Crispy Stories in the Tropics: Histoires Croustillantes Sous Les Tropiques: In English and French Version

By Simon Dinkala

Many of these stories revolve around the forbidden fruit and the conquering of anothers heart by using a fetish, making him helplessly captivated. There are numerous stories of jealousy, envy, and other natural phenomena. The reader will find some samples of those in this book.

Traditionally, a lot of ink, saliva, and even tears have been poured about sex, especially when it is about guilty relations between two lovers, relationships in which at least one of the parties is officially recognized as in a relationship or married to another person. These relationships are commonly and humorously referred to as forbidden fruit by analogy to the legend of the Garden of Eden.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503564435

Simon Dinkala

Dinkala Simon was born in a village in the Belgian Congo on March 3, 1953. When he was a child, everyone talked about his storytelling and comedic talents. He started making people laugh by telling, in his own way and with particular originality, a story that all his listeners had yet participated or witnessed. It was said of him that he would have written the gospel if he had wanted to, without having been part of the story. Has that influenced his choice for studying psychology and development at the university? We find traces of this in his adventure as a writer, musician, and filmmaker. He even led this with passion as soon as he entered what he himself called the “third age,” the age of deep conception. Literature, travel, and various family, social, and professional experiences, including in the Congolese and Canadian public administrations and in the United Nations System, have contributed to this. Just in this first volume, Simon Dinkala already gives us a peek of what to expect on the second volume for juicier stories.

Book preview

1

THE STUDENT VICTIM OF WITCHCRAFT

At the end of the year 1972, when this story begins, Kisangani is a pretty good, great town between both banks of the Congo River, with four communes on the right bank and one commune on the left bank.

This city is located at more than one thousand kilometers from Kinshasa and is the capital of one of the largest provinces of the Democratic Republic of Congo, the Equatorial Province, which is called, at the time of the facts, Haut-Zaire Province.

There was good ambiance in this city, especially with the presence of thousands of students from the third largest university in the country.

And when students received their scholarship and invaded nightclubs and other places of fun, life took a different pace, more jerky and spicy.

Many people loved this city and liked to live there. We proudly called it the beautiful Boyoma.

This story came from my experienced, and it is one of the most important stories of my life. Far from any naïveté in full possession of my faculties, what happened to me is simply special, memorable. This story was so marked that the memory lived, still fresh in me after thirty-nine years. I should still tell in every detail the twenty coming years.

On October 30, 1972, I landed in Kisangani in Northeastern Zaire, now the Democratic Republic of Congo, through the Air Zaire Fokker F27 aircraft. It was my first time to take a flight. I had just finished high school, and the National University of Zaire in Kisangani offered psychology studies I wanted to pursue.

Too late, I’m told at the administrative secretariat of the university. Registrations are closed since ten days. All my prayers have not worked. I must return to Kinshasa. But I did not have enough money to buy a return air ticket. I decided to take the boat; the cost was affordable, but the trip took a week to get to Kinshasa.

Yes, I was returning to Kinshasa and then going to see my parents in the village, eighty kilometers south of Kinshasa—them who, through their meager farm income, have ruined themselves by financing the adventure, which is coming to an end so unhappily. I could hear them say, You went to study away from home for you to become a man in life, and you came back so quickly. What will you do this year? Enrollment is closed in all university campuses!

The next day, I went to the river port to buy my boat ticket. A long queue was waiting for me; many people were to travel by boat to Kinshasa. For nine hours, I was in the queue, moving very slowly. I moved, I moved forward, and then it was almost my turn. There were more than two people in front of me before arriving at the counter. And that is the general surprise. The ticket seller looked at me and started screaming out loud, You’re crazy, you little crazy. Why do you say that I am slow in selling tickets? Do you know my seniority? In short, a bunch of insults toward me, which were going to push those behind to lynch me. Thanks to God, my direct neighbors testified that I had not even opened my mouth.

With that, the seller had closed the wicket, asking everyone to come back in the afternoon. The ship’s departure was on the following afternoon. If I missed my ticket that afternoon, I could still have one last but small chance the next morning, before the ship’s departure. But I did not prefer to come back that afternoon because the jailer could still recognize me and vent his anger on me. I opted for the following day.

