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.

And then the sleigh bells. But wrong. They weren’t silver; they were brass, dull and warm, like anklets on a dancer’s foot. The tempo was 95 BPM—slow enough to sway, fast enough to forget your rent.

Tunde had laughed. “Sleigh bells and star apples? Seriki, you want to confuse the ancestors and Santa Claus at the same time?”

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.” Download Seriki Agbalumo Mi Instrumental Christmasxmass

A talking drum began, not like a call, but like a confession. Then a soft, highlife guitar arpeggio, wet with reverb. Then—unmistakably—the sound of agbalọmu seeds being spat out, recorded and sampled into a percussive loop. Chk-chk-pfft. Chk-chk-pfft. Underneath, a choir of neighborhood children humming “We Three Kings” in Yoruba, their voices layered like honey and harmattan dust.

He didn’t remember making it. But as he clicked play, the room shifted.

Tunde stared at the metadata. Creator: Unknown. Date: Christmas Day, 1978. A decade before he was born. Tunde smiled, bit into an agbalọmu, and spat

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.”

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.”

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?” And then the sleigh bells

But Seriki was serious. “The people are tired of ‘Jingle Bells’ and frozen reindeer. We are not winter people. We are harmattan people. Give us dust, drums, and desire. Give me Agbalọmu Mi .”

He didn’t tell Seriki that. Instead, he typed: “The ancestors. And they want royalties.”

By noon, the instrumental leaked. Not from Seriki, but from Tunde’s own malfunctioning cloud drive. Within hours, street hawkers were humming it. A DJ in London mashed it up with “Last Christmas.” A grandmother in Ibadan recorded herself dancing to it, the agbalọmu stains on her fingers glistening like communion wine.