Festus Adedayo
The Bàtá is a Yoruba drum that is in a class of its own. It used to be highly venerated in social and political circles as its percussion impacted virtually all spheres of life. It is a double-faced drum shaped by its crafters to look like an hourglass, with one end of it bigger than the other. In the olden days, Bata got deployed mainly during traditional and religious festivals – it occupied a special place in the heart of Alaafin Sango, all his descendants and devotees. In its outstanding place of social pride, the Bata shared spatial recognition with Gbedu, the drum of royalty. In those early years spanning centuries, the Bata’s uniqueness was based on its deployment to connect with the ancestors and the other world. It often cosseted local politicians on outings in village administration.
However, as unique as the Bata drum is, when it makes its powerful, penetrating rhythm, Yoruba preach caution and warn the drum and its drummer to dance carefully. They say, bi bata ba le l’ale ju, yiya ni ya – when its delicate goat skin leather gets torn, it is cast aside and becomes utterly useless. It is a lethal warning to power-mongers on the slippery terrain of power. Like Bata, man, no matter how respected, if he wears the alaseju (one who over-flaunts) dress, it gets torn too.
Three Bata drums got torn midstream last week. At the apogee of their power and majesty, these drums shared essences with the Bata drum. They were sought after for their penetrating percussions. No gathering was complete without them. They shattered eardrums with the power of their presence. However, like all Bata drums that fail to heed words of advice, these Bata drums got turn and the irritancy that the torn drums provoked got to its highest decibel. As their Bata got brutally torn, gradually, they hit the butt of people’s reckoning, gravitating from being gadflies into wet-flies
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