The first rhythm came uninvited, rising from Ayanwale's hands like a memory that had been waiting generations to be felt again. The beats were slow but layered—delicate as falling leaves, yet heavy with sorrow. The Royalty Drum responded like it had waited centuries for this moment.
As the sound filled the room, the world around Ayanwale changed.
The air shimmered. The walls of his grandfather's house faded into mist. The floor dissolved beneath him, and he stood suddenly in a place that was not here and not now—an old forest, thick with shadows, lit only by fireflies and the flicker of distant torches.
He turned and saw a gathering of drummers sitting in a circle. They looked like him—same cheekbones, same eyes—but wore clothes from another age: animal skins, red beads, and iron amulets that shimmered in the firelight. In the center sat a man on a carved stool, taller than the rest. His drum was vast and black like onyx, marked with golden rings.
One of the ancestors.
Ayanwale stepped forward—but no one saw him. He was a shadow, watching a memory unfold.
The elder in the center raised his hand and silence fell.
"Tonight," he said, "we pass the Royalty Drum to my first son, Adetokun. He is ready."
The circle clapped, and one of the young men stood, chest proud, eyes glimmering.
But then, another voice rose—sharp and bitter.
"He is not ready," someone said.
A third man emerged from the shadows—leaner, darker, eyes sharp with anger.
"Why should he carry the legacy? I, Oluwafemi, beat with more strength, more speed. I've waited longer."
Murmurs spread through the drummers. The elder stood again, sorrow in his voice.
"Oluwafemi, your heart is strong, but it burns with envy. The drum does not choose speed or strength. It chooses harmony."
Oluwafemi clenched his fists.
"Then the drum is wrong."
A flash of lightning split the forest sky. Thunder followed. And before anyone could speak again, Oluwafemi stormed away—into the dark.
The scene dissolved.
Ayanwale stood alone now in a small hut. The wind howled outside. Inside, Oluwafemi knelt before a strange altar made of broken drums and feathers dipped in blood. His eyes were wild. His hands bled from hours of drumming.
Then, a voice—low and ancient—whispered in the air:
"If you cannot earn the drum… steal its power."
Ayanwale's breath caught.
This… this was the betrayal that cursed the family line. Oluwafemi had turned to forbidden spirits—Ajalu, the bringers of chaos—to claim the rhythm by force. And in doing so, he split the family. The Royalty Drum was hidden after that night, sealed to protect future generations from inheriting the anger, the greed… the darkness.
The vision collapsed.
Ayanwale woke with a gasp, lying on the cold floor of his grandfather's room. The drum sat before him, still. His chest burned, and in his ears, the rhythm still echoed—a sorrowful beat full of betrayal and warning.
Rotimi rushed in. "Are you okay? I heard the drum playing by itself."
Ayanwale sat up slowly. "It wasn't playing by itself. It was showing me the truth."
He looked at Rotimi, eyes distant.
"Oluwafemi… he was our ancestor. He turned against the family and cursed the bloodline."
Rotimi crossed his arms. "So what now? Do you stop?"
"No," Ayanwale said, his voice calm. "Now I understand why the drum chose me. It's not just about music. It's about healing what was broken."
He looked down at the Royalty Drum.
"One rhythm down. Six to go."
And somewhere, deep in the spirit world, the whisper of Ajalu stirred again.