Tag Archives: night ritual

When the Loa Descend ©️

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Boum… boum… boum… tanbou ap rele. The drum is calling. You feel it in the teeth, in the bone, in the chest. Tout bagay frape ansanm — everything hitting at once. Spirits, I see you. Spirits, I hear you.

Gede, papa cimetière, father of the cemetery. Ou ri nan zo mwen — you laugh inside my bones. You chew the nerve of my tooth, cigar smoke curling, chapo haut hiding your eyes. You say: “Danse nan doulè, dance in the pain.” But I take sel, salt water, I take clou girofle, cloves, and rinse my mouth. Sa se ofrann mwen — this is my offering. I laugh back, loud in your face. Your fire is strong, but mine burns too.

Papa Legba, mèt kwazman, master of the crossroads. You sit with baton at the gate, you say: “Pa gen passage — no passage here.” But I take feuille, paper, I write my desire, I burn it. Lafimen monte — the smoke rises. It slips through the cracks of your door, whispering: ouvè, open. My road is not closed. My path burns hotter than your lock.

Petro lwa, fiery spirits, lwa of rage and flame. You ride my back, you whisper, “Tout fini — all is finished.” You want silence, you want my head down, you want me broken. Non. I strike the table, poum, poum, poum, my own drum. Mwen chante non mwen — I sing my name: “I am here, still here.” The echo returns, the echo answers: wi, yes, alive. The shadow trembles. The shadow breaks.

Ezili, lady of love. Ogou, fiery warrior. Damballa, great white serpent. I call you, vin kanpe bò kote m’ — come stand beside me. They strike the drum, I strike mine. They make fire, I make fire too. They bring misery, I bring defiance. Mwen pa pou kont mwen — I am not alone.

Hear me, spirits. Tout doulè gen figi — every pain has a face. Tout pèdi gen baryè — every loss is a gate. Tout lonbraj se kavalye — every shadow is a rider. You ride, but I ride back. You burn, but I burn back. You laugh, but I laugh louder. Fire kont fire — fire against fire.

If you come pou kraze mwen — to break me, I break you back.

If you come pou nwaye mwen — to drown me, I rise from the water with fire in my hair.

If you come pou antere mwen — to bury me, I walk through your tomb until it is mine.

Boum… boum… boum… the drum does not stop. The circle closes, but mwen pa fèmen — I am not closed. I am not seulement a man in pain. Mwen se dife — I am fire. Mwen se ritm — I am rhythm. Mwen se lwa nan pwòp kò mwen — I am the spirit in my own flesh. And when I burn, tout lwa bow — all spirits bow. Tout lonbraj kouri — every shadow flees. Tout dife respekte dife mwen — every fire respects my fire.

From the Top ©️

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I stepped out barefoot, not as a man looking for something, but as something the night had called home. No phone, no plans, no hour marked for return. The fire I carried in my pocket wasn’t just smoke or leaf—it was a key. Just called Fire, because that’s what it was. Fire that burned slow and true, handed down like a family heirloom no one wanted to admit existed. A rite, not a habit.

The breeze was cool, but not indifferent. It wrapped around my shoulders like an old friend who hadn’t forgotten a thing. The moon, swollen and full, hung above like it had come just to watch. And maybe it had. That night didn’t owe me a future, and I didn’t ask for one. The morning might never come. Fine. Even finer. I had no debts to pay. I’d peeled the day off like a skin I didn’t need anymore.

I walked until the ground folded gently, a small place where the earth had let its guard down. I sat. Struck the match. Fire kissed fire, and I brought it to my lips. It didn’t hit hard. It opened. Like a chapel door creaking into a room I’d already dreamed. The smoke rose slow, curling like scripture into the air.

The shadows had already begun their work. They didn’t rush. They weren’t thrown—they grew, silently, with dignity. Long and knowing, like they’d watched generations rise and fall under this same moon, in this same hush. They weren’t dangerous. They were truthful. And they moved with the fog that followed—a slow, creeping breath that climbed from the ground like it had been hiding in the soil all day, waiting for the right hour to rise.

The nightbirds cried. One sharp, like a warning shot fired into a dream. Another low, deep, from the gut of the earth. Not a song. A claim. They marked the time, not in minutes, but in thresholds passed. They said, You’ve entered it now. No going back.

And I felt it.

The high didn’t come like thunder. It came like tide—slow and inevitable. A hum in the fingertips, a heat crawling up the spine. The world didn’t spin. It stretched. My thoughts didn’t think. They opened. As if the skull wasn’t a bone cage, but a cathedral now, with high windows and soft echoes. Breath thickened. Time sagged.

Reality blurred. But not in fear.

In freedom.

Because that was the night. Not sleep. Not escape. Freedom. From clocks. From names. From the lie of linear time. The fog tried to hide the world, and I let it. I didn’t need the world anymore. I was in the kingdom of shadows, breath, breeze, and Fire. No laws. No debts. No sunrise required.

And in that moment, the only truth that mattered was this:

I was the night, catching its breath.