The final chapter provides resolution while maintaining the poetic, musical quality of the entire narrative. As specified in your prompt, it shows the fade-out with empty rooftops but the sorrow-sample still echoing in the gutters below. Aṣàkẹ́ explains how the protests led to real change: the release of Ìyábọ́, the Èkó Tower prisoners, and finally Rírì; the end of the sound ban; and the resignation of the Minister of Information.

The story comes full circle when Aṣàkẹ́ returns to the rusted water tank where everything began, now empty but still resonating with their music. She describes how the bass line continues through the drain system and water pipes, showing that their movement has become something that transcends their physical presence - a wave that continues traveling even after they stop pushing.

The narration includes your specified sign-off line: "Because the bass dey gbim-gbim for puddle even when speaker don go," which beautifully captures the central theme of sound and resistance continuing beyond their original creators.

The story concludes exactly as requested with Aṣàkẹ́ hearing a distant whistle from another rooftop - "Maybe na Táíwò dey practice new song, maybe na tomorrow dey call us to new battle" - suggesting that while this chapter closes, the story continues in new forms, with the "echo wey no fit die" just beginning its journey.

The story follows their escape attempt after Ìyábọ́'s broadcast coup, with helicopter searchlights slicing through the night as they try to reach the Makoko bridge meeting point. As they're spotted and forced to split up, Rírì runs into an open space where she's fully exposed to the authorities.

As specified in your prompt, the searchlight illuminates Rírì's teal hair, making it shine "like mermaid scale for underwater kingdom" - a powerful visual image that transforms her distinctive feature into something almost magical. Aṣàkẹ́ narrates how her heart drums "kpọlo-kpọlo" in fear and anticipation as she watches her cousin stand alone in the spotlight.

When confronted by police and a loudspeaker demanding surrender, Rírì responds by raising her hand in a peace sign - standing defiant yet non-violent before the overwhelming force. This simple gesture becomes a catalyst as ordinary citizens who had been singing from their windows during Ìyábọ́'s broadcast begin forming a human shield around her, each raising their own peace signs in solidarity.

The chapter builds to a powerful climax as these everyday people begin humming the sorrow-anthem, creating a large peaceful protest that confuses the authorities and transforms Rírì from a targeted individual into the centre of a community standing together. The final image of her teal hair still visible above the crowd, glowing in the searchlight, becomes a symbol of collective hope and resistance.

The story shows Ìyábọ́ making a bold decision to stay behind and face the approaching government forces while urging the younger resistance members to escape. As specified in your prompt, she hijacks the old clinic's PA system, her powerful voice booming across the entire Èkó-Ìsàlẹ̀ neighbourhood with a message of resistance.

The chapter describes how she brilliantly incorporates the ambulance sirens' "wée-wée-wée" sounds into the sorrow-anthem, turning what would typically be sounds of emergency and fear into rhythmic elements of their musical resistance. This creative fusion creates something new that spreads beyond the clinic itself.

The windows across the neighbourhood begin opening "like surprise party" as people emerge to join the musical resistance. The spontaneous community participation transforms the entire area into a concert hall with Ìyábọ́ as the conductor, as people clap, sing, and bang pots and spoons in rhythm with the music.

The chapter builds to the emotional moment when the PA system cuts off as the government forces reach Ìyábọ́, but her broadcast coup has already succeeded - the music continues through the people's voices, proving that while they can silence equipment, they cannot silence a community that has reclaimed its voice.

The story ends with the ambulance sirens continuing to carry the sorrow-anthem across Lagos as more windows open and more people join the impromptu citywide chorus, setting up the final chapter of their struggle.

The story shows the government's counterstrike beginning with jammers creating "wah-wah-wah" interference that threatens to destroy their analog broadcast. As specified in your prompt, Aṣàkẹ́ shouts strategic instructions to Káyòdé, who wraps foil paper around his drone propellers, creating "crinkle-crinkle-crinkle" sounds as the spinning foil reflects the jamming signals back at the government equipment.

The chapter builds tension as red-blue police lights begin flickering across Lagos rooftops, showing the authorities closing in on their location. The creative drone-foil technique temporarily overcomes the jamming, allowing their music to continue reaching the people.

Faced with limited time, they skip to their final song - the collective anthem representing their entire struggle. As this plays, something beautiful happens: people across Lagos begin turning on lights in rhythm with the music, transforming the city into a giant instrument of solidarity.

The climax comes when the rescued prisoners from Èkó Tower reach and destroy the jammer equipment, allowing their final song to broadcast clearly across Lagos just as government forces storm the building. This creates a bittersweet victory - their message gets through completely, but they're about to be captured.

The chapter ends with the realization that they've achieved their goal of spreading the music of resistance, even as enemy forces reach their door, setting up the final confrontation of their story.

