TAKE THIS BATA.

The Bata drum is traditionally associated with the worship of Sàngó, one of Yoruba’s Orisha (ie. God). Sango is the Orisha of thunder and lightning, fire, rhythm, vitality and dance. The drum’s beat is a call to spirit, echoing through generations and symbolizing both resistance and joy.

‘Take This Bata’ is my attempt at a rhythmic exploration of Yoruba spirituality, dance, and the resilience embedded in cultural legacy. The Bata is at its heart.

The poem invokes Àṣẹ, the spiritual energy that breathes power and manifestation into words, movements, and destinies. It threads through dance halls and hidden corners, where whispers of Ọfọ̀—incantations or words of power—flicker like embers, hinting at the waning of ancient magic. Yet, even in shadowed spaces, dancers enter Ìwà Ojú, a trance-like state where rhythm consumes and liberates. Love, too, is enchanted by Àsùwàdà, a magic that bends hearts and bodies to the pulse of the drum.

The journey spirals through ritual and rebellion, touching on Ẹ̀rìndílógún, a form of cowrie shell divination that seeks clarity and fate in the spiritual realm. In the poem’s final celebration, destiny—Àyánmọ́—is discovered through movement and unity, revealing that rhythm and dance are not just acts of joy, but powerful forms of transcendence.

Take This Bata invites readers to embrace the rhythm of survival, to sway with the thunder of Sàngó, and to find liberation in the endless dance of spirit and flesh.

TAKE THIS BATA

There are those who’ve never heard the Bata,

nor felt Àṣẹ burning beneath the skin.

It moves through womb, memory, marrow,

threading rhythm where breath begins.

There are dance halls where grief evaporates,

where trembling feet find their way,

altars hidden in flashing lights as

the Bata drives the night away.

So please,

take this Bata, take this Sakara,

take this Rumba, enter the call,

let your bones remember the Orisha,

let your spirit answer them all.

.

I have wanted, wandered, unravelled

as a soul stitched from fractured songs.

From ash-thick alleys and lost hovels,

to puddles where love went wrong.

To sweat-slick stages, pulsing floors,

where stars drip from screaming mouths.

Revolution dressed in bare shoulders,

chaos spun from the fevered South.

Please,

take Fẹlá’s Afrobeat, his saxophone’s cry,

that sharpened flame we kiss.

Let it sear the silence from your tongue,

let it carve your truth from this.

Smear rebellion upon your lips and

let it burn where freedom grips.

.

Ṣàngó storms in, crowned in thunder,

his laugh is fire, his feet never rest.

To the Bata, he whirls through lightning,

his fury dancing across the chest.

Concerts swell in my body’s theatre,

each movement, a sacred groove.

And in the quake of his percussion,

I found the beat I could not lose.

.

In a low bar where shadows spill,

Ọfọ̀ flickers like a dying flame.

Incantations echo, faint and brittle,

but trance still answers its name.

The dancers ache, blistered with bliss,

yet Ìwà Ojú claims no fault.

It is magic, deep and beckoning,

rhythm drawn from the bone’s vault.

There’s enchantment in how my lovers sway,

Àsùwàdà in their scent and gaze.

They stumble into the gospel of my body,

bearing roses, posies, and praise.

Couples bow to Bata’s thunder,

feet and hearts aligned in flame.

Their limbs speak old forgotten prayers,

Ṣàngó rising through every name.

Please,

do the Juju, do the Rumba, the Cha-cha-cha—

take the dancer whose limbs forgot.

Even when they steal the music,

Bata’s magic breaks what’s not.

.

In your cellar, where children never sing,

in the attic where light turns thin,

I will press my ear to silence,

find the trembling place within.

Through the mist of one slow afternoon,

we’ll call the gods with Ẹ̀rìndílógún.

And in your quiet, bruised cocoon,

I’ll trace the chains you thought were gone

and teach you how to come undone.

So please,

do the Hokey Cokey, turn around,

your rhythm is your holy floor.

Ṣàngó is the storm at your door,

so do the Hokey Cokey, then turn once more.

.

I’ll dance with you from dusk to dawn,

wearing music, not as disguise.

Let the sweat that leaps from my temple

fall like honey on your thighs.

We’ll dig for Àyánmọ́ at our wedding,

shaking fate from time and cost.

I’m yielding to your sacred beauty

in your fire, I am lost.

Everyone here loves to boogie,

held in the madness of choice.

Those who move as you now move

are plucked from the herd to rejoice.

My rumba, my salsa, my Bata

it’s your fate, your Àyánmọ́ now found.

The applause that thunderclaps through the cosmos

are always yours, shaking the ground.

.

So let Ṣàngó strike the talking drum,

let Bata roll like distant war.

Our bodies arc in arcs of fire,

bearing Àṣẹ from skin to floor.

Sweat beads like offerings to the altar,

salted prayers to Orisha above;

each thrust, each spin, a covenant sealed,

each breath a rhythm made of love.

Àyánmọ́ carves its path in muscle,

cowries scatter at our feet.

The storm breaks open our bloodlines,

where flesh and spirit finally meet.

And when the thunder finds our names,

summoned by hips and holy sound,

we are no longer dancers alone,

but destinies, risen and unbound.

.

.

.TAKE THIS BATA.

TAKE THIS BATA.

There are those who don’t know of Bata—

Or Àṣẹ, spirit energy within.

It blends into wombs, hearts and memories

It’s how rhythms are stitched into skin.

