LIVING A DOUBLE-SIDED LIFE

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The afternoon sun was heavy over the village of Ikedu, casting long shadows over the central marketplace. At the end of the community, Elder Emeka sat on a curved mahogany stool, his white agbada shining with a purity that seemed almost divine.

"Honestly," Emeka exclaimed, his voice steady. "This is the bedrock upon which our ancestors built their land. To take what is not ours, or to lie, or to live a double life is the root of all evil, and we will be a detriment to our future."

He looked up to Nnamdi, a young man who had recently been accused of selling his cocoyams at a very high price. Nnamdi's head, under the weight of the Elder's morals, looked down on him. The crowd nodded in agreement. Emeka, who was the village's moral compass, a man who donated his thoughts and harvest to the widows.

"Let us be transparent in all our doings and make a conclusion," raising a hand and blessing the community. "For the eyes of the heavens shall see us through the thickest walls," and the meeting ended.

Elder Emeka walked slowly back to his compound, nodding his head graciously as he stepped. Once inside, the serenity of his face did not slip; it was a hardened expression. He entered his private study, a room filled with leather books, a heavy iron staff leaned behind the door. A soft knock from the door echoed. "It is done, baba," a low voice whispered.

Opening it, he placed a very heavy bag on the desk. The metallic clink of coins was unmistakable as they landed on the table. The land titles of the northern group had been signed over, Apple wiping sweat off his face.

The widow was hesitant," she cried. "Saying her husband intended to keep the land for his sons to inherit." Emeka did not blink. "Did you remind her that these are administrative fees? Her husband owes the Community Council." "Yes, I informed her about that, I did," she said as she signed. Emeka looked at the bag of coins. "Then, as planned," he said. "That is for the public to see. This is where the real deal happens. I am the councilor, and charity is a luxury we cannot afford. We do not have that kind of legacy to build. Now ensure that all the Surveyors mark the boundaries. I do not want public chatter about this."

The following evening, Elder Emeka hosted a small dinner for the village chiefs. Among them was Chidi, a man known for his sharp tongue and even sharper intuition. The table was filled with pounded yam, bitter leaf soup, cuts of goat meat, roasted chicken, and bushmeat.

"I saw Nkechi today," Chidi remarked casually, swallowing a morsel of yam. "She seemed very unkempt, like she lost a land that was given to her." Emeka sighed. "Amaka also lost her land that her husband came for his sons. This is what we have to do for our land."

"It is a tragedy that some people cannot manage their affairs," another chief said with his mouth full of teeth and palm wine in hand. Chidi watched Emeka closely. "It is curious. I recall seeing your messenger leaving the Colonial Registering Office three days ago. I didn't know the council had business with the regional magistrate." The room went silent, and Emeka showed an expression on his face that hinted at fear and guilt all at once. Yet he steadied his face and smiled. "My messenger was only filing my personal taxes," he replied to Chidi. "We must learn to be upright with the citizens, to render to Caesar what is Caesar's."

"Indeed," Chidi replied, narrowing his eyes. "And render unto Emeka what is for the widows, right?"

The tension was broken by a sudden commotion outside. A group of youth was shouting, led by Nnamdi, the young seller who was shamed the day before. They marched into the compound, and Nnamdi held out a sheet of paper.

"Elder Emeka, Elder Emeka!" Nnamdi shouted, his voice trembling with a mix of fear, anger, and fury. "I found these receipts near the Registrar's Office. They are for the land transactions, but they aren't in the village's name, they are in New York. Would you like to explain this to us?"

The other chiefs stood up, looking between the paper and Elder Emeka. The porcelain mask was about to crack. Emeka did not move; he did not shout. He simply sat there with the golden light of the oil lamps reflecting in his eyes. "You are a thief," Nnamdi accused. "You helped shape the future of our land while busy rooting widows. You are a very wicked man and you practice hypocrisy."

At this point, Elder Emeka stood slowly, smoothing his white agbada, looking at all the chiefs and pretending to be magnificent in his attire. "These are all fabrications," he claimed. "A boy caught in a lie and now trying to drag down a giant with him. The giant's feet are made of clay, and they leave footprints."

"Shut it, Elder Emeka," Chidi shouted, as he scanned the dates and signatures. "This is your sale, Elder Emeka. And this state is the very money you let the village pray for the poor."

The silence that followed was different from the one before; it had a very loud sound that could be heard from thirty miles away. A space where trust used to exist was now filled with betrayal. Emeka looked around the room, searching for friendly faces, but he could not find any. The mirrors of his own deceit reflected directly in his eyes and, more especially, on his white agbada that glowed under the golden light of the lamp.

He realized that the hardest part of wearing a mask isn't the weight of the lie, but the fact that once it breaks, you may forget what your own face looks like underneath. "Get out, Elder Emeka," his voice finally losing its melody. "We are not living in deceit." He gestured to the other chiefs to follow. "The village will have a meeting tomorrow, and it will be about honesty and justice. I would suggest you find a new agbada, as this one is already stained and cannot be cleaned by washing."

With the compound emptied, Emeka sat down in the dark glow of the lamp. He reached for a piece of meat but could not find his appetite; it was gone. It had left with the chiefs, and the only sound was the clinking of the coins on the safe when they were brought to him—a lonely sound that offered no comfort or peace for all the troubles it had brought him.

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Image used is AI generated.

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