The Parable of Okeite, Onye Akpili, and the People of Ikembe.
It was in the year 1853 that the land of Ikembe prepared for its great end-of-year Assembly. This Assembly was not like other meetings; it was the market day of destiny. Drums were polished, kola nuts were broken, and the people of the six villages gathered to choose the next President General of Ndi Ikembe.

The post was like the tortoise’s shell: whoever wore it carried both pride and burden. By ancient custom, it rotated from village to village, so that no one hand would grasp the yam and the knife forever.

But men are restless creatures. When the moon stays too long in the sky, the stars begin to grumble.

The Plot of Ewu Kanbia
The incumbent, Ewu Kanbia, was a man who had sat too long on the stool of power. He was stern, slow to listen, and tighter than the lid of an oil jar. Instead of honouring the rotation, he sought to plant his cousin on the stool after him.

“Does he think we are blind goats tethered to a stump?” the people asked in whispers. “Even yam tendrils know how to find new ground.”

It was then that Okeite, the fox of Ikembe politics, sharpened his mind. Years ago, he had helped Ewu Kanbia seize power, but loyalty is like rain: once it falls and dries, the ground seeks the next shower.

Okeite called his circle of streetwise men. They met in the corner where the lamp never reached, and their whispers were louder than market noise to those who knew how to listen.

“Okeite,” one of them said, “Ewu Kanbia wants to cheat the rotation. Shall we fight him in the open square?”

Okeite shook his head slowly. “The lizard that jumped from the high iroko tree said it would praise itself if no one else did. Let us instead use another man’s greed to open the gate for us.”

The Foolishness of Onye Akpili
So they turned their eyes to Onye Akpili, the treasurer of Ikembe, keeper of the people’s purse. His chest was broad, but his eyes were always fixed on the next title.

“Okeite,” another of his men said, “that one is like a goat following the scent of palm leaves. Entice him with the dream of the stool, and he will walk straight into the trap.”

They invited him under the guise of friendship. Okeite himself spoke:
“Brother, the Assembly needs new blood. Why should you not be President General? You hold the purse; you hold the key. Stand with us, and the stool shall be yours.”

Onye Akpili’s eyes widened like a child offered roasted yam. He rubbed his hands and said, “If the toad jumps into the water, it must have seen something. I will not refuse this chance. Count me in.”

He even ran to Ewu Kanbia, puffing up his chest: “Know this, I too seek the stool. Let the game begin!”


But Okeite and his men only sought silver, not loyalty. They demanded heavy payment. Onye Akpili opened the treasury like a cracked pot, and his cousin Akujala of Ikembe Journal stood as guarantor. The money was given. Then silence. The river swallowed the stone, and no ripple returned.

The Trick of Currency
When Onye Akpili discovered the deceit, he staggered to Ewu Kanbia like a man who drank palm wine without food. Together they hatched a plot crueller than harmattan wind: “Let us declare,” said Ewu Kanbia, “that the very money he has taken, and every currency in Ikembe, is no longer money!”

And so, it was. Overnight, the wealth of Ikembe turned to dry leaves. Traders at the market wailed. Mothers could not buy salt. Grooms postponed their bride-price. Confusion spread like bushfire.

Onye Akpili laboured to bring a new currency, hoping to starve Okeite’s war chest. But Okeite was no ordinary man. He smiled and said, “When the drum beats change, the dancer must change his steps.”

The Midnight Proclamation
On the night of the Assembly, Okeite struck again. The umpire, keeper of the people’s voice, was ambushed. At the ghostly hour of 2 a.m., while the cock still slept, the umpire proclaimed: “Hear, O Ndi Ikembe! Okeite is your new President General!”

The town erupted like a pot of boiling soup. Cries rose: “This is fraud! This is trickery!” The people ran to Nnanyi Ogwugwu, the oldest man in Ikembe, whose wisdom was said to pierce even the dark of a clay pot.

“Nnanyi,” they cried, “see what has been done to us! Judge this matter!”
But unknown to them, Okeite had already knelt at Nnanyi Ogwugwu’s shrine with kola and palm oil before the Assembly.

The old man peered into his bag, muttered incantations, and then declared: “I see nothing.”

The people sighed. “When the elder eats all the meat, the children must chew the bones.” And they returned home, bitter and broken.

From that day, Okeite sat as President General of Ikembe.

The Fall of Onye Akpili
But Onye Akpili’s troubles had only begun. One dawn, guards seized him. The charge? That he had supplied two cutlasses to louts who troubled Ikembe long before he became treasurer.

Month after month, he was dragged before courts. New charges sprouted like mushrooms: theft, conspiracy, even the absurd claim that he secretly owned a whole village!

People whispered, “When a man who dreamed of becoming king is now accused of owning villages, the gods are laughing.”

Onye Akpili, once proud treasurer, became the town’s scapegoat, paraded and shamed until even children mocked his name.

Reflections in Ikembe
The parable became a lesson told under the moonlight:
• On ambition: “The chick that leaves its shell too early will meet the hawk.” Onye Akpili’s hunger blinded him; his dream of the stool turned to ashes.
• On power: “The hand that gives kola can also seize the knife.” Okeite showed that power bends customs, elders, and even truth itself.
• On justice: “When the cock crows at midnight, it is not crowing for the farmer.” The midnight proclamation proved that in Ikembe, rules are written by those who hold the stick.
• On the people: “When two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.” It was Ndi Ikembe who bore the hunger, the confusion, and the shame.

And so, the elders of Ikembe would end the tale with a sigh:
“Let us pray that our yam and knife never fall into the hands of men who see us as pawns. For if the lizard of the homestead cannot protect its tail, who shall protect it?”

Finally, the youth chant x3:
Ikembe, Ikembe, land of six villages…
If we do not guard our stool, strangers will sit on it.
If we do not guard our yam, the clever fox will eat it.
And the elder ends: “Let the story be told, lest we forget.”

Dr. EK Gwuru writes from Ikembe.