The village looked the same.
Same red earth. Same thatched rooftops. Same breeze through the tall palm trees.
But something was wrong.
The first sign was Rotimi.
He sat beneath the almond tree near the square, flirting with two girls, a half-eaten kolanut in his palm. Ayanwale rushed toward him.
"Rotimi!" he called, smiling. "I'm back. I found it—the Fifth Rhythm. I saw Oluwafemi. I—"
Rotimi stood, brows furrowed.
"Do I know you?"
Ayanwale stopped cold.
"What?"
"You look familiar… but I don't know any drummer dressed like that."
"It's me—Ayanwale. Your friend! You once told me never to stop drumming, remember?"
Rotimi shook his head. Laughed awkwardly.
"Ayanwale? Sorry, I've never heard that name."
Behind him, the two girls whispered to each other.
"He's one of those traveling madmen," one said. "Probably touched by drum madness."
Ayanwale turned, heart racing.
He ran through the village.
Everywhere—blank stares.
The palm-wine tapper. The school children he once drummed for. Even the old woman whose son he saved from a bad spirit.
None of them knew his name.
None remembered the Royalty Drum.
Even the ancestral shrine where his family name was carved… now held no trace of "Ayanwale."
By nightfall, only one soul remembered him.
Amoke.
She met him at the edge of the forest, eyes dark with dread.
"They've turned the Fifth Rhythm against you."
"How?"
"Baba Oro. He waited for you to awaken it… then bent its echo. Now your name has been erased from time in this land. Only those bound by blood or spirit can still recall you."
"Why not you then?"
Amoke placed her hand over her chest.
"Because I gave you part of my spirit at the ravine. We are linked now. I cannot forget."
Ayanwale sat down slowly.
"Then I've lost everything. What is a drummer with no people to hear him?"
Amoke smiled faintly.
"You still have the drum."
"They don't believe in it."
"Then make them."
That night, Ayanwale took a bold step.
He walked into the village square. Alone.
He lit a fire in the center. He did not ask for permission. He beat the Royalty Drum.
At first—just silence. A few people peeked from their windows. Some scoffed. Others ignored him.
But he kept playing.
He played the First Rhythm—for identity.
Then the Second—to draw out the unseen.
Then the Third—to bring balance.
By the Fourth, the wind changed direction.
Children came first, drawn by curiosity.
Then elders.
Then the palm-wine seller, holding his cup mid-sip.
A woman gasped. "That sound… I feel like I know it."
"You do," Ayanwale whispered, tears falling.
"You've always known."
And when he struck the Fifth Rhythm—this time in reverse, undoing the spell—it rippled through the listeners like a wave of light.
Eyes blinked.
Memories clicked into place.
A man screamed: "Ayanwale!"
A child shouted: "The drummer who made the river dance!"
Rotimi stumbled into the square, face pale.
"I remember. I remember it all."
And the final note rang out.
Not from the drum.
But from every voice in the village, calling his name.
"Ayanwale! Ayanwale! Ayanwale!"
The spell broke.
But far away, in a shrine soaked in ash and blood, Baba Oro crushed a bone in his hand.
"So he reversed it," he murmured.
He walked toward his cursed drum.
"Then let me give him a memory that cannot be undone."
He placed his hand on the surface and whispered:
"Show him what he fears most… his mother's betrayal."