PRICE OF A NAME

The road to Nkerehi is not paved into gold but it might as well have been on this day. Red dust rose in swirling clouds as the convoy of sleek black SUVs rumbled along the narrow path. At least ten motorcycles danced along the flanks of the vehicles, their engines roaring and hooting like hunting hounds off the leash. Riders waved green notes in the air, some dangling small speakers from their necks, blasting music that wasn't traditional but loud enough to shake the windows. Children ran barefoot through the weeds to catch a glimpse of the spectacle. Old men paused their games of drafts.

Women shaded their eyes from the sun, whispering in tight clusters. He had returned.

Obiajulu Madu, son of late Madam Madu the Igwe's only sister had come home after nearly seventeen years abroad. But this wasn't just a homecoming. It was a parade. It was war drums wrapped in celebration. It wasn't just the polished vehicles or the money he spread in the weeks before. It was the weight of the man himself: Billionaire. Oil magnate. Silent partner in companies whose names had never echoed in Nkerehi's dusty streets. Some said he had shaken hands with kings in Qatar. Others swore he owned a skyscraper in Dubai. But all agreed on one thing:

He was no longer one of them.

When his mother died five years earlier, many assumed he would never return. But he had quietly, under the shadow of grief. He buried her, exchanged barely more than a few words with the Igwe, and left before the sun had set over her grave.

This time, he came with plans.

And this time, he came to stay.

The village square buzzed like a disturbed hive. The Igwe, regal but weary, sat beneath a wide umbrella adorned with leopard teeth. His white lace flowed over his knees like water, coral beads stacked tightly around his neck and wrists. Though he held his oji the kola nut with ceremonial calm, his eyes flickered with unease.

"Welcome home, Obiajulu," the Igwe said loudly for the crowd to hear.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Obiajulu replied, bowing with theatrical grace. But his voice rang out with confidence, not humility.

Behind him, two drummers began to play slowly, respectfully. Elders shifted in their seats. Some nodded approvingly. Others whispered among themselves.

A feast followed. Goats were slaughtered. Palm wine flowed from newly carved gourds. Music thundered into the night. Laughter rose like smoke. That night, some slept full of rice, meat, and hope. Others turned restlessly in bed, their mouths tasting of dust and worry.

By morning, several elders who had once held stubborn pride awoke to find SUVs parked beside their compounds, keys resting in small, gold trimmed envelopes. And throughout the village, dozens of youths many of whom had never earned more than a few naira in a day woke to find motorcycles delivered to their homes. With them came instructions. And expectations.

The announcement came on the third day.

Obiajulu stood atop a makeshift podium in the village square, dressed in white kaftan and gold embroidery, a microphone in hand.

"I did not come back to live in the past," he declared. "I came to give this village a name worthy of its future."

The murmurs began immediately. Some elders sat straighter. Others turned their faces away.

"I have spoken to my uncle, the Igwe," he continued. "I have spoken to the elders. And I have secured the blessings of those who believe in progress."

He paused deliberately.

"This land shall no longer be called Nkerehi."

Gasps. Audible. Almost physical.

"From today, it shall be known as Umuchukwu the children of God. The beginning of a new era."

At first, silence. Then shouting. Then chaos.

"You can't change a name by force!" someone yelled.

One elderly man stepped forward, walking with a cane but a fire in his eyes. "Who gave you the right?" he demanded. "You are not of this lineage. Your mother was our sister but your blood is not ours!"

That was the spark.

By sunset, the old man's son known for his defiant voice was dragged through the streets, his ribs broken. They said it was a motorcycle accident. But no one believed it.

It was a message.

Within weeks, Nkerehi became a village of broken trust.

Obiajulu's supporters, fueled by gifts, cash, and unspoken threats, roamed the village like guards of a new kingdom. Anyone who refused to say "Umuchukwu" was marked.

Shops were smashed.

Roofs were burned.

Red Xs were spray painted on houses in the night, like silent curses.

Those loyal to the old name began to whisper in the dark. They passed each other notes. They held meetings in hidden rooms. But they were no match for those with motorcycles and machetes and money.

The Igwe, who had once been respected as a pillar of peace, remained silent. He had taken the money. Everyone knew it. And though he pretended to be neutral, his silence was its own kind of war cry.

But what hurt most wasn't just the violence in the streets.

It was the war that grew inside homes.

Siblings, once inseparable, now ate at separate tables.

In the Ifeanyi family, the two sons Obinna and Chisom refused to speak. Obinna had embraced the new name. He now answered "Obinna Umuchukwu" in meetings. He wore clothes stitched in Dubai, rode a motorcycle bearing Obiajulu's crest, and had even painted "God's Promise Begins With Umuchukwu" on their gate.

Chisom, older by two years, refused to bend. He said, "Our name was written in the dust of our fathers' blood. You can't rebrand a legacy."

Their mother, torn in two, would prepare meals in silence, leaving them on separate trays.

One afternoon, she returned from the stream to find her two sons in a full-blown fight, their shirts torn, their fists swinging. The cause? Obinna had replaced the signboard on the family compound to read "The Umuchukwu Family."

That same night, Chisom packed his things and left.

He would not return for months.

In other households, cousins no longer fetched water together. Aunties accused nephews of betrayal. Even marriages suffered. A woman named Nkiru filed for separation because her husband, once loyal to Nkerehi, had secretly accepted Obiajulu's money and registered their children under the name Umuchukwu in the local school.

It wasn't just political anymore.

It was spiritual.

It was personal.

People began to speak in hushed tones about a visit long ago. Fifteen years prior, three men of God, barefoot and dressed in white, had come from across the river. They had warned of a great division that would arise not from outsiders but from within. A man of wealth and influence, they said, would return bearing gifts, but his shadow would stretch longer than his kindness.

The Igwe had mocked them. Called them lunatics. Driven them out.

Now, villagers remembered those words with fear.

Now, it was too late.

One night, under the moonlight, a handful of brave elders gathered behind the crumbling shrine near the stream.

"This is not just a fight over a name," one whispered.

"It is a fight for our soul," said another.

"And we are losing."

The days passed.

Some families fled.

Some were chased out.

Others stayed and endured in silence, their homes becoming tombs of unspoken pain. But amidst the ashes of fear, something else stirred.

Not all would remain silent.

Not all would bow.

Some would rise.

And the real war was just beginning.