Strange things

Part 1: The Drums at Dusk They said the drums only played at dusk when the spirits came to walk. But in Umuahia, a small village cradled in the heart of southeastern Nigeria, nobody dared to speak of what followed after the drums stopped. Ayo was seventeen, restless, and far too curious for his own good. He had grown up listening to the stories his grandmother told by lantern light—of talking trees, disappearing footprints, and a child who laughed like thunder but vanished one Harmattan morning without a trace. To Ayo, these were just tales—beautiful, eerie things meant to scare children into obedience. But that changed the day the drums returned. It had been thirty years since anyone heard them. Even his grandmother, wrinkled and wise, had gone stiff when the first beats echoed through the forest again. It came from the direction of Oji Hill, a mound of red earth crowned by baobab trees where no one farmed and children were warned never to play. That evening, as the sun bled orange across the sky, Ayo stood outside their clay-walled compound, staring toward the thick brush that bordered the village. His younger sister, Ijeoma, tugged his sleeve. “Let’s go inside. Mama said we shouldn’t stay out when it starts,” she whispered, eyes wide. Ayo shrugged her off. “They’re just drums. Maybe someone is practicing. You know—Igwe’s son plays.” “No one plays like that,” she replied. “Not like…that.” Because the sound wasn’t like a normal drumbeat. It was slow, mournful—like a heartbeat dipped in sorrow. It throbbed with a rhythm that made your chest ache and your teeth itch. Ayo should’ve gone inside. He should’ve listened to Ijeoma. But something in him—a pull, a dare, a challenge—drew him closer. That night, he dreamed of trees with human eyes and rivers that flowed backward. And in the center of it all stood a woman in white, whispering his name in a language older than the stars Perfect. Here's Part 2: The Woman in White of "Strange Things": Part 2: The Woman in White When Ayo woke, the air in the room felt thick—as if something had stayed behind from his dream. Outside, the morning buzzed with its usual rhythm: goats bleating, roosters crowing, the rustle of market-bound feet on the dirt path. But his mind lingered on her. The woman in white. She hadn’t just called his name. She had sung it—softly, sweetly, as if it were a lullaby meant only for him. He could still hear her voice in the back of his skull, like wind weaving through trees. During breakfast, his grandmother, Mama Nkechi, watched him carefully. “You walked in your sleep last night,” she said suddenly. Ayo froze, spoonful of pap halfway to his mouth. “What?” “I found you at the compound gate. Barefoot. Eyes open, but not seeing.” Her voice was calm but firm, heavy with meaning. “I… I had a dream,” he murmured. His grandmother rose slowly, walked to the old cabinet in the corner, and pulled out a bundle wrapped in faded cloth. When she opened it, there lay a carved ivory pendant—an ancient-looking symbol shaped like an eye with a spiral at its center. She handed it to him. “Wear this.” “But—” “No questions. Not now.” That evening, the drums came again. This time, the entire village gathered. No one said a word. They simply stood at their doorsteps, listening as the dusk filled with that slow, aching rhythm. Children clung to their mothers. Men lit fires and whispered prayers under their breath. Ayo felt it in his chest—like something was calling him. He turned to leave the compound, but his mother’s voice cut through the silence. “Don’t.” But it was too late. His feet were already moving, as if pulled by invisible threads. He clutched the pendant around his neck, but it felt like it was burning against his chest. He followed the sound past the village shrine, past the cassava fields, and into the dense forest beyond. The trees stood tall and silent, their branches still, even though no wind blew. And then—she appeared. The woman in white. She was standing in a clearing bathed in moonlight, barefoot, her eyes glowing softly. Her voice was the sound of distant rain. “You came.” Ayo couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. “You’re the one they tried to hide. The blood that remembers. The drumbeat is your name, Ayo.” He felt the earth tilt. His knees buckled. But she caught him—her hand cool and steady. “When the last drum sounds, you must choose.” “Choose what?” he managed to whisper. But she was already fading, her form melting into the mist. And then the forest went silent. Part 3: The Hidden Names Ayo stumbled back into the village at dawn, his clothes damp with dew and his feet caked in red mud. The pendant around his neck had gone cold. He walked like