Uncle Ben twisted the EQ, cutting the bass, letting the high-hat sizzle. He brought in the second deck. Victor Olaiya’s “Omopupa” merged with the first track, the percussion locking in a conversation that hadn’t been heard in twenty years. The bassline was a lazy crocodile, sliding through the muddy waters of the Calabar River.

The first track crackled to life. It wasn’t a clean digital file. It was a rip from a vinyl record that had survived a flood in 1989. The needle-drop hiss filled the night air, and then—the horns.

“That, my son, is the sound of a river that never stops flowing. I call it… Calabar Sunset .”

Uncle Ben ejected the silver disc, blew a single grain of dust off its surface, and smiled.

That was the second sign.

The crowd, a mix of retirees in agbadas and Gen Zers in designer kaftans, was getting restless. A girl with pink braids shouted, “Where’s the Amapiano ?”