One time The forest of Simbi wasn't like any other. Its trees leaned just slightly inward, as if whispering secrets to one another. Elders claimed it could hear every word spoken within its shadow—and maybe even answer back.
Twelve-year-old Kazi had always believed the forest was alive. He often wandered its edges, where the wind played tricks and tree branches curled like fingers. He heard what others didn't: thuds deep underground, rustling without wind, sometimes even a faint beat—like a drum echoing from the soil.
The villagers said it was nonsense. "That boy dreams too much," muttered old Baba Juma. But Grandmother Nyirahabineza, the village's oldest and wisest, would simply smile and say, "Kazi listens. The forest chooses its listeners."
Every year, the people of Simbi held the Umuganura Festival to honor their ancestors. At its heart was the Ngoma ya Ituze—the Drum of Stillness. It was carved from a single ancient tree and wrapped in zebra hide. When it sounded, silence followed—because the ancestors were said to be listening.
But this year, three days before the festival, the drum vanished.
Panic spread like wildfire.
It had never been moved in hundreds of years. The shrine was untouched, its door unbroken. Yet the drum was gone.
Some blamed thieves. Others whispered curses. A few cast wary eyes at Kazi, who had recently said the forest had "called" to him.
"You think it's funny?" spat Mutesi, the blacksmith's daughter. "Pretending to hear spirits? You brought this upon us."
Kazi clenched his fists. "I didn't take it."
That night, he snuck past the shrine, past the suspicious villagers, and into the forest—guided by the same thud-thud-thud he'd always heard.
The drumbeat was louder now.
It led him deep into a part of the woods no one dared enter. Trees curved in strange shapes, vines pulsed like breathing veins, and the air shimmered with something... electric.
He stopped before a hollow tree that glowed from within. It pulsed gently—thud, thud—like a second heart. A low voice followed, neither male nor female, but layered like wind through leaves.
"You hear."
Kazi swallowed hard. "Where's the drum?"
"You seek what's always been," said the voice. "The drum is not stolen. It has returned."
"Returned?" Kazi echoed. "But we need it. The festival—"
"The drum is not yours alone. It was once forest, before it was wood. It spoke before your people knew how to listen. Now it waits."
Kazi stepped forward. Inside the hollow tree sat the drum, gleaming under a ghostly light. But it was... different. No longer bound in hide—its surface was bark, yet alive.
"I don't understand," Kazi whispered.
"You do," said the voice. "You always did."
He knelt beside it, unsure if he was allowed to touch it. But the drum seemed to lean toward him. When his palm met its surface, a current surged through his bones. He saw visions—memories of Simbi long before people lived there: animal migrations, storms, fires, peace. The forest wasn't just old. It was history itself.
When he opened his eyes, the drum was silent. He picked it up—surprised it was light—and turned to leave.
But the voice stopped him one last time.
"Do not let them forget. You are bridge and drum now."
He nodded.
—
The festival morning was grim. Without the drum, there was no celebration—only bitter silence. The elders debated postponing it, but just as the sun reached the center of the sky, a single drumbeat cracked through the air.
BOOM.
Everyone turned. Down the hill came Kazi, holding the drum. But it was... changed.
Gasps echoed.
"Blasphemy," someone muttered. "That's not our drum!"
But Grandmother Nyirahabineza stood. Her cane tapped once, twice, then she smiled.
"Let the boy speak."
Kazi stood before the crowd, shaking but steady. "The drum was not stolen. It returned to the forest because we forgot to listen. It remembers more than we do. But now it's awake—and so must we be."
He beat the drum once more.
Silence fell.
Then slowly, the people of Simbi began to nod. And as the festival resumed—not as it had always been, but as it was meant to be—a new sound echoed in the forest: not just one drum, but hundreds, as if the trees themselves were joining in.