Chapter 2 A Line In The Sand

It started in the churches.

Once upon a time, Sundays in Nkerehi were marked by the rhythmic beating of drums, the scent of hibiscus in women's hair, and the sound of barefoot children running across dusty roads to church. Whether Catholic, Anglican, or Pentecostal, the people gathered under God's name one people, one faith, one voice.

But after Obiajulu's declaration, even faith could not survive the fracture.

At St. Augustine's Catholic Church, a banner had always hung above the altar: Nkerehi di iche Nkerehi is sacred. It had been gifted decades ago by a returning priest. The day after the village renaming was announced, the banner disappeared. No explanation was given. The priest simply said, "We are moving forward."

By the following week, the church bulletin bore a new name: St. Augustine's Church, Umuchukwu Parish.

When questioned, Father Umeaku had said, "It is what the diocese has approved. Our donor made a compelling case."

That donor, of course, was Obiajulu.

It didn't take long for the first families to walk out. Quietly, they rose during Mass entire rows of Nkerehi loyalists and filed out, leaving their hymnbooks behind.

By month's end, the pews were half empty.

They didn't go back Instead, Nkerehi families started walking or riding bicycles to neighboring villages, sometimes three, four kilometers away, to attend Mass under the original name of their ancestors.

"It's not about doctrine anymore," one elder said. "It's about truth. We can't worship God in a place where our name has been erased."

The same thing happened in the Pentecostal churches.

At Mountain of Everlasting Hope, the pastor once known for his neutrality began opening services with, "Praise be to God for the blessings upon Umuchukwu!" That Sunday, a teenage boy named Chika, the son of a palm-wine tapper, stood up and shouted, "We are Nkerehi! Not this lie you're spreading!"

He was beaten unconscious that same evening by two youths on motorcycles.

Then came the schools.

The primary school bore the name Nkerehi Central School for over fifty years. Its bricks had been laid by the village's own sons. Its water tanks were donated by a woman who once sold akara under the village tree. It was not just a school. It was a symbol.

Obiajulu didn't touch the building. He didn't have to. He simply sent the new headmaster a letter. The next Monday, the school signboard read:

Umuchukwu Model Academy.

"Raising God's Children for Tomorrow's Glory."

Nkerehi parents were livid. But complaining meant nothing. Those who did were told their children would be "transferred out" or "marked as enemies of progress."

One teacher, Mrs. Ogochukwu, who had taught there for twenty years, refused to call the school by its new name. "We have no future if we rewrite our past," she said.

Two weeks later, she was transferred. Three months later, her house was burned.

In quiet protest, Nkerehi families withdrew their children from all local schools. Children who once played together, shared pencils and lunchboxes, were now told to keep their distance.

A child from the Nwankwo family came home crying after his friend refused to sit next to him, whispering, "My papa say you people are cursed. Nkerehi people will bring shame."

Another child was mocked in class because her exercise book still bore "Nkerehi Primary 4" on the cover. It got worse.

Some teachers began openly showing favoritism to Umuchukwu children. Class monitors were picked not by merit, but by surname. Test results, suspiciously, started to favor the children of Obiajulu's loyalists.

It wasn't long before the Nkerehi children stopped going altogether.

They were sent to schools in neighboring villages. Some walked long distances under the hot sun, their uniforms dusty and their sandals thin. But their parents insisted.

"If we lose our name," one mother said, tying her child's headscarf, "we lose our place in the world."

But the division didn't stop at public places. It cut through homes, like a sword through shared bread.

A woman named Ezinne had two sons: Ikenna, who accepted the Umuchukwu identity and now rode one of the motorcycles Obiajulu gave, and Tochukwu, who swore on their father's grave he would never abandon the Nkerehi name.

They had once shared a room. Now, they didn't share eye contact.

One morning, Ezinne served yam porridge as usual. Ikenna, now emboldened by his wealth and his standing, told his mother, "He should eat outside. I'm not eating with someone who has declared himself enemy to our new name."

Tochukwu dropped his spoon and walked out. That night, he didn't return home.

Their mother cried in silence.

In another family, two sisters, married into different lineages, stopped attending each other's child dedication ceremonies. When asked, one replied, "Her child is Umuchukwu. I will not bless that name with my presence."

One of the oldest men in the village, Pa Nweke, said it best during a secret midnight gathering beneath the mango tree:

"We have reached the point," he whispered, "where even names on graves are being repainted."

He wasn't wrong. At the village cemetery, a few headstones were scrubbed clean, the Nkerehi names sanded down and re-engraved with "Umuchukwu" by loyalists. When families found out, some wailed. Others fought. One man collapsed on the grave of his father, screaming, "They are killing him twice."

The worst of it was how fear walked the village like a spirit. At night, families doused their lamps and spoke only in whispers. At village meetings, no one spoke unless they were sure which side the person beside them belonged to.

Obiajulu did not return to the square often. He didn't need to.

The work was done. The name had been planted not just in signboards and documents, but in the mouths of children, in the hearts of churches, in the silence between family members.

Nkerehi, as a people, had not surrendered. But they had separated. They isolated themselves in everything: worship, education, food, funerals, birthdays. Not out of arrogance, but in defense.

"If we still bear this name," one man said, "and tomorrow the sky falls on Umuchukwu, we will not be buried with them."

It was no longer just a difference of opinion.

It had become a line in the sand.

And even the rain could not wash it away.