A rising Afrobeats star, Seriki, had called him at 2 AM. “Tunde, I need a miracle. I’m dropping ‘Agbalọmu Mi’—the Christmas remix. But the instrumental must feel like sunrise on a harmattan morning. Like agbalọmu—that sweet, sticky African star apple—melting on the tongue, but with sleigh bells.”
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.
Then he saw it. A forgotten folder on his external drive: “Abandoned Edits – 2019.” Inside, a single file: “Seriki_Agbalumo_Mi_Instrumental_ChristmasXmass_v1.wav.” 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.
Now, hunched over his laptop at 4 AM, Tunde scrolled through sample packs. None worked. The European sleigh bells were too crisp. The American 808s too cold. He needed the glug-glug of a fresh palm wine, the whisper of wrapper against skin at a December Owambe party. A rising Afrobeats star, Seriki, had called him at 2 AM
Tunde had laughed. “Sleigh bells and star apples? Seriki, you want to confuse the ancestors and Santa Claus at the same time?”
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.” But the instrumental must feel like sunrise on
Tunde’s phone buzzed. Seriki: “I feel it. The file. It’s downloading on my end. But Tunde… I didn’t send you anything. Who made this?”