live. I only know that I do." His voice came out strong, shocking him a bit but he continued. "I know that I am not a spirit, nor an abomination. I stand before you, flesh and blood, as I have always been."
Ichie Ume scoffed. "Flesh and blood? Then where is your wound, Obinna? Where is the mark of the death that claimed you?" He gestured wildly. "We all saw the spear that ran through you. We all knew you had fallen! Yet here you stand, unscarred!"
The words hit like a blow to the chest, but Obinna held his ground. He recognised this situation. It was the one every student who went through the university knew all too well.
A younger elder, Ichie Madu, spoke up. "There is another way to see this," he said cautiously. "Perhaps the gods themselves refused to take him. Perhaps Ani, our great mother, returned him to us."
This statement caused an uproar.
"Blasphemy!" Ichie Ume shouted. "Do you mean to say the gods now break the order of life and death for a mere man?"
Motherfucker!
Obinna resisted the urge to curse the old man. This body had a fierce respect towards his elders and traditions.
"If Ani rejected his death, it is not for us to question!" Ichie Madu shot back.
"And if he was meant to die, yet still breathes, what does that mean for us?" Ichie Nnanna's voice rang through the chamber. "The balance of the land could be at risk. The land rejects those who should not be!"
Obinna finally let out a breath, his patience thinning. This body and its instincts might be strong, but his accumulated frustration and anger as a Nigerian youth of the twenty-first century was stronger.
"Tell me then," he said, voice sharp. "If the gods wished me dead, why am I here? If Ani rejected me, then should I not have perished the moment I returned? Would I not have withered?" His dark eyes scanned the elders. "Do you think me so foolish as to return if I knew I was cursed?"
A hush fell over the room.
Ichie Okafọ watched him closely. "Then you are willing to prove yourself?"
Obinna nodded. "I will submit to any test."
The old man exhaled. "Then at dawn, you will undergo the Nchọpụta Mmụọ (Test of the Spirit). If you are truly a man, you will pass."
Ichie Ume leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "And if he fails?"
The room went deathly silent.
Ichie Okafọ's voice was low but firm.
"Then he will be cast out or returned to the spirits."
The finality in his tone sent a shiver through the air.
…
The evening air was thick with the scent of earth and burning wood as Obinna walked through the village. The women of every household were already preparing dinner for their households.
The council hall loomed behind him, the voices still lingering in his mind. The elders had spoken, and by dawn, he would be subjected to the Nchọpụta Mmụọ (Test of the Spirit).
A test that would determine whether he was still truly a man—or something else entirely.
His steps were slow. He was part afraid and at the same time not afraid.
His fear came from the unconscious belief Chijioke had concerning his ancestry from Nollywood. Although he didn't like them, as he grew in Spirituality, he came to see them in another light.
That however, didn't diminish the hardwired response in him.
He was not afraid however, due to Obinna's understanding and belief. He knew he was not an evil spirit and that is what caused him to feel unafraid.
No, fear was something he had long since buried. What he felt now was anger. Frustration. Betrayal.
His own people—his kinsmen, were debating his very existence like he was a beast to be judged.
Some had even called for his death. Others wanted him banished, cast out as an evil spirit, as if the blood and sweat he had shed for their freedom meant nothing.
And all because they could not understand.
'SYSTEM?' He called out in his mind but nothing replied.
He let out a slow breath, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.
He had died. He remembered the moment vividly—the cold bite of the spear piercing through his chest, the sharp agony of it. The sight of his warriors pushing forward as his body collapsed to the earth, his vision fading into darkness.
And then—nothing.
No meeting with the ancestors, no whispers of the dead. Just emptiness. And when he opened his eyes again, he was back. Alive.
It was unnatural. He knew that. But did that mean he was cursed? Did that mean he was no longer Obinna?
He too questioned weather he was Obinna, yet, another part believed staunchly that he was Obinna.
That part that knew he was Obinna was immensely distraught at the state he was in. He had led his people had fought for their freedom, a war to break the chains that held them.
But now, those very people, those he had bled for, questioned whether he had the right to stand among them.
His compound came into view, a simple hut made of hardened clay and thatched palm leaves.
The small fire outside had burned low, the embers glowing faintly against the darkness. He could hear the distant laughter of children from neighboring compounds, the sounds of life continuing as if nothing had happened.
Chijioke chuckled and immediately dispersed the thought. He knew it was nothing like that. For a moment, he wonder if he was becoming schizophrenic.
Shaking his head, he pushed aside the woven curtain covering his doorway and stepped inside. The room was small but familiar, the scent of dried herbs and wood smoke clung to the air.