I returned in the evening at the home where I was lodged by Emmanuel, a friend I met at the minor seminary. Emmanuel was a priest and had come in Kisangani to continue his studies. Having listened to the unfortunate story of my hot day, he decided to take care of my registration using all the connections he had with the university. Two days later, I was registered.

The moral of the story was it’s not necessarily a bad thing when somebody shits on it. If I had bought the ticket, I would definitely return to my village without studying for a whole year.

Emmanuel lodged me during a quarter in his room at the priests’ home. All his friends had pity on me and had to feed me. Because—and that’s important—my registration was filed late, I was not entitled for scholarship for the whole year; I had to live as I could, making recourse from time to time, to my parents’ meager resources.

Registered three weeks after the beginning of the academic year, I had courses to copy, multiple courses, which is difficult for a student just out of high school. Doing two things at once seemed very difficult. It was necessary to first copy the courses before my enrollment and, at the same time, participate in various academic works. I had to adapt.

Two months after the start of classes, when life seemed to normalize and everything was running smoothly, one evening while I was studying my lessons, I received a heavy blow on the head. I was alone; no one was around me. My head gave the impression of splitting into two parts, the left and the right. My head no longer formed a whole. I had two heads.

The rest of the story begins with this hammer blow that I could not avoid. Since then, I had a series of daily migraines, a nightmare that will last two years.

In late December 1972, I left Emmanuel and joined Raymond, another friend from the minor seminary who had found a small house in the city on Yahuma Street in the commune of Tshopo. Emmanuel and Zéphyrin, another friend, gave me some furniture: a small study table, a bed, a chair, and a couple of other small things.

Raymond and I would be celebrating our New Year’s Eve in our new little house. We tried to rest during the Christmas holidays and start back studies with strength and vigor after ten days. We even had a few walks to discover the beautiful city of Kisangani. We knew in the months that followed that January could be the last for us, as the so-called eliminations were waiting for us in early February, and those who would not have obtained the fixed average will have to go back home definitely.

The beginning of January 1972 remained unforgettable. We were moving toward the end of the Christmas holidays. I decided to read about my classes, after a restful nap. I felt good, even very good. No more headaches, nothing. After reading the first page of the syllabus, the crushing blow came back; I had a head again into two separate pieces. I collapsed on the bed rugged.

The most curious thing was when this heavy blow was happening to me, I could play football, sing in the Catholic university choir, and go to karate training in my club at the university; I could do many things that needed energy, and I even started boxing workouts. All this I did it without suffering, without damage. I was at ease. I could read a great mystery novel, read two or three comic strips (I loved), and do what I could do. I was at ease; my head was one and only one. But opening a syllabus or a book as part of my studies was enough to repair a head in two pieces and more violent headaches.

Raymond, my roommate, was my nurse. He had drawn up a good rope fabric that he would tie around my head as if to bring the two parts together. He did it so well that it gave me a semblance of relief.

Another curious fact: during these migraines, if I decided to sleep or not to read the course, everything was immediately better.

I practically lived with this ordeal every day. As soon as I thought of the studies when I attended the course, the process automatically came back into place. So I knew what I had to do if I wanted to have wellness.

Some of my friends and colleagues were constantly prophesying about what was sure to happen to me in the heats, namely, my return home. I myself was sure too. How could I succeed without really getting to the bottom of the multiple syllabi of different courses? All my readings were superficial, time for a page, Raymond’s rope around the head every day.

I understood that I should not study. The problem was there, doing everything except studying. What else could I do—me who had gone to Kisangani for studies?

My torture having continued, I introduced myself to the heats with three quarters of an empty head. There were more than a dozen courses with large syllabus, like books. I had to master all subjects to pretend succeeding and continuing the way to the end of the academic year.

In my pain, I prayed every day and asked God to deliver me from these atrocious migraines my young age could not bear, especially far from my family.

