I Am Not Your Slave

by Tupa Tjipombo

  Over the next hour, a strange silence descended on the compound. Eventually, it was broken by a steady, rhythmic drumming, followed by the sound of women singing or humming; it was hard to say exactly which, since they seemed to slur their words together into a single, extended sound. We crouched by the doorway, straining to make out what was happening in the darkness. I could sense that Sarah was just as alert and tense as I was.

  Suddenly, the tarp was ripped aside and the albino rushed in so fast that he was behind us before we knew it, pushing us outside with such force that we landed on top of each other in a heap outside the doorway. We quickly scrambled to our feet, watching as the albino rousted the other girls from their huts in the same manner. When we were all assembled, the government man said, “Follow me, my dears,” and led us to the firepit.

  We lined up before a scene that seemed almost unreal. A large fire raged and shot sparks into the night, illuminating the blackened tree stump behind it. Its two limbs stretched above our heads and merged into the inky darkness. The thick canopy of living trees that encircled us created an elaborate spiderweb of branches that danced and shifted above us like a cloud of snakes. Around the fire, an eclectic group of people had gathered—some were recognizable by now, while others were new arrivals. Bernardo had returned, looking as remote and menacing as always. He stood on one side of the fire together with his driver, who appeared uneasy as he shifted his feet and flashed a peculiar, nervous smile at random intervals. The three guards were there too, one of whom was beating a steady cadence on a large, empty gasoline drum. Beside them, four women were kneeling on the ground with their arms outstretched toward the fire. They were the source of the singing, which now sounded more like a combination of chanting and heavy praying. They appeared to be under some kind of spell or trance—their eyes fluttered and rolled back into their heads. They were dressed in leather hides and wore numerous arm and leg bangles, which clinked and jangled as they flailed about. I noted vaguely that their dress looked similar to the traditional clothing worn by Himba women, but in this context it seemed foreign and bizarre. The government man positioned himself to the side of us while the albino crossed to the opposite side of the fire and faced us from in front of the blackened tree stump. The man he stood beside was clearly the focal point of the ceremony.

  He was a tall man with long, sinewy limbs made up of grizzled muscles and bulging veins. His face was heavily lined and creviced, and he had the high, bony cheekbones and red, deep-set eyes that marked a man of considerable age. His entire appearance suggested someone who had spent a lifetime in the bush. His face, neck, and shoulders were smeared with a white paste that had hardened and cracked, making him look like an older, more weathered version of the albino who stood beside him. His clothing and accessories only underscored his odd appearance: he wore a kind of straw top hat with large feathers that stuck straight out from the rim band, and around his neck hung an array of beads, leather vials tied with string, and a lengthy section of what might have been animal intestines. Beyond his top hat, the only bit of clothing he wore was a leather apron, around which dangled a wide assortment of animal pelts, snakeskins, and more leather vials. Everything swung about as he moved, giving him a sense of perpetual motion that was exaggerated by the rippling heat of the fire. To his side was an upturned box with a cluster of gourds, bowls, and small containers. Several knives and a panga leaned against it.

  I knew immediately that he was a powerful witch doctor of some kind, despite the fact that I had never seen anybody—witch doctor or not—quite like him. Everything about him evoked a strong connection to the spirit world and the supernatural. I could not even guess where he was from, certainly not from anywhere near the Kunene or even Namibia. As far as I knew, witch doctors did not look like this. In fact, they did not really have a look at all, and I had never heard of any—at least from my area—who dressed in a manner that might draw attention to themselves. The man before me now fit the description of witch doctors from other parts of Africa where I had heard such magic was practiced more openly and in ways that were believed to be more powerful and dangerous. He was like a character from one of the stories people told one another around the cooking fire; the entire scene was like a nightmare come true. I stared in disbelief, paralyzed with an overwhelming sense of dread.

