The Aging past

The harmattan wind blew quietly over the village of Umuodara, lifting thin sheets of dust that danced lazily across the courtyard of the great Ohaedo mansion. The compound, once vibrant with the laughter of visitors and the bustle of servants, now sat in a kind of majestic silence. Its owner, Chief Ohaedo Mmaduka, had grown old—very old—and his wealth, which was known across seven regions, had become a constant subject of whispers and predictions.

Chief Ohaedo had two sons.

The first, Obinna, was the eldest—calm, thoughtful, respectful, and calculating in the way a man who understood responsibility was. Many said he inherited the Chief’s mind, but with a gentleness the old man never possessed in his youth.

The second, Dike, was strong, charming, handsome—yet reckless. His charm could lure even a wise man into foolishness, and his strength made him believe he could bend the world to his will. But he loved shortcuts, manipulation, and the thrill of outsmarting everyone. The Chief often described him with one phrase: “His heart is fast, and a fast heart is not always a wise one.”

It was this second son—Dike—who had been the subject of the greatest conflict in the Chief’s heart.

1 — The Shadow of an Aging Giant

On the morning the story truly began, the old man sat beneath the tall iroko tree in the center of the compound. His once-broad shoulders had narrowed, and his once-firm voice now trembled with age. The servants moved about quietly, as though afraid to disturb the Chief in his contemplation.

Obinna approached slowly, bowing slightly.

“Father, the medicine man is here,” he announced.

The Chief nodded. “Let him wait. My spirit does not need herbs this morning. It needs clarity.”

Obinna studied his father’s face. “You fear something.”

“I do not fear,” the old man corrected. “I anticipate. There is a difference.”

Obinna said nothing. Over the years, he had learned that the Chief spoke in puzzles when he was troubled.

The silence between them stretched before the Chief finally broke it.

“Obinna, my son… I am nearly at my sunset.”

Obinna swallowed. “Father, do not speak as if—”

“I have lived more summers than many men,” the Chief said calmly. “Pretending I have many left would be foolishness. What matters now are the things I leave behind.”

Obinna looked away, sensing the weight of the conversation.

“You have been a good son,” the Chief continued. “You have been my right hand. But what of your brother?”

Obinna hesitated before answering. “He has lost his way, Father.”

“Hmm.” The Chief stared into the distance. “A son that loses his way can still find it again—but not if the world has given up on him.”

Obinna looked at him. “You are worried about your legacy.”

“No.” The Chief’s voice hardened. “I am worried about justice.”

2 — The Two Paths of the Brothers

Dike returned home that afternoon riding a motorcycle he had not owned the previous week. The villagers whispered as he sped past the square, dust rising behind him like a trail of reckless ambition.

He parked abruptly and walked into the compound, wearing a grin that suggested he was proud of his latest acquisition.

“Father!” he called, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. “Your lion has returned!”

The Chief flinched but did not rise. “A lion does not announce itself,” he muttered.

Dike walked over to him and bowed, though carelessly. “I trust your morning was peaceful?”

“It was, until now,” the Chief replied.

Dike laughed. “Father, you wound me. I bring joy wherever I go.”

“Is that so?” the Chief asked. “Where did you bring joy this time?”

Dike waved a hand dismissively. “Father, you worry too much. Opportunities are everywhere, and a man must be sharp to seize them.”

Obinna approached from behind. “Sharp, yes. But not crooked.”

Dike’s smile faded. “Brother, why must you always spoil the air with your sanctimonious tongue?”

“I speak only truth,” Obinna replied calmly.

“And I act with courage,” Dike snapped.

“You call recklessness courage?”

“You call cowardice wisdom?”

The Chief raised a hand. “Enough!”

Both sons fell silent.

The old man studied them for a long moment. “You are two sides of the same coin—yet you refuse to see you come from the same metal.”

But they did not understand. Nor did they try. The divide between them had grown over the years, shaped by their choices and amplified by the Chief’s struggle to balance fairness with disappointment.

3 — The Chief’s Secret Decision

That night, after the compound had fallen into quietness, the Chief summoned the village lawyer, Barrister Okeke, a thin man whose spectacles seemed larger than his face.

They spoke privately in the Chief’s chamber.

“Barrister,” the Chief began, “I must finalize my testament.”

Barrister Okeke cleared his throat nervously. “Chief… are you certain? Matters of inheritance often bring—”

“Chaos,” the Chief finished. “Yes, I know. That is why I must be precise.”

“Very well,” the barrister said. He pulled out a leather-bound folder.

The Chief began slowly. “All lands, farms, and commercial properties… I leave to Obinna.”

The barrister nodded.

“And the cash, investments, and the transport company,” the Chief continued, “also to Obinna.”

Barrister Okeke adjusted his spectacles. “Chief… that is almost everything.”

“Yes.”

“What of your second son? Should I allocate something small? A portion of land? A business to manage? Or perhaps your cattle?”

The Chief closed his eyes for a long time, as if weighing every letter of his next decision.

Finally, he said, “Leave him nothing.”

The pen in Barrister Okeke’s hand froze.

“Chief… forgive me, but the villagers may speak. They may say you were unfair.”

“They will say what they wish,” the Chief replied. “But I know my sons. If I leave Dike land, he will sell it. If I leave him a business, he will gamble it away. If I leave him cattle, he will turn them into debts.”

