Blood Sacrifice

I have a feeling I'm going to have a difficult time coming to any coherent point in this entry. But I suppose when you consider the three months that have passed since I've last written, that can't be entirely surprising.
Manigri is more or less the same as when I last wrote. The babies are all getting bigger, the children keep growing and the dry stalks that so bravely fought Harmattan winds are now being rewarded with the Mango rains. Cashews are being harvested at break-neck pace, as last year the crop was dissappointing and many farmers are hoping to make up for lost profits and fill hungry bellies. The mangos aren't all quite ripe in Manigri yet. The boughs of the tree in my concession are propped up by big sticks to keep them from breaking and tumbling the unripened fruit on the ground. Everyday a cluster of five or six boys perch outside of my house, patiently waiting for me to motion them inside so they can play with paper airplanes, jump-ropes, chalk, markers, or any of the other 100 children's toys I’ve inherited from previous Volunteers. Typically they only last twenty or thirty minutes before I am throwing them all out for fighting, wrestling or trying to jump off my kitchen cabinet (Jojo). They're good kids, but their boyish energy is much better suited outside in the dirt where they can build cars out of baby powder bottles or ”pumps” out of tin cans.
But I suppose there is news. The presidential election was last Sunday. Since February there had been nearly constant parades of singing, chanting and drumming down the dusty streets, the cheering going well into the night. “ABT!”, women and children would call over and over again. Abdoulaye Bio Tchani was the challenger from the Donga region, his hometown being Djougou. The president, incumbent and front-runner, Yayi Boni, came to visit Bassila and Manigri. I saw him for only a moment as his motorcade drove through Ikanyi on its way to a former Minister’s mansion. Yayi Boni ended up with 53% of the vote, a clear majority given the 13 other candidates. On election day I toured the election booths at the primary schools and CEG, asking questions about ballots, counting and corruption. Mama Latifou, my next-door neighbor, met me outside of the CEG, purple ink still wet on her thumb. I pushed my right thumb to hers, gaining a sliver of purple on the outer-edge. I have one, gross and sweaty, photograph of it hidden in my new camera.
A few weeks ago my friend Djibril noticed that I am frequently sick. It’s usually nothing serious, just stomach pains or diarrhea, but enough to keep me beached on my living room couch for hours at a time. This was the conversation,
“Are you protected?”
“Protected? From sorcery?”
“Yes”
“No one would want to do sorcery on me… would they?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“So do I need protection?”
“Yes.”
And so last night at about ten pm, Bradley and I followed Djibril down the narrow, winding footpaths to his parents house. The wind shook the leaves of the enormous sacred tree as we slowly trudged through the yam fields beneath a moon much brighter and larger than usual. I met Djibril's father, dressed in his clothes from evening prayer, a long white robe and round, embroidered hat. He was washing his hands, face and feet in preparation as we arrived. Djibril's younger brother ushered us inside where a stone-faced man with a voice like a lion's purr sat on a prayer rug, also dressed in white. This was a clairvoyant, a seer, and Imam. Djibril's father sit on the floor and motioned to us two hard-backed chairs. The Imam lit two candles to call the spirits to us to listen, then two sticks of incense to intice them to stay. Djibril's father laid a large platter of corn with four kola nuts in the center on the floor. We exchanged nervous salutations and awkward small talk in nagot. Djibril's father nodded at the Imam, and then they began the prayer. Thirty, forty-five minutes, an hour- I honestly do not know- passed. The sunbaked ciment walls radiated heat from a sun that had set hours before. The Imam stood and then knelt in all four directions. His voiced raised and lowered in pitch, but never in volume which was like a dryer running in a distant basement. Djibril’s brother got up quietly and slipped outside. I glanced at Bradley as I heard the rustle of feathers of the white rooster we had purchased at the market. He was laid down carefully by the doorstep. I quickly began concentrating on my hands and fingers as it began to chuckle to