They pedaled through the night, past haunted baobab trees and villages where the chickens watched them with suspicious human eyes. The trail led to a cave behind the Kintampo waterfalls. Inside, instead of a thief, they found a demented juju man named Kofi Remote, who had stolen the drum to power his illegal “Silent Disco”—a dance party where the music was only audible to ghosts and goats.
They brought the drum back to the palace at dawn. The Lunsi embraced Wapipi, and the seven clans agreed to a truce—over a massive bowl of jollof rice. As a reward, Wapipi was given a magical walking stick that could turn into a chicken when needed. Adzo became his apprentice, and Afua demanded new handlebars.
Wapipi adjusted his sunglasses, even though it was night. “And the coconut?” Ghana Adventures Of Wapipi Jay Esewani Part 2 UPD
Stay tuned for Part 3: The Ghost Train of Sekondi-Takoradi Want me to continue the series, turn it into a script, or illustrate a scene from it?
The harmattan wind had barely settled when Wapipi Jay Esewani found himself tangled in a web of talking goats and a missing royal drum. After his narrow escape from the crocodiles of Paga (documented in Part 1 UPD), Wapipi had sworn off adventure for at least three market cycles. But fate, as always, had other plans. They pedaled through the night, past haunted baobab
“Then let’s go. But we take my yɛm —my trusty talking bicycle, Afua.”
“You don’t understand!” Kofi Remote shouted, wearing glowing headphones and a cape made of old election posters. “With the Golden Djembe, I can make the ancestors bounce ! Imagine your great-grandfather doing the Azonto!” They brought the drum back to the palace at dawn
Afua, a rusty but loyal two-wheeler with a mind of her own, greeted them with a squeaky “Eeii, Wapipi! You’ve been eating banku again—I can feel the extra weight!”
He grinned. “Next? I hear there’s a ghost train running from Sekondi to nowhere. And it’s late. Someone has to ask for a refund.”
Wapipi stepped forward. “Give back the drum, or I’ll let Afua recite her poetry.”
“That depends,” he said, squinting. “Are you selling fresh palm wine or bringing trouble?”