Chapter 21: The Reins of Authority

As they step out of the large chamber, Balógun Ọ̀dàràyọ̀ watches them go. A knowing smile plays on his lips before he turns to the Commander of the Guards. The grand hall hums with a charged stillness. At one end, Balógun Ọ̀dàràyọ steps forward, his head bowed in a respectful yet calculated manner.

Balógun Ọ̀dàràyọ̀: [bowing] "It is nice to see you commander."

The commander enters like a force of nature—majestic, proud, yet beneath his regal bearing, a simmering fury roils within him. He glides past Balógun Ọ̀dàráyọ as if the Balógun were nothing more than an ornament, his gaze fixed on a wooden bench lined with an array of weapons. Picking up a gleaming sword, he murmurs with a mix of pride and disdain.

Kwamanda na Tsaro (in a low, rumbling tone): "It is a surprise meeting indeed—the leader of the glorious Apàrèjẹ́. I am honored that Balógun Ọ̀dàráyọ even deigns to offer my soldiers a welcome speech."

Pausing, his eyes narrow as he fixes his attention on the Balógun. In a husky Hausa accent he intones,

Kwamanda na Tsaro (in a low, rumbling tone): (Hausa):"Kifi ba ya zauna a kan hanya." (A fish does not sit on the road.)

This proverb, heavy with meaning, implies that Balógun Odarayo's very presence is out of place—especially when the full moon is near. The commander's words are as cutting as a sharpened blade.

Balógun Odarayo (smiling cheekily): "It is nice to see you too, Kwamanda na Tsaro. But you know— (Bí kò ṣe gíga, ẹja kì í jáde lórí ilẹ̀.) (If it is not big, a fish never leaps from the ground.)

This humble fish is on land only because I have been ordered to be here."

The Kwamanda, his voice edged with both curiosity and barely concealed ire, replies in a measured tone.

Kwamanda na Tsaro: "Àrẹ Ọ̀nà never told me that you were coming?"

Balógun Odarayo (grinning, a mischievous glint in his eye): "I am sure Lady Adeola has informed you of my arrival—did she not?"

Kwamanda na Tsaro (frowning, tightening his jaw with pride):

"She never mentioned anything of the sort."

Balógun Odarayo (shrugging with a roguish smile):

"Surely, it must have simply slipped her mind."

The Kwamanda rolls his eyes sarcastically.

Kwamanda na Tsaro:

"Obviously, it skipped her mind."

In one fluid motion, he drops his sword and reaches for a bow. He draws the string to test its tension, his fingers steady despite the underlying tension.

Kwamanda na Tsaro (continuing, his tone now laced with urgency):

"Tell me—what urgent matter is unfolding in this realm that necessitates the Àrẹ Ọ̀nà requesting one of our strongest soldiers? The full moon is upon us, and yet urgent affairs stir within the palace. How will the soldiers of Ikun fare without your presence?"

Balógun Ọ̀dàráyọ (smiling, though inwardly his anger flares):

"It was urgent, Kwamanda. I would have informed you, for the Àrẹ Ọ̀nà and Sarkin Dogarai are leading the army at Ikun I don't see how I will be missed out at all. Where I the enemy, I would tremble at the thought—those two can bring chaos upon chaos itself."

The Kwamanda's smile softens momentarily as he comments with a hint of admiration:

Kwamanda na Tsaro: "You have such a formidable faith in Sarkin Dogarai."

Balógun Ọ̀dàráyọ: (with full confidence): Who doesn't?

Kwamanda na Tsaro facial expression hardens. He lowers his bow, his eyes fierce as he chides the Balógun in a measured tone.

Kwamanda na Tsaro (quietly but firmly):

"I witnessed what you did to the boy. No one has ever bested him, yet you destroyed him without even so much as laying a finger on him. Was that not too harsh?"

Balógun Ọ̀dàráyọ (face set in unyielding calm):

"What I did was but a trifle—Sarkin Dogarai would have obliterated him the moment they met."

Kwamanda na Tsaro (chuckling, then leaning in with a measured rebuke): this boy—he destroyed ten soldiers as if they were nothing, nearly ruining our reputation."

He pauses, a sly smile playing on his lips.

 Balógun Ọ̀dàráyọ (interrupting, with a wry tone):

"But you saved our reputation by putting him in his place—Sarkin Dogarai would have done the same."