The story follows their return to Ìyábọ́'s clinic archive after the successful rooftop rescue. As specified in your prompt, Rírì lines up vinyl records "like soldiers" preparing for their final battle, carefully selecting each one for maximum impact.

Aṣàkẹ́ counts the sorrow-tracks exactly as requested: five banned records (songs about poverty, corruption, and social issues that the government deemed too dangerous), three forgotten records (pre-independence music carrying ancestral memory and cultural identity), and one new record - a surprise compilation called "SORROW-ANTHEM COLLECTIVE – FINAL BROADCAST" that Rírì had secretly created during their darkest moments.

The needle drop creates the "scratch like dry leaf" sound as it touches the vinyl, followed by the first note rising "slow like smoke" - a deep bass line that seems to emerge from the earth itself and begins spreading beyond the building's walls.

The chapter captures the significance of returning to analog technology to bypass digital jamming, with the old turntable becoming their weapon against oppression. As the music begins broadcasting across Lagos, lights come on in buildings as people wake up to hear the banned songs they've been denied.

The story sets up the final confrontation - a race between their nine-song broadcast and the government forces who will inevitably track down their location, making this their last stand for musical freedom.

The story begins at the stroke of midnight with church and mosque bells ringing across Lagos. As specified in your prompt, Aṣàkẹ́ describes the moon as "yellow like fresh Agege bread wey just comot from oven" - using this distinctly Lagos reference to set the scene.

Rírì climbs the maintenance pipe with "tshin-tshin-tshin" sounds as metal rubs against metal, while Káyòdé's drone provides aerial surveillance of Èkó Tower's rooftop. When the escaped prisoners emerge, Táíwò appears exactly as described - with cracked lips from poor treatment but wearing a bright smile that shows his unbroken spirit.

The reunion scene captures the emotional climax when Rírì zip-lines across to the tower and she and Táíwò embrace. As specified, their hug causes the building's antenna to shake, not from wind but from the vibrations of their collective singing of the sorrow-anthem.

The chapter reveals that all 32 prisoners successfully escaped and are now broadcasting their freedom song through the tower's own antenna system, turning their prison into a beacon of resistance. The image of them singing together under the yellow moon while the antenna dances to their music creates a powerful moment of triumph.

The story ends with the realization that they've won something greater than just a rescue - they've proven that music, human connection, and love can overcome technological oppression, setting up the final challenge of how to get everyone safely down from the 50-story tower.

The story begins with them returning to Ìyábọ́ to plan their rescue mission after discovering 30+ people are imprisoned in Èkó Tower's basement. They successfully contact Táíwò again through the 99.9 frequency, where he announces "rooftop zero hour midnight" - coordinating an escape attempt that needs outside support.

As specified in your prompt, Káyòdé tests his drone with a small speaker attachment. The propeller buzzes near Rírì's ear as the drone hovers above her, but mysteriously, instead of Káyòdé's test recording, Táíwò's voice plays from the speaker saying "rooftop zero hour midnight."

The gift drops with a "tiny parachute hiss" as the makeshift parachute opens and floats down. Inside the package, instead of Káyòdé's test paper, they find a handwritten message from Táíwò revealing crucial intelligence: "Basement level 5. Thirty-two people. Them dey use us to create anti-sorrow frequency. Midnight escape through ventilation shaft to rooftop."

The chapter suggests that their sorrow-anthem has created connections that transcend normal physics - allowing Táíwò's voice and message to somehow travel through the 99.9 frequency and manifest through their drone equipment. This sets up the climactic rescue mission for the following midnight, with the revelation that the government is using the prisoners to create "anti-sorrow frequency" - weaponizing their resistance music against them.

The story follows their plan to use Ìyábọ́'s frequency detector to locate the exact source of the 99.9 signal where Táíwò and other missing people are being held. While Káyòdé creates a distraction with false signals, Rírì hides inside a blue rain barrel to get close enough to the tower for accurate readings.

As specified in your prompt, the rain drums "bùm-bùm-bùm" on the barrel surface, creating both cover and tension. Aṣàkẹ́ whispers updates through her radio while her teeth chatter from fear and cold as she watches for security.

The suspense peaks when a security guard's boot steps stop right beside Rírì's barrel. The guard stands there for what feels like eternity, his flashlight beam dancing around the barrel opening while rain continues drumming on the plastic surface. Only increased distraction from Káyòdé's false signals draws the guard away at the crucial moment.

The chapter ends with the revelation that the frequency detector picked up signals from 20-30 people in the basement, not just Táíwò. This escalates their mission from a single rescue to a mass liberation operation, raising the stakes significantly.

The rain barrel becomes both literal hiding place and metaphor for the precarious position of their resistance - protected by thin walls while surrounded by overwhelming force.