Chapter 8 The Burial of a King

The sun had not yet risen, but the kingdom of Akun was already awake. From the palace gates to the edge of the ancestral forest, lanterns flickered in the dark like stars fallen to the earth. Today, Kabiyesi Adeyemi Adesoji - the father, the warrior, the ruler - would be laid to rest.

A soft drumbeat echoed across the land, slow and steady, like a heartbeat. It was a sacred rhythm that had not been heard in many years. It called the people to mourning, to remembrance.

The royal family walked in silence.

1st Prince Adebayo led the procession, dressed in a dark blue robe with gold trimmings. His face was unreadable, but his heart was heavy. Despite everything, this was his father. Behind him walked the 2nd Prince Adeola, calm and composed, his eyes set on the path ahead. 3rd Prince Adelabu wore a simple cloth tied across his shoulder. His expression was distant, as if watching a different world. 4th Prince Adesola followed, eyes lowered, lips pressed tight. The youngest, 5th Prince Adeoye, looked unsure, his fingers twitching slightly. And then came Princess Adepeju, walking between Queen Akerele and Queen Morounkeji.

The burial site was deep in the sacred grove. Surrounded by ancient trees and stones carved with names of rulers long gone, it was a place of power and silence. Smoke from burning herbs curled into the air. Elders of the Ogboni stood in a circle, their white garments glowing in the early light.

Though Kabiyesi had turned away from traditional religion before his death, the traditionalists still came - not to honor their beliefs, but to pay respects. He was still Kabiyesi, the crown of the kingdom, and symbol of Akun's customs.

But the ceremony was Christian.

A priest from the Redeemed Christian Church of God (RCCG) stepped forward. His robe was clean white, his voice strong. He opened a Bible and began to speak blessings over the king's body, then over the land. The people stood in reverence.

Then the hymn began. First, the choir of RCCG. Then the people. Then the family.

Slowly, sorrowfully, their voices rose:

1. JERUSALEM t' orun,

Orin mi, ilu mi!

Ile mi bi mba ku,

Ekun ibukun mi;

Ibi ayo!

Nigbawo ni,

Ngo r' oju re,

Olorun mi?...

The song drifted through the forest. The trees held the sound, as if even the leaves were listening.

While everyone sang this part, tears fell from many eyes. Some wept quietly. Others loudly. The air was heavy with pain.

Princess Adepeju's voice cracked as she tried to sing, but her words were swallowed by sobs. She fell to her knees beside the coffin, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if trying to hold together what had been broken. "Baba..." she whispered again and again. Her world, already shaken by the looming quest, now felt completely shattered. Her eyes searched the faces around her, hoping for comfort, but finding only more grief.

Beside her, Queen Morounkeji wept openly. Her hands trembled as she reached out to steady her daughter. "He wasn't perfect," she whispered, "but he was mine." Each tear that fell from her eyes seemed to carry years of pain, of memories, of love and disappointment. She covered her mouth, muffling a cry too raw for words.

Queen Akerele, though always composed, let silent tears roll down her cheeks. She gripped Adepeju's shoulder and turned her face skyward, whispering a prayer between clenched teeth.

Then came the second verse - and the children could no longer hold their tears:

2. Odi re, ilu mi,

L' a fi pearl se l' oso;

'Lekun re ndan fun 'yin,

Wura ni ita re!

The children of the king and the queens were crying while singing.

The voices cracked, but they did not stop. Even 4th Prince Adesola, ever proud, dropped his gaze.

When the hymn ended, High Ogboni Salako raised his staff. "Let the king be returned to the soil of his ancestors."

The drumming stopped.

Queen Akerele stepped forward first. She placed a folded cloth, hand-stitched by her own mother, beside the coffin.

"My son's father," she whispered. "You did not love me, but you gave me a gift I will forever protect."

Then Queen Morounkeji laid down a small bowl filled with river stones. "You were stronger than most. But even stone cracks."

Each prince stepped forward.

Adebayo stood still for a long time. "I was never your favorite," he said quietly. "But I defended this land because I love it. And because of that, I will continue." He placed his sword beside the coffin, wrapped in cloth.

Adeola laid down a leaf from the great iroko tree. "You ruled well in war. I pray we learn peace."

Adelabu simply bowed his head.

Adesola dropped a gold coin on the earth. "For your journey. And for mine."

Adeoye looked at the coffin with wide eyes. "Goodbye, Baba." He stepped back quickly.

Adepeju was last. She placed a single white flower. "Sleep well, Papa." Then she turned into her mother's embrace, breaking into sobs again.

As the coffin was lowered, a wind passed through the trees. Leaves rustled. A bird called out - once, then was silent.

Then the drumming began again, faster this time. The dancers moved in, circling the burial. Their feet kicked up dust, their arms reaching skyward. The chiefs, the Oloyes, and the Ogboni watched in silence.

High Ogboni Salako stepped forward.

"With the king buried," he said, "we must look ahead."

He turned to the people. "In five days, the princes of Akun will begin their sacred journey. They shall go into the unknown to find the treasures required to protect this kingdom from the five rival lands."

A murmur spread through the crowd.

"Let it be known," he continued, "that only two may return. If more survive, the kingdom shall be divided. If only one survives, he alone will rule. If none return... the royal line ends."

Gasps filled the air.

Adebayo did not move.

Adesola smiled faintly.

Adeola's jaw clenched.

Adelabu looked toward the trees.

Adeoye glanced at his sister, worry in his eyes.

Back at the burial stone, one of the elder guards knelt beside a rock.

"My lord," he said to Salako, "there is something here."

The High Ogboni turned. Etched into the stone, faint but clear, was a mark. A lion standing over a broken crown.

"Who did this?" an elder asked.

"No one knows," the guard said.

Salako touched the stone. His eyes narrowed. "The old symbol. It hasn't been used since the days of Oba Olakunle."

He turned away. "Seal this place. Let no one return without my word."

That night, back at the palace, the air was heavy.

Each prince returned to his chamber. Some were silent. Others were restless.

In Adebayo's room, a folded note waited on the floor. No seal. No name.

He opened it.

"They fear your strength. They fear your blood. Trust only the earth and the blade."

He read it twice. Then burned it.

In the hall, Queen Akerele and Queen Morounkeji sat in silence.

"They will soon leave," Akerele whispered.

"And some will not return," Morounkeji replied.

"We must be ready."

Outside, the people of Akun lit lamps. Children sang songs of courage. Merchants whispered rumors.

And high above, in a tower room, Ogboni Salako watched the stars.

"Five days," he said to no one. "Let the games begin."