By Jorim Alosa

Editor’s Note: This story told by a Kenyan student attending school and learning about witchcraft in Uganda made me laugh and gave me insight about how complex belief can be. I hope you enjoy it.

CMS IGANGA

Of an old railway line and locomotive

Corrugated iron sheet buildings now gutted and empty

An area strewn with rubbish and rubble.

There is a goat so skinny behind me

That you can see its ribs

And everywhere parking out in the vegetation

Ingeniously built shacks

Built by bits and pieces

Disregarded by the rest of Ugandan society.

This is as desolate and tough a place as I have seen.

The reporter proclaimed from the radio.

BBC helped keep me sane.

The cardinal rule of witchcraft isn’t that you believe in it, but rather, that everyone else does.

I believed in Solex padlocks or a strong Mul-T-Lock, so when I came back that morning from Club Kiss and found my boom box, television, and video game system gone, I figured I must have forgotten to lock up before leaving. There was no sign of forced entry like in the rooms of the other two victims, Expeshali and Mubiru, who I reckon were the only intended targets. My keys and padlock had been patronizingly left hanging over the latch’s hook. The thieves must have realized that my door wasn’t locked and decided to teach me the importance of always locking up. 

I only noticed Expeshali and Mubiru much later on, after overcoming my initial shock. Standing meters away from my room–they had arrived earlier from the club–they kindly let me know that it appeared as if a robbery had taken place. Ugandans love doing that; politely pointing out the most obvious of observations.

I had a good hunch as to who was behind the burglary: Nick. 

Something had to be done. But what? I didn’t know about Expeshali and Mubiru, but I had made up my mind about what to do next. I was going to talk nicely (bribe is such a crude word) to Sulwe, and I would ask him to persuade (torture is such a strong word) Nick and his band of underage robbers to return my stuff. 

Sulwe was in the Local Council administration, or LC, of the area. Ever since arriving in Uganda, I had realized that it was much better dealing with the LC, which was less impersonal and more trustworthy than the police. The police, of course, would have been more efficient, but the Iganga police tended to “listen to both sides” when it came to “talking nicely,” so to speak. Furthermore, they would only “hear” whoever was the last one to “talk,” regardless of how nicely the first one “talked.” For instance, you could bribe them with half a million Ugandan shillings to arrest someone, but if that person then bribed them with only fifty thousand, they would let him go. 

The whole thing seemed to have a more profound effect on Expeshali and Mubiru than on me, despite the fact that we had all lost items of equal value. There were stories that after Expeshali had walked into his room and found his home theater missing, he thought perhaps he had walked into the wrong room, or that because he had been drinking, was seeing things–or rather, to be more correct, he wasn’t seeing things. Such stories, which the narrators told with melodramatic expressions, were obvious exaggerations, simply meant to be funny.

Expeshali and Mubiru decided they would seek the services of a witchdoctor, something I, a Kenyan, found ludicrous. I feigned interest in witchcraft in Uganda, asking them how they intended to go about the whole thing, just to tickle my fancy.

“Well, it’s easy. The good *balogos are from Jinja, though there is a good one here in Iganga. But he’s normally very busy, especially in election seasons like this one.”

He asked me if I needed to be connected with one, too. I told him no thanks. Sulwe was my *mulogo, and torture was all the black magic I needed. He laughed.

The very next day, The Man arrived. That was his actual name: The Man. *Musaja. Colorful regalia and all, with a leopard skin headband over his face smeared with striking dyes, he tied round his muscular black gleaming frame a scarlet wrapper with intricate drawings. On his taut biceps were yellow armbands which you could easily see were those that came with Barbie doll packages. He had an assistant who carried a sack behind him. 

Musaja was barefoot. After the ceremony was over, I resolved I would ask Expeshali how come witchdoctors always included a pair of new sandals in items that their clients had to give as offertory, yet they were ever barefoot. What did they do with them?

Musaja entered the compound jumping up and down like a man possessed. He didn’t waste time but went straight to Expeshali’s room and began his ritual. He was now talking and listening to some spirit which only he was able to see and hear. It must have been a shy mumbling spirit, for he kept craning his neck and stretching his ear to catch what it was saying.

Within his reverie, he would turn to the direction where we, the Kenyans, were seated, point at Eriko, and chant something like “Bakuluzi.” He did that at least seven times. Someone asked Eriko if perhaps they knew each other. We laughed. Another one said maybe Musaja was confusing him with Bakili Muluzi. We laughed harder.

Our guffaws, however, were brought to an abrupt halt by Musaja’s blood-curdling shrill shriek cutting through the air, piercing into our hearts with a terrifying tremor. After that chilling moment, the jokes were over.

Musaja went into his assistant’s sack, pulled out a brightly colored cock and a knife that had been tied to his waist. With disturbing callousness, he swished the sharp knife across the cock’s neck, and in a single frigid effort, slit his throat. The cock had no chance to even cackle noisily in the face of death. Startled, he let out a dreadful crow before falling silent in his demise.

Musaja sprinkled the cock’s blood from the dismembered body all over Expeshali’s room.

Up until this point, we had assumed that Expeshali was well-versed in such matters, and that he had probably seen all of this a million times before; what happened next made us doubt he was the expert we had thought.

After the rite, Musaja seemed to ask him something, and Expeshali made as if to move closer and get within earshot so that he could hear Musaja properly. The assistant shot at Expeshali like a flash of lightning, and pushed him back. Obviously, Musaja had been speaking to the spirit, and interruptions were to be avoided at all costs.

After Musaja was through, he moved to Mubiru’s room and repeated everything he had done. 

Apart from the money, which he refused to touch and ordered to be dropped into the sack, he demanded a brand new green blanket, two dozen eggs, and a pair of red sandals to appease the gods. 

After everything was concluded, he gave a timeline. He warned that if in seven days the thieves hadn’t returned the stolen items, then he wouldn’t be the one and only Musaja, *musago of all *basagos. He said this thumping his chest, and he added that he was not to be blamed for whatever would befall the thieves if they didn’t do the necessary. By then, a sizable crowd of Ugandans had gathered outside the compound, following the proceedings keenly.

Early the next day, we woke up to find the Expeshali’s and Mubiru’s electronics items returned, and in perfect shape. The items had been left outside their doors. 

Needless to say, I shelved my plans for Sulwe and asked Expeshali to arrange a meeting with Musaja for me. 

It would have been easier to book an appointment with the president, and when we were finally able to see Musaja, he said he didn’t do holy work, as he called it, at the same place twice in a space of one month. After much prodding, and more appeasement of the gods, he finally agreed. 

He came back and did his thing–only my timeline wasn’t seven, but ten days, something I found unfair.

For eight days, nothing happened. I was distraught. I feared that if witchcraft in Uganda were to prove an exercise in futility, not only would I have lost money, I would be the butt of endless jokes among Kenyans for an eternity.

On the ninth day, we came back from school to find my things returned and placed outside the door, with my Mul-T-Lock key placed precariously on the edge of my TV beside the remote.

Only then did I realize that they had taken my spare key which I had always hidden under the TV.

• Balogo: witchdoctors (plural)
• Mulogo: witchdoctor (singular)
• Musaja: A man
• Musago: doctor
• Basago: doctors (plural)

Jorim Alosa, a Kenyan in his thirties from Nairobi, is a short story writer. While Jorge Luis Borges is his favorite writer, his stories are heavily influenced by Franz Kafka and Chimamanda Adichie. This piece comes from his unpublished anthology of a similar title.

Do you like to read about travel stories in Africa? Try Zanzibar’s Spice Dreams.