The exam period was similar to other days, with my headaches and my rope around the head. To feel relieved when my cup was really full, I abandoned the syllabus and went to practice karate, soccer, or anything.

Raymond often consoled me; he really knew how to play his role as an elder. He accompanied me in my plight and brought me some relief. He was doubly sad. If his younger brother went back home, he would be alone renting a studio, he who was accustomed to my company.

And the heats came as expected. For the university, the goal is to degrease first-year audiences, which were crowded with people; they had to be cleaned; everything that should not be counted had to be eliminated, gotten rid of. Therefore, first-year students had to undergo their first fire tests for a whole week, their first exams at the university, which caused stress from worrying that you would be sent back to the family for one wasted year.

Preparation for these tests was not familiar to me. My head was still splitting into two parts. The results would be displayed in the office of the faculty early Monday afternoon. Fearing to have a migraine attack, I preferred not to go there personally. Raymond, in a heartbeat, went. He had no other choice.

Waiting for his return was long. There was no cell phone then unlike today, and everything had to be done by physically moving. Hours had passed, still no Raymond. Was he afraid to tell me what had happened to me? He might hang here and there, but he would come back, and I will be informed.

Toc, toc, toc.

Mic, we both have succeeded. For me, it was hard to believe. I hardly prepared for that session, and yet I was chosen to continue my academic year. God is great, I repeated all evening.

Mic and Mac (we are called so; Raymond was Mac) should have fun. We would walk and buy ourselves a rooster that we will prepare to celebrate all that. This was done, and all night, Mic and Mac talked about many things and shared a lot of joy eating their cock. For me, this incredible success of qualifying was simply a miracle.

The respite brought about by this success was short, as it was necessary to manage the rest of the year with its set of duties. Migraines had tripled in intensity as if to punish me for having succeeded. I was actually closer to death than to life or, to be more precise, closer to madness than to normal life.

After succeeding in the qualifying rounds, I went to see the university physician and told him the whole series of my misery. He had engaged in a series of biomedical analysis and neuropsychiatric consultations, worthy of a good disciple of Freud. After one week, the recommendation came immediately. You are sick. Your nerves will not take long and will not support the weight of your academic assignments, and you must take a medical rest for one year. You come back tomorrow for the recommendation note I’ll write to the vice president.

The result was that he never saw me again because I naturally had a meltdown. I could not bear going back to my village and spend the rest of the year doing nothing, not even reading a novel, for what the doctor wanted to prescribe prohibited any intellectual activity, particularly reading.

This insistently made me look for the authorities of the faculty. Thank god, his term was ending, and he was leaving. I remember he was Cameroonian. His departure threw into the water all notices of research he had started to give me medical rest forcefully. His departure still gave me little hope to continue my ordeal.

Because of my success in the heats, I faced the issue with great determination, saying that the miracle could happen again in the year-end exams.

After the heats and before the heats looked like two drops of water with its set of daily migraines. There were sufferings when I opened a book or a syllabus. Conversely, I felt at ease and well when I practiced karate or when I played football or even when I cried to the choir during rehearsals or when I sang during the mass.

All my complaints and my daily tears made Raymond suffer, who was still playing his role as a consoler and a nurse. The fabric rope to unite the two sides of my head was still within his reach. There were four more months before the year-end exams, four months in the style of a true Way of the Cross. Four months in an almost programmed and assured death. Four months of pain, suffering, and excruciating migraines.

I harbored the hope of returning to the family for the holidays and giving the necessary explanations to my parents so that they could find a solution. I also harbored the hope that a solution would be found in Kinshasa at the Neuro-Psychopathological Centre (CNPP), where a proven expertise was available.

There was nothing special to say about this four-month period, when courses were continuing and when, of course, my misery was permanent. My daily participation in the course was very predictable. I could wake up in a good shape and have, in the room, my daily migraines, which forced me to go home early.

Finally comes the month of July in 1973. The exams will begin in a few days, and I feel very bad, almost every day, when I think of the studies. Raymond, Emmanuel, and other friends are more than worried about my health. Other friends beg me to rest and return to Kinshasa CNPP and get treatment before it is too late. They were all right because my health was visibly disturbing and much deteriorated.

