Ayanwale came from a long line of drummers, a family whose rhythms once summoned spirits, told histories, and stirred entire villages to dance. But times had changed. The drums were no longer sacred—they were background noise to the modern world. Ayanwale, skeptical of tradition, had never truly believed in the tales passed down, especially not the one about the Royalty Drum—an ancestral instrument said to possess the soul of their lineage.
It wasn't until he stumbled upon a weathered book buried in his late grandfather's belongings that something stirred within him. The pages spoke of a hidden inheritance—royalties owed to their family, safeguarded across generations until the right heir came forth.
Ayanwale paused. Could that heir be him?
He became obsessed. The book mentioned the Royalty Drum, a sacred object said to carry the weight of their family's wealth and destiny. If he could find it, he believed, everything would change. Every corner of the family home was turned upside down in search of this mythical drum, but he found nothing. Only dust and silence.
Exhausted, he collapsed on his bed and drifted into a strange dream. In it, his father stood in the glow of moonlight, his hands moving rhythmically across a drum that glowed with fire. He sang a haunting melody—the song of the greedy drummers, a tale of those who sought wealth and lost their soul in the pursuit.
But his father's voice became stern, almost pleading.
"Never stop drumming, my son. It is the only work that will bring you honor. The drum will show you the way."
Ayanwale woke up soaked in sweat, heart pounding.
"Bàámi! Bàámi!" he cried into the night.
The next morning, he told his closest friend, Rotimi, about the dream. Rotimi was the opposite of Ayanwale—flamboyant, talkative, always chasing women and opportunity. But he listened carefully, nodding as Ayanwale spoke.
"You must not stop," Rotimi said. "If your father said the drum is the way, then beat it till the truth reveals itself."
"But who still listens to drummers in this town?" Ayanwale asked bitterly. "Who values our sound anymore?"
Rotimi leaned in, eyes glinting.
"I've heard this story before. A man once told me that drum is worth ten million dollars."
Ayanwale's eyes widened.
"Are you sure?"
"As sure as I love women," Rotimi said, grinning. "The drum was lost here, but no one knows where. But you finding that book? It means something."
Ayanwale felt the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders. This must be what my father meant in the dream. The drum wasn't just wood and skin—it was the key to legacy.
From that day, Ayanwale committed himself to the drum. He visited old drummers in dusty compounds, listened to rhythms nearly forgotten, learned chants that once called the rain. He played at schools, markets, and crossroads—anywhere ears would listen.
His sound began to travel. People came, curious at first, then mesmerized. The rhythm spoke to them. It was as if the drum whispered stories they didn't know they'd lost.
Rotimi, ever the opportunist, pulled him aside one evening.
"Ayanwale! Ayanwale! Ayanwale! How many times did I call you?"
"Three," Ayanwale replied, grinning.
"Exactly. Three times is serious business. People are loving your music. Let's start charging for the shows. We can make money from this, you know?"
But Ayanwale shook his head.
"My friend, I'm not doing this for that kind of money. This is about my father. About our blood. I need people to recognize me, yes—but only so I can find where the royalty drum sleeps."
His eyes burned with quiet fire.
"I'll know it when I hear its sound."
And so, he continued. Each beat of the drum a question. Each rhythm a step closer to the truth. The town began to whisper. Children danced to his rhythm. Elders tapped their feet to forgotten grooves. And somewhere, in the walls of that old family house, the Royalty Drum waited.
Watching. Listening.
Ready.