Warm horn call, soft drum roll.
Guitar highlife pattern drifts in — bright, circular.
Bass hums like a memory of home.

We carry the sound from long before,
Palm and wind, heart and drum.
Every street a story shore,
Every face the place we come from.

(Call) Rise, my people, rise!
(Response) Shine like the morning tide.
(Call) Hold each other high,
(Response) Joy no fit hide.

Trumpets trade phrases with talking drum.
Rhythm swells, then breaks — laughter through cymbals.
The groove moves from 6/8 to 4/4,
like roots meeting the river.

I hear the elders hum in the bassline,
Their wisdom flows through every sign.
London rain can’t drown that tone —
We still dance like Lagos sun.

Light no fear the dust,
Faith no need disguise.
Every breath we trust,
Future dey in our eyes.

(Call) Rise, my people, rise!
(Response) Shine like the morning tide.
(Call) Hold each other high,
(Response) Joy no fit hide.

Sax weaves long lines over congas,
Guitar answers in gold.
Bells shimmer, bass walks free —
everything alive, nothing alone.

We come from the river,
We go with the flow.
Carry the rhythm,
Let the spirit grow.

The morning tide (Afro Jazz Fusion reload)

The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

The morning tide (Afro Jazz Fusion reload)

Terminalose