The preparation for year-end exams for me was more than a crown of thorns. Every day was more painful than the day before. I plunged into a higher degree of suffering. I took the exams with many difficulties; there were many chapters in some syllabi that I did not open.

On July 27, 1973, there is a persistent rumor that the results of the first session will be posted on the notice boards of the faculty. I tremble. I fear having an attack. I know what awaits me after such a disastrous session. Finally, it is two o’clock; the results are there. Students are scrambling and mounting on each other’s shoulders to quickly browse through the lists of those who were successful in the first session. I move back. I do not think I will find my place where there is such a stir.

The display was in alphabetical order. One of my neighbors who knows the name of all my miseries, having gone through the list, yelled at me sharply, You did it. You did it. You’re a miracle. In fact, my name came after his. The two of us succeeded. Raymond was also successful, but Emmanuel was selected for the second session. Nobody believed their eyes at the news of my success. Those who did not pass were dismissed from the university.

My two months’ holidays in Kinshasa and in my village were enlisted for me to get treatment. A cousin took me to the CNPP where I regularly met a psychiatrist. Appropriate care was given to me, and I was asked to rest well and avoid any intellectual activity and reading. In the village, my parents submitted me to another form of therapy, indigenous treatments that did not conflict with the process made by the psychiatrist.

I do not remember having suffered from migraine a single day of my vacation. This seemed to be over. I was excited about my well-being, which I hoped to keep after the holidays. I was playing football, I was working in the field, and I was doing everything that was arduous. Nothing would wake my migraines, which I hoped were buried.

Raymond stayed in Kisangani, where he spent the holidays walking alone. I provided him from time to time with some news of positive changes in my health. He rejoiced. In October 1973 after the holidays, I took the plane to Kisangani. I also finished my two healing processes. I was feeling like a charm. I felt great in my head. I was happy.

On the first week of the second half of October, classes resumed, and I was pleased with my good health; I stood in the audience like everyone. Curiously, we all started talking while waiting for the entry of the first teacher after the holidays. As soon as he appeared and put his packets on the table, I got a violent blow. There it was again. Yes, it appeared again for another year of misery and unbearable suffering of acute migraines and sharp headaches, which did not stop and which took away the desire of living again.

There is no need to dwell at length, in this section, on the second year of my indescribable and unbearable agony, so every day is like the other six ones.

Can you imagine yourself in the shoes of someone suffering from excruciating pain every day? What would you do if you had the choice to leave that skin? Very few people would remain in that skin. For me, this choice had not been granted to me. It was me in that skin, and like a turtle in its shell, I could only abandon that by dying.

But why did I suffer only when I was performing the duty for which I had been so far away from my village and my relatives? What was there in the syllabus I opened that triggers it while I’m in the audience? And yes, although at the beginning of my sufferings, studying, opening the syllabus, focusing on paper triggered my migraine, being in the audience to follow the course was added to the list.

Attracting the mercy of the world for me was getting more difficult in managing my own suffering. All qualifiers were good in describing what I was or what I was going to become. Soon naked on the street, one of them whispered. He is a really crazy man, followed the other. Some of my relatives were beginning to wonder if I was not carrying bad spirits whose mission was to prevent me from studying and becoming someone. Otherwise, how can someone explain that I practice sports, sing in a choir, walk, have fun, and do activities far more violent than studies, and I find myself crying when I open a book at the library?

The second year has been harder because the triggers have increased in number, and the degree of suffering almost tripled. Did my illness take more space in me? Did my immunity dwindle each day? Was I a victim of my stubbornness and my determination with to finish my studies at all costs?

In July 1974, we had the first session. At each exam, I presented myself with an almost empty head, not having had enough time to read and study. At the announcement, the miracle did not happen this time. Six courses, including two most important and most abundant, should be taken at the second session. Curiously, my adjournment for the second session made some of my relatives happy. They did not understand how, as seriously ill as I was the year before, I got through to the heats, while many valid students were dismissed from the university. How could I succeed while many valid students were adjourned or dismissed from the university in the first or second session of 1973?

