Nixon Mateulah: Salt in the Tale

Exorcising Jinn

One day your grandpa, Sheikh Malik and I were walking through a neighbourhood in Zomba. We heard a strange screaming of a child, so strange that your grandpa had to stop and listen for a minute. As a child, I thought the child was just crying; the usual crying of a child when he has been beaten for being naughty. But when I looked at your grandpa, the look on his face made me think he knew why the child was screaming so strangely. The screaming went on and on in one of the compounds. Suddenly, the gate of the house cranked open – out emerged a woman, her face pale, tousled hair pinned against her scalp from the head tie she had just yanked off, writhing like she had seen something strange and scary.

‘Come here Mwalimu (Sheikh),’ she called out to your grandpa. The woman knew that your grandpa was a Sheikh by looking at his clothes: a long white robe, a white turban, and a mashaba, prayer beads in his hand. Your grandpa and I followed the woman into the compound. In the compound we found a young girl of five screaming and crying, rolling in the mud. She seemed like she was wrestling with something – like a beast. She kept throwing her feeble punches at the invisible beast, but the beast was very overpowering. Your grandpa walked over to the little girl and crouched before her, with paternal tenderness started reciting verses from the Qur’an. As soon as he finished reciting, the child went dead silent. She got up and looked around in awe, recognizing her mother, she ran into her embrace. We walked out of the compound.

‘Mwalimu!’ cried the woman running after us on barefoot, her toes painted crimson.

Your grandpa turned back and stopped.

‘Here is a little money for healing my daughter.’

‘I cannot take your money.’

‘Why Mwalimu?’

‘It is Allah who has healed your daughter and not me.’

Your grandpa and I resumed our journey, when I looked back, I saw the woman still standing on the same spot, her eyes wide open in wonder.

Waking up from the dead

One day your grandpa suffered from heart attack and dropped dead. It happened early in the morning, and the family agreed to bury him after Dhuhr prayers in the afternoon. There was a huge crowd of people – young and old to pay their last homage to the greatest Sheikh of the community. The whole village was shrouded in grief. By mid-morning, the body was washed and wrapped in the kafan – plain cloth shroud and placed in the bier waiting to be taken to the mosque. As they were about to take the body to the mosque, they saw the bier shaking. Everyone froze with shock and fear. One family member opened it and unwrapped the shaking body. The Sheikh got up. He looked so pale and dehydrated. They made him a porridge and after eating he started speaking in Arabic, and a translator was called upon to translate to the people:

“My people, I did not die. I saw the sky parting away, and a blinding shaft of light burst out, an Angel in a dazzling white robe descended to me.

‘Come with me,’ commanded the Angel. I was transported to another realm. There were three gates, beyond the gates there were beautiful houses with gardens, a huge water fountain was shooting out water to the flowers. He took me to the first gate, the gate opened for me and the next also opened for me, at the third gate, the guarding Angel stopped us and said: ‘It is not his to time yet to come here.’

‘But I am already here. My family and friends are preparing for my Ṣalāt al-Janāzah. It is a matter of time; they would bury me.’

‘You are not dead. You will go back and continue preaching about Islam. You will be a living testimony that there’s life after death. You have seen it yourself.’

‘I do not want to go back, please. You know how hard hearted my people are, they won’t believe me. I do not want to go back. Please. The world is too cruel.’

‘Malik!’ a commanding voice boomed and echoed around like a tropical thunder.

‘We do not have the key to your house yet. You must go back, be a good Muslim that you have been. We are pleased with you.’

I dropped down my head in surrender, I could not argue with an Angel. Then we turned back through the second gate and the first and stopped.

‘There are few things that I would like you to stop people from doing them, especially the greedy Sheikhs.’

‘What about them?’

