Weeks passed, and Ayanwale's name grew. Children chased him down the street, mimicking his rhythms on empty cans. Market women clapped as he passed, and even the elders began nodding quietly when he played near the village square. Something was awakening—not just in the people, but in the land itself.
One evening, after another performance that left the crowd breathless, Ayanwale returned home. The house was dark, the old kind of dark that sat still like an unwelcome guest. He lit the lantern and walked through the long corridor, past rooms filled with relics of the past—broken stools, cracked calabashes, and faded family portraits.
He paused by his grandfather's old room.
He had searched it many times before. Nothing but dust and silence. But something pulled him in tonight. Something different. A cool wind passed through, though the windows were shut.
He entered.
Everything was as he remembered—the torn mosquito net hanging like a ghost, the mat folded in the corner, and the old carved stool in the center. He sat down, listening.
And then, faintly, almost like a memory brushing against the ear—he heard it.
A drumbeat.
Not loud, not near. But steady. Like a heart. Thum. Thum. Thum.
He stood, trying to trace it. It wasn't coming from inside the room. It was beneath it.
The floorboards creaked under his weight as he knelt and began knocking along the planks. One knock. Hollow. Another. Hollow. Then—thunk.
Solid.
He scratched at the wood with his fingernails, then pried it up with a rusted blade from his belt. Underneath was earth. Smooth, cool, and undisturbed. He dug feverishly with his hands, like a man possessed.
After several minutes, his fingers struck something. He paused. Brushed the dirt aside.
Wood.
But not just any wood. This was dark and glistening as if the tree had bled its soul into the grain. Carvings ran along its surface—symbols, ancestral marks, the faces of men with wide eyes and open mouths.
It was a drum.
The Royalty Drum.
Ayanwale's breath caught. His heart pounded as he lifted it gently from the earth. It was heavy—heavier than any drum he'd ever held. And warm. Alive.
He carried it to the center of the room, sat on the old stool, and placed the drum between his knees.
His hands trembled as they hovered above it.
Then he struck it.
The sound was unlike anything he'd ever heard. Deep, thunderous, and rich with layers—like a voice speaking from beneath the ground. The windows rattled. The lantern flickered.
And something… shifted.
Outside, the wind howled suddenly. Dogs barked in the distance. Somewhere, a bell rang without a hand to touch it.
Then, a voice. Not from the room. Not from the world.
"You have awakened the legacy, my son."
Ayanwale looked around, terrified.
"This drum is not just music. It is memory. It holds the history, the power, and the curse of your bloodline. Use it well… or lose yourself."
Then silence.
Rotimi arrived the next morning, confused to find the door wide open and Ayanwale sitting cross-legged, staring at the drum with a look that was half awe, half fear.
"You didn't sleep?" Rotimi asked.
"I found it," Ayanwale whispered.
Rotimi's eyes widened. "The drum?"
Ayanwale nodded. "It's real. And it's not just an instrument. It's a spirit."
He looked up slowly.
"We've awakened something, Rotimi. And I don't think it will go back to sleep."