Would my misfortune bring some sort of happiness somewhere? This was clearly the case. Friends who were adjourned for the second session like me seemed visibly relieved to know that I too, this time, was in the lot.

Without wasting time, I flew to Kinshasa and then to my village, where I once again hurt my parents when I gave them the vicissitudes of my atrocious and endless suffering. This time, I flunked, I had a second round, and I had to go fast in Kisangani to prepare myself for the session.

More pained than myself, my parents struggled to let me go back to Kisangani and prepare for my second session. The idea was to make myself seriously treated, let me rest, and in the end register myself in Kinshasa, not far from their surveillance. An internal force pushed me to decline all of these proposals. I would finish my studies, and whatever happens, I would win against my disease and my education. An inexplicable certainty gave me that willing force.

I had thirteen days, just thirteen vacation days, with my parents. On the fourteenth day, I was on the plane to Kisangani, where I was to spend a month and a half to calmly prepare for my session. In what spirit, in what physical condition, and how should I face the second session?

I found Raymond back in our house, alone as usual when I’m not there. It must be said that he never thought of going on holiday to Kinshasa, where his parents lived. He wanted to come back once and for all with his title and degree. He was there, sorry to see me in this condition of constant complaints. He also had, like me, a second session. We comforted each other.

Upon my return in Kisangani, I set to work; alas, I went on suffering. I wept inwardly and outwardly. I looked tired at six in the morning, my umbrella rope around the head. Was it karma, disease, or something malignant? The questions were flying in my head, but the one thing I really wanted was healing so I could have a normal life and properly study.

Raymond and I were renting a small studio in a plot that belonged to two old ladies living with their nieces and grandchildren. One of them, Ibrahim, four years old, told anyone who would listen that I was his father, which made them call me the nickname papa na Ibrahim, meaning Ibrahim’s father. So everyone called me that, and the two old ladies adored me because they said I gave hope to their grandson whose father, a topic Nigerian, had shown no signs of life for ages.

That morning, while I was still suffering, I could not bear staying in the house; I sat outside, right on our doorstep, completely desperate. I was crying. The two old ladies were well aware of my misery and often spoke of this. They kept telling me I was the victim of an evil process maintained by some wizards. The idea began to enter my mind, I who hitherto did not want to be open to such an interpretation. But that morning, I said to myself, This was really true.

The two old ladies convinced me in this interpretation, and linking the idea to the action, they put me at the disposal of their sister Mado, a septuagenarian, who lived a few blocks from our home. Her mission was to put me in contact with a seer, a fetishist, a traditional doctor, or whatever, who would allow me to return to normal life, Western medicine having failed in my case.

The next morning, Grandma Mado, with a mission, came to take me and brought me in a suburb of the municipality of Tshopo in Kisangani. She was previously informed by many people about the possibility of finding an effective healer, that is to say, not only able to find the source of my misery but above all able to deliver me from this cross, healing me.

In this new area, we entered an unfenced plot where we found a lady with her children. This lady was the daughter of the healer we went to look for. She was not there. She was at the house of her other child, a son living in another town, Mangobo.

On our arrival in this family, we met two sisters, between fifty and fifty-five years old, who also came in consultation with the healer. We quickly acquainted, and Grandmother Mado quickly asked them questions on the effectiveness of this healer. Marvelous, said the two sisters, Everybody had recommended her to us, as she does her job well.

Her daughter, this great lady of the house, confirmed that her mother had divination and healing talents. So she was able to give details of the source of your illness and the culprit and, in the end, to bring you healing. She told us that her mother uses two separate minds: that of his late brother, Buana Simba Djina, and that of her husband.

The spirit of Buana Simba Djina comes in moments of revelation when giving the diagnosis, the source of your trouble, and the name of the spell caster. As for the spirit of her husband, it is used when you need to cast out demons that inhabit or hurt you or when healing is needed.

All these short stories comforted us in our hope of finding a solution. The two ladies who preceded us also gave us the same testimony they would have collected from previous patients.

