Your Son is dead!

"Eh he.¹"

"So you can't say 'Good morning'² again?"

Though confused, he understood the current affairs and flowed along with it.

"Good morning, Ma." He stiffly said, his body rigid with tension.

"Good morning to you too." Placing her hands on her knees, she stood up from the sofa and walked into a room.

Following the example from the morning, he immediately saw the brown-skinned, built man who walked out from the same room his mother had entered.

He greeted, after some hesitation, assuming that man should be his father. "Good morning, Sir."

After getting a response, Jidenna turned back to the room. He was still searching for the culprit who poisoned the original owner.

Strangely, all records of his activity that day could not be seen on his phone, as if they were wiped out.

Leaving him with no clue except for his call log, which was locked. You can't access his contacts or call log unless you know the password.

Since he woke up, he has not received any calls.

That was strange coming from someone who had over 40 calls the previous day, a day before he woke up.

But he could only search using what he had; he had an act to keep up.

He already had his suspicions.

From what he had learned during his one-week stay, this body's parents were very cautious people.

They refused to keep people updated on certain things like where they are, their jobs, especially if it's a glorious and happy event.

In fact, the rule was: the more prosperous, the more silent we should be.³

Rules were also in place against taking edible things from people in everyday life, even down to eating at ceremonies.

Which meant, for the original owner, bringing the juice carton to his house and drinking it must have been from someone he trusted.

That revelation narrowed down his search to possible options, like his friend, relative, or co-worker.

He thought as he kept walking despite the pressuring stare he could feel following after him.

'After all, his parents were already suspicious enough about him.'

His mind connected, the strange looks and glances filled with doubts, his father's teary eyes which quickly dries up like an illusion.

It gave him the feeling that they were aware that he was not their son

****

A door was pushed open.

"Di,⁴" a voice called out to the man who knelt on a rafian mat.

The room was bare of anything save for the rafian mat and a statue of a man in a floor-length robe, a hood covering his face, revealing shining golden gems as eyes.

The rest of his features were blurred, as if a veil was placed in between.

In the statue's grasp was a towering 9-foot double-spearhead golden spear.

Its body was coated with mysterious runic markings.

The combination blended to give off an elegant but deadly aura.

Without turning, he gave her a glance from the side of his eyes, which reminded her of where she was.

Her shoulders shook in fright as an invisible pressure seemed to bear down on her.

Her legs scurried over to her husband's side, kneeling beside him.

She stayed, her back rimrod straight but her head bowed, and her gaze was glued to the floor, mirroring her husband, until she heard him sigh and then speak in a grave tone, "The time has finally come."

His words hit her like a speeding train.

Her lips trembled, choking back a sob.

He stood up, supporting his wife whose legs had turned to strings of limp noodles.

It was only when they had gotten into the confines of their room that she broke down crying, tears gushing down her eyes as she leaned on her husband's figure.

It was something she always knew, something she thought she was ready for, but when it had really happened...

She found out she was not ready for it at all.

Her Dị Opara⁵ was gone...

Beside her, her husband wiped the tears that trickled from his eyes like a broken tap silently.

"Where do you think our son is now?" his wife inquired.

"He has been taken by the gods to live a better life, a life we could not give him, my dear," he responded, trying to convince both himself and his wife.

Because truthfully, he was not aware; the only thing that was passed down to him were the instructions.

He remembered 15 years ago when the last king, his mother, died.

Then Jidenna was 5 years old.

It was a chilly Harmattan⁶ early morning, about 3:00 a.m.

His mother had always believed in the ritual of early morning talks; she always said, "Whatever is said at this time sticks in the mind."⁷

He wasn't sure his still-drowsy brain agreed with that statement, but funny enough, it became something he adopted later on while training his children.

In the later stages of her life, reaching the time to meet the ancestors, she called to him on her deathbed, gripped his trembling hands, and passed down the "burdens of a king," as she called it.

Those were secrets that only the king was allowed to know and bear.

He could remember her words vividly as if it were yesterday.

"Draw your ears and listen well; these words must be passed down to only the next ruler alone…" her hoarse and raspy voice commanded from the bed.

"…A day will come when our god, Agwu, will come, that will signal us of the change of times, and he will lead our family to greater heights," her dim eyes shone with renewed vigor, her pitch increasing.

She broke out into fits of coughs. "Mama, drink water," he rushed off to the side, got lukewarm water from the dispenser.

He brought the cup to her lips and inserted a straw for her to drink.

"Thank you, my son," she flashed him a smile.

"Do you know who he is?" She turned to him with a knowing look.

"Is he already here?" was his thought then, not knowing the next thing he heard would forever change his life.

"It's your son, Jidenna."

He burst into chuckles, thinking she was joking.

But his laughter ceased in his throat when his mother, the king, looked at him dead straight in the eye with every bit of seriousness her dying self could muster.

He squirmed in his chair, now feeling uneasy.