In the green hills of Ijere village, music was not just entertainment. It was a way of speaking to the spirits, to the ancestors, and to the hearts of the people. The most sacred of all instruments was the talking drum. It lived inside the chief’s compound, carved from iroko wood, bound in elephant hide, and blessed by seven elders before it was ever struck.
They called it Ogbó, which meant “He Who Speaks.”
The people said the drum could speak truth. Not because it had magic, but because those who played it dared not lie. They believed the drum rejected dishonesty. If someone tried to play a lie, the sound would come out twisted, broken, or mute.
And for many years, Ogbó served truthfully.
Until a new chief took the throne.
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Chief Duro was not like the ones before him.
He was young, charming, and full of vision. But he loved power more than truth. He demanded praise, even when he was wrong. He replaced wise elders with those who agreed with him. And the people, though uneasy, remained silent except for one voice that would not obey.
The drum.
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One evening, a festival was held in the village square. Chief Duro wanted it to honor himself and his achievements. He ordered the best drummer, Pa Tunji, to beat the talking drum and praise his name.
But when Pa Tunji played the drum and tried to say, “Duro is just,” the drum gave off a sour tone.
He paused.
Tried again.
The drum hummed low, then stopped.
People began whispering.
Chief Duro’s smile tightened.
He leaned toward Pa Tunji. “Say what I told you. Say it loud.”
Pa Tunji swallowed hard and tried again.
“The Chief brings peace,” he began.
But the drum answered with a sound like a broken gourd.
Silence spread across the crowd.
And that was when the whispers turned to questions.
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The next day, Pa Tunji was summoned.
“You are embarrassing me,” Duro said. “Fix that drum or I’ll find another drummer.”
“It is not the drum,” Pa Tunji said calmly. “It is what you want it to say.”
That night, Pa Tunji was banned from playing.
Another drummer, younger and eager, was brought in. He hit the drum hard and tried to force it to echo the lies.
But Ogbó stayed silent.
No matter who played it.
No matter how hard they beat.
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Angry, Chief Duro had the drum taken and locked away.
“We will make a new drum,” he declared.
So they did.
A bigger one.
Shiny. Beautiful.
But the new drum had no soul.
It echoed anything.
Even lies.
It became popular among the court.
But the people?
They listened.
And they remembered the silence of the real drum.
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Time passed.
Storms came.
Harvests failed.
Disputes grew in the village.
People stopped dancing.
They stopped singing.
They stopped trusting.
And in that silence, the chief began to fear.
One night, he returned to the hut where Ogbó was kept.
He lifted the lid.
The drum sat there, still whole.
He placed his hand on it.
It was warm.
He called Pa Tunji.
The old man came, slower now, but with the same calmness.
“I do not deserve its voice,” the chief said.
“No,” said Pa Tunji, “but the people do.”
He handed Pa Tunji the drumstick.
Pa Tunji lifted it and gently played.
This time, the drum spoke.
It echoed a single rhythm.
Four beats. Then pause.
Four beats. Then pause.
“What does it mean?” the chief asked.
Pa Tunji smiled faintly.
“It says: Speak the truth. Then lead.”
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From that day on, Chief Duro ruled with more listening and less boasting.
And the drum?
It returned to the village square not just as an instrument, but as a guardian.
Because in Ijere, drums are not for noise.
They are for truth.
And the truth, once it learns to speak, never forgets how.
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Moral Lessons:
1. You can silence a voice, but never the truth it carries.
2. Leadership without honesty is like a drum without rhythm loud but meaningless.
3. When lies echo, they eventually fall flat but truth always finds a way to speak again.