  The witch doctor stared straight ahead, as if he were looking through both the fire and the people before him to something only he could see. He spoke in a deep, monotone voice, in a language completely foreign to me. But the albino translated his words into French, which the government man then translated into both English and Afrikaans. I now understood why they had asked us so many questions about the languages we spoke. He relayed the following message: “You are brought here to be tied to me. Tonight, you will have something placed on top of your head. Nobody can take this thing off. Only I can take it off because only I know what it is. As long as you have this thing on top of your head, you will be tied to me. From tonight, you will serve me like my daughters. If you do not serve me then I will use this thing to kill you. I can do this anytime I please. I do not have to be near you to know what you are doing or to kill you if you do not serve me. I can see what you are doing at all times from any place. This is because of the thing I put on top of your head.”

  The witch doctor then stepped over to the box and began mixing a variety of powders and liquids. He approached the fire and sprinkled some of the mixture into the flames. As he worked, the drumming and chanting continued at a steady, unbroken pace.

  The albino stepped forward holding a chicken and pressed it against the wooden bowl containing the mixture. The witch doctor grabbed its head and forced its beak open, making it swallow some of the concoction. Then the albino walked around the fire and placed the chicken on the ground before us. It took a few uneasy steps, lost its balance, and sat back on its haunches. Its wings hung at a low, irregular angle, and its head wobbled from side to side. It appeared drunk. Finally, its eyes closed and its head flopped over and came to rest on the ground. The albino grabbed the comatose bird by its legs and returned it to the witch doctor, who lopped off its head with a swift stroke of his knife. He grabbed the bowl and allowed the bird’s blood to flow into the mixture.

  That was when they brought out the girl who had escaped the night before. She was escorted before the fire by two guards, who grasped her arms so forcefully that they were practically carrying her. She made an effort to walk, but her feet mostly dragged behind her. Her eyes had a glazed, distant look, but once she was brought before the fire she gave a start and seemed to become more aware of her surroundings.

  A collective gasp rose from all of us. Sarah stepped backward, as if ready to run, but the government man positioned himself behind her, resting his hand on her shoulder and guiding her back into place.

  The witch doctor examined the girl, briefly cupping her head between his hands and staring into her eyes. He laid his hand on her breast and seemed to gauge her breathing. Apparently satisfied, he turned to the fire and spoke.

  “This girl is already tied to me. She is my daughter. But something went wrong with her when I placed the thing on top of her head. It made her rotten inside. She is no good to me now, and she is dangerous to others. Just look at her! She can spread this rottenness to others like a disease. It spreads through the air like smoke. She must be offered to the ancestors to stop the rottenness from spreading. The ancestors have told me that I should make this offering so that you will not go rotten like her. This chicken is not enough; it will not prevent you from going rotten, too, when I place the thing on top of your head. You must be tied to me in a strong way. Just so!”

  Producing a knife from his leather apron, he grabbed the girl by the back of the head with one hand and with the other slit her throat in an agonizingly slow manner. As the knife penetrated her neck, the girl’s eyes widened and her body stiffened against the guards’ grasp. She rose up on her toes while the two men pulled down on her arms, as if struggl
ing to keep her from leaving the ground altogether. Then, as the witch doctor was halfway through his cut and her blood poured down her neck and chest in a curtain, she seemed to accept what was happening, and her body slackened. It was the slightest of movements, but to me it looked like the collapse of something much bigger; it was the moment when she resigned herself to the next life. By the time the witch doctor had sliced her neck completely open, her eyes were already closed and her body had begun to convulse and shudder. Finally, she went completely limp, and the only movement that remained was the flow of blood spreading down her torso.

  But the horror was not over. The men laid the girl on the ground and placed her arm across a large, flat rock as the witch doctor exchanged his knife for the panga and, calmly standing over the girl’s prostate body, chopped off her hand. He grabbed the severed hand and dangled it over the wooden bowl containing the mixture, letting the blood stream into it for a minute before discarding the hand into the fire. He cupped the bowl, closed his eyes, and moved his lips, speaking or praying in a low mumble that nobody bothered to translate.

