Elfin Fertility in the Volta

A stony kernel and a hale hen are brought to the festival grounds at 7 a.m. Fetish dances and songs are performed by dreadful spirit-beings in varicoloured clothes, dry grass skirts, naked torsos ‘pastelled’ in chalk and war paint. Around 9 a.m., the kernel is buried in the holy ground, and a cock is intimately introduced to the hen. The yodelling and gambolling continues, but as the fetish demi-gods become possessed, they start displaying some shocking acts; wickedly whipping one another, breaking the sable skin and bleeding badly, but there is no cry of pain. Some are cutting and stabbing their own bulging bellies with knives and daggers, but there are no weeping wounds. By 12 noon, the kiddo kernel has grown into a 20-foot-high palm tree with mature, vermillion fruit. The hen has laid an egg and hurriedly hatched a chick. Now the mystic messengers of the gods are appearing and disappearing with a bellowing ‘poom’ amid wisps of white and yellow smoke. At 2 p.m., the chick has ‘imagoed’ into a big, fat hen, and the mother hen withers and dies. By 3 p.m. the new hen and the palm fruit have been cooked into delicious palm soup. Six short hours it took!

Bullet-Proof Verse

The ultimate exhibition of spiritual strength is the will to repel bullets with the mortal body. It’s been the Holy Grail of the African warrior since the sky separated from the Earth. Bullet-proof status is sealed by skin slicing, inoculating the incisions with spiritual salve, boozy bounds over midnight fires while mumbling mediaeval mantras. And there’s only one way to experiment whether a warrior or warlock has divined an anti-ballistic body; that is live, public demonstration. Props required: shotgun, trusted friend/marksman, delirious crowd, newsman and bullet-proof verse. News item the next morning: A self-proclaimed wizard dropped dead instantly when he was shot by his friend... As the town fool walks by the lifeless body of the pretender, he’s heard saying Kwasea!*


*Idiot.

Supernatural Mischief

In the malevolent military days, in the hoodoo-haggard Afram Plains, a soldier cuffs a little old man, and sends him sprawling in the dust. The fouled elder has done nothing wrong. He utters not a word beyond his whimpers and tears. He picks up his scrawny body and crawls pitifully out of sight with a hideous, haunted look. Minutes later, the gloating gladiator starts shrieking and shivering. Before scores of irreligious eyes, the wailing warrior’s own shoulder is swallowing up his affronting arm. The shoulder-socket sucks in the muscled limb until only a forefinger and thumb are left hanging out.

Love Potion #1

Douche juice. A sleazy legend in swaths of Ghana, (or was it in ancient times?) A woman longs to lure a man’s heart for love or gold? No problem. She cooks for him with water she’s used to irrigate her ‘fertile fields’. Guaranteed to make him her toke* to the end of time.

*Also toke bele – a man who is under a spell and is a fool for a woman.

Nogokpo – White Magic Shrine

The Nogokpo Shrine divines white magic on the southern Volta coastline. A super-specialist in thief-catching spells, it also dabbles in other martial mystics. Example: Anonymous steals your cell phone. You traipse to Nogokpo with the details. Nogokpo offers 2 options. Nogokpo can pay you the market price for your phone (which also amounts to buying the soul of Anonymous). Then, Nogokpo will visit indescribably excruciating afflictions on Anonymous. In one case, a thief who stole a chicken (and cooked and ate it) had it crowing out of his stomach until he surrendered to Nogokpo. Alternatively, Nogokpo will issue a spiritual summons to Anonymous, who cannot refuse to answer. The result is always the same: incantations invoked; property (or its value) recovered; or else Anonymous and their family lie buried in caskets!

The Other Side

This week I’m thinking about exploring the paranormal from a neutral ‘punto de vista’. What, really, is the other side? Well, for practitioners, taggers-along and hypocrites of the ‘modern’ religions, it is the parallel dimension which claims to be able to tap into all the unimaginably mighty power that we all know the Universe possesses (but some of us frown upon). We shall prospect for tales from around Ghana, from a purely light-entertainment vantage; that's if I summon the strength to do it.

Fan Ice

It is the shoe-shine scene playing all over again. But up the street, the shrill, short bugle blasts float faster. Paaaaa-na, paaaaa-na. The Fan-Ice boy goes bicycling by. He has frozen strawberry yoghurt, frozen chocolate, and a frozen, sorbet-like vanilla delight.