Chapter Two

The drums of war had fallen silent, but the forest still trembled with the memory of battle. Smoke curled above the treetops near Feyiase, where the Denkyira Empire had met its reckoning. The once-mighty king, Ntim Gyakari, was not on the battlefield — he had remained at his palace in Abankesieso, leisuring in royal comfort while his Adonten army marched to war.

It was there, in the heart of his kingdom, that he was captured — his golden sandals stripped, his body left as a warning. The Ashanti, newly united under Osei Tutu and the sacred Golden Stool, had shattered Denkyira’s centuries-old dominance in a single, decisive blow.

But not all had perished.

In the chaos following the battle, a small band of Denkyira chiefs, elders, and royal guards slipped away under cover of night. They carried no banners, no drums, no declarations. What they carried instead was heavier than pride — the royal treasure of Denkyira, packed into clay pots, wrapped in bark cloth, and strapped to the backs of weary men and mules.

Gold beads, ceremonial swords, ancestral rings, and the sacred regalia of kings — all hidden in silence.

Their destination was uncertain. The Ashanti had seized the heartland, and every known route was watched. So they turned south, toward the coast, toward the lands of the Fante — rivals, yes, but not enemies. The Fante had resisted Ashanti expansion and maintained their own confederacy. Perhaps there, in the shadows of foreign rule and coastal trade, Denkyira’s legacy could survive.

The journey was brutal. Through the dense forests of Assin, across the rivers of Twifo, and into the rocky hills near Ekumfi, the chiefs moved like ghosts. Some died of wounds sustained in the war. Others were captured, sold into slavery by opportunistic traders. A few vanished, swallowed by the forest or betrayed by those they trusted.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Biriwa, only a handful remained.

There, in a quiet grove near a twisted palm tree, the chiefs made a final decision. They would bury the treasure — not in defeat, but in defiance. It would remain untouched until Denkyira rose again. They chose a sacred spot, marked by a tree whose roots curled like the arms of an elder in prayer. They dug deep, laid the pots in silence, and covered them with clay and leaves.

No one spoke of it again.

The chiefs scattered. Some settled in Fante villages under new names. Others died in obscurity. The knowledge of the treasure’s location, once held by a circle of trusted men, faded with each passing year. The empire was gone. The gold was forgotten.

Until one morning, nearly two centuries later, a barefoot farmer named Jacob Wilson Sey tapped a palm tree and heard a hollow thud.

This chapter was refined in consultation with the Denkyira Heritage Foundation, October 2025, to honor the historical account of Nana Ntim Gyakari’s capture at Abankesieso.