Year: 1880
The Oba's inspection came without warning.
"My son has been busy." The Oba's voice carried across the practice field. Behind him, twenty nobles watched. Half of them were Osaro's allies.
Akenzua's stomach dropped. This was supposed to be private. Secret.
"Father. I wasn't expecting—"
"A king needs no invitation to observe his son's activities." The Oba's eyes were unreadable. "Show me what you've built."
No choice now. The exposure would happen regardless—better to control it than fight it.
"Guards. Form rank."
Ten men moved into position. Each carried a rifle. Across the field, wooden targets waited.
"These weapons are manufactured here. In Benin. By our own smiths."
Murmurs from the nobles. Osaro's face betrayed nothing.
"Fire."
The volley cracked across the morning air. At forty paces, eight of ten shots punched through wooden targets.
"Again."
Six hits at sixty paces.
"Again."
Four at eighty.
The Oba examined one of the rifles.
"How many can you produce?"
"Three per week currently. With more smiths, potentially fifteen."
"Impressive." The Oba's tone was neutral. "The kingdom's resources have been well spent."
Chief Osaro stepped forward. "The kingdom's resources were never allocated for this purpose. The prince has been operating without proper authority."
"The prince has been preparing for survival." Akenzua kept his voice steady. "The Europeans have weapons that make these look primitive. Unless we adapt, we die."
"The prince sees threats everywhere."
"The prince sees what's coming. The question is whether the kingdom will be ready."
The Oba raised his hand.
"We will discuss this in private council. The demonstration is concluded."
The nobles dispersed, whispering. Akenzua had shown his hand—but he'd also shown what he could do.
---
Igue was furious.
"You brought the entire court to see our work? Including Osaro's people?"
"I had no choice. The Oba arrived without warning."
"And now everyone knows. The smiths are exposed. The production facilities are compromised."
"The work continues. It just continues more carefully."
"More carefully?" Igue's voice rose. "One of my apprentices lost three fingers because we were rushing. Now you're telling me we exposed everything to the enemy, and we should be careful?"
"What would you have me do? Refuse to show the Oba?"
"I would have you consult with your allies before making decisions that affect all of us!"
The words hung in the air.
"You're right." Akenzua forced the admission out. "I should have warned you. Prepared contingencies."
"You're making this up as you go. I understand that. But when you improvise, people get hurt."
"Ogun's hand."
"Ogun's hand. Amenze's death in the forge explosion. And now whatever happens because Osaro knows what we're building."
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to remember that genius isn't enough. Planning matters. Process matters. And the people who work with you need to be part of the decisions, not just tools you deploy."
---
The next morning brought disaster.
Rifle eighteen. Same design. Same materials. Same process.
The young smith—barely twenty, name of Ogun—had loaded it himself. Standard test procedure.
At forty paces, the barrel exploded.
Akenzua was across the range before the sound finished echoing. Ogun was on the ground, his right hand a ruin of blood and shattered bone. His face peppered with metal fragments. Screaming.
"Get the healer. Now!"
The other smiths stood frozen. Igue moved first, wrapping cloth around the shattered hand.
Three fingers. Gone.
The hand would never work properly again.
---
That night, Akenzua sat alone in the darkened forge.
His fault. He had pushed for faster production. Cut corners on inspection.
Igue found him there.
"The barrel fractured along a fault line. Invisible to the eye."
"How do we prevent this?"
"Slower cooling. Better inspection. Testing every barrel before assembly."
"Do it. Whatever time it takes."
"Production will slow to half."
"Then it slows. I won't trade lives for speed."
Igue studied him. "Most princes wouldn't care about a smith's fingers."
"Most princes haven't held men while they bled out from their decisions."
A memory surfaced—the young sergeant in Vietnam, gut-shot because his commanding officer had moved too fast.
"We slow down," Akenzua said. "We inspect everything. And we tell Ogun his sacrifice will be honored."
"That I can do."
---
At dawn, ten men stood in line at the hidden clearing.
Palace guards. Loyal to the Oba personally. Selected for discretion.
"What you're about to see is secret. The penalty for breaking this silence is death."
He let that sink in.
"Not my death. Yours."
"Yes, Prince."
Ten rifles were distributed.
"These are Benin-made weapons. Faster to load than any musket. More accurate at distance."
He demonstrated the loading sequence. Slow. Deliberate.
"The man who rushes this process dies with an empty weapon."
He raised the rifle. Aimed. Fired.
Center hit.
"Now. You will learn."
---
That evening, a servant stepped from a shadowed doorway.
One of Osaro's people. The Iwebo Society insignia barely visible.
"Your Highness. The prince has been busy today."
His eyes flickered over Akenzua's hands—charcoal dust, the faint smell of gun oil.
"The prince has many responsibilities."
"Perhaps the prince would be willing to share his projects with those who serve the kingdom's interests."
A warning. Barely veiled.
"The prince's projects are his own concern."
"All things are the Iwebo's concern. We serve the Oba by watching over his family."
"Then the Iwebo serves well."
The servant's smile was thin.
"We shall see what ways those are, Prince."
He vanished into the shadows.
---
Osarobo found him within the hour.
"The forge. We have a problem."
"What happened?"
"Supply chain. The charcoal merchants who supply the special grade we need—they've been bought out. Every single one."
"By whom?"
"Merchants connected to the Iwebo Society. As of this morning, no supplier in the city will sell to the smiths guild."
The foundation was cracking.
No charcoal meant no forge fires. No forge fires meant no weapon production. Osaro had found a way to strangle their operation without direct confrontation.
"How long until current stocks run out?"
"Three weeks. Maybe four."
"We need alternative sources. Outside the city."
"That takes time. And exposes our supply lines to interception."
"What choice do we have?"
"I've been thinking about that." Osarobo paused. "The Itsekiri at Warri. They have charcoal production. And they owe traditional tribute to Benin."
"Can we establish a supply line without Osaro knowing?"
"Difficult. But possible."
"Then do it. Whatever resources you need."
---
Igue approached as the crisis meeting concluded.
"My personal project."
He led Akenzua to a back room. Smaller forge. Private workspace.
On the workbench lay a different weapon. Longer barrel. More refined.
"What is this?"
"I've been experimenting. Those grooves you mentioned—the spirals inside European barrels. It took time, but I figured out how to cut them."
Akenzua picked it up. The balance was better.
"Do you understand what you've done?"
"Made a more complicated barrel?"
"Those grooves spin the bullet. The spinning stabilizes it. Makes it fly straighter, farther."
"I tested it yesterday. Three times more accurate at the same distance."
"How long to cut the grooves?"
"A full day per barrel. But with practice, half a day."
"Keep working on this. Train others."
"And the supply crisis?"
"We'll solve it. We have to." Akenzua looked at the rifled weapon in his hands. "Because this—this changes everything. Smooth-bore for regular troops. Rifled weapons for specialists."
Outside, the supply chain was strangled. The production was slowing. Osaro was closing in.
But here, in this secret room, the future was still being forged.
One rifled barrel at a time.
---
END OF CHAPTER EIGHT