‘Stop the people from extorting money from the poor in the name of Islam. Zakat money should be used to help the poor and not enrich the rich. Stop Sheikhs from getting money from the deceased’s family when they are praying over the dead. You are not there to make money, to tear their pockets but to mourn with the family. If you receive the money, do not eat food there and if you eat the food take the money and give them to the children. No Sheikh should receive a cent if he heals a sick using the Qur’an. And the rights of women should be respected in accordance with the Islamic teachings. No husband should raise a hand against his wife.’

‘You’re sending me into the lion’s den.’

‘No one will hurt you, Malik.’

‘They’ll kill me there.’

Suddenly, a big sword with a sharp curved arc blade appeared in the right hand of the Angel gleaming against the powerful light.

‘This is the weapon that you shall use if your life is in danger for spreading the word of God. Stop chiefs from receiving bribery. Now you can go.’

Then I saw the heaven opening, great blinding light bursting out and the Angel entered through the light, and it closed behind him. That moment I felt enclosed in darkness, the darkness was so palpable you could touch it. I heard the familiar wailing of women and people talking in undertones outside.

A meeting with the witches

It was around 4 a.m. in the morning. Your grandpa was walking briskly under the luminous moon. He was going to mosque to make adhaan for the fajr prayers. The chilly wind billowed his long robe and plastered against his frame as he marched forward, the squelching of his flip-flops against the dry ground resonated with the howling wind. About a hundred metres away, he saw burning fire, leaping, and cackling as if being fed by dry sticks, in the middle of the path. He stopped for a moment. When he turned back, he saw the same fire burning. Then he heard strange voices carried by the wind coming towards him. He started to walk forward; time was against him. The burning fire was gone. He zigzagged through the thatched houses, but when he entered the path that led straight to the mosque, he heard familiar voices. He saw three forms coming toward him, each bearing a bundle on his shoulder. Your grandpa kept on walking, as he neared them, he heard their high, sharp, ear-splitting laugh. Your grandpa kept going until he came face to face with the men. He flashed his torch onto their faces. The men’s faces were long, and they were naked with long protruded bellies. Even though their faces and lips were long, he recognized them.

‘Wasibu, Kabudi and Malage,’ said your grandpa, aiming the light of his torch into their faces. They squinted from the torture of the light.

‘This is what you do?’ said your grandpa.

‘It is none of your business,’ said Wasibu, ‘mind your business and we will mind ours.’

‘I command you to stop from practicing witchcraft.’

‘It is only a stupid person who hates his own stools,’ said Malage.

Ha…ha…ha…ha…ha… laughed the witches, walking away swiftly as they were afraid of the first light of day might strike them, exposed to the people.

Your grandpa walked quickly to mosque. At the mosque he took off his flip-flops and walked straight to make the adhaan (call for prayer). After the adhaan, when he turned back, he saw the three witches walking into the mosque, looking at your grandpa with mocking eyes. Your grandpa looked at them for few seconds and proceeded to the kiblah to lead the prayers.

Confrontation with the three witches in daytime

Next day, your grandpa and I were walking to the sugarcane farm. I had a basket in my right hand in which a bottle of thobwa (traditional homemade sweet beer) and banana loaf nestled. Grandpa was carrying a hoe and a panga on his left shoulder, a radio tied with a string was dangling over his chest, his pair of trousers rolled up to his calves. We had just walked a quarter of a mile when Uncles Wasibu, Kabudi and Malage confronted your grandpa.

‘Malik don’t tell the people that you saw us,’ said Wasibu. I walked a few paces away, as children, we were not allowed to be present when elders were having conversations.

‘That is what we do. And no one can tell us to stop it now. Our parents practiced witchcraft freely and passed it on to us. You want to tell us to stop! Because of your stupid dream! Who stops tradition practices? This is our heritage. Even the Arabs when they first came to this village and converted the people to Islam; they found our forebears practicing it,’ said Kabudi.

‘And you did not die! Do not fool the people. You just had a long sleep!’ cried Wasibu.