So here we are in two groups of patients, the two sisters and Grandmother Mado and me. Together, we decided to make contributions to send someone in a taxi to seek the healer from her son and to return her where she was expected. This was done.

Meanwhile, I wondered what this special person would look like, in whom I finally started believing for my healing. I was curious to see what she was going to do and especially hear what she was going to say about me, the source of my misery, the name of my executioner, and the issuance process that was to follow. After all, I would lead a normal life and continue my studies as well. I liked the idea of knowing that I could, like all other students, read my syllabus and attend various courses without ever feeling clubbed. The idea that Raymond’s string should disappear kept me waiting more. Finally, I liked the idea of seeing Raymond delivered from his chore of going through my cross. All this added an additional argument to my expectations.

After an hour of waiting, the messenger showed up under the tree, where we were waiting for him. Nobody else showed up. I held my breath for one minute. I expected nobody to tell me that she had returned to her village. No one should tell me that she was dead, or she had refused … a minute of many anxieties.

She arrived, she walked slowly, and I preferred preceding her. We had already got out of the taxi … There she is, said the envoy. We all had instantly turned our gaze to her. I saw a figure coming toward us, a short old lady, five feet or so, with a really dark complexion and very white hair, on her badly dressed headkerchief. She had her slippers at hand instead of having them at her feet. I saw my own grandmother who also always had her slippers in hands and never wore them. Her slippers were always new.

Hello, everyone, she told us in her language that I did not know. I immediately understood that it was a good-day. After some protocol exchanges under the shade of the tree in front of the house of her daughter, she invited us to join her in the little house that was set before her; it was actually the kitchen of her daughter. In many African traditions, stepmothers and stepsons cannot sleep in the same house; they cannot even look at each other when they talk. The healer therefore could not live in the big house with the husband of her daughter, her host.

We were seated on small kitchen stools in this makeshift dwelling. She was sitting on her bed. Around her, there were two groups coming for consultation with her daughter, who was to be the interpreter. The healer actually spoke only the dialect of her home, the Kikusu, which we, the four concerned people, could not understand. The girl had to translate in Swahili what her mother said.

Who came first? she asked. Her daughter said that the two ladies should be received first. She found no objection for Grandma Mado and me to stay and witness the first session.

She asked the two ladies to put a banknote on their face while silently declaring the reason for their visit. It was to be in the silence of the heart of everyone, without saying aloud what they came for. So very formally, the healer did not know why these two ladies came to see her. We would all find out in a few moments.

She took the ticket and placed it on her ordinary small mirror; its one end was even broken. She went under her towel and began trembling. She was in a trance. After two minutes, she blew a loud cry and threw the sheet. She found herself in front of us with a voice and a whole different look. She spoke like a man; her gestures were male. She had become Buana Simba Djina, her late revealer brother.

Turning to the two ladies, she began speaking to them clearly and without hesitation. She said, You are two sisters, you are great, and this is your younger sister. Your younger sister has two children with a white man, a girl and a boy. The daughter is married to a white European man. The boy was about to join her sister in Europe when, suddenly, he disappeared, as he had gone to bathe at the river with friends. Three days later, you discovered his heart on a stone in the river. You have never found the rest of his body. In fact, he was devoured by a mysterious crocodile that was sent by your uncle who was jealous of seeing the child join his sister in Europe and get good education.

Each time she advanced in her revelations, the two ladies nodded as if to say she was right. They seriously wept.

Your uncle, she went on, is a palm wine tapper. This is his livelihood, and he is a very skilled witch. Do you have questions?

The two sobbing women took a long time to return to themselves and to have the strength to speak; they were so moved.

What can we do for a revenge? the elder sister interrupted. We do not want such an uncle. We want him to die too.

If you want to kill him, it is very simple, but you’ll do it together. Please avoid, if you regret in the future, blaming one that has acted for the death of your uncle.

