The night was thick with silence, yet beneath it, something ancient stirred. It was not the usual sounds of the village—no crickets chirping, no dogs barking, no distant hum of late-night voices. Instead, there was a low, insistent rhythm pulsing through the earth itself, a sound felt deep in the marrow, beneath the skin, and—most of all—in the bones.
Iyi lay on the wooden floor of his small room, eyes closed but senses wide awake. His breath was slow, steady, matching the steady beat that seemed to rise from the soil, carrying with it whispers of forgotten memories and old promises. The sponge beside him vibrated softly, a quiet companion awakening alongside the rhythm.
For years, the drums had been silent to him, or at best faint echoes heard from afar—reminders of the ancestral realm's presence but separated by a veil he thought was impenetrable. But tonight, the rhythm was different. It was calling him, pulling at something deep inside.
He rose carefully, the cool floorboards creaking beneath his feet. Moving towards the small altar where the burnt coin and the beggar's soap rested, he touched the objects reverently. The coin's surface shimmered faintly, as if alive. The soap's scent filled the air—earthy, sharp, and pure.
Outside, the village lay under a thick blanket of stars, their light softened by the moisture in the air. A soft wind curled through the trees, carrying the drumbeat's pulse farther into the night.
Iyi stepped outside, barefoot on the cool earth. The air felt charged, alive with energy both beautiful and unsettling. He followed the rhythm instinctively, each beat guiding his feet along the winding path leading toward the heart of the village, where the old baobab tree stood like a sentinel watching over time itself.
As he approached, the drumbeat grew louder, resonating with the steady thump of a heart. Gathering near the tree, he saw figures—villagers, elders, children—all drawn by the call, faces solemn, eyes reflecting the flicker of small fires burning nearby.
Among them was Agba Oye, standing tall and still, his cowrie eyes glowing faintly in the dark. His presence lent gravity to the gathering, his very being a bridge between worlds.
Iyi felt the weight of generations pressing down, the long lineage of those who had come before him and those who would come after. The bones of ancestors seemed to hum beneath his feet, a reminder that he was never truly alone.
The drumming shifted then, becoming a song—one of loss, hope, and remembrance. The villagers joined in, their voices rising in harmony with the beat. Iyi closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him, feeling it break through the barriers he had built inside himself.
In that moment, memories flooded back—his first touch of the spirit world, the pain of loss, the sting of betrayal, and the strange comfort found in silence. The sponge's glow brightened, and a warmth spread through his chest, filling the hollow spaces he had carried for so long.
Agba Oye stepped forward and spoke, his voice carrying the weight of ancient truth.
"The drums do not lie, Ọmọ Iyi. They call to those willing to hear. Tonight, your bones remember what your mind has forgotten."
Iyi bowed his head. "I hear."
The night stretched on, a tapestry woven from sound and spirit, pain and healing. The drumbeat echoed the rhythm of his own heart, and with each pulse, he felt the boundaries between the past and present blur.
By dawn, the gathering dispersed, leaving Iyi standing alone beneath the baobab, the first light casting golden rays through the leaves.
He knew the path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, the drumbeat in his bones was a steady guide, a reminder that his journey was part of something greater—a legacy written not in gold, but in rhythm, in sacrifice, and in the quiet power of enduring.