ayoamadu

They called him dangerous, though he carried no weapon.
They called him foolish, though his words struck like lightning across dry fields.
They called him a traitor, though his only crime was refusing to bow.

The council of the powerful painted him as a menace, a corrupter of order, a threat to the “peace.” They gave him names until their tongues bled with labels; heretic, rebel, lunatic… Believing that if they could bury him beneath insults, they could silence the unsettling music of his voice.

But he smiled, because he understood a secret they could not: names are chains only to those who believe in them.

He stood alone at the city gate, mocked by the crowd that echoed the council’s slanders. Yet as the people jeered, a few noticed the steadiness of his eyes, the calm of his stance, the way his presence carried a freedom they had long forgotten.

And in the quiet of their hearts, a dangerous seed was planted: What if the NonConformist is not the villain they claim, but the mirror we fear to face?

—

Itura, the NonConformist

They named him Itura, though his birth name is long forgotten. The rulers of the city cursed him in their proclamations, painting him as a shadow against the sun, a danger to the order they had so carefully manufactured.

“Itura,” they spat, “the disturber, the divider, the deceiver.”

Yet those who met his gaze found no madness there, only clarity. He did not raise armies, nor did he scheme to seize thrones. His rebellion was simpler: he would not kneel to lies. He would not wear the mask demanded of every citizen.

When told to chant the slogans, Itura was silent.
When told to raise the flag, Itura raised a question.
When told to worship their image of truth, Itura walked away.

For this, the council demonized him. They draped him in every insult they could find, as though names alone could cage him. And though the crowd joined in the chorus of condemnation, a whisper lingered:

Why does he stand so calmly, while the powerful rage?
Why does he seem freer in exile than we do in obedience?

Itura never sought followers, but they came. Not in multitudes, not in parades, but in the quiet courage of solitary hearts, those who, seeing him mocked, felt a strange stirring inside:

Perhaps the one they call enemy is, in truth, the only friend we have left.