4

MEDICINE MAN

“Do you have the money?” The medicine man’s piercing eyes made Oteka squirm.

Oteka laid the notes, and a few coins too, out on the mat.

The medicine man nodded. In better times he would have considered such a sum beneath him but now … it was enough.

“I see the white hen, but what of the goat or sheep? The small gods must be appeased.”

“This is all I have.” Oteka bowed again. His heart began to pound. To save the money to buy a sheep or a goat would take a long time, too long.

“And what of your father, your brothers, sisters, and cousins? Can they not help you?”

“I am alone.” Oteka looked at the ground. He was ashamed.

“Then I ask you, do you believe?” “Yes.” The word came out in a whisper.

Did he? He was a Christian. But if there was a chance, even a small one, then surely the Big God would understand. And besides, did not the Big God create everything? He must have created the medicine man, too. And might the Big God speak through one of His own creations? Such was Oteka’s reasoning.

After scratching various parts of his body, pondering, considering, and raising his eyes to the heavens, the medicine man nodded. “I cannot guarantee that the small gods will help with such a humble sacrifice, but they may take pity on a boy who has no family. It depends—the gods can be stubborn. But,” the medicine man held up one spindly finger, “we can try. Wait here.”

Oteka leapt into the air with gratitude.

The medicine man’s first and second wives had already left to work in the gardens. It was the third, youngest wife who would assist. She was only a few years older than Oteka but seemed sure of her duties. With a careless wave she plucked the squawking chicken out of his arms and tossed it into the hut.

The medicine man stood, stretched, and without saying another word ducked his head and disappeared into the gloom of his mud hut. With his eyes following the medicine man, Oteka didn’t notice the young wife coming up behind him. Striking like a cobra she snatched a clump of Oteka’s hair and yanked it out by the roots. Before he had time to protest, she reached down, grabbed his hand, and peeled off a bit of his nail. Oteka remained mute and unmoved. He felt no pain. The magic had started.

“Sit.”

Oteka sat. The sun was climbing in the sky and he felt beads of sweat gather on his brow. Incense wafted out of the hut, and the rattle of the ajaa bells bade the smaller gods come visit. When the sun was almost overhead, the young wife emerged from the hut and nodded. The medicine man was ready.

Oteka’s heart began to thump. He entered the hut.

It was a dim and shadowy place. Wild animal skins lined the walls—antelope and lion, and the most treasured of all, the skin of a leopard. Mats covered the dirt floor. Crossed spears and drums were to the left of the mat. A candle provided the only light.

“Sit,” commanded the young wife.

Cross-legged, with watering eyes, Oteka sat. His thumping heart was now pounding in his ears, his palms were wet with sweat. The medicine man—now wearing beads, skins, and gagi around his ankles and wrists, with ash and paint on his forehead and chest—began his duty. He took a sip of holy water, then spat it out. He shook the gagi to invite the spirits in. The young wife lit more incense. The smoke stung Oteka’s eyes.

“Why have you come here?” the medicine man shouted as he rattled the shells and beads and pounded on the drum.

“My mother.” Oteka could barely form words. “I must speak with her.”

The medicine man roared and danced and called to the gods to make their presence known. And then, when he seemed depleted, he hissed to his young wife, “Bring me the chicken. The gods are being stubborn today.”

The young wife knelt beside the medicine man and held the chicken up to him in an offering. The medicine man grabbed the screeching chicken by the neck, then pried open its beak.

“Spit in the mouth of the chicken,” commanded the medicine man. Oteka did as he was told. Then the medicine man did the same. The fingernail clipping and hair that the wife had taken from Oteka were mixed with herbs and that concoction, too, was shoved down the chicken’s throat.

Again the medicine man shook his beads and shells, but now he stood, and the roof of the hut seemed to rise to accommodate his height. The smoke grew thicker, encasing Oteka in a fog. It was nearly impossible for him to keep his eyes open longer than a few seconds. As the medicine man’s hands reached up and up and up, as his voice vibrated with chants that rose from rumbles to thunder claps, the sounds engulfed then swamped Oteka. Then, in one broad sweep, the medicine man wrenched a knife from his belt and, with a mighty swipe, he severed the chicken’s head.

“Ask your question.” The medicine man’s voice was low and gritty, like a rake being dragged over rocky ground.

“Mother,” Oteka whispered. “I do not know where I am or where I am supposed to be in this life. I wait here in the camp only for my grave. Tell me, what must I do? Please, Mother, tell me.”

The medicine man held the chicken high and swung it by the neck, all the while howling, “Here is your boy, Mother. You have heard him speak. He needs your help. He is stranded in this time but he can escape his situation. I am a medium and I beg you to speak to your child. LET HIM HEAR YOUR VOICE. GIVE HIM A MESSAGE.” The howl turned into a shriek and the candle was snuffed out.

Silence.

And then, “Kony.” The word dripped out of the medicine man’s mouth like poison. In that moment, Oteka felt more alone than ever.

Oteka reeled out of the medicine man’s hut and staggered back across the camp. Reaching out, he took hold of a bamboo pole and tried to steady himself. He’d have retched if he’d had any food in his stomach. He came to the public showers, ducked his head inside, and pulled down on the chain of the cistern. Out dribbled a thin stream of water warmed by the sun.

Kony, the madman who stole, tortured, and murdered children. Was his mother trying to warn him? Should he run? But what if he was captured on the road? If he stayed, would he be caught in a raid? What was he to do? He wanted to cry out. If there was no escape, why torture him like this? Then another thought, a more rational one. Did he hear right or did he hear his own fears echoed back to him?

With great effort he walked back toward his hut, his feet dragging in the dust. What difference did it make?

He could not leave Adaa. There were many in the camp, thousands, who were starving. It was not like the old days in the villages, when neighbor cared for neighbor. What little resources each had went to their own children, their own survival. If Oteka left Adaa, she would surely starve. The answer was in that—to stay and fulfill his obligation to the old woman and wait for a sign.

“Adaa.” Oteka neared the old woman’s hut. The kolo in front was empty. Long white tubes of cassava sat in a bowl. Oteka looked about. The camp was quiet. Small children were sleeping, men played their chess games, and the girls and women had yet to return from the gardens.

“Adaa?”

Oteka pushed aside a strip of canvas that served as her door. In the dim light he saw the fish that hung from the roof, fish he had caught and Adaa had dried. He smelled beans and sesame. And then in the shadows he saw her.

“Oh, Adaa.” Oteka fell onto his hands and knees and crawled, hand over hand, across the mud floor. He reached Adaa’s kabutu, then gathered the little woman in his arms.

She had left this world peacefully. It was the sign.