ÈMI NI ÌLÙ (I Am the Drum)

Mò fẹ́ kí ara mi gbọ́ mi. Before the world gives me a name, let my own soul remember mine. Before applause, before titles, before the mouths of strangers decide my worth, let me hear the sound I have always carried. ... Èmi ni ìlù. I am the drum. Not because I am loud. But because silence has never been my home. I was carved from wounded wood, stretched by patient hands, tightened by fire, until pain itself learned how to sing. ... The feast began before sunrise. They brought wine. They brought yam. The pots sang over open fire. Children chased the morning through red earth, their feet teaching dust how to dance. The elders arrived, their stories tucked beneath their tongues. Then someone asked, "Who remembered the drum?" The courtyard fell still. For even joy knows its place. It does not begin until rhythm gives it permission. ... Strike me, and I speak. Carry me, and I announce arrival. Leave me in a corner, and I wait, not in bitterness, but in certainty. For every village remembers where it kept its heartbeat. ... Some believed that hiding the drum would silence the song. They forgot. Rhythm is stubborn. It escapes through palms. It escapes through footsteps. It escapes through children who have never seen the old dances, yet somehow know exactly where to place their feet. You may hide the drum. But you cannot imprison its rhythm. ... When a child enters the world, they look for me. When lovers become one, they call for me. When warriors return, I speak before they do. When kings wear crowns, my voice reaches the people before their faces ever can. Even grief borrows my heartbeat. For sorrow, too, refuses to bury its dead in silence. ... I am the talking drum of my fathers. The whisper of my mothers. The echo of those whose names were never written, yet still live inside every rhythm I carry. Their breath did not leave the earth. It became sound. And I... I became its keeper. ... Some looked at me and saw only wood. Others saw rope. Some saw skin pulled too tightly. None of them heard the stories sleeping beneath my surface. Not everything sacred announces itself. Some things wait for listening ears. ... There were days I doubted my own sound. Days I mistook quietness for absence. Days I believed the world had forgotten me. Then somewhere, beyond my seeing, someone danced to a rhythm I thought had died. And I remembered. The drum does not chase ears. Its sound finds them. ... Call me forgotten. Time remembers. Call me ordinary. Tradition disagrees. Call me small. Then watch how whole villages change direction at the sound of my voice. ... For what is a people without remembrance? What is dancing without rhythm? What is celebration without something strong enough to gather strangers into one heartbeat? ... So today, I do not wait for another mouth to tell me who I am. I have listened to my own echo. I have heard my ancestors answer back. And that... is enough. Mò fẹ́ kí ara mi gbọ́ mi. Let my soul hear me. The rest... will follow.

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