The healer took a small basin of water and put it on the floor. She took a couturier needle, gave it to the two sisters, and asked them to bite both the needle on her small mirror. I see your uncle on my mirror. He is clearly visible. As you want to kill him, please both pick this mirror. The two women gave a helping hand to the mirror; the healer retrieved the small mirror and threw it in a small basin of clear water that she had prepared in advance. Miracle. Just incredible. The basin of water turned red as if blood had been poured into it. Yes, red with blood.

Your uncle has just fallen from the palm tree where he was getting his wine, she told them, Quickly get back to the village because you are in mourning. She asked them consulting fees; the amount was insignificant and purely symbolic.

I watched the two sisters going away and shouting in their anger against the sorcerer who their uncle had recently asked to settle the fate. It’s good for him. Let him go to hell, they said, disappearing from view. Meanwhile, the woman had come back to being the healer in her voice and in her actions. She talked to us as a woman and no longer as Buana Simba Djina.

I trembled while thinking it was finally my turn and imagining that I could be led to kill my spell caster and put him out of the state of continuing to harm me. Was it possible to do otherwise without killing? I asked myself and became more and more nervous. Grandmother Mado, who noticed my agitation, calmed me. It’ll be okay, she said, You will be healed and normally resume your studies.

Finally, it’s my turn, the only witnesses being Grandmother Mado and the lady interpreter. The healer begged me to proceed as did the two ladies who had preceded me. I had therefore taken a little banknote that I put on my face while inwardly declaring my problem. I came to Kisangani to study, but I only have problems when studying or going to get courses. My head splits in two, and migraines are almost permanent. I want to heal and return to normal life, I confided to the small banknote.

I handed the ticket to the healer, who made the usual ceremony. She laid it on her small mirror, covered herself with a piece of cloth, went into a trance and shouted her usual cry, and then took off the cloth and became Buana Simba Djina for the second time in the day. I was shaking more, and this was very visible because it was the first time I gave myself up to a revelation-issuing session. I was just sitting on a stool in front of her. She stared at me and then looked away; she looked rather in space but as if she glared at people who were behind me. But there was nobody behind me.

Ugly creatures, she said, What are you doing behind that handsome boy? Aren’t you ashamed to make such a nice boy who is dedicated to his studies suffer? Why do you beat him every time he wants to study? Go tell the one who sends you that this nuisance is finished today.

I turned back to see the people to whom she was speaking. There was nobody around me. The interpreter continued translating. I followed the revelations by watching the healer but listening to the interpreter.

Firm and with a confident tone, sure of what she was saying and seeing on her mirror, she continued her revelations. A paternal uncle has sent two Malabars whose mission was to hit you on the head every time you want to undertake an intellectual activity in connection with your studies. Since you will do anything other than studies, you will have no trouble. Thus, you’ll be able to play football, have fun, and do whatever you want. You’ll stay healthy. The aim is to prevent you from studying and succeeding. Your migraines will push you to be discouraged and return to the village. His great pleasure is to see you in the village into the field as every poor peasant because if you study and you become someone in life, this will be the pride of your father. Your father and his brother are not in agreement since childhood. That uncle does not like you, the children of his brother, you in particular, because you’re smart and you’re the only one from the family to get at the university …

I could not stop myself from crying profusely as she advanced in her revelations, especially since I did know the enmity between my father and one of his brothers, but she spoke to me as if she was living with us every day.

You are talking about a brother of my father. Can you tell me who he is? I told her.

Your father has three brothers. They were four, all boys. Your father is second in order of birth. He has two small brothers behind. The one who bewitches you is his elder brother. Besides, I know you know of their enmity. This goes back to their young age. They have never agreed. Your uncle has always been opposed to your brother in the positive things he has achieved. He has a bad heart and is very lazy. He sleeps a lot and works little. On the contrary, your father is a hard worker, a model in your area …

Everything was so real that I could not add a single word. I looked at her amazed by all these truths. The idea that two beings were stationed around me to hurt me in my studies came back to me. Will she be able to put them away from harming me? Would I finally be saved from my pains?

