The Ancestorial tree.

The Ancestorial tree.

Hurt muscles, along with a head that rung, accompanied me to regain consciousness, waves of visual distortion slowly brought into focus a small strange old-fashioned room. Beneath me, a terra cotta tiled floor, formed from a previous visual patch of red. Next to my make-shift bed, large African ornaments surrounded me. As my senses returned pungent smells of burning fire, dust, dark wood, cats, and a caged bird, hit my nose. Looking around, within an antique stone hearth, dancing flames accompanied a staccato of cracking wood, hissing embers and swirling smoke. I began to notice a Loud ticking of an antique clock, which serenaded a large old valve radio, that whispered a BBC program into the dusky room where I lay, confused and fearful. Where was I? It was difficult to know, as little light penetrated from thickly painted small square off-white windows. I kept thinking the building must be old, as it had deep window sills.

The area where I had slept, was an oasis of semidarkness, however, in an adjacent corner standing against a dark wall, an orange hue emanated from a broad shaded Victorian pedestal lamp. As I stirred to rise, beneath me creaked a dark-brown leather couch that smelt of cat.

Sitting up, an African print slid towards the dusty tiled floor. As I tried to pick it up, a strange woman’s voice rang from somewhere outside the room. Rising to meet the owner of the voice, shoeless feet touched the cold floor. An attractive middle-class-looking lady with a stock of shoulder-length blonde hair entered, her open smile met my bemused eyes.

My throat went lumpy as I realized, this woman is who most villagers call the witch! As she walked into the room, my hands clawed into her leather settee, I kept shifting backward trying to move away from her, oblivious of how my ridiculous behavior must have looked.

All the time my mind scraped through recent memories, searching for a reason for me to be in the witch’s house. She stopped in front of me and smiled openly.

“You’ve decided to come back to us. You were out for quite a while. Call me Mrs. T.”

Inside my head felt like a hand-grenade had exploded. Instantly a swoon surged through me.

“Calm down, and lay back down, you fell off your motorbike in the woods outside my drive. You were concussed, don’t worry I was a field nurse for years, so far nothing of your condition worries me. You need time to recover.”   

I was just about to spit out “My Mother.”

“I’ve rung your mothers’ school, John. She will pick you up after work, by then you’ll probably feel ok to be driven home. I know what you’re thinking, how do I know your name and your mother's? Do I have superpowers? Or I’m in league with the Devil? You decide.”

Mrs. T, laughed wickedly. I flinched in shock; a deep sense of emptiness filled me, in my weak state, all I could think was, what will be my fate, then Mrs. T, leaned into me to feel my neck pulse, her ample bosom pushed against me.

I winced involuntary, ignoring my reaction, she hummed and began talking.

“The other reason could be I have taught supply in the same school like your mother, and have known her for quite some time. You choose which scenario suits you best, in the interim would you like some herbal tea?”

A kitten jumped onto the couch, relieved by such a pretty distraction. My hand gently stroked its fluffy fur. Mrs. T sang some kind of African song while clattering cupboards and utensils. She reentered the room. In a flash, my feline companion exited, to a hurl of African and English abuse.

“She knows not to come in! They have a warm barn and plenty of food.

 Sorry I ‘didn’t know.

It’s ok. That kitten is really pushy.”

Mrs. T, sat opposite me on a chintz decorated footstool, and passed over a glass of red tea, we exchanged the niceties associated with tea etiquette. On sipping the offered brew, it held a sharp gingery taste, which made my face frown.

“The ginger is good for concussion, may I ask why are you so frightened?”

Shifting nervously, I looked to the floor not wanting to answer, Mrs. T, raised her eyebrows, supporting her arms that supinated imploring an answer. I gave in to her charming manner and blurted out.

“Everyone in the village says you’re a witch.”

She laughed uncontrollably.

“Seriously! That’s what they’re saying. So, you think I will turn you into a frog, or something.”

Feeling embarrassed, at how absurd my behavior, and postulations must have appeared. My eyes fell to the floor looking for a hole to crawl down. I tried to save face, by pointing to the African figures. 

“Ok, I will explain why the figures adorn my room. My husband is an engineer, he was offered a contract in Kenya. We had small children, I wanted them to see different parts of the world, moreover, there was more than enough work for me as a nurse the hours were great! I even had time to pass my teaching certificate. Then tragedy struck. My husband contracted malaria. He was dying. Nothing could be done for him. The priest read him his last rights; all the medical staff told me to say my goodbyes.

As the medical staff left my room, in an unprecedented move, Kolbe, Mr. T’s driver pulled me aside to tell me he knew a Yoruba Priestess who was Sangoma, (Healer) who can cure my husband. I was desperate and begged him to fetch her.     

The empty private room, felt so final for my husband, however, being a nurse, I kept reassuring myself that I didn’t require anyone to help me. Alone and expecting the worse, in a palliative care room, I waited for the Sangoma. Tears flooded over both cheeks as I held my unconscious husband’s hand. It was awful feeling him becoming weaker; his strong hands twitched and fluttered like a dying bird. 

 Half an hour later, Kolbe arrived with the healer. She wore white. A face covering of string and shells hung from a headband obscuring her face.

 The Sangoma moved me to sit with Kolbe behind her, genuflecting, she shouted at something that seemed to be near my husband’s bed. Kolbe told me she was banishing the bad spirits, next she cast bones and shells, started singing and waving a fly-whisk, after a while, strange red powder became mixed with water.

