“Sixteen!” King Obeleagu’s messenger shouted angrily.

The village chief of Obuta village prostrated on the floor before him.

“Please,” the chief begged, “we know we are to provide 30 drums filled with grains and crops, but this was a harsh harvest.”

“We only have remnants for ourselves...”

“Remnants?” The messenger interrupted the prostrated chief, “your quota is not met, and you have remnants?”

His thunderous voice echoed once more.

“We gave you all we can spare,” a small voice spoke from the bunch.

“Who said that?” the angry messenger looked towards the direction of the voice. No one replied and he let out an amused chuckle.

“You seem to forget who we are,” the messenger walked slowly towards the direction of villagers, shaking in fear.

“Years of peace have blinded you to the terror that is my king,” he swiftly grabbed a young boy from the kneeling crowd.

This caused screams from a woman kneeling beside the boy.

“King Obeleagu, our lion in the battlefield, the greatest conqueror who has ever lived and will ever live.”

“He has drunk wine from the skull of your fathers and is blessed by the gods and spirits of our land.”

​​“Or did you forget the battle of the Obara na aja?”

He reached for his sharpened machete and placed it on the sobbing boy’s throat, which triggered more screams from the crowd.

“Now, I ask again,” his pitiless eyes fell on the villagers, “who said that?”

“I did,” a boy no older than 17, stood proud from the older men who still cowered beside him.

“And I am not a coward like you, threatening and hiding behind the life of a child.”

“Chibuike shut up!” The prostrated chief lifted his head to hush the boy, and begged the amused messenger with terrified eyes.

He then reached to grab the boy’s hand and tried to pull him down.

“Great messenger to King Obeleagu,” the chief begged the already angry messenger. “Bikonu pay no heed to him, he is a child who knows nothing of your warrior days.”

The messenger’s cold eyes stared at the young boy, who fearlessly maintained eye contact. His eyes were strong and defiant, almost brave.

The messenger thought to himself that, if he let this child grow into a man, he could cause an uprising against his great king.

He would not let that happen.

With his lightning fast reflexes, he ran to the boy and slashed his neck open. The women’s cries erupted like music to his ears, he missed that.

The silent whimpers from the villagers fueled him, he wanted more, but not yet.

He looked at the village chief who trembled as he held the dead boy in his arms. Was that his son?

An evil smile crept on the messenger’s face, how he loved the misery he spread.

“Now, get me the remaining 14 drums before the next new moon,” he said with a smile, as he wiped the bloody machete on the chief’s wrapper.

“Or I will separate 14 young heads from their bodies.”