by Timi Sanni Paul Zoetemeijer I have seen men with hair the color of rust whip caution like sand to the wind at the sound of the bàtá drums. In my language, the word for bee is the same as for honey, which is to say: a man is what he makes with the machinery of his body. Look at what we make with ours. In truth, elixirs are only fancy words for alchemy’s sting. Observe, people of the world, the drum and its folk, the avian rhythm for which, again, we mistake feet for wings.