The Royalty Drum

I. Dawn of Inquiry

Dawn arrived soft and heavy as incense. Mist curled through the Listening Grove, clinging to Zuberi's cloak and whispering secrets in ancient pulse. The golden seed still glowed faintly in the soil beneath their palms, as if tethered to memories yet unwritten.

Ayanwale leaned against the base of Ọ̀kàǹgbá, the Council Tree. His fingers traced the carved symbols on the drum's rim, now etched brighter, their glow pulsing in resonance with what had just transpired. The Eleventh's echo still hung heavy in the air – jagged, unresolved.

"Kọ́lá…" Ayanwale murmured, eyes drifting to the spot where the seer–dancer had fallen. Rotimi knelt beside the boy, checking pulse and breath. Relief gleamed in Ayanwale's chest when he felt life return to his friend's limbs.

Rotimi whispered, "He speaks the Nome… in sleep. We must listen."

Zuberi rose, lunar pupils dull. No spoken words, but their presence was an invitation. Ayanwale bowed.

"Let us find her name," he said, "the Weaving Spirit who glimpsed me before the words existed."

II. In the Shadow of Ancestry

They walked through dew-damp paths to the old Elder Grove, where statues of past drum-masters stood carved in stone. Each had their rhythms frozen in bas-relief: swirling sigils across bark, carved faces caught mid-song. These were not mere monuments but echo-anchors – vessels to retrieve lost memory.

At the base of each statue, Rotimi placed a small charcoal cross and whispered a name—ancestral names given and unspoken. The encompassing air shifted with each offering until even the Listening Trees seemed to stutter in recognition.

Zuberi halted before a turreted carving of a female spirit—its face broken by time. The figure held thread-wrapped hands fused with carving. Golden lines traced back and forth between root and cloth, as if never finished weaving a memory. The figure's name had been forgotten. But now, it pulsed beneath the bark.

A yawn of sap drew from Zuberi's cloak—the silent cloak—and a spiral-mark shifted into view on their forearm. A single glowing vine stretched toward the carving. Zuberi placed a pale hand against the wood.

A hush fell.

A low hum vibrated through roots.

And a single voice—inside their silence—whispered:

"Ọ̀mọ́tíbụ̀nlá. Weaving mothers call me that."

III. The Weight of Memory

The name thundered through Ayanwale's spirit. Ọ̀mọ́tíbụ̀nlá: "child birthed from threads." Not quite ancestor. Not quite spirit. A weaver of being and forgetting.

He exhaled and touched the carving gently. "Has she been present, then? All this time?"

Rotimi pressed a hand to the stone. "She wove memory into the Silence. And perhaps… wove silence into memory."

The wind sighed knowingly.

Zuberi knelt and planted the seed from the Grove's center near the carving. The seed glowed brighter—pulsing beyond simple light into presence. Roots lifted, vine-carved sap melded with wood. The carving stirred, as if exhaling life.

Sap-sheen flickered in relief across the statue's lips. Eyes blinked open, formed from wood and spirit echoes.

A face regained her name.

IV. Nílé – Home of the Weaver

Under the glow of noon sun in the Grove, the carving shimmered and shifted. With soft cracking, the stone figure dissolved into golden threads of memory, drifting upward before condensing near Zuberi as living form.

She stood tall, her skin a warm map of sap lines, braided hair threaded with glowing vines. Her eyes were ancient pools of reflected memory. In each step she left traces—faint notes of unrest, and a hum only Zuberi and Ayanwale could feel.

Ọ̀mọ́tíbụ̀nlá bowed deeply to Ayanwale, voice soft and resonant as looped rhyme:

"You pulled my name from the grove's root. Now I am here."

A hush greeted her arrival. The Listening Trees rustled sap like applause. The drum-head throbbed beneath Ayanwale's strapped arm.

Rotimi exhaled. "She's real…"

Ayanwale stepped forward, lowering drum.

"She… named herself when I could not."

The Weaver smiled.

"Memory must choose its bearer—not force."

V. Burdens & Truths Unfolded

They gathered at the Grove's heart. Zuberi released the seed to bloom within living root. The rhythmic echo inside bowl of earth answered. At noon, golden sap watered the soil, nourishing the seed.

Ọ̀mọ́tíbụ̀nlá sat beneath the listening tree, facing Ayanwale.

"You awakened the Eleventh," she said. "But you do not yet understand her."

Zuberi, cloak drawn around them, bowed. No words. But presence spoke: I will learn.

She continued to Ayanwale:

"The Eleventh is the Weaver of endings—and beginnings when named. But she is also un-made until held in balance. You breathed life into her, but you must face what she unravels."

Ayanwale's breath tightened.

"My father… Kolawolé—was he… tied to her?"

The Weaver nodded, sadness weaving into her voice.

"He recognized me first. In dreams. Then tried to chain me with blood. He failed."

A silence followed, sad and sharp.

Ayanwale exhaled.

"Then I must learn what it means to hold her."

VI. Threads of Twilight

Cloth-weavings from the Weaver fluttered around Zuberi—tiny glyphs shaped like jasmine petals. Each carried memory of every rhythm-bearer who named her: songs lost, whispers broken in time.

She allowed one petal to embed in Zuberi's palm. The pattern drew into their vine-mark.

A promise.

The petals scattered upward, folding home into the Listening Trees.

That night, Ayanwale lay awake. The Royalty Drum rested near him. His dreams unraveled—fields of broken drums, patterns of unmade souls, every note undone and rewoven.

In the dim light he swept the room for Rotimi.

His friend stirred.

"We called her name."

Ayanwale sat straighter.

"And she answered."

VII. Prelude to Reckoning

By moonrise, they returned to the Stone Grove. The altar stones gleamed under a pale silver beam.

Zuberi stood before the stone carving again—but now, it was a monument to memory regained, a sentinel between seen and unseen.

Around them gathered spirit-folk and ancients.

The Weaver joined them.

"I will weave the final chord," she told Ayanwale.

"As both echo and silence. As both you and me and Zuberi mother of the seed."

A murmur rose among spirits.

A farewell? A choice?

Ayanwale raised the Royalty Drum. Its skin felt heavy—but right.

He struck once.

BOOM.

The world answered.

BOOM-tap—pause—tap.

Three beats.

Roots hummed. Leaves sang. The seed beneath Zuberi pulsed in unity with sap-lines and carved runes.

The stone cracked at last—shattering into pieces of living wood.

From within came a chant:

"Ọ̀mọ́tíbụ̀nlá is named. The Echo is bound."

The listening forest sighed.

Then silence.

VIII. Cliffhanger: Harmony Suspended

High in the trees, moonlight fractured into stars. One branch glowed: the spiral-mark of Zuberi.

Another branch glimmered: the sigil Ayanwale had struck upon the drum.

Between them: no seal.

Instead: a space.

Unfilled.

Untamed.

The Weaver turned her face toward them—ald silent as the moon.

"No rhythm is safe," she whispered.

"No echo is final."

Just then, the Listening Grove shivered.

Not wind.

Not earth.

But a drumbeat unstruck.

One distant pulse:

Boot‑tap

It echoed through bone.

It answered in leaf.

And it whispered:

"She is coming."