Ashes of Amaedukwu

In every season, there is a sound that announces the shift of destiny.

For the people of Amaedukwu, it was the ululation of women under the udala tree. For the warriors of Onuiyi, it was the cracking of bones in the sacred forest. But for Odogwu, the man reborn from fire and hunted by shadows, it was the rhythm of drums from a land he had only touched in dreams.

Uganda.

The next frontier. The next assignment.

After surviving the dream assassin, after returning from a realm where failure held dominion, Odogwu knew better than to treat this campaign as ordinary. Uganda was not just a launch; it was a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled.

The signs had come in unusual ways. A young girl in Kampala had been caught sketching a symbol that resembled the Oru Africa logo long before the brand was ever introduced to the nation. A blind elder in Gulu reportedly mentioned that "a man whose eyes saw more than the sun" was coming to stir the land. And in the southern hills of Kabale, farmers swore that the ground had grown warm, as though it were preparing to birth something ancient.

Odogwu listened. He always listened. For when a tortoise lives long, it learns to read the silence between the rain and the thunder.

A Gathering at the Center

He called his core team together: Chinaza, Nandi, Jelani, and the newest lieutenant, Mbabazi, a Ugandan economist-turned-activist who had been working underground to prepare for Oru Africa's arrival.

Mbabazi had a fire in her eyes, the kind Odogwu recognized in himself years ago.

"The soil is ready," she said. "But the thorns are sharp. The old leaders, the sleeping giants, the tired warlords—they will not welcome your light."

Odogwu nodded.

"Light is never welcomed by those who profit from darkness."

Nandi spoke up. "We must also watch internally. There are whispers. Some from within our own house."

A quiet fell over the room.

Odogwu closed his eyes. The vision returned. A cup of palm wine offered by a hand he once trusted. A smile with teeth too white to be clean. Betrayal was not coming from outside alone.

A Whisper in the Wind

That evening, as Odogwu walked through the garden behind the Oru Africa headquarters in Obodo Ike, a breeze picked up. It carried with it the scent of rain and the hint of something older.

Then he heard it.

"Odogwu."

A whisper. Faint. But deliberate. He turned.

No one.

Again.

"Odogwu. I see your fire. But do you see the snake at your feet?"

The voice belonged to a child. Not more than ten years old. A girl with tribal patterns across her face and eyes that mirrored the depth of forgotten rivers.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am the daughter of the moon that remembers," she replied. "And I bring a warning."

Odogwu stepped closer, but she faded into the mist.

He turned to call for the guards, but when they arrived, there were no footprints. No signs. Only the faint smell of roasted kola.

The Gathering Storm

Preparations for the Uganda campaign intensified. Press teams were mobilized. Youth leaders invited. Artists, musicians, and poets from across East Africa were preparing a cultural welcome never before seen.

But Odogwu was uneasy.

Not because of the resistance. He was used to that.

It was the silence from certain trusted allies. The way some eyes no longer held respect, but calculation. How information was leaking before strategies were even finalized.

A mole. Someone had opened the door to the enemies of Oru Africa.

The Letter Without Ink

Three nights before departure, a folded paper appeared on Odogwu's desk. There was no handwriting, only pressed markings.

He held it to the light. Words began to emerge.

"He who shares his yams with the hyena will soon be devoured with the tubers. Trust not the one who smiles before you and whispers behind you."

It was signed: The Child Oracle.

Odogwu sat still. The girl was real.

He summoned Chinaza. "Call a private meeting. Only you, Nandi, Jelani. No aides. No staff. Midnight. In the shrine room."

Midnight at the Shrine

They gathered in the dim room where a single oil lamp flickered. The room held relics from every country Oru Africa had touched—wooden masks from Benin, cowrie drums from Senegal, beadwork from Lesotho, and a carved seat from Amaedukwu.

Odogwu sat on the seat.

"One of us has been turned."

The words fell like stones.

Jelani stiffened. "You think it's one of us?"

"I know it. I saw the snake. I heard the child. I read the message. And the betrayal stinks like perfume in a closed room."

Chinaza spoke. "Then we must cleanse the circle. Before we move."

They agreed.

That night, each of them swore a blood vow on the carved seat. A vow that would expose treachery with consequences too heavy to bear.

And as they left the room, the oil lamp flickered violently.

Outside, thunder rolled.

Arrival in Kampala

Odogwu arrived in Uganda under heavy rain. Yet, the streets were lined with youths in traditional kitenge fabric, holding signs that read:

"The One Who Rose From Ashes Has Come!"

Drums beat. Horns sounded. Dancers moved with the fury of ancestors called into the present. Kampala had not seen this kind of movement in decades.

But among the crowd was a man with a dark hat, eyes hidden. Watching. Waiting.

The Unveiling

Oru Africa's Uganda Launch was held at the Mandela National Theatre. The hall overflowed. Odogwu took the stage, dressed in Ugandan bark cloth mixed with Amaedukwu red.

He spoke of fire. Of falling. Of dreams that hunt. Of nations that sleep.

He ended with this:

"They shot me in a dream, and I returned with the bullet in my hand. I am not here to impress you. I am here to ignite you."

The crowd erupted.

But as he stepped down, a note was passed to him. No words. Just a symbol:

A snake coiled around a yam.