The resurgence of life in Adiré did not go unnoticed. The city council, guardians of the status quo, viewed the burgeoning movement with suspicion. Ayo and her band of musicians had become symbols of defiance, their music a challenge to the council's authority.

Accusations of sedition were swift. The council saw the environmental changes not as miracles, but as threats to their power. They dispatched enforcers to silence the music, to quell the hope that had begun to take root in the hearts of the people.

Ayo stood firm as the authorities descended upon their gatherings. The instruments, once a source of joy, were now deemed contraband, the music an act of rebellion. One by one, the musicians were rounded up, their songs cut short by the heavy hand of the law.

But the spirit of the Song Weavers could not be so easily extinguished. Even as Ayo and her companions faced arrest, their resolve did not waver. They had awakened something in Adiré, a memory of a time when the city danced to a different tune. And though they were bound in chains, their music continued to echo through the streets, a call to the people to stand and sing with them.