Chapter 5 The Name They Tried To Bury

Returning home was supposed to bring peace.

But for Nkerehi, it only brought a different kind of pain.

The people came back not to celebration or welcome, but to silence the cold kind, thick with tension. Their homes were there, yes. Their soil. Their trees. But the life they once lived had changed. The roots of their identity were being pulled from underneath them, carefully, strategically, and without remorse.

The court case against Obiajulu was still ongoing. And though it had been quiet for a while, everyone knew it hadn't died. Obiajulu himself hadn't forgotten. He used his power like a knife not by stabbing outright, but by making sure those who opposed him bled slowly.

The New Burial Rule

Then came the most heartless humiliation of all.

A new "rule" was introduced not by the government, not through law, but enforced with violence and agreement among the Umuchukwu loyalists.

If any Nkerehi person died, their body would not be allowed into the village for burial unless a large sum of money was paid. The amount wasn't fixed. It could change depending on the mood of the gatekeepers, or the profile of the deceased.

On burial days, the ambulance or keke bringing the body would be stopped at the main road. Youths sometimes twenty or more would block the path with sticks, tires, even burning wood. They would shout:

"No entry unless the toll is paid. This is Umuchukwu!"

Wailing families pleaded, begged, offered what little they had.

It didn't matter.

Some bodies were kept in the sun for hours. Others were turned back completely. Some families had to bury their loved ones in strange lands, in shame, away from their ancestral homes.

A woman named Mama Adaugo, aged seventy nine, died in her sleep after a long illness. Her family prepared everything mourners, musicians, even her favorite hymn. But on the day of burial, the ambulance was stopped. The demanded fee was ₦500,000.

They had only raised ₦120,000.

They begged. The mourners knelt on the road. The grandchildren cried.

They were turned back.

Mama Adaugo was buried in a borrowed plot of land in a neighboring village, wrapped in silence. Not because she was forgotten but because her people had no choice.

Her last wish had been to rest beside her late husband in Nkerehi soil.

That wish was denied.

The Name Became Dangerous

Another rule soon followed whispered at first, then beaten into reality:

Nkerehi must not be mentioned.

At community meetings, anyone who said the word even by mistake was publicly slapped or dragged outside. They called it "corrective discipline." But everyone knew it was intimidation.

At one naming ceremony, an elder said in his toast, "May this child grow in the spirit of Nkerehi."

He was punched before he could finish the sentence.

Blood stained the rim of his cap.

The younger ones stopped saying it. The older ones began replacing it with "our home" or "our past." Even that wasn't safe.

Nkerehi had become a forbidden word.

A language erased. A truth exiled.

Some wrote it secretly behind their houses. Others taught it only to their children in private moments, whispering the history like a bedtime story.

"We are Nkerehi. Don't forget. Never forget."

The Umuchukwu loyalists called this stubbornness.

But to the people of Nkerehi, it was survival.

A Culture of Humiliation

The daily insults were not loud. But they were steady.Children from Nkerehi were called "refugees" by classmates.

Farmers were told their yams were cursed.

Market stalls owned by Nkerehi people were pushed to the corner, far from the main road.

At community fundraisers, they were made to contribute more, yet their names were never read during thank you speeches.

It wasn't just about land or politics anymore. It was about shame. Shame carefully applied like salt in a wound so small it wouldn't kill, but deep enough to remind them that they didn't belong.

And yet, they stayed.

They buried their dead however they could. They swallowed their pride. They whispered their name only when the wind was strong enough to carry it away.

But in their hearts, they began to build something stronger than resistance.

Memory.

Not the kind you write in books. The kind you pass through the blood from grandmother to child, from song to silence.

Because no matter how many signs were changed...

No matter how many coffins were stopped...

No matter how many bruises were given in the name of progress...

Nkerehi was still alive.

Not just in body. But in spirit.

And the day was coming slow, like dawn when the name they tried to bury would rise again, not with fists, but with truth.