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MUSTARD I – Ch. 9 | KT OLLA

MORO wanted to own a farm in this farmland of a different people. And he was sitting with a man who wanted wealth as a farmland chief.

The younger man had got no money to pay to lease the ground; yet now, he wanted to own it.

Again, he’d got nothing in hand to make the chief wealthy. Still he wanted to talk.

No, Moro wasn’t at loss of what to say. For he’d got wits that could make things work. He’d got the words of an elder in his belly, too.

But God brought him these; and he wouldn’t know.

Yes, the lad seemed to have got something inside that wouldn’t stay buried. A seed of tomorrow that’d push through soil to grow.

A dream of future that only God could give. But he didn’t know.

Now he drove the words which Heaven scripted:

‘I have this question, Baalẹ: how long will it take for a running messanger to take news to the palace from here and return?’

‘It will take a full day,’ replied the chief.

Moro smiled. ‘That means it will take at least a day for the King to be summoned if there is a crisis!’

‘Are you starting a rebellion?’ the man asked, startled.

‘I would not dare, sir!’ replied the younger. ‘Who am I to beat the drums of war, when my ears are this heavy with one?

‘I only talk of the distance between here and the palace, Baalẹ!’

‘You speak so well, young man,’ smiled the elder.

‘Thank you, sir. But then, I am only just learning to; I will try to do better next time.’

The older one nodded with a smile. Then he nudged him on.

‘So tell me, why did you ask about the distance between here and palace?’

‘Thank you, sir. Now this is my point:

‘If the journey from here to palace and back is a whole day, how then does the King’s arms cover the land to gather tributes for him?

‘I mean, how does he still get the tribute from our farmlands in the appropriate portions?’

In that moment, Baalẹ went quiet and watched the boy. He thought about the words and listened to know where Moro was heading.

The younger man had reached his main point. So he spoke out.

‘Yes, the King knew he had no way of covering all the grounds, and keeping the whole land as his.

‘Still we call him King; we call him ruler over the land.

‘But what does all the rulers of Yoruba townships do to retain their land?

‘They give it out to the care of several Baalẹ. And then it yield tributes.

‘If they had held onto it, they would have lost it. But when they give it out, their dominion became bigger than their arms could have contained.

‘So, every patch of ground here is called Edeland, with all the crops and the people. Only because the King gave it!

‘That is the reason we take portions of the harvest to the King as tribute. And other villages in the land do the same.

‘Now without cultivating a farm, the ruler eats the fruit of the land and grows wealthy...

‘That is the secret of the King’s wealth!’

The elder dropped a big sigh, where he sat striding a bamboo bench and facing Moro.

He’d folded his arms across his chest and was down with thoughts.

He’d found those words pricey. Now he loved to trade with them.

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