Straight in, no run-up: deep drums and rough shouted calls, close in the ear.

Then the drums cut, and everything falls back to one dry spoken voice over a low steady tone.

Light percussion slips back in under the voice — small quick strokes, low in the mix.

And the pulse gathers — more strikes to the step now, locking in under the chant.

The recitation starts over from the top; underneath, the drums keep their step like nothing changed.

More voices stack into the chant — the lead keeps its even line, and the mass behind it thickens.

By now the drums sit at their deepest stroke — heavy, even, unhurried — and the whole bed just holds there.

Another round begins, and nothing eases — same strikes, same pace, as though the groove could run all night.

The voices end, and the drums carry it alone.

Single strikes now, spaced apart — each one left to ring out into the quiet.