A VISIT TO THE MEDICINE MAN

At the back of the rickety pick-up was me, my father, my 3 sisters and a goat that was held captive using sisal ropes. At the front sat the driver, my mother and our infant twin brothers on her lap. Next to her was another man I did not recognize. The journey was on a rough terrain and since we were seated at the back, it required us to constantly hold on to the edges to avoid tipping over. The driver and my mum were engaged in an animated chatter that we could hardly follow. My brothers slept peacefully on her lap, oblivious of the rough journey. Clouds of dust would hit our faces at the carrier, causing us to squint in discomfort. My sisters' lesos, the ones they were using to cover their heads, had already gathered enough dust to distort the color to brown. Looking at my dad's dusty hair and face I knew I was a replica in appearance.

The goat bleated at every toss and turn of the pick-up, frightened. I focused my attention to it, trying to escape the discomfort of the journey.

It was a purely white goat, healthy and still young, in goat years. I watched as it chewed cud while occasionally defecating small green mounds that were more fascinating than disgusting. Goat and cow shit, heck even chicken shit was ubiquitous in our dwelling. You stepped on it barefoot and moved on. When dry it served as manure for the farm. It could also be used as a repellent for mosquitoes. But I digress.

Before this journey I had surreptitiously overheard my parents discussing the mission at hand. We were visiting a traditional doctor who was highly rated in giving protective charms, amulets and making spiritual incantations that kept all the enemies and evil spirits at bay. The man had advised that we bring a white female goat that had not given birth as yet. We didn't have one but on the day before this trip, my dad had appeared home leading a a white goat and under his arm a red cockerel.

He was ready for his family to receive this divine cleansing.

I love goat meat. Partly the reason why I was excited by this journey, besides the curiosity of meeting a traditional healer. I could picture it slaughtered and expertly prepared for our dinner at the medicine man's place, which we were to spend a part of the night, as he invoked his superpowers to wage war against any haters lurking around our family. 

The oracle had also asked for us to carry five thousand shillings in cash, which would be his fee for the services. Again strict instructions had been given on the allowed denominations - strictly 50 bob notes only. Finally a red cockerel was to complete the list of requirements. The cockerel silently stayed put in a box, its feet bound deep in thought.

After about two hours of turbulent travel, mostly on a rough untarmacked road, we pulled up into a compound with a perimeter defined by densely spaced euphorbia plants. In the middle of the compound was an old red flag with no insignia, fluttering calmly. We were now on the oracle's territory.

As we disembarked from the pick-up I felt apprehensive, my young mind concocting all sorts of eerie scenarios that are likely to happen in a traditional healer's house. I looked around. There were three grass thatched huts, a kraal with a few livestock and a dilapidated pit latrine. An old dog that did not even attempt to bark lay outside one of the huts, from which an elderly and morbidly obese man, with a wrapper around his waist, appeared. He adorned numerous ornaments on his neck, arms and feet that jingled as he moved. He ambled slowly towards us, aided by a walking stick.

My father introduced himself, reminding him of their previous encounter and conversation. The old man seemed to recall and asked us, in his raspy voice, to display the requirements needed for the rituals. We obliged and he gave them a careful inspection as if looking for blemishes, which would render our visit futile.

Despite his advanced age and ungainly frame he counted the 50 bobs meticulously all the way to 5000 bob and nodded in satisfaction. Using his cane, he directed us to his hut, with strict instructions to remove our shoes. 

The two men that had accompanied us - the driver and the other passenger, stayed out as my family crammed itself into the poorly lit hut. An array of tools of trade lay scattered all over the hut -gourds, a deer skull, dried hooves, some cowrie shells, a whistle and many other paraphernalia that I could not immediately recognize. We sat there silently, our goat still chewing cud and shitting, our cockerel finally out of the box, rummaging around for grains.

 The medicine man came in with some effort, as the door was quite narrow for his frame, and sat in the middle of the room, still clinging to the wand of cash.

In his raspy voice and with a deliberate and authoritative timbre, he began question my parents.

"Where do you come from?"

"What are the issues you are facing? Are you having any toxic relationship in your extended family? Oh, your half brother?

Tell me more about that? Oh, you don't see eye to eye over land boundaries...uh huh...you even had a physical altercation last week? He promised to finish you, didn't he?"

He ruminated over the answers given, head held down solemnly. Picking some beads and a small gourd, he chanted some unintelligible words, his midsection trembling, perspiring from the little physical effort. Once finished, he rose slowly, his joints creaking, took the goat and instructed my dad to bind its feet. 

With the confused goat lying on the ground bleating, the medicine man sat on its neck, exerting over 120kg of weight, smothering the poor animal to a slow painful death. We watched, horrified as my infant twin brothers started to wail in shock and terror. 

The oracle called out a name and it was our first time to notice that the home had other inhabitants besides him. A young dirty man, with yellow teeth appeared and was instructed to go dismember and cook the carcass.

 The cockerel did not suffer a similar fate, two lives too many, the old oracle must have said to himself. 

Meanwhile the man's attention was now on us -using a small knife to make incisions on our faces, backs, feet while applying his mysterious concoctions of dried herbs on the cuts. A lot of spittle too, dished liberally and rubbed like vaseline on a baby's bum. A mix of awe, disgust and amusement in our young heads, but I could see deference and humility on my parents faces as they executed his raspy commands

.

Any doctor, conventional or traditional, who's worth his salt will give a prescription and future date for review. I believe both for altruistic and commercial reasons. No exception here. We were handed a small bottle with some thick liquid that we we to sprinkle all around our compound as well as on our bodies, each morning and evening.

We were also reassured that the evil uncle, who was actively seeking the services of witchdoctors to harm us, would fail spectacularly. The prognosis looked good and I could see relief on my parents' faces. They were asked to visit after 6 months to review progress.

Goat meat and ugali was served, though the portions were small and drowned in lots of soup. 

It was 10pm when we began our journey back in the same pick-up, confident of the future, all worries gone.