A talking drum began, not like a call, but like a confession. Then a soft, highlife guitar arpeggio, wet with reverb. Then—unmistakably—the sound of agbalọmu seeds being spat out, recorded and sampled into a percussive loop. Chk-chk-pfft. Chk-chk-pfft. Underneath, a choir of neighborhood children humming “We Three Kings” in Yoruba, their voices layered like honey and harmattan dust.
It was the week before Christmas in Lagos, and Tunde’s small recording studio, Iroko Beats , hummed with the heat of amplifiers and the scent of fried plantains from the mama put downstairs. He had three days to finish the most peculiar brief of his career.
Tunde stared at the metadata. Creator: Unknown. Date: Christmas Day, 1978. A decade before he was born. Download Seriki Agbalumo Mi Instrumental Christmasxmass
Tunde smiled, bit into an agbalọmu, and spat the seed into the dust. The rhythm had always been there. He just happened to be the one who finally pressed download.
He didn’t tell Seriki that. Instead, he typed: “The ancestors. And they want royalties.” A talking drum began, not like a call, but like a confession
On Christmas Eve, Tunde walked to the junction to buy pure water. A toddler was singing the hook: “Agbalọmu mi, give me your sweet, even in December’s heat.”
Tunde had laughed. “Sleigh bells and star apples? Seriki, you want to confuse the ancestors and Santa Claus at the same time?” Chk-chk-pfft
He didn’t remember making it. But as he clicked play, the room shifted.