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MUSTARD I – Ch. 1 | KT OLLA

IT was the time when kingdoms and nations strove in wars. When men carved bravery and essence in kills and slaughter.

Nay, it was no Dark Age but the Seasons of Dark Hearts. And there in the core of that darkness lived a man with dreams.

He dreamed of greatness like that of the fighters. Dreamed of glories like those of warrior kings.

But his dreams he called by a different name. For he wanted the glory without a sword, a reign without the throne.

He wanted life and its fullness. Still he hated the way of kings, lords and warlords.

That dream was born in 1885. And they call this man’s name, Future.

[c. 1885 – 1914]

Chapter 1

MACHETE blades sparked fire. And its handlers spat words as they blended them against large boulders.

It was a great gathering of the sons of Dada in their father’s courtyard – on the mountain sides of Ekiti Kingdom...

And the men, eight in number, ground their weapons against small rocks in a masculine show of strength and valour.

It was a time of war when men spoke of kills and slaughter. When the talk of war made boys men. And the eldest sons of Dada wouldn’t spare a word in proving their worth.

Yes, it was war time in the kingdoms of Yoruba people, spread across the west side of the Niger’s descent into the Atlantic.

So from Ẹgba Kingdom near the coastal peoples of Eko (Lagos), to the tribute lands of Ọyọ; then to Ijẹsha Land, and Ifẹ, and Ekiti...

Kingdoms formed alliances to resist one lord—the city-state of Ibadan warriors.

This was the Year 1885. Eight years into a fight that would be named Fourteen Years War, the war to end all wars.

Now Ibadan had been matching its opponent’s rifles with great machetes...

But the war had just gone fiercer, as the newly arrived British government started to provide Ibadan with guns. As it had been trading with Ekiti and other elite dealers before.

So, more hands were suddenly needed on Ekiti’s front. And the sons of Dada knew well to prepare to join the army.

Now the men littered their father’s frontyard like pieces of rocks in a garden. They sharpened their weapons and spoke words as sharp as their blades.

It was the eldest of the men riding the wave of the talk.

‘Man is only man when he looks death in the face and spits at him!’

Someone cried among the young men. ‘That is word! That is wise word, Brother! Speak on, Son of grey hairs!’

The first looked around to see his brothers ready for more. And he wanted to tell something more.

So he took his machete and stuck it in the ground with one strike. Then he raised his head and cried:

‘What is man with no glory? And what is glory without war?

‘We live this life to die, worthy sons of Dada! So how do we tell the world we live, when all we do is farm and make babies?

‘What will legend say of us, if all we do is crawl into rocks like cowards in the face of battle?

‘Brothers, now is the time to etch our names!  For the glory and the honour! And again for the glory of our names!’

He yanked off his blade from the ground and held it up high.

‘Shout it after me... now!! For the glory of our names!’

The people chorused the cheer:

‘For the glory of our names!’

‘For the glory of our names!’

‘For the glory of our names!’

That sound went on and on with a shout. The cry was both wild and loud enough to seem it was the whole village.

Yet just while the noise was beginning to settle, a slender voice spoke up.

And that voice—it stirred something more.

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