Bound by ancestry - Chapter 20: Chapter 20

As Chidubem and his group departed Egbema, the city echoed with fresh breath—murals restored, names rekindled, the Tree of Names standing tall in the square. But the road ahead was not meant to end with one city's revival. There were still fractures in the land, places where silence ruled and memory had withered like a leaf in harmattan.
They traveled northwest toward Isieke, a forgotten junction between the mountains and the forest. It had once been a passage for pilgrims, traders, and spirit messengers, but now it was cloaked in mist and riddled with traps laid by fear and superstition.
The land grew colder.
More distant.
Even birds dared not fly overhead.
At the foot of the mountain, they met resistance—not from spirits, but from men.
“Turn back,” warned a ragged scout, one eye blinded by fire. “No one crosses the Ridge of Curses.”
Chidubem stepped forward. “We carry the truth. And where truth goes, silence cannot remain.”
The man spat into the ground. “Then may the stones judge you.”
They ascended the Ridge.
The path wound sharply upward, flanked by jagged cliffs. Whispers followed them. Not voices, but echoes—fragments of arguments, betrayals, lost promises. Each member of the Circle felt them.
Uche nearly stumbled when a memory of her father’s voice rang through the rocks, accusing her of cowardice. Ogbonna paused when he heard his younger self screaming in a dream he had forgotten.
But they pressed on.
At the summit, they found it: a shrine made of black stone, cracked in places, still radiating a low hum. It bore the marks of all tribes—Igbo, Efik, Idoma, even distant symbols from the desert peoples.
“It was once shared,” Uche whispered. “Before the tribes turned inward.”
A voice boomed from behind the shrine.
“You seek unity. But walk divided.”
A figure emerged—half cloaked in dust, half wreathed in light. Not spirit. Not man.
“The Guardian of the Joining,” Uzochi said. “He who bridges names.”
The Guardian lifted his staff.
“You must speak not your own name, but one you have hated.”
Chidubem stepped forward. “I name Obinna, the cousin who betrayed my father.”
Uche followed. “I name Adaobi, the friend who abandoned me in my time of loss.”
Each member spoke a name they once cursed.
And with each confession, the stones shifted. The air warmed.
The Guardian knelt. “You have chosen truth over comfort. The path opens.”
Behind the shrine, a staircase of moss-covered steps appeared, descending into a sunken grove.
In the grove, they found relics—books sealed in glass, drums preserved by silence, scrolls of wind paper. And at the center stood a tree of barkless wood, glowing faintly.
“The Root’s Twin,” Uzochi said in awe.
This was a second origin—a branch of the Heart.
They laid their seeds at its base. The light grew.
Memories began to unfold around them—not as visions, but as feelings. Old reconciliations. Lost dances. Forgotten peace treaties.
A voice from within the tree said, “Truths buried in shame can bloom in honesty.”
They spent the night in the grove. For the first time in weeks, they dreamed without sorrow.
By dawn, the tree bore fruit—small, golden pods filled with warmth. One for each of them.
“The fruit of understanding,” Uzochi explained. “We carry them not to eat, but to plant again.”
When they left Isieke, the mountains sang behind them. Not loudly. But enough to let the sky know—memory had risen there too.
And ahead, a shadow moved across the plains.
The last Obiri.
Still watching.
Still waiting.