It did not take long for the whispers to begin.
At first they were faint, like the hum of insects in the night, easy to ignore, easy to dismiss. But soon they grew louder, sharper, weaving their way through the marketplace, the schoolyard, even the church pews.
"Did you hear about the noise?"
"Children banging on walls like savages."
"Unholy sounds, they said. Ungodly."
Each rumor was another stone added to the pile that threatened to bury us.
I sat at my school desk, pretending to copy notes from the board, but my mind was far from the classroom. My hands itched, drumming faint rhythms against the wood until the boy sitting beside me hissed, "Stop it before the teacher hears."
I stopped, but my pulse carried the rhythm on. It was inside me now, impossible to silence.
The teacher's chalk screeched across the board. He was lecturing on discipline, on obedience, on the dangers of distraction. His words felt heavier than usual, as though they carried more than the lesson. My eyes flicked toward him. Did he know? Had someone already told him?
At home, things were no better.
Father watched me with eyes like flint. He said little, but the silence around him was louder than any accusation. When he did speak, his words were measured, deliberate.
"You have been restless lately, Collins. I see it in your eyes. Do not let foolishness ruin you."
I wanted to ask him what foolishness meant. Was it foolish to feel alive? To create? To discover a part of myself I never knew existed? But I bit my tongue. To challenge him was to invite punishment.
Still, my mother's gaze softened when she looked at me. She said nothing either, but I wondered if she understood more than she let on.
Despite the rumors, despite the fear that coiled in my stomach, I found myself drawn back to the alley again and again.
Every time I thought of staying away, something inside me rebelled. The memory of the Beat tugged at my chest until I had no choice but to return. And each night, the room was fuller. More kids came, some curious, some desperate, all hungry for the same thing: freedom.
The guitar was passed from hand to hand, each note raw but sincere. My sticks battered the desk until the wood bore scars of our defiance. Amara's voice grew stronger, commanding, her words carrying not just rebellion but hope.
We were not just making noise anymore. We were building something.
But danger has a way of creeping in when you least expect it.
One night, as we played, the door slammed open. For a moment, I thought it was the authorities. My stomach dropped, my hands froze mid-strike. But it was not the police. It was worse, in a different way.
It was Pastor Oba's son.
His face twisted with contempt as he took in the scene, the rattling cans, the pounding desk, the swaying bodies, the raw, defiant sound.
"This is sin," he spat. "Noise and rebellion. My father will hear of this."
The room fell silent. I could hear only my heartbeat, frantic, desperate. Everyone stared, waiting for someone to speak.
Amara stepped forward, her chin raised. "We are not hurting anyone. We are only playing."
"Playing?" He sneered. "You call this playing? It is blasphemy. And I will see it stopped."
With that, he turned and stormed out, his footsteps echoing like a warning bell.
Panic rippled through the group. Some whispered that we should stop, that we should scatter before real trouble came. Others argued, voices sharp, unwilling to let fear undo what we had built.
I stood there, torn. My father's face flashed in my mind, stern and unyielding. I thought of the rumors growing louder every day. I thought of Pastor Oba's sermons, his voice condemning anything that strayed from order.
For the first time since I picked up those sticks, doubt gnawed at me.
Amara's voice cut through the chaos. "Listen to me."
We turned toward her. She stood tall, her eyes blazing. "They will try to silence us. They will call us sinners, rebels, fools. But this," she gestured to the instruments, to the makeshift drums, to the trembling air still buzzing with rhythm, "this is life. And life cannot be silenced."
Her words lit a spark in me, banishing the doubt, at least for that moment. I raised my sticks, slammed them against the desk, and let the rhythm speak for me.
One by one, the others joined in. The guitar wailed, the cans rattled, the claps thundered, and Amara's voice rose once more, fierce and unstoppable.
If Pastor Oba's son wanted to call it sin, let him. To us, it was salvation.
Later that night, walking home through the dark streets, the fear returned. Shadows stretched long, whispers curled through the alleys, and every creak of the wooden boards beneath my feet sounded like accusation.
What if they came for us?
What if my father found out?
What if this thing we had birthed was crushed before it had a chance to live?
But even as fear gnawed at me, I knew the truth: I could not stop.
The Beat was no longer just in that hidden room. It was in me now, stitched into my veins, etched into my bones. And though danger loomed closer with every passing day, one thought echoed louder than the whispers:
The Beat had started. And there was no turning back.
But turning back was exactly what the world expected me to do.
The next morning, everything felt sharper, every glance, every whisper, every question from my teachers. When I walked into the schoolyard, I could feel the weight of eyes on me, even though no one said my name. It was as though the Beat itself had left a mark, invisible but undeniable.
During lessons, the chalk's scrape across the board sounded like an accusation. "Stay in line. Obey. Do not wander." My classmates shifted in their seats, restless. I wondered if any of them had been at the room last night. I wondered if they, too, were hiding rhythms inside their bones, afraid to let them out.
At lunch, a boy leaned close, his voice barely a whisper. "I heard you were there." His eyes darted around nervously, checking if anyone else was listening. "Is it true? Did you really play?"
I froze, a spoon halfway to my mouth. Denying it felt pointless, but admitting it was dangerous. In the end, I said nothing. Just stared at him until he looked away, cheeks burning. But his silence told me enough. The whispers were no longer whispers. They were spreading like fire.
That evening, I could not stay home. My father's stare across the dinner table was enough to choke me, each bite of yam heavy in my mouth. He did not ask questions. He did not need to. His silence said it all. He knew something was wrong.
So I slipped out again.
The alley seemed darker than usual, the shadows pressing close. When I entered the room, I found fewer faces than the night before. Some of the younger ones had stayed away, fear outweighing their hunger for the Beat. But those who remained, their eyes were brighter, their determination fiercer.
Amara stood in the center, her arms folded, her chin raised. She looked at us like a general surveying her soldiers. "Some have already given up," she said quietly. "But we are still here. And as long as even one of us stands, the Beat will live."
Her words settled into my chest like stone. I lifted my sticks, and when the rhythm began, I struck harder than ever before.
Hours passed as if time itself had bent, stretched by the music, by the fire, by the unspoken bond weaving us together. We shared our fears in whispers, our hopes in claps, our defiance in every note. The room felt like it had become a universe, expanding outward with every beat, challenging the oppressive world that lay just beyond the door.
When I finally returned home, the streets were quiet, but my heartbeat was not. The rhythm pulsed in my veins, a steady reminder that something unstoppable had begun. And as I closed my eyes that night, I understood that we were no longer children making secret music in an alley. We were a movement, a storm gathering, a rebellion in echoes.
And the world had yet to notice.