Chapter 4 The Exodus And Return

It started with an insult dressed in power.

On a bright Tuesday morning, Obiajulu stood at a podium during a press conference organized by the Ministry of Local Development. With state cameras rolling and microphones catching every word, he leaned forward and said:

"The Nkerehi people are stubborn. They are envious of progress. I have extended a hand of change, but they slap it away. They want to drag us back to the past. I cannot and will not condone their rebellion. They have even taken me to court me, who built their roads and donated their schools. It is madness."

The clip went viral.

By that evening, it was no longer just a statement. It became an instruction.

Obiajulu's loyalists mostly young men with motorcycles, red caps, and heavy hands launched their orders in silence. They didn't come with paper notices. They came with sticks, crowbars, and gasoline.

Stalls were torn apart. Homes were marked with spray paint. Some were torched in the dead of night. Entire family compounds were razed. The houses of those connected to the lawsuit were hit first glass shattered, roofs pulled apart tile by tile, walls punched in as if the bricks had committed a crime.

It was during one of these attacks that Ebuka, a 28 year old schoolteacher and only son of a widow, was killed.

He wasn't a loud activist. He never raised a placard or attended village meetings. But he was the nephew of one of the elders who had signed the lawsuit against Obiajulu. That was enough.

They dragged him out at night. Beat him with planks and iron rods. Left him bleeding on the ground outside the very school he once taught in. He died before the rooster crowed.

His mother found his body and collapsed beside it.

No police came. No autopsy was conducted. No arrests were made.

The silence was not a mistake. It was strategy.

Fear now lived openly in Nkerehi.

And soon, the people began to flee.

They didn't organize it like a protest. It wasn't loud or defiant. It was survival. Quiet packing. Hasty goodbyes. Children lifted from their beds in the middle of the night. Bibles tucked into bags. Pots of soup left bubbling on forgotten fires.

Some ran to their maternal homes in faraway villages, hoping their mother's people would take them in. Others went to cousins, siblings, sisters married off in distant lands. A few even crossed state lines, changing their names for safety.

Nkerehi, the land of songs, worship, and ancestral bones, became a graveyard of memories.

Dust covered doorways. Shrines were left unvisited. The mango tree at the center of the village stood alone the same tree where Pa Nweke once whispered, "Even names on graves are being repainted."

For two long years, the village was no longer theirs.

They lived like refugees in their own country people without a land, a name, or a voice.

And then... something shifted.

A new Chief of Police was appointed to the state. His name: Commissioner Maduka.

He wasn't born into politics. He had no interest in tribal shows or regional manipulation. But he believed in law. And strangely, he believed in justice.

One day, while attending a staged government event where Obiajulu was being praised for "transforming Umuchukwu," something didn't sit right. There were too many absences. Too many empty seats. Too many voices left unheard.

Later that week, he called for a quiet investigation. No headlines. No sirens.

His team interviewed displaced families across the region. From worn-out mothers in roadside sheds, to children who hadn't been to school in over a year, the stories formed a river of truth.

He read about Ebuka. Saw the photos of the broken homes. He visited, in plain clothes, the site where Nkerehi's central shrine used to stand now buried under a new development center bearing Obiajulu's name.

It was enough.

Then came the final push an attempted land seizure near the old Nkerehi borders, disguised as a state-backed "Agricultural Scheme." It was the final straw. Commissioner Maduka knew the lie had become too bold.

During an official press briefing, held on the second floor of the state police headquarters, Commissioner Maduka stepped up to the microphone. The cameras were rolling. His words were clear:

"The people of Nkerehi were unjustly driven from their ancestral home. This is not a matter of politics. It is a matter of law, and of God. I am here to say: Nkerehi people must return. And anyone who lifts a hand against them again will face the full wrath of the lawGasps filled the room. The headlines rolled out instantly.

"Nkerehi to Return: Police Commissioner Declares State Protection."

Some cried where they stood. Others didn't believe it at first. But within days, patrol vans were deployed to Nkerehi borders. Safety was restored not by bullets, but by the presence of accountability.

The people began to return.

One by one. House by house.

Some brought only memories. Others brought seeds, pots, firewood. They swept the dust. Repaired the walls. Rehung the photos that hadn't burned.

There were songs again.

Not loud. Not triumphant. But grateful.

They had come home not because they won a war, but because God, through one honest man, gave them back what was taken.

Nkerehi had not forgotten.

And now, the land remembered them too.