News spread like wildfire. Ayanwale had found the Royalty Drum.
At first, it was just whispers. Then, the old men at the palm wine shed began to nod knowingly. The women in the market started offering him extra pieces of meat in his stew. Children gathered outside his compound every evening, waiting to hear the rhythm that stirred the air like thunder wrapped in silk.
But not all the attention was welcome.
There were some in the town—keepers of quiet secrets and broken promises—who had hoped the drum would never be found again. They remembered its power. They remembered its price.
And now, it had returned.
That week, Ayanwale began hearing the drum in his dreams again. But this time, it wasn't his father who came.
It was a woman.
Tall, robed in flowing red, her face painted with sacred white clay. Her eyes glowed like coals. She never spoke. She simply beat her own drum—a rhythm Ayanwale couldn't recognize. It was fast. Violent. Demanding.
When he woke, he always found sweat on his brow and the Royalty Drum humming faintly, though untouched.
"What does it want from me?" he asked Rotimi one night, the two of them sitting by a small fire behind the house.
Rotimi scratched his beard. "Maybe it's not about what it wants. Maybe it's about what you need to become."
"I don't want to become anything strange," Ayanwale muttered. "I just want to honor my father. To restore our family name."
"But you know it's bigger than that," Rotimi replied. "That drum is not just a key to your past. It's a weapon. A bridge. Maybe even a curse."
Just then, a figure emerged from the shadows beyond the firelight. An elderly man in a long agbada, walking slowly with the help of a carved stick. His face was lined like cracked leather, his eyes sharp and alert.
"You are Ayanwale, son of Kolawole the drummer," he said in a voice smooth as nightfall.
Ayanwale stood up cautiously. "Yes. Who are you?"
"I am Baba Aje. I was once the apprentice to your great-grandfather. The last time the Royalty Drum was played... I was a boy."
He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving the drum beside the fire.
"I felt its call. It sings again."
Rotimi stood protectively, but the old man raised a hand.
"I mean no harm. But you must be careful. That drum was locked away for a reason. Its sound has power—to awaken, yes, but also to summon things that should remain buried."
"What things?" Ayanwale asked.
"Echoes of the past. Spirits of envy. Keepers of old debts."
He crouched slowly, his knees creaking.
"You must perform the Rite of Echoes, boy. Before the moon is full. Otherwise, the drum will grow stronger than you, and it will no longer play for your hands—it will play through them."
Ayanwale frowned. "What is this Rite of Echoes?"
The old man traced a circle in the sand with his stick. "A ritual only performed by those chosen by the drum. You must beat the seven ancestral rhythms—each one unlocking a memory sealed inside the wood. With each rhythm, you will see a truth, feel a burden, and face a trial. If you survive all seven… the drum will become yours completely."
"And if I fail?" Ayanwale asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted the answer.
The old man stood slowly.
"Then the drum becomes a curse. And the curse becomes your legacy."
That night, Ayanwale sat alone with the Royalty Drum beneath the rising moon. He stared at the carvings on its surface—each face now seeming to stare back. He could almost feel the rhythms sleeping inside, waiting for his hands to awaken them.
He placed his palms gently on the drumhead. A cool breeze passed through the trees. The air grew heavy, as if time itself paused to listen.
And then, softly, he began to play.
One rhythm. Then another.
The journey had begun.