The Singer of the Drum Voice Over Script
In the village of Ntembe, where the baobab trees stretched their thick arms toward the sky and the river hummed its endless tune, there lived a girl named Adoma. From the day she was born, Adoma had never spoken a single word. The village elders called her “Nyimbo Zisizoimbwa”—The Song Unspoken. Her mother, Nia, loved her fiercely, but the other villagers often whispered when she passed.
“A child without a voice? What good is she?” they would murmur. Some believed she had been cursed, while others pitied her mother. But Nia, who knew that the spirits sometimes moved in ways people did not understand, only smiled and told her daughter stories in the evenings, knowing she listened with her heart.
Adoma’s father, Kojo, was the village drum-maker. His drums spoke when men’s words could not. The great ngoma drums sent messages to neighboring villages, the small djembe drums called children to play, and the slit drums echoed in the fields, telling farmers when to rest and when to work. Kojo often sat with Adoma under the shade of their mango tree, letting her run her hands over the wood and the stretched animal hide, hoping one day she would find her own voice through the rhythm of his craft.
One evening, when the sun melted into the horizon, Kojo gifted Adoma a small drum he had carved himself. “This is yours,” he said, placing it in her hands. She held it gently, feeling the warmth of the wood. Though she said nothing, the look in her eyes spoke louder than any words ever could.
From that day forward, Adoma carried her drum everywhere. She played soft rhythms when she walked, letting the beats follow her thoughts. In the mornings, she would tap the drum lightly while watching the women pound millet, the rhythm blending with the steady thump of the mortar and pestle. When the children laughed and chased each other, she played quick, playful beats to match their energy.
One day, trouble came to Ntembe. A group of strangers arrived, their faces hard, their voices like sharp stones. They were warriors from a distant land, and their leader, a man called Olum, claimed that Ntembe had trespassed upon his people’s land. The elders gathered in the village square to speak, but Olum would not listen. “We will take what is owed to us,” he declared, “or we will take your people.”
The villagers trembled. The chief, Baba Kwame, tried to reason with Olum, but the warrior leader’s heart was as firm as the iron spear he carried. That night, fear settled over the village like a thick mist. Mothers held their children close. The men sharpened their tools, knowing they could not win a battle against trained warriors.
Adoma, who had watched everything in silence, felt something stir deep inside her. That night, she sat by the river with her drum on her lap. She closed her eyes, and for the first time, she let her hands speak what her voice could not. The rhythm was steady at first, like the heartbeat of the earth. Then it grew stronger, rising and falling like waves in the ocean. It carried sorrow, fear, hope, and defiance all at once. The sound floated through the trees, past the huts, reaching every ear in the village. It was a song of survival.
The elders woke from their troubled sleep. The warriors, camped just outside the village, stirred uneasily. The chief, Baba Kwame, listened closely, his heart heavy yet light at the same time. It was as if the ancestors themselves had joined the beat, whispering through the night wind.
Then something incredible happened. The villagers, who had been paralyzed by fear, began to move. The women rose first, humming in time with the drum, their voices carrying the rhythm forward. The men followed, pounding the earth with their feet. Soon, the entire village was awake, moving, singing, and clapping to Adoma’s drumming.
Olum and his warriors, startled by the sudden sound, stood at the edge of the village, unsure of what to do. The music was not one of war, nor was it a song of surrender. It was something older, something powerful. It was the voice of a people standing together.
As the rhythm swelled, Olum’s warriors looked at one another, uncertain. They had come expecting a frightened village, not a people who answered fear with song. Something in the air shifted. Olum, his grip tight on his spear, hesitated. The music wrapped around him, and for a moment, he saw not an enemy, but a people like his own—people who loved their land, their families, their ancestors. He lowered his weapon. Without a word, he turned and left, his warriors following behind him.
As the first light of dawn touched the earth, the village of Ntembe stood victorious—not through bloodshed, but through the power of a girl who had never spoken a word.
From that day on, the people of Ntembe never called Adoma “Nyimbo Zisizoimbwa” again. Instead, they called her “Mwimbaji wa Ngoma”—The Singer of the Drum. And though she never spoke, her voice was heard in every beat of her drum.
TOP-10 Scripts from Edge Studio's Voice Over Script Library
[Skyrim opens with an Imperial wagon driving four prisoners down a snowy mountain pass. All are seated and bound; the one dressed in finery is gagged.]