a ghost—silent, dazed—and when his mother saw him, she didn’t scold him. She simply drew three chalk marks across his forehead, whispered a prayer, and led him to his room. The woman in white haunted his thoughts, her words looping in his mind like a chant: “When the last drum sounds, you must choose.” Choose what? What did she mean? That day, he asked Mama Nkechi about the pendant. She said nothing for a long time, then finally spoke. “Your grandfather was a drum-seer—one of the last.” “A what?” “There are some in our bloodline who can hear what others cannot. The ancestors speak through rhythm, through sound. It’s why the forest sings for you.” Ayo blinked. “Why me?” She looked at him then, really looked. “Because the drums have returned. And they are speaking your name.” That night, Ayo stayed inside. He tried to ignore the drumming that echoed again from Oji Hill. But the pendant throbbed against his chest like a heartbeat, vibrating louder with each beat of the drum. He pressed a pillow to his ears, but it didn’t help. Then, just before midnight, the drums stopped. And the silence that followed was worse. The village dogs began to howl. People shouted in the distance. Something was happening. Ayo ran outside, barefoot and panicked. What he saw made his blood freeze. The elder priest, Dede Kalu, stood at the center of the village square, eyes rolled back in his head. Strange symbols glowed on his skin, pulsing like fireflies. Around him, villagers watched in horror as he chanted in a language no one had heard in generations. “He’s calling out names,” someone whispered. And he was—one after the other, old names, hidden names, names that had been buried. Then he called Ayo’s name. “Obiajulu!” The name struck Ayo like a slap. He fell to his knees, gasping. That was his spirit name. A name no one had told him. A name only his ancestors should’ve known. The old man collapsed. And in the stunned silence that followed, a shadow passed overhead. Something huge moved in the sky—like wings made of smoke. And the drums began again. Faster this time. Part 4: The Forest That Remembers The next morning, the village was different. A silence hung like fog, heavy and suspicious. No one talked about the winged shadow. No one spoke of Dede Kalu, who now lay in a trance under the sacred fig tree. The elders said he was “caught between worlds,” whatever that meant. But Ayo couldn’t rest. Not with his spirit name echoing in his head. Obiajulu — “the heart has found peace.” The name didn’t bring him peace. It brought more questions. He went to Mama Nkechi. “The forest has chosen you,” she said. “Chosen me for what?” “To remember,” she replied, her voice low. “To wake it up.” She gave him a pouch of black powder, the kind only used during ancestral rites, and pointed toward Oji Hill. “You must go there. You must walk where the drums are born.” Ayo hesitated. “Alone?” “The drums called you. Not us.” So that evening, as the sun dipped low and the sky burned gold, he entered the forest once more. But this time, the forest felt different. Alive. Listening. As he stepped beneath the towering baobabs of Oji Hill, the wind carried whispers—not in Yoruba or Igbo or any modern tongue, but something older. The trees creaked in rhythm. The earth pulsed beneath his feet. He walked until he found the clearing again. But the woman in white was not alone this time. Beside her stood three figures in robes made of feathers and dust. Their faces were hidden, but their eyes glowed like coals. “Obiajulu,” one said. “You’ve returned.” “You are the last drum-seer,” another murmured. “The one who can awaken the forest.” “What am I supposed to do?” Ayo asked, heart pounding. They raised their hands, and from the soil, a drum rose—half-covered in moss and clay, its leather stretched tight like ancient skin. It vibrated softly, as if breathing. “You must play.” “I don’t know how,” Ayo whispered. “You don’t need to know. The drum remembers.” He stepped forward, trembling, and placed his hands on it. The moment his palms touched the drum, he felt something open inside him. A door. A memory not his own. And the rhythm poured out—not from his fingers, but from his blood. Each beat told a story: of ancestors dancing under moonlight, of spirits whispering through fire, of villages rising and falling and rising again. The forest lit up around him—trees swaying, animals watching, the stars above spinning in chorus. The woman in white smiled. “You are awake now.” Then she turned and vanished into the trees, the robed figures melting with her. Ayo stood alone in the clearing, the drum still beating softly under his hands. Behind him, something stirred. The forest had remembered. And it was waiting...