He moved to the center, where his ikenga (personal shrine) stood.
A carved wooden figure—broad-chested, holding a spear—stared back at him. A symbol of his strength, his chi (personal god).
He instinctively knelt before it, resting his hands on his thighs, his mind churning with thoughts.
"What happened?" he whispered, his voice low.
No answer came.
He didn't expect any.
He was just voicing his frustration.
Obinna's fingers ran over the smooth carvings of his ikenga, tracing its ridges and grooves, trying to feel the energy it carried. In times of uncertainty, he had always found clarity here—through prayer, through communion with his chi.
But now, there was only silence.
He exhaled slowly, his mind reaching for understanding.
Chi.
The personal god, the divine fragment of Chukwu (The Great Spirit), assigned to every man at birth.
In this land, it was said that one's chi determined their fate, their path in life. A man with a strong chi was destined for greatness, while a man with a weak chi was bound to struggle.
But Obinna—Chijioke as he once was—had been born in another time. He knew better than to see chi as something external, something separate from himself.
In the 21st century, spirituality had taken many forms.
Some called it higher self, divine consciousness, intuition, life force.
Others spoke of manifestation, energy alignment, universal law.
Different words, different cultures, but the essence remained the same.
Chi was not some distant force dictating his fate like an indifferent god. No—it was him.
The deepest, most authentic part of himself.
The part that knew, without doubt, what he was meant to do in this world. The part that whispered truths in moments of stillness, that urged him forward when all seemed lost.
And yet, now, it was silent.
Had he truly returned against the will of his chi? Had he somehow severed his connection to it?
That thought disturbed him.
It was one thing for the elders to call him an ajo mmụọ (evil spirit), to fear what they did not understand. But to stand here, before his own ikenga, and feel nothing?
That was a deeper kind of exile.
Obinna took a slow breath, closing his eyes.
No. He would not accept that.
Chi was not a thing to be given or taken away. It was not bound by death or life, by ritual or judgment. It was him, always.
And if it was silent now, then perhaps it was because he was asking the wrong questions.
Perhaps his chi was waiting.
Waiting for him to remember who he was.
His eyes opened, sharp with newfound resolve. He had not been abandoned.
He had been reborn.
If the gods had truly rejected him, then why had he been brought back?
As he was revelling in the feeling, a sudden rustle outside made him turn sharply. The curtain shifted, and a figure stepped inside.
"Obinna."
It was Adanna, his sister.
She stood with her arms crossed, her face a mixture of worry and something else—fear. Not of him, but of what was to come.
"They say you will face the Nchọpụta Mmụọ at dawn," she said, her voice quiet.
Obinna nodded. "It is the only way."
Adanna let out a sharp exhale. "This is madness! Do they not know who you are? After all you have done for this village, after all you have fought for?"
Her voice shook with barely contained anger.
It was indeed maddening. One would think a small community like this would cherish their youths and teach upright values to them, but here he was….
He could only sigh silently.
"I heard what they said," she continued. "Some of them want you dead, Obinna. Dead. Again." Her eyes flashed with emotion. "And what if this test is just another way to be rid of you?"
Obinna studied her. He had always known his sister to be strong, but tonight, she looked tired.
Worn.
She was afraid.
Not of him, but for him.
He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "I do not fear the test."
Adanna shook her head. "That is not the point. They fear what they do not understand. And what people fear, they destroy."
Obinna exhaled slowly. He knew that truth well enough. He was actually surprised his sister could come up with such philosophical quote.
He had seen it in the eyes of the warriors who had looked at him with awe and unease when he stood before them, alive. He had felt it in the hesitant and small whispers of the villagers who dared not meet his gaze.
Even those who believed in him did not know what to make of what had happened.
"I do not know why I returned, Ada," he admitted. "I do not know if it was the will of the gods or something else entirely. But I do know this…"
His grip on her hand tightened.
"I will not run. And I will not let them decide my fate without a fight."
Adanna's gaze met his. Then, after a long moment, she nodded, her expression hardening.
"Then you had better make them see reason," she said.
Obinna gave a small, tired smile. "That is the plan."
He released her hand and stood causing his body to cast a long shadow against the dim firelight. His mind was clearer now, the anger still there, but tempered by resolve.
If the elders wanted to test him, then so be it. He would face the Nchọpụta Mmụọ with the same mind of an educated and spiritual African.
And when dawn came, they would see that he was not some spirit, not some abomination.
He was Obinna nwa Anozie.
And he was not done fighting.
***
A/N:
1*. Ichie means Chief.
2*. Nwa mean son. "Obinna son of Anozie"