08/03/2026
THE WOUNDS OF MBAGWA
Chapter One â The Cracks in the Soil
The village of Mbagwa lay like a jewel between the undulating hills and the wide, fertile plains of Benue. From afar, a visitor would swear it was paradise itself: the green of yam tendrils curling up their wooden stakes, cassava fields stretching far into the horizon, goats and chickens roaming freely between homesteads built of mud and thatch. The Tiv people who lived there carried in their bones the rhythm of the land; their backs were bent with honest work, and their hearts beat with the stubborn pride of a people whose ancestors had tilled that soil for centuries.
The morning in Mbagwa began before the c**k crowed. Women rose while the stars still glimmered faintly, tying wrappers tightly around their waists as they fetched water from the stream. The men stirred fires to roast leftover yam, preparing for the fields. Children tumbled out of mats rubbing sleepy eyes, chasing each other through the compound until a stern word from a mother sent them scurrying to fetch firewood.
It was a village bound together by the rhythm of farming, of festivals, of marriage rites and funerals. And yet, beneath this rhythm, beneath the laughter of children and the beat of drums on market days, there was a fault line. A crack that had been growing quietly, like a snake in tall grass. That crack was land.
Part One: Life Before the Shadow
On one bright morning, Terkaa, a young boy of twelve, followed his father to the farm. His small legs struggled to keep pace, but his eyes were wide with wonder. The path cut through dense bush where birds whistled and monkeys barked. His father, Homga, carried a hoe slung over his shoulder, his tall frame glistening with sweat though the sun had barely risen.
âFather,â Terkaa asked, âwhy do you always tell me this land is ours? Did you buy it?â
Homga chuckled, shaking his head. âBuy? âMbayev ka vea lu a kav mfe u Tar ga yĂŽ. One does not buy land that his ancestors gave him.â His voice was heavy, carrying both pride and weariness. âThis land fed my father, and his father before him. It will feed you too.â
They reached the farm, where neat mounds of yam stretched like soldiers in rows. Terkaa bent down to touch the soil, feeling its warmth. To him it was only dirt but to his father, it was the very heartbeat of existence.
As they worked, another farmer appeared on the far edge, whistling as he sharpened his cutlass. Homgaâs face hardened when he recognized him: Tarhemba, a cousin from another family line.
The two men did not greet each other. They bent over their ridges, each pretending the other did not exist. Only the sound of hoes striking soil broke the silence. Terkaa noticed and asked, âFather, why donât you greet Uncle Tarhemba?â
Homga spat into the dust. âHe is no uncle of mine when he claims the land that belongs to us. He says his fatherâs line owns this stretch. Lies! All lies.â
Terkaa was silent. He had heard whispers of quarrels, but to see two grown men ignore each other on land that looked endless confused him. How could there not be enough soil for everyone?
To be continued....
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EDNA JONES