Yes, she said as if she had read my inner questioning. These two evil spirits will be neutralized and killed. They will return to where they came from and will not be able to perform their mission. Also, I do not ask you to commit the crime as the two sisters did against their uncle. You are young, and you cannot carry around this guilt all your life. We will endeavor to neutralize them. The work that we will do will be your protection, which will prevent your uncle to start it off with other envoys. Your uncle will forget you definitely and will not even know where you are. You definitely will leave his mind."

Knowing that I did not kill my uncle through a simple mirror gave me back hope and made me happier. My face began glowing, and Grandmother Mado patted me on the shoulder as if to accompany me in my joy. Joy, indeed, gradually took the place of despair and suspense that preceded all these revelations. Now I can live without a rope over the head, without moaning, without constant assistance from Raymond, without teasing and exasperation from my friends who thought I was doing a little too much and that it was more useful for me to come and rest in the village. I remained calm, following the prescription that should be made to me for pursuing the process. I was waiting, every eye and every ear opened.

I am going to prepare your deliverance ceremony. Everything depends on you based on the necessary elements that you have to buy and which will intervene in the ritual. If you are ready, we can do the same tomorrow, said the healer. Do you have a few resources for these purchases?

Grandmother Mado beckoned me not to answer. She herself took the floor and asked the contents of the prescription. What needs to be bought, Mama? she asked. The healer dictated her long list of necessary items for the ceremony.

I need, she said, a case of beer (twelve bottles of 66 cl each), a book of matches (contains twenty-four matchboxes), a cigarette pack (generally twenty cigarettes found in packets), two roosters, an egg plate, two yards of red cloth, a kilo of fresh meat, a package of razor blades. You must have new underwear for the ceremony, underclothes that have never been used. A quick calculation gave too steep bills for the small pocket of the poor student. I had to choose between emptying my pocket and regaining good health and keeping my money and continue the Way of the Cross. Without hesitation, I opted for the first alternative.

Grandmother Mado stood up and asked me to follow her out. I did so immediately. Things are expensive, she said, You are a student and do not show that you can buy everything. I’ll ask her, if possible, so that she may just give you in reduced amounts.

We went into the house of the healer, and Grandmother Mado implored for her generosity. He can buy everything, she said, but we are seeking the possibility of reducing the quantity per item.

The healer thought for a moment and nodded. He is my child, and he has no money. He will bring me reduced quantities per item. We will do the ceremony with this.

Grandmother Mado and I went to the market the next day and bought everything as agreed. We had therefore presented one single pack of cigarettes, one bottle of beer, one box of matches, a few eggs, half a kilo of fresh meat, and one razor blade. In contrast, the two meters of red cloth, new pants, and two roosters were essential elements for the ritual and were to be delivered in the amounts claimed by the healer. This was done. With purchasing and delivery taking place one morning, the healer begged me to spend the next day in the afternoon around fifteen hours for my deliverance ceremony.

The longest night was the one that preceded the ceremony. I told Raymond about it, who unfortunately could not attend for reasons of agenda. He indeed had to meet with a professor. He regretted because the event was to take place outside. Everyone could see how one hunts demons who accompanied me for two years.

Finally, it was D-day, and then I had to wait for thirteen hours more. I took the road to the place of the ceremony. The weather was pretty hot that day. When I arrived at the healer, Grandmother Mado was already waiting for me.

Preparations seemed well under way; it was like for the landing. A vault had even been dug in the back of the plot. Could this be the final resting place of my migraines? I wished with all my heart.

The healer invited me to sit in her house, which, for the occasion, looked like a laboratory. There were leaves here and there and a bark, roosters, a red cloth, in short, all the effects that I had bought for the ceremony. She asked me to get rid of my clothes and gave me a loincloth that I should put on, just this loincloth, no pants nor even shorts; I was completely naked with nothing but this loincloth on my body. I executed it.

She then invited me to join her outside and into the vault. This was enough to bury a man of good built. On both sides of the vault were two braziers with charcoal. One of them, the left one, was not turned on. In each brazier was a large pot with leaves and a bark soaked in water. One of the bubbling pots let out the odors of boiled leaves. A crowd began to come around the tomb, which did not help me because I was very embarrassed to be seen so naked and in