A Crisis Of The Heart

He arrived just before sunset. He was dressed in rags made out of hyena hide and homemade sandals. His feet looked dusty and tough; the feet of a man who had trodden dangerous terrain, risking all sorts of damage to the feet during a venturesome search for raw medication out in the bushes. Telepathy always led him to the right medication, or so he believed. He arrived by donkey cart, “driven” by his son, who was a twenty five year old that the father saved from a bout of alcoholism with the promise to train him into the best traditional doctor like himself. Unlike his father or other traditional doctors-or even student traditional doctors for that matter-he was dressed like a Hip Hop artist, straight from television, with baggy jeans, football jersey, chains around his neck and all. He leant the dress code from TV as well as from this other group he used to hang out with during his stint in Lentsweng three years ago. He walked with a swagger, which he somehow acquired from regular marijuana smoking during his town days. He stopped smoking marijuana but the swagger remained. He gave up all his bad habits and as part of his promised training he followed his father wherever the father went, come rain or sunshine. He also acted chauffeur for the father, mostly driving the old blue Toyota Hilux but also the donkey cart. The donkeys that were used to pull the cart had developed scars all over due to dangerous “driving”, which was done by way of a whip. The whip always landed on the body of the donkeys at any time the Hip Hop artist's brain asked him to do so, even when the poor creatures were behaving and walking or running properly. The headman had already sent out a “memo” announcing an urgent meeting and by the time Zachariah and his student made their appearance the meeting area was packed with expectant people waiting anxiously. An air of impending doom hung around. Modimonthuse the headman had also briefed them on the presiding matter and sternly warned that if anyone amongst the crowd was responsible for all the witchcraft going on in his village they should confess now to avoid embarrassing exposure by the traditional doctor. Had they ever heard of Zachariah? Did they know who he was? Did they know what a strong witchdoctor he was? Of course they did, who didn’t? Well, if they knew then that was fine. This was a renowned witchdoctor, well-known in all the surrounding villages, capable of sending lightning to anyone at will. He was certainly not one to be messed around with; so were all the villagers really sure they were not responsible for the witchcraft? No, they were not responsible. They collectively felt it was the work of someone from “the outside”. As usual, very few of the men were sober, with some having brought along all sorts of homebrew. Speculations were being exchanged amongst the attendants of the meeting, the most rife of which was that Plastic was responsible for the witchcraft. The speculation went further to stipulate that the matter was made even worse by the fact that Plastic was now dead, which basically meant that whatever damage he had done could never be unravelled. This in turn meant that the village was perpetually going to be enveloped in evil, which would subsequently see the whole village to doom. They were afraid; they feared for the future. They collectively believed that for any sort of witchcraft to be reversed, the perpetrator would have to be still alive. They strongly doubted if Zachariah could afford to undo the damage, but nobody dared express their doubts for fear of receiving lightning. Chibelu, who sat at the edge of the crowd, was dead scared. Scared at the prospect of stumbling upon more snakes; scared of witches; scared of dying in a foreign area; scared of the villagers; scared of everyone. At present he was finding it difficult to trust anyone, including Thogs, who was not at the meeting as he had to attend to an emergency somewhere in the village. He said something about a young boy having fallen out with an angry bull, which in turn gored him with its sharp horns and caused his abdomen to look like a football. Chibelu had never really believed in witchcraft in his life, but he was suddenly starting to have second thoughts. Why him though? Could Gloria be behind all this somehow? She looked like a witch anyway, although he had never seen one in his life. He had a hunch witches looked like Gloria, in one way or the other. Or could it be his wife? He startled at the least sounds. Amogelang was sitting beside him, caring less about the inquisitive looks cast towards her. In fact, she enjoyed the attention. She was not interested in any of the village men she had seen thus far, although they wouldn’t stop ogling at her. She hadn’t bothered to greet anyone. Chibelu would later tell her that as long as she was in the village she would have to greet everyone, regardless of whether she knew them or not. That was village manners and she would have to conform to that, just like he did. Chibelu had briefly introduced her to the headman, who strongly insisted that there should be a welcome ceremony for her in the next few days. That was village spirit and he wasn’t going to allow anyone to change it. She sat calmly beside Chibelu, least perturbed, wondering what the hub was all about. Silence gripped the crowd as Zachariah made his way to the forefront, carrying bags and all other eerie equipment a traditional doctor needs. His son trailed behind him like the bum he was, his eyes stealthily scanning the gathered crowd for good looking women. So far he had slept with one, but she didn’t seem to be amongst the crowd today. Father and son set their paraphernalia on the ground, rattling sounds coming forth as they did. They had brought their own chairs; chairs which the crowd collectively believed were meant to be used only by the supernatural. Zachariah sat on the chair for only a short moment, then knelt on the ground after the headman placed a hundred Pula note in front of him as consultation fee. The actual fee would come after the diagnosis. Then there would be yet another charge for the “treatment”. Tied with a small strange looking rope around his waist was a small bundle of porcupine quills. The rope was made out of skunk hide, so the smell coming off it wasn’t so impressive. He untied the rope and placed the quills on a small mat he had spread on the ground in front of him. The mat was made of raw hide that used to belong to an animal of some sort, possibly a black cat judging from its dimensions. At this juncture the silence and suspense that gripped the crowd was almost palpable. Next Zachariah took out small weird looking objects, which included something that looked like biltong, dried human toes and what could have been a baboon skull. Whatever it was, Chibelu could not see properly from the back of the crowd. He was on the lookout for snakes. The sound of mooing cattle startled him, almost sending him to his feet. The smell of dung hung loosely in the air. There was a kraal nearby and the cattle contained within wouldn’t keep quiet; they were mooing, fighting and raping each other all at the same time. The crowd seemed to be so well-used to the smell of dung and the whole hullabaloo from within the kraal. It was part of them; it was a sign of life, with the added intense smell of beast urine. This was deep village life that Amogelang was finding herself submerged in. Zachariah carefully placed the baboon skull on the small mat, took the weird objects in his right hand, cupped the whole lot with the left and shook. At this point Chibelu was ready to disappear, fear sending his mind into bedlam. He expected the traditional doctor to change into a wild animal at any moment. Or even a snake for that matter. The way he looked! Besides, Chibelu had heard the unconfirmed rumour that these people had the ability to change into animals. The presence of Amogelang by his side somehow had a soothing effect