The Balógun's eyes flash with dark humor as he adds:

"he would not merely subdue him. He would have killed him or beaten him so severely that the poor soul would believe he had stepped straight into hell."

Kwamanda na Tsaro (laughing): "such a good thing to know his temper remains the same"

Balógun Ọ̀dàráyọ (softly, with a tone of remembrance):"It is in his nature. I am sure his temper will change and be controlled—just as you, Kwamanda, have always maintained your discipline."

Both men share a brief, knowing smile before silence blankets the hall. The air thickens with anticipation as the Kwamanda, with deliberate precision, picks up an arrow and nocks it on his bowstring. The midday sun filters through the windows, casting sharp beams of light onto the scene.

The Kwamanda seizes his chance. In a swift, fluid motion, he releases the arrow. It cuts through the air with a deadly whistle, aiming for the side of Balógun Ọ̀dàráyọ's skull. But in a calculated move, the Balógun bends his neck slightly—an act not of mere reflex, but of cunning strategy—allowing the arrow to zip harmlessly above him.

With lightning reflexes, the Kwamanda catches the arrow mid-air with his bare hands, stopping it just before it hits the ground. The tension in the hall heightens, the shadows cast by the sun seeming to dance with the flickering light.

Outside, a stray cat, having wandered into the open courtyard, arches its back and hisses, its instincts attuned to the brewing conflict.

As the Balógun surveys the room with his head still bent, unaware of the Kwamanda's next move, the Kwamanda swiftly redirects the arrow's lethal tip toward the Balógun's upper neck with a skillful twist of his wrist. His motion is smooth and calculated, like a deadly dance.

A pair of birds perched on the windowsill flutter nervously, sensing the charged atmosphere. The moment hangs in the balance, the air electrified with suspense.

In an instant, the arrow is released again. Time seems to stutter, the movement of the arrow barely perceptible to the naked eye. The Balógun remains motionless, a cheeky smile playing on his lips, his head still bent. The arrow's tip touches his neck but does not pierce him. The Kwamanda, with a controlled grip, holds the arrow at the Balógun's neck, their eyes never meeting.

The hall remains silent, the midday sun casting long shadows on the floor, a witness to the high-stakes game of life and death unfolding within. The exchange, though brief, leaves an indelible mark on the memory of both men, a testament to their skill and cunning.

Kwamanda na Tsaro (leaning in, voice low and incisive): "Why did you not dodge that attack?"

Balógun Odarayo (calmly, without flinching):

"You remain the one in command. After All, when Àrẹ Ọ̀nà commands, his word is law—you never ordered me to leave my post. Why should I defy the commands of the one after Àrẹ Ọ̀nà?"

The Kwamanda smiles thinly, his tone carrying the weight of finality.

Kwamanda na Tsaro: "Very well then. Let it be known—you are now in my territory. Everything you do—from the soldiers to the maids, even the food—falls under my jurisdiction. Do not defy me or issue commands without my express approval."

Balógun Odarayo (nodding, his voice subdued):

"Understood, Kwamanda."

As the Kwamanda departs the chamber, he pauses at the doorway. He turns back, his tone softening just enough to carry a note of finality.

Kwamanda na Tsaro (quietly):

" Ọ̀dàráyọ When you return to Ikun, tell Sarkin Dogarai that she is still waiting."

Balógun Ọ̀dàráyọ (bowing his head in a final, respectful manner):

"Understood."

The Kwamanda exits, leaving behind an uneasy silence. In the corridor, Káòṣù and the twins who had been laughing earlier as they continue on their discussion now fall silent, as they approach the hall exchanging knowing glances. At their silent command, they force Káòṣù——to bow his head. The commander of guards rolls his eyes in weary amusement before leaving the room.

In that charged moment, amid the exchanged looks and hushed whispers, the air is thick with unspoken threats and shifting loyalties. Yet, on the far side of the hall, a more profound tension takes hold.

Káòṣù's heart skips a beat as his eyes lock with those of the General standing at the front of the hall. In an instant, the General's playful smile evaporates like mist under the morning sun. His gaze—sharp, cold, and predatory—sweeps across the room and fixes on Káòṣù.

Inside, Káòṣù's mind races, and a cold shiver runs down his spine as he silently wonders, "What have I done to deserve such wrath? Does he truly despise me?"