  Throughout this grisly process, the drumming continued in a steady, unbroken manner as the women chanted and swayed in their trancelike state. The brutal murder and mutilation of the girl had done nothing to break the methodical rhythm; it was as if they had performed the same ceremony many times before.

  The witch doctor returned to the box of gourds and other containers and resumed working on his mixture. “With the blood of this girl now added,” he intoned, “you will be tied to me as daughters in the most powerful way. I will watch you and know everything you do from this point forward, like a leopard watching in the night. There is nothing you can do to hide from me. It is impossible. Once you are tied to me, you cannot break the tie. If you try to break the tie, or try to run away and hide from me, you will die. It will be like the snap of the leopard’s jaws around your neck. It will be a simple matter for me. Now, as this girl was my daughter and her blood was provided for this reason, so, too, will your blood be added.”

  With these words, the witch doctor and the albino approached us. They stood in front of the first girl, who was crying so hard that her whole body shook, and held the bowl in front of her. The witch doctor fixed her with his penetrating gaze and said, “Your blood will be the blood of my daughter.” One guard held her from behind as the albino grabbed her hand and forced her to expose her palm. The girl screamed as he sliced it with a knife. He held her bleeding palm over the bowl and allowed the blood to trickle in. He then cut off a lock of her hair and threw it into the mix.

  The drumming and chanting quickened in pace as the men moved down the line. The witch doctor repeated the words “Your blood will be the blood of my daughter” as the albino collected blood and hair from each girl and added it to the mix.

  Finally, they held the bowl in front of me. “Your blood will be the blood of my daughter,” the witch doctor repeated. His eyes were fierce and red, as if an enraged fire burned somewhere deep inside his head. The white paste smeared across his face, neck, and shoulders gave him an otherworldly appearance, cracking and flaking along the lines etched across his forehead. He had a pungent, earthy smell—a combination of animal hides and herbs—that enveloped me and seemed to add to his power. I felt as if he were inside of me, moving about at will, and that I was powerless to do anything about it.

  Grabbing my hand, the albino cut across the palm swiftly and deeply, prompting me to cry out and pull back, which only made the cut worse. He held my hand over the bowl, and I watched as my own blood streamed into the now brownish-pink mixture, coalescing on top with the other girls’ blood to create a dark stain that spread slowly outward from the center. I tried not to look directly at the witch doctor, but I could feel his eyes boring into mine as the albino cut a lock of my hair and added it to the mix.

  I felt completely hollow as the witch doctor crossed to the other side of the fire. Having parts of me taken like that was the worst possible thing I could imagine. In fact, everybody I knew feared having something from their body taken and used against them. But for a witch doctor like this to do it? I almost envied the dead girl.

  After several minutes of stirring and mumbling incantations over his mixture, pausing every so often to make small offerings to the fire, the witch doctor turned his attention to us once again. He held bits of paper in his hand and said, “I have the names of your family members and loved ones that you wrote on these papers with your own hand. These are the names you wrote on this very day. They are here!” He cupped the bits of paper in both hands, held them above his head, and began to half-chant, half-speak in a high singsong voice that sounded entirely different than before. In fact, it sounded just like a woman, which sent an added chill of terror through my body.

  He dropped the pieces of paper one by one into the bowl and continued to half-chant, half-speak in his high woman’s voice. He then took a small pestle and pushed everything deep into the mixture.

  Turning back to us, he said in his normal voice, “Through your blood, your family members will be tied to me too. As I see my daughters, I will be able to see them too. If you disobey me or try to deceive me, I will kill them too. They are under my power now. Just so!” He took a small container from his leather apron, poured the contents into the mixture, and ground everything again with the pestle, but this time in a forceful, almost violent manner. Suddenly, a white froth emerged from the bowl, spilling over the sides and dropping to the ground in foamy clumps. He threw up his arms and yelled, “Now it is time!”

  The men approached us again and, standing in front of the first girl, offered the bowl to her. “Drink from it,” the government man said. “Do it now.” When she hesitated, he added, “It is nothing to do this by force.” She took a sip and immediately gagged, but they persisted and made certain she drank a specific amount, which the albino measured using a stick with small notches carved into it.

