They call me a traitor. Perhaps, I am.
But I weep every night, I whisper apologies into the wind, with regrets from deep within my soul, even when I know that a lifetime of penance would never undo the wrongs.
I am Kachi, the blacksmith's son and he is Obiora, the prince of Amodu kingdom. He was my brother, though our mothers wore different beads.
That morning, I sat by my father as I watched him forge iron into spears and masks, for the upcoming harvest festival. He was known for his mastery in ironwork and people came from far and wide to patronize him.
My two sisters and their friends sat a few feet away, plaiting each other's hair. It was peaceful and the birds on the trees sang joyfully, in the morning light.
I was eight years old, an innocent little boy who knew nothing of bloodshed or wars. The drums were for dance, the spears, for ceremonies. My father shaped metal. Obiora's father, the king of Amodu kingdom, shaped men. We were so different, yet inseparable.
We met under unusual circumstances. Obiora had wandered away from the palace, chasing the notorious village dog, Butu, and had fallen into the blacksmith’s forge. I was covered in soot and holding a hammer too big for my arm. But I succeeded in pulling him out. From that day, we became brothers of the spirit.
We hunted rabbits with slingshots, swam in the river, and did almost everything together. We were brothers.
And remained so until we became young men.
Before the guns came.
“Did you hear that?” Obiora asked, wide-eyed as the loud thunderous sounds reverberated through the air, with fading echoes.
“Yes, the strangers they say speak through the nose,” I whispered.
"They are the white men, they have wooden sticks that could emit fire, and send a man to his early grave." Obiora replied sadly.
"Do you think they will come to our village? I asked, with trepidation.
"I heard my father argue into the night with the council. “We must resist them!” He said. "Though I'm still a young boy, I could sense that not all agreed."
"But why? Would they prefer we were sold into slavery?
"No! No son or daughter of Amodu would be taken away, by those strangers!" He replied vehemently.
I could see the fire in his eyes.
But I couldn't let Obiora know what I felt since I heard about the arrival of The White Man. They came into the neighbouring villages, with tools of conquest disguised as trade. They offered the kings gifts to tear down their kingdoms and cart away their young men and women into slavery. They came with powerful weapons that could anihilate communities or bring them to their knees.
Honestly I didn't think Amodu stood a chance.
Obiora started slowly, sadly, as if reading my mind.
"But I will fight them with the last drop of my blood. We will never accept their gifts of deception, muskets and silk in exchange for “help” or “partnership.” But my father says, it was never partnership but submission."
"How do we resist them? With what weapons do we fight against people who are equipped with sophisticated instruments of mass destruction?"
Obiora had always been the brave one, maybe it was because he came from the lineage of rulers and warriors. I didn't.
"When our first neighbouring village, Umudim, fell to slave raids, the truth could not be hidden anymore, about these people from the far West. They were not traders, they were takers. But we will fight them with everything we've got, and my father would ensure that every citizen of Amodu, the greatest kingdom of the East, is kept safe." He spoke with anger burning in his veins, and having known him intimately for seven years, I knew when he meant the word he said.
This was one of such times.
A week later, they came to our village—The white men.
I watched from the corner of the palace, while Obiora sat at the king’s feet.
They came with gifts; big mirrors, liquor, fabric so smooth it melted in your fingers. They laughed but the king of Amodu stood his ground. He refused to make any treaty with them.
The white men left with smiles that did not reach their eyes.
When the war came, it was sore. Our forge produced spears in quantities I had never seen. Some villages allied with the strangers, believing in their promises. Others stood their ground, and were crushed.
One night, they took Obiora's cousin. The next was Uncle Amayo, my mother's brother.
Men feared to go to their farms, women, the stream to fetch water.
“I will not kneel before them,” Obiora swore one night as we sat by the fire. “Even if I die, I will die fighting.”
“And if we all die?” I asked.
“Then we will die standing,” he said.
Obiora became a warrior, with an unwavering resolve to protect his people from being sold or subjugated.
But I, Kachi, a master blacksmith, left the village quietly one night.
I left.
It was the choice I made.
I took my father’s tools and walked to the coast where the white men set up camp. I told myself I was just a blacksmith, not a warrior. I couldn't wield a sword—I only made them. It started with horseshoes. Then arrowheads. Then shackles.
Yes.
Shackles.
Chains.
Forged by these same hands I now hide in shame.
Obiora never forgave me. How could he?
I heard the stories of his exploits;
“He raided a slave camp and freed two hundred.”
“He burned the white man’s fort.”
But me?
I stayed in the shadows. Hoping I could make a difference.
Until that day.
The day we came face to face. My brother and I.
I was at the forge, shaping a chain-link when the air shifted. I looked up, and there he was.
Obiora.
But not the boy I knew.
His eyes were fire. His skin bore scars. His spirit… unbroken.
“Kachi,” he said. Not with anger. But with a pain I cannot describe.
“Obiora,” I managed. My tongue felt too heavy.
“You make shackles?”
I looked away.
“That chain our people?"
His voice broke.
I said nothing. What could I say?
He dropped something at my feet. A piece of iron. Twisted. Burned. One of my own.
“She died wearing this,” he said. “My sister.”
I fell to my knees.
“Obiora…”
But he was gone before the tears came.
That night.
I left again. And returned home. To Amodu.
I walked for days.
And returned to what was left of it.
They hadn't kept their promise.
No one knew about the exchange, I would forge metals for them and in return, they would stay away from Amodu.
But they didn't keep their promise.
And now I stand, condemned, rejected. Branded a traitor.
Some nights, I still see him. My brother.
In my dreams.
They call him a legend now.
The prince who resisted the white man.
The heart of the hills.
The son of Odu.
And me?
No one speaks of a traitor.
All images are AI generated.
I am 
