Sun was going down and casting its warm rays over the fields. I was at the window of my dad’s former house, looking at the countryside. Since our childhood, it had provided us with nourishment. However, at that moment, it seemed to have changed. It had become the main cause of the family dispute between me and my brother.
I held the title deed in my hands. The paper was worn, the ink faded. But Father’s name was still there, clear as day: Obioma Nnaji.
Someone knocked at the door. My brother, Chike, walked in. He looked taller than usual, proud and cold. His eyes went straight to the paper in my hand.
“You still holding that?” he asked.
I nodded. “It belongs to both of us, Chike. Father left it for us to share.”
He scoffed. “Share? I’m the one who stayed. I’m the one who planted, harvested, and built. You left. You only came back when he died.”
His words cut deep. He was right, in a way. I had left for the city. But I sent money home. I always thought one day I would return, and we would work together.
“Chike,” I said, “I didn’t forget this land. I thought of it every day. I thought of us.”
But he shook his head. “No. You can’t just walk in now and claim half. I bled for this land. You didn’t.”
I had no answer. My chest was heavy.
The next day, I walked to the boundary of the field. A crooked stick stood there, tied with rags. Father had placed it years ago. I remembered his words as if he stood beside me now.
“This land is your blood,” he had told us. “It will feed you if you honor it. But if you fight over it, it will curse you.”
I was a boy then. But those words stayed with me. Looking at the land now, I wondered if the curse had already started.
The village soon heard about our fight. The chief called us to the square. Everyone gathered elders, women, children. They all wanted to hear.
Chike spoke first. His voice was strong. “I worked that land for ten years. I built the barns. I cleared the weeds. My brother only came back when Father died. He has no right.”
The crowd nodded. Some clapped.
When it was my turn, I stood slowly. My hands shook. “This land was Father’s gift. He told me the land belongs to both of us. If we divide it, we divide his spirit.”
The place grew quiet. The chief looked at us with sad eyes. “Your father loved you both. But now his words are buried deeper than his body. You must decide will you honor him or not?”
Chike turned to me. His voice was low but sharp. “There is no honor in letting you take half of what I built.”
I said nothing. My throat burned.
That night, I was unable to sleep. I remembered the times when we were kids. Before the break of dawn, father used to wake us up. We would go to the fields barefoot, carrying our hoes on our shoulders. Chike was always the strongest and the fastest. He liked the earth. I liked the silence, the birds, and the sky.
I remembered the time when we made a scarecrow together and laughed at how ridiculous it looked. I also remembered the time when we cried because the rain destroyed the yam mound. At those times, we were inseparable. Brothers.
Now, it felt like we were strangers.
A week later, Chike brought a surveyor. They planted poles. They marked the land. Each strike of the hammer felt like a knife.
“Stop this!” I shouted.
He didn’t even look at me. “It’s already done.”
For the first time, I wanted to hit him. But instead, I cried.
Our fight spread through the family. Some stood with him. Others stood with me. The land was tearing us apart more than any enemy could.
Then one evening, I saw him. Chike was in the field, kneeling in the soil. His hands were muddy. He wasn’t planting. He wasn’t harvesting. He was just sitting there, shoulders shaking.
I walked closer. “Chike,” I said softly.
Without looking at me, he said in a barely audible voice, "I can't give it up. This place is the only thing I have left. After Father passed away, it was the only thing that made me feel that he was still there. Through the land he kept alive for me. So, if I let go of it, I am letting go of him."
My fury dissolved. I recognized him through the same eyes as my brother, not my enemy, the same lad who had once lifted me up and taken me home when I was too exhausted to walk.
I went down on my kneels beside him. “I’m not here to take it away,” I said. “I just want us to keep Father’s words alive. If we fight, we both lose him.”
He finally looked at me. His eyes were wet. His face was tired. For years that was the first time I could see pain in his anger.
He didn't say any word but he just nodded his head.
We didn’t fix everything that night. The land was still there. The hurt was still there. But something shifted. We began to talk again. Slowly. Carefully.
Months later, we agreed to work it together. We divided tasks, not the soil. The crooked stick stayed in place, but it no longer looked like a sword between us. It was just wood.
Sometimes I still hear Father’s words: “If you fight over it, it will curse you.”
Maybe we broke that curse. Maybe not. But one thing I know land is not just soil. It’s memory. And memory is something you can’t divide.
