"The Drummer with No Drum"

In the bustling town of Arámò, where every child was taught to follow the beat of the village drummer, lived a boy named Tùndé. From a young age, he was told how to move, how to speak, how to dream.

But Tùndé… Tùndé heard a different rhythm.

While others danced to the familiar sounds of the bàtá drum at the market square, Tùndé carved rhythms into the air with his fingers, listening to melodies no one else seemed to hear. He built his own drum—not from goatskin and wood, but from hollow calabashes and shimmering pebbles from the riverbank. When he played, the sound was strange, beautiful, almost like a conversation between the rain and the earth.

The elders scoffed. “That is not how a drummer drums,” they said.

His friends laughed. “You will never be chosen to lead the ‘New Yam Festival’!”

But Tùndé smiled and replied simply, “Moyàtọ̀.”

One evening, as the sunset spilled orange fire over the rooftops, the village drums fell silent—the lead drummer had fallen ill. Panic filled the air. Who would lead the sacred dance?

And then came the whisper: “Let Tùndé try.”

He stepped forward, calabash in hand, and played. The sound was unfamiliar... yet enchanting. Women stopped pounding yam. Men paused their palaver. The children’s feet moved first, then the entire square danced—not from memory, but from feeling.

From that day, “Moyàtọ̀” wasn’t just a word. It became a song. A lesson. A legacy.