The witches laughed – their usual high, sharp, ear-splitting laugh.

‘Who sees the witches and talk to them, without some powers? Guys, you must stop it. You gain nothing from it. Repent and Allah will forgive you your sins.’

‘You know what Malik. You don’t belong to this village. You live in this village because you married here. So, watch out! You might find yourself chased out of this village!’ warned Malage, wagging an accusing finger at grandpa.

‘You must stop guys. Do you want to perish in Gehenna?’

‘Shut up! Malik. Witchcraft is part of our identity, our heritage. And we are not Arabs but Africans steeped in tradition,’ said Wasibu, ‘if we hear people talking about us that we are witches, we shall come for you.’

‘I will be ready to meet you.’

‘We shall see,’ said Kabudi pointing an accusing finger at your grandpa.

‘And you are not perfect. Why did your elder wife beat up your young wife? Put your houses in order first, then you can judge us,’ said Malage.

I was still standing at a safe distance waiting for grandpa to finish talking with his friends. But I could hear every syllable of their discussion, even though the core of their argument eluded me.

‘Let’s go,’ said your grandpa joining me at last. When I looked at his face, I could see his face tightening and losing its usual exuberance.

 The year of famine

That year, they say the country was wrecked with the deadliest famine, ever experienced in the history of Malawi. Many people lost their lives from hunger and the wild roots and fruits they ate to try to survive.

They say, the famine happened two years later after your grandpa had moved from his village, following an ongoing spat with fellow sheikhs who wanted him out of the village after exposing them of their hypocritical behaviours. Some wanted him dead, especially the witches who had asked him to seal up his mouth and not talk about them to the public.

Nonetheless, he left with his second wife to Tabora, a native village on the other side of the hill. He was well received there as his fame had already scotched the minds of the villagers. The chief gave him a big piece of land to cultivate, and he was included in the chief’s cabinet. He was made head of religious affairs and a personal advisor to the chief. His mercurial rise in popularity endeared him to the villagers.

He continued to heal the sick free of charge. His first sermon on Friday ju’mah prayers drew people as far as the native village Mtera and Likala. He could see familiar faces in the mosque from his native village and beyond. His message of hope continued to inflame and uplift the people’s spirits, everywhere, even though some people felt that God had abandoned them. He gave reference to a great famine during times of Prophet Joseph. The famine that lasted for seven years but people still put their faith in God. They too should harden their faith in God. He assured them that God had not abandoned them but was just testing their faith. And good days were soon coming back.

***

They say, he worked tirelessly on the farm with his family of six children. Before he went to the farm, he mobilised his family and conducted a marathon prayer, asking God to bless the land and to give them enough rain. Come harvest time, every time he had bumper crops and made three big granaries of maize. He sold groundnuts, beans, and cassava to generate cash.

When the famine hit the land that year, they say, your grandpa had enough food in his granaries from previous harvest to feed his family and a surplus to last him another year. He used the surplus harvest to feed the people. He gave out free food to the people in the village.

Early one morning, they say, just before the sun was about to rise, hungry people invaded the house of your grandpa. They woke up to the deafening noise of people coupled with incessant cries of babies. Abiti, your grandma jumped off from the bed and looked through the window. The long winding queue of people had encircled the house like a belt: mostly women and few men holding cups and plates in their hands. The elderly sat down and moved on their buttocks when the line moved, but those who could still stand leaned on their walking-sticks and staggered forward. They were not only your grandpa’s relatives or Abiti’s relatives but people who knew the family well like one knows the palm of his hand. They were very hungry; people could not remember when they last tasted porridge or eaten nsima. Most people foraged for wild foods, small mammals, and insects. Men left their wives and families because they could not feed them, and a few women also left their husbands to look for food far from home.

Author’s Note: This a true family story which I wish to develop into a book in the future. My uncle narrated the story to me. He grew up in my grandpa’s house and witnessed all the occurrences. Names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.