Barrister Okeke swallowed.

“But,” the Chief added, “I am not heartless. Leave him one thing.”

“What is that, Chief?”

“My old staff—the royal one with the brass head.”

The barrister blinked in confusion. “But that staff is… worthless.”

The Chief smiled a strange smile.

“Only a man who looks deeper will know its value.”

The barrister said nothing more. He wrote exactly as he was instructed.

4 — The Death That Stirred the Wind

Two months later, before dawn had fully entered the sky, Chief Ohaedo breathed his last.

The announcement of his death shook Umuodara like a distant earthquake. People traveled from surrounding towns to mourn him. Whispers spread about who would inherit his vast wealth.

Many expected the Chief to divide everything between his sons.

But those who knew him well silently suspected the story might not end so evenly.

During the burial ceremonies, Obinna moved like a man carrying the weight of both grief and responsibility. Dike, on the other hand, looked unsettled—not by sorrow, but by uncertainty.

On the eighth day, after the funeral rites were concluded, the family gathered with Barrister Okeke to hear the reading of the will.

The air was tense.

The barrister cleared his throat.

“Chief Ohaedo Mmaduka, in his final testament, issued the following instructions…”

Silence.

Gasps.

Whispers.

The document made it clear: Obinna inherited everything.

Everything except one item.

“One brass-headed staff,” the barrister finished, “to be given to Dike Mmaduka.”

The room erupted into confused murmuring. Dike sat frozen, his face burning with humiliation.

“That’s it?” he barked. “A staff? A walking stick?”

The barrister repeated softly, “Those were his precise instructions.”

Dike jumped to his feet. “Father hated me, didn’t he? He despised me!”

Obinna rose to calm him. “Brother, do not—”

“Do not what?” Dike shouted. “You wanted this! You always wanted to be the golden child!”

He kicked over a stool and stormed out of the hall.

That night, he packed his things, grabbed the brass-headed staff angrily, and left the village entirely.

5 — Wandering with Bitterness

Dike’s bitterness grew like an infection. For weeks, he wandered from town to town, angry at the world, angry at fate, and furious with his dead father.

He took odd jobs, gambled the money away, and drank more than he should.

Everywhere he went, the staff accompanied him—partly because he hated it, and partly because he did not know what else to do with it. Sometimes he considered throwing it into a river, but something—pride or stubbornness—always stopped him.

One evening, he found himself stranded on a lonely road after losing his last money in a card game. He sat beneath a mango tree, exhausted, hungry, and furious at life.

He slammed the staff into the ground.

A strange metallic sound answered him.

Dike frowned. He hit the staff again.

Clink.

The sound was not wood hitting soil—it was metal hitting something buried beneath.

Curiosity replaced his anger.

He dug with his bare hands, scraping soil aside until he uncovered a small, rusted iron box.

His heart pounded.

He dragged the box out fully. It was heavy—far heavier than its size suggested.

The box had a lock, but when he struck it with the brass head of the staff, it snapped open.

Inside it was…

Dike’s breath caught.

Stacks of gold bars.

Neatly arranged. Glowing faintly even in the dying light of the sun.

And on top of them lay a folded piece of paper.

With trembling hands, Dike unfolded it.

It was his father’s handwriting.

“Dike, my son…
If you are reading this, it means life has humbled you enough to begin seeing clearly.
The staff I left you belonged to my father, and his father before him. It is the key to this box, which holds the part of my wealth I saved for you—wealth I did not trust you with until you learned patience.
If you found this box, it means you have stopped running long enough to listen to life.
Use what you find here wisely.
Wealth acquired without discipline becomes poison.
But wealth discovered through hardship becomes wisdom.”

Dike sank to the ground, tears spilling freely.

For the first time in his life, he felt the full weight of understanding.

His father had not despised him.

He had been testing him.

6 — The Beginning of Redemption

The next morning, Dike made a decision he had never made before.

He returned home.

When he walked into the compound carrying the iron box, the villagers murmured in shock. Obinna came out, surprised and cautious.

Dike walked up to his brother and knelt.

“Forgive me,” he said, tears in his voice. “I treated you like an enemy when you were only trying to be a good man.”

Obinna lifted him up gently. “Brother… you are home.”

They embraced.

Slowly, Dike explained what had happened—the staff, the road, the box, the letter.

Obinna listened silently, humbled by the old man’s wisdom.

When Dike finished, Obinna placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Father saw what neither of us saw. He understood both our paths. He gave me what required discipline to maintain. And he gave you what required wisdom to discover.”

Dike nodded. “And now… I want to build something. Not out of greed, but out of purpose.”

“You do not need to do it alone,” Obinna replied.

7 — The Legacy of the Father

Months passed.

The two brothers, once estranged, now worked side by side. Dike used part of his newfound wealth to start an apprenticeship program for young men who struggled with discipline—boys who reminded him of his younger self.

Obinna expanded their father’s businesses, but now with Dike by his side as a partner, not a rival.

The villagers marveled. “Chief Ohaedo has left behind not two sons,” they said, “but two pillars.”

And somewhere, in the quietness of the iroko tree, it felt as if the old man’s spirit rested in peace—knowing that the sons he had raised finally understood the greatest inheritance he ever left them:

Wisdom.