Ralof: Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.
Lokir: D**n you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell. You there. You and me — we should be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.
Ralof: We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.
Imperial Soldier: Shut up back there!
[Lokir looks at the gagged man.]
Lokir: And what’s wrong with him?
Ralof: Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.
Lokir: Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?
Ralof: I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.
Lokir: No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.
Ralof: Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?
Lokir: Why do you care?
Ralof: A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.
Lokir: Rorikstead. I’m…I’m from Rorikstead.
[They approach the village of Helgen. A soldier calls out to the lead wagon.]
Imperial Soldier: General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!
General Tullius: Good. Let’s get this over with.
Lokir: Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.
Ralof: Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. D**n elves. I bet they had something to do with this. This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny…when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.
[A man and son watch the prisoners pull into town.]
Haming: Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?
Torolf: You need to go inside, little cub.
Haming: Why? I want to watch the soldiers.
Torolf: Inside the house. Now.
Galadriel: (speaking partly in Elvish)
(I amar prestar aen.)
The world is changed.
(Han matho ne nen.)
I feel it in the water.
(Han mathon ned cae.)
I feel it in the earth.
(A han noston ned gwilith.)
I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.
It began with the forging of the Great Rings. Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Seven to the Dwarf-Lords, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls. And nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of Men, who above all else desire power. For within these rings was bound the strength and the will to govern each race. But they were all of them deceived, for another ring was made. Deep in the land of Mordor, in the Fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged a master ring, and into this ring he poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate all life.
One ring to rule them all.
One by one, the free lands of Middle-Earth fell to the power of the Ring, but there were some who resisted. A last alliance of men and elves marched against the armies of Mordor, and on the very slopes of Mount Doom, they fought for the freedom of Middle-Earth. Victory was near, but the power of the ring could not be undone. It was in this moment, when all hope had faded, that Isildur, son of the king, took up his father’s sword.
Sauron, enemy of the free peoples of Middle-Earth, was defeated. The Ring passed to Isildur, who had this one chance to destroy evil forever, but the hearts of men are easily corrupted. And the ring of power has a will of its own. It betrayed Isildur, to his death.
And some things that should not have been forgotten were lost. History became legend. Legend became myth. And for two and a half thousand years, the ring passed out of all knowledge. Until, when chance came, it ensnared another bearer.
It came to the creature Gollum, who took it deep into the tunnels of the Misty Mountains. And there it consumed him. The ring gave to Gollum unnatural long life. For five hundred years it poisoned his mind, and in the gloom of Gollum’s cave, it waited. Darkness crept back into the forests of the world. Rumor grew of a shadow in the East, whispers of a nameless fear, and the Ring of Power perceived its time had come. It abandoned Gollum, but then something happened that the Ring did not intend. It was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable: a hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire.
For the time will soon come when hobbits will shape the fortunes of all.
To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark, dock,
In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock,
Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp, shock,
From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block!
Do I really look like a guy with a plan, Harvey?
I don’t have a plan …
The mob has plans. The cops have plans.
You know what I am, Harvey? I am a dog chasing cars… I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it.
I just do things. I am just the wrench in the gears. I hate plans.
Yours, theirs, everyone’s. Maroni has plans. Gordon has plans.
Schemers trying to control their worlds.
I am not a schemer. I show the schemer how pathetic their attempts to control things really are.
So when I say that you and your girlfriend was nothing personal, you know I am telling the truth.
I just did what I do best. I took your plan and turned it on itself.
Look what I have done to this city with a few drums of gas and a couple of bullets.
Nobody panics when the expected people gets killed. Nobody panics when things go according to plan, even if the plan is horrifying.
If I tell the press that tomorrow a gangbanger will get shot or a truckload of soldiers will be blown up, nobody panics. – because it’s all part of the plan.
But when I say that one little old mayor will die, everybody lose their minds.
Introduce a little anarchy, you upset the established order and everything becomes chaos.
I am agent of chaos.
And you know the thing about chaos Harvey?
“IT is FAIR.”
Hello, ladies, look at your man, now back to me, now back at your man, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped using ladies scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like he’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re on a boat with the man your man could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an oyster with two tickets to that thing you love. Look again, the tickets are now diamonds. Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady. I’m on a horse.
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