Chapter Nine

The drums started early.

Not the hurried, scattered beats of boys playing for fun, but a deep, steady rhythm, measured and ancient, like a heartbeat beneath the earth. It rolled through the village, through the trees and rooftops, until it settled in the air like mist.

I stepped out of the room into the compound, stretching, feeling the quiet energy that sat in the morning. The sky was still pale, the sun not yet strong, but already, the village was awake.

In the outdoor kitchen, women were at work.

Mama, Nne Ora, and Aunty Bianca moved between clay pots and wooden mortars, their hands swift as they sliced vegetables, pounded yam, and stirred steaming pots of oha soup. The air smelled of fresh pepper, crushed uziza, and palm oil heating over the fire.

Kosi and Kosisochukwu sat cross-legged near them, fanning the flames, their voices bright and eager.

I watched as Nonso and Obinna walked past me, heading toward the other end of the compound where Papa Ukwu and Papa sat, speaking in low tones.

The whole village felt different—like something bigger than all of us was about to unfold.

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By mid-morning, the village had transformed.

The narrow roads leading to the market square were lined with stalls, their wooden tables stacked with beaded necklaces, carved masks, and brightly colored fabrics. The scent of roasting suya and freshly tapped palm wine floated through the air, mixing with the distant sound of flutes.

I walked beside Nonso, Obinna, Dubem, and Somadina, the heat pressing against my back. The girls walked ahead with Mama, Nne Ora and Aunty Bianca—their voices excited as they pointed at different stalls.

"I want that one," Kosi said, tugging at Nne Ora's wrapper. "The blue beads."

"You want everything," Kosisochukwu teased.

"She can have it," Nne Ora said, waving her off. "Today is for celebration."

I watched as the trader wrapped the beads in brown paper, handing them to Kosi, who grinned triumphantly.

The market square was fuller now—men gathered around elders, discussing in rapid Igbo, women balancing baskets of food on their heads, children running between stalls with sticky fingers from eating too many sweets.

I breathed it all in—the voices, the scents, the movement.

The festival was here.

In a few moments, the drums shifted.

It was subtle at first—a deepening of the rhythm, a new urgency in the beat. Then, like a wave crashing against the shore, the excitement in the air thickened.

People began moving toward the open square, where the first masquerades would emerge.

"Let's go," Dubem said, nudging my shoulder.

We followed the growing crowd, the air vibrating with anticipation.

Then, they appeared.

The first masquerades came in swift, bounding movements, their raffia skirts rustling as they ran. Their masks—carved, painted, some fierce, some playful—gleamed under the midday sun.

Children shrieked and scattered as the masquerades chased them through the square, their feet barely touching the ground.

One of the masquerades flipped into the air, landing with a sharp clap of his feet. The crowd roared in approval.

I stood still, watching.

The way they moved. The way their presence swallowed the space.

It was playful, wild, untamed. And yet, beneath it, something else pulsed—a kind of reverence, a power I couldn't name.

One moment, the crowd was alive with laughter and movement, children dodging the playful masquerades, men clapping their hands to the rhythm of the drums.

Then, just as suddenly, the excitement softened, folded into something quieter.

A hush rippled through the air.

The drumming slowed—not weak, not hesitant, but deep, deliberate, like footsteps approaching from a great distance.

I felt it before I saw it.

The shift. The weight of something older than all of us pressing against the air.

A soft murmur spread through the crowd.

"Time to go," Nne Ora said.

I turned to see her gathering Mama, Adaora, Kosi, Kosisochukwu, Chiemelie, and Aunty Bianca. There was no argument, no hesitation. They simply turned and left.

The women were not meant to witness this part.

The absence of their voices made the air feel heavier.

The remaining crowd—only men now—stood still, waiting.

Then, the sacred masquerade stepped forward.

The masquerade moved slowly.

Unlike the others, it did not chase, did not leap into the air, did not spin wildly. It simply walked, its movements precise, careful—like it was stepping through time itself.

Its mask was different. Not painted in bright reds and yellows, but deep brown, carved with symbols I did not understand. Long strands of black and white raffia draped over its shoulders, whispering against the ground as it moved.

Nobody clapped.

Nobody cheered.

The air held only the steady, pounding rhythm of the drum.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Papa Ukwu standing still, his staff resting against his palm. Next to him, Papa's expression was unreadable, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides, as if bracing himself.

I frowned. What was it about this masquerade?

Then, without warning, it turned to face the crowd.

The drumming stopped.

For a single breath, there was only silence.

And in that silence, something inside me shifted—small, unnameable, but there.

The masquerade lifted its staff, slowly, deliberately.

It pointed—not to the sky, not to the drummers, but toward the gathered men. Toward us.

A low murmur passed through the crowd.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of the weight in my chest.

Then, as if nothing had happened, the masquerade lowered its arm and continued moving, its steps unhurried, its presence still thick in the air.

Beside me, Papa Ukwu exhaled—quiet, controlled, but I noticed.

I turned to look at Papa. His jaw was tight, his eyes focused on the masquerade, but his expression was unreadable.

Then, just as my gaze shifted, I saw something else.

A man—older, dressed in a simple white tunic—watching Papa.

I didn't recognize him, but there was something about the way he stood, the way his eyes settled on Papa's face, like he was searching for something.

He stepped forward, just slightly, and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "Obidiegwu."

Papa stiffened.

I wasn't sure if it was from hearing his name spoken so plainly, so familiarly, or because of the voice that had said it.

The man held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I looked back at Papa, expecting him to move, to say something, to acknowledge what had just happened.

But he only stood still, his shoulders squared, his fists tight.

And beside him, Papa Ukwu gripped his staff just a little harder.

I turned back to the masquerade, but the moment had already passed.

The drums had resumed, the heavy silence lifted, and the crowd was alive again—clapping, shifting, whispering. Yet, the air around Papa and Papa Ukwu felt unchanged, still thick with something unspoken.

Papa's expression remained unreadable, his gaze fixed ahead as if nothing had happened. But his hands told a different story—his fingers curling, then uncurling, his breath just a little too measured.

Beside him, Papa Ukwu's grip on his staff stayed firm, his jaw tight.

I swallowed, shifting my weight.

Something had happened. Something I wasn't meant to understand yet.

And yet, I did understand one thing—this festival was not just a festival to them.

I lowered my gaze, staring at the dry ground beneath my feet.

For the first time since we arrived in Agulu, I felt the quiet press of a truth I hadn't yet uncovered.