  They proceeded down the line and made each girl drink her allotted amount. By the time they reached me, the white froth had subsided, and it was now just a thick, brownish liquid with what looked like crushed leaves speckled across the surface. Bits of paper stuck up here and there, and I hoped I would not be made to swallow those too. I cupped the bowl in my hands, silently prayed to God to protect and forgive me, and took a sip. I immediately felt like gagging but fought back the urge and focused on getting it over with. The albino measured what remained with his stick, then said something in French to the government man, who then turned to me and said, “Just a little more, my dear.” My hands shook as I cupped the bowl again and managed a second sip.

  As the witch doctor conferred with the albino, I had a vague sense that they were observing us, as if waiting for something to happen. And something did: first, the girl on the far side abruptly sat down, though she did not really sit as much as drop and land on her crumpled legs, placing both hands on the ground before her and staring wide eyed at the fire. I noticed that something was wrong with Sarah, too, as my friend shifted her weight, almost as if trying to keep her balance. Then I felt a tingling sensation in my own arms and legs. Within seconds, my head felt strange, and I noticed that when I turned it seemed to take a few seconds for my eyes to catch up. A kind of lightness—almost like a bubble—began in my stomach and spread to my limbs. I had a difficult time concentrating on any one thing and wondered if this was what it felt like to drink beer, but I could not be certain because I had never tasted alcohol before.

  It was around this time that the orbs of light appeared, fluttering like birds among the bushes and trees surrounding us. They were about the size of soccer balls and seemed to respond to the witch doctor’s commands, darting this way and that, stopping at irregular intervals, and swerving about as he called out to them. I watched in astonishment, glancing at the other girls to confirm that they, too, were witnessing the same thing.

  “The ancestors have joined us!” the witch doctor shouted over the furious drumming and chanting.
Glaring wide eyed at us, he jutted his arms forward with his palms facing out and proceeded to move them around in little circles. He continued this strange performance as he shuffled around the fire and passed in between us. Meanwhile, the albino squatted beside the fire and raked coals with a stick. As he did this, the witch doctor hovered over him for several minutes and did his circle dance with particular earnestness.

  Finally, they once again approached the first girl in line. She was still sitting on her legs with her arms planted firmly on the ground before her; she did not even look up or seem to take much interest in the men any longer. The guards came over and laid her flat on her back. They stretched her left arm above her head and exposed the back of her bicep.

  The witch doctor said, “From this point forward you will be marked as my daughters.”

  The albino came forward with the stick he had been using to rake the coals, only now I could see that it was not a stick but a black metal bar with a small disk like a coin affixed to the end. The disk glowed red from the fire. As the guards held the girl down, the albino stepped on her forearm and pressed the disk against the inside of her arm. There was a small sizzling noise as he pushed down and held it in place, which was immediately followed by a piercing scream from the girl. She writhed and struggled against the guards’ hold before going limp. As tears streamed down her face, her lips moved quickly but no words came out.

  Each girl was laid out on the ground and branded like the first, their screams slashing in turn across the beating of the drum. Finally, I realized that I was the last girl standing. I peered down at the others as they lay in various positions on the ground. Each girl held her left arm at an awkward angle and stared blankly up, as if dimly aware of the pain while simultaneously drawn to something far more interesting in the night sky.

  As I was laid on the ground and held down like the others, I tried to focus on the albino, who towered above me. His pink eyes had a cold, detached look as he placed his foot firmly on my forearm. I could feel the heat radiating from the glowing disk. When he pressed down, a piercing pain instantaneously flashed through my body and exploded like a bright white flash inside my head. I heard myself screaming but it seemed far away, as if it were coming from someone else. Finally, the albino pulled the metal bar away and stepped back, and the pain was replaced by an excruciating burning that pulsated from my arm and passed down the entire left side of my body in waves. Like the other girls, I held my arm in an outstretched position and lay flat on my back, staring up at the sky while tears streamed down my face.