There are dance halls where frozen tears melt,

Some exits that murmur you bliss

a disco where sinners are knelt

where drums beat off fear of the abyss.

Please,

Take this Bata and this Sakara

Take this Rumba and engage with it all.

–

I have wanted and needed and changed,

wandered with history torn.

From the ash-choked depths of hovels I’ve forgotten

to the puddles where love dried to scorn.

To a stage and a dance floor where sweaty stars drip

with screeching mouths and swaying hips.

Dancers revolutions, born in chaos,

have power to rewrite the world’s script

Please,

Take Fela’s Afrobeat. His legacy to youth

take his saxophonic weapon

that sings out pain and truth.

Taste it’s fire in every kiss –

Smear its rebellion onto your lips then

You may taste where freedom is.

–

Sango, with storms – all his own

Is thunder, lightning and fire.

Romping with his wives to the Bata-beats

so his dancing legs never tire.

As concerts explode in my mindscape

I see each of his moves and grooves

only now do I know I’ve escaped

‘cause he and I blended to the Blues.

–

In the dim bar where shadows sprawl,

incantations from Ọfọ̀ heard hardly at all.

Mere whispers now flicker from deep in a vault

Dancers, non-stop and blistered but

Ìwà Ojú’s trance is not the fault.

There’s enchantment swaying my lovers

Àsùwàdà’s love potions make them beg.

So they career into the dance of my being

with their posies and roses and bow-legs.

Couples dance to the rhythm of the Bata,

feet speak thunder and bodies align.

Their actions all pulsing with ardour.

As Sango lays claim to their minds

Please,

Do the Juju, do the Rumba, do the Cha-cha-cha,

Take a dancer, crippled for years.

For even when music is stolen

Bata’s magic still shatters frontiers.

–

In your cellar where children don’t play,

or your attic where light fades to thin,

I’ll find places to hide, to cry, to lay –

To press my-self against the warmth of your skin.

Through the mist of a sweet afternoon,

We’ll first appease our Gods with Ẹ̀rìndílógún

and when searching further into your gloom,

I’ll see the chains of your harness

– why you’re stuck in that room.

So please

Do the Hokey Cokey—let it thunder around,

Rhythm will always be your ground,

Ṣàngó’s storm is in every sound –

So do the Hokey Cokey. And turn around.

–

I’ll gyrate with you from now to forever,

wearing my music, but not as disguise—

Cause the sweat flying from my forehead

will land as honey on your thighs.

We’ll dig for our destiny in dance halls

cavort and shake till we’re lost,

I’ve yielded to the rush of your beauty,

breathed zeal from the fire of your exhaust.

Everyone here loves to boogie,

bound in the madness of choice.

Those who move like you groove

are plucked from the herd to rejoice.

The rumba, the salsa, the bata—

Your fate, your Àyánmọ́ unbound.

The applause – thunderclaps that shake the ground.

Are always yours.

Bata — A traditional Yoruba drum associated with ritual and spiritual ceremonies. It symbolizes the heartbeat of culture and spirit.

Àṣẹ — Spiritual energy or divine command, signifying power and manifestation.

Ọfọ̀ — Incantations or words of power; its waning in the bar reflects a loss of spiritual vitality or influence.

Sakara – The Sakara dance is marked by lively and synchronized movements that correspond to the rhythms of the Sakara music. Dancers showcase their agility and coordination through intricate footwork and gestures. The dance serves as both entertainment and a means of cultural expression, reflecting the vibrant spirit and communal celebrations of the Yoruba people.

Ìwà Ojú — Hypnosis or entrancement, symbolizing the trance-like state that both dance and magic can evoke.

Àsùwàdà — Love magic or enchantment, which is seen swaying lovers.

Ẹ̀rìndílógún — Cowrie shell divination, symbolizing fate and spiritual communication.

Àyánmọ́ — Destiny or spiritual path, discovered in moments of unity and celebration.

TAKE THIS STAND (For Madame Abomah)

There are those who measured her inches

but missed the weight of her will.

They saw six-foot-ten of spectacle

and none of the woman still.

They named her Abomah, like fable

plucked from Dahomey flame.

Crowned her Queen of the Giants,

yet never asked her name.

.

Take this stand, take this gaze

Step from shadow into stage.

.

She rose from Cross Hill’s clay soil,

where freedom came late and lean,

a cook with arms of history,

elbows greased with dreams unseen.

They said: be exotic, be fearsome, be tall—

and she said: I’ll be more than you call.

.

Her song bent minstrel tunes into sorrow,

her gown stitched pain into pride.

She stood where the world made a market

of the skin she could never hide.

.

Take this silk, take this chain

Wear them both and feel no shame.

.

Ringling brass and Barnum fanfare

she strode through it all like a queen,

her height a banner of presence,

her eyes a sermon serene.

They bought tickets to stare at her body,

but she gave them a lesson in poise.

Dignity in corseted silence.

Power without the noise.

.

Take this bow, take this burden—

It is not you, Ella; who should be uncertain.

.

Somewhere—

between Europe and Cuba,

in tents where applause met the sky,

she danced past their crude little stories,

she dared their myths to die.

She is gone, but not vanished,

her echo walks tall through time.

And every girl told you’re too much

now hears that echo as rhyme.

.

Take this height, take this sorrow—

Make it the grace of your tomorrow.

.

Her name was Ella.

Not fable.

Not freak.

Not flame.

Ella Williams.

Remember the name.