The family heirloom

"To us from the tribe of Igbo, he is the god of healing, insight, and knowledge. He quickens the injury of the wounded; his mind is like a universe of books containing a vase amount of knowledge that we mortals can't even comprehend, and he gives enlightenment to any willing to come to him," with a breathy voice, his eyes shone with unmistakable fervor, his gaze staring at the statue's figure as his father spoke.

Jidenna was startled, his mind flashed back remembering the strange occurrences he had been experiencing ever since he arrived.

'The first day I came to this world, I almost died,' a slight shiver went down his spine as he recalled his near-death experience.

'Not once, not twice, but thrice. Apart from the ones caused by my reckless revenge,' he added.

Sometimes Jidenna still felt like he had random piercing headaches, like a computer beeping in his mind.

But even as a newcomer to this world, he had watched enough movies to know when something is abnormal.

'For example, my wounds healed pretty quickly. I've measured the rate at which I heal: one moment, I'm bleeding at death's door, and the next, I'm back, healthy and strong.'

Jidenna knew it was abnormal, so he made a guess, even though he doubted it. 'Could it be from this god?'

Just as he thought that, his father Ikenna introduced the name of the god.

"This is our patron god, Agwu..."

"This family has served him for centuries. In return, he has given us many things. It is said that many centuries ago..." His father began to formally speak of an ancient tale, passed down orally from generation to generation, its origins lost in the sands of time but remembered in their hearts.

He spoke of how Agwu helped the wounded and fleeing battle-worn strangers, provided for and sheltered them.

He led them back to defeat their enemies through strategies they had never heard of.

Their enemies had occupied their lands, partying with grandeur, feasting on the crops they had tilled with sweat pouring down their backs under the blistering hot sun.

Their men and women were captured and treated with cruelty, like bugs, not even as good as their horses.

After a crushing victory, Agwu stood in front of them, guiding them on a path to prosperity. Their crops flourished, their animals fattened, their lives became peaceful, and they lived their days content.

And so it had been, until that day.

With that, Ikenna stopped speaking.

His actions tore Jidenna away from the story's immersive grip.

Jidenna leaned forward, his eyes shining brightly, eager to hear more, so he urged his father, "What happened then?"

"My son," he gave Jidenna a deep look, pushing himself off the raffia mat. At some point in the story, they had migrated from their previous standpoint back to the raffia mat, kneeling on it.

"What happened next is a story for another time," he curtly replied, but his words did little to douse the raging curiosity eating Jidenna up.

Jidenna tried to convince his father to continue. "Daddy, just finish it na. You're already halfway."

But his father cut him off. "Enough. The morning will soon arrive. We must complete what we came for and not dawdle on things that can be discussed later." His voice softened but still held an authoritative edge. "You are leaving for school today, or did you forget, my son?"

His words poured cold water on Jidenna's thoughts, awakening his reasoning. 'That's true,' he agreed in his mind.

His shoulders slumped in defeat. He got up from the mat and sluggishly dragged his feet to where his father was, still offering a last dying protest.

His father guided Jidenna to stand in front of the looming statue while he moved to the side, directing him through his words.

Jidenna stood in front of the statue. Its tallness did not intimidate him or make him feel small.

He stared right back at it, his eyes scrutinizing it before stopping at the ordinary golden rod laying on its palms—the same rod that had attracted him earlier.

His father, off to the side, offered a timely introduction. "That is our family's heirloom," he gestured toward the rod. "It has been passed down in the family from generation to generation. It is the symbol of the head of the house, which is the firstborn." He paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. "You, Jidenna, are my firstborn; therefore, you are to carry the family heirloom."

"Go on," he urged Jidenna, "take it from his palms."

Jidenna walked forward, guided by his father's words, and grabbed the rod, lifting it from the statue's palms and taking it away.

Meanwhile, once Ikenna saw Jidenna lifting the rod, his eyes widened in shock, feeling astonished before he blinked, shoving the thought into the recesses of his mind and composing himself.

Straightening his slumped shoulders, he walked up to Jidenna, inwardly reminding himself of his son's identity. At the same time, he clenched his fingers desperately to stop the shivers of excitement running through his body, his mind sending him red warnings of the prophecy.

'The prophecy is finally here! Our family will rise again, but at what cost? The death of my son.' Such a realization was like a basin of cold water dousing him on a blistering hot afternoon.

He gave a wry smile as he halted his steps, giving Jidenna a strange look. For a moment, he wasn't sure.

He was excited about the prophecy coming true, something that had been sung for generations. It had been drilled into his mind from birth that this situation was something to rejoice over, but—

His son, whom he had watched grow from a baby in swaddling cloths, who could crawl, say his first word, until now, suddenly died, and his body was inhabited by The One.

Just for a split second, Jidenna's father Ikenna thought: if he could go back again—if he had the chance to change everything... would he?