 Both of us held my partner's head up while he weakly sipped the red drink. I felt the Sangoma hold my arm. She hugged me, saying, “He sleeps, then be good.” I looked at my lifeless husband. Rage built up in me; I kept thinking “How could I be so stupid!” Angry and crying I shouted at everyone to get out, pulling up the chair and flinging my arms around him, in desperation, I cried myself to sleep.

At three AM, a hand-rubbed my head. I dreamily asked, “Is he dead?” a familiar voice replied, “I hope not.” A weight left my body and heart, like a teenager meeting her crush. It was kiss after kiss. I’ve never been so happy, checking it wasn’t a dream. A quick pull on a string switch flooded light everywhere, much to T’s annoyance.”

“I kept repeating You’re back! Thank God, you are alive. We read you your last writes.”

“What happened Mrs. T?

You were dying T, in fact, you almost died. However, a Sangoma brought you back to life.

You don’t believe in such nonsense, Mrs. T.

I do now Mr. T. I do now.”

I was speechless Mrs. T, seemed educated and middle class. This story stirred me. One question remained unanswered. “What happend to the Sangoma Mrs. T? You had scalded her and sent her away.”

Mrs. T, looked at me her eyes welled with tears, and restarted her dialog.

“The next day T, woke up like he’d never been ill. I asked him if Kolbe could take me to the Sangoma, we dropped my husband home to rest, in reality, he didn’t need one. Then Kolbe and I drove to his village.”

I knew nothing of Africa; however, I had heard it was dangerous for white women. I burst out. “Weren’t you scared Mrs. T?” She Laughed.

“No John, I had Kolbe and my Webley revolver.”

My mouth dropped! She looked like a nice teacher, not a trained killer.

“Don’t look so shocked John, carrying a gun was part of everyday life in fifties Kenya. We were some of the last to leave due to us being armed. However, we are digressing. On reaching her village, Kolbe took me down a path into a lush jungle. He left me before I entered the circle, apparently, men were not allowed.

 I entered a horseshoe-shaped clearing. Their alter seemed to be an old blackened stump. Many women dressed in white, sat on mats in a circle. Finding a space at the back, a nice woman gave me a mat, after which I cautiously joined in prayer with the Sangoma.

I burst out excitedly, “you attended a real witchcraft ceremony! Did you understand, can you speak Swahili?”

“Yes John, we lived there over fifteen years.”

So many questions flooded my head; I had seen old Black & White films of witchcraft ceremonies, read books as well as seen exhibitions on witchcraft in museums. Nevertheless, all I could muster was a primitive- “What Happened?” Mrs. T, held my excited hand and continued.

“John, Yoruba isn’t witchcraft, it’s a type of earth and ancestor worship. They don’t curse or animal sacrifice. After the ceremony, many people spoke to the Sangoma, I waited patiently, eventually, she came to me and hugged telling me, good to have my husband home. How did she know, Mr. T, was now at home resting? I stopped thinking and burst out with teach me Yoruba. I want to be Sangoma.

Anxiety built in my chest as the words, “so, you really are a witch!” fell from my dry lips. Her eyes fell on mine.

“John, I’ve told you, it’s not witchcraft. Yoruba is a religion that heals, and wants balance with our earth, and talks to ancestral beings. These gentle creatures helped you heal.”

Mrs. T, pointed to the black primitively carved statues and began to introduce them, this is Olodumare - the Yoruba Lord God, seen as the Source of all Creation, next to him is Ologun - the Lord God of Heaven, and Nàná Bùkùú – orisha/ goddess of the river and of the earth.

In disbelief, I clumsily asked, did they help me heal Mrs. T?

She paused, before speaking.

“Have you been listening to me?

  I meant to say, you used those statues to heal me.”

Mrs. T, put the statues back on a primitive alter, muttering something I presumed was Swahili when she stopped singing and arranging her statues. I fired another question.

“How long did it take to become a Sangoma?”

 We returned to our seating arrangements. She looked wistfully into her fire like it spoke to her. Without looking at me, she continued her story.

 “I felt stupid when I eventually spoke to the priestess, she did not bat an eyelid concerning my atrocious behavior, of course, I apologized. Then she told me, you have the gift. “Your easy be Sangoma.”

“As she presented her hand, the name Makena became whispered into my ears, instinct told me to ask my question again. I whispered back can you train me Makena? A solemn nod followed; it’s was like she knew what I was thinking. Hooking my arm, a gentle pull directed me towards a large burnt stump.

This is our ancestor tree; men wearing crosses axed it and burnt it, they said, “Bad Juju!” They know nothing. This tree still Live’s, her roots strong like a Sangoma, listen, she speaks. At first, I felt nothing then a slight buzzing occurred, followed by many intermingled visions, what was strange Makena saw them too? When you're ready to be Sangoma Mrs. T, if you are powerful? A small piece of this tree will be carved into your totem, you only get a small carving if you not powerful. If you no good, you get stone. She laughed, making me giggle.

 I eagerly began my training in secret, five years after my initiation Makena gave me my secret name. During that time, we became great friends, being with her was like being a child again. Unfortunately, a cloud of bad juju came through our lives. Makena's village was suspected of supporting the Mau-Mau. It became difficult for us to meet, soldiers followed us everywhere.

 In the sixties it became too dangerous to stay, as I prepared to leave Makena sneaked to our bungalow to give me a large freshly carved statue of Olodumare, telling me our souls and ancestors will be always bound. Kolbe drove my family to the Airport, on arrival we got out and said our goodbyes. Kolbe asked me to speak privately. I was a little taken aback, aswe had said our farewells, but said sure. Then he dropped the bombshell, Olodumare, which had been made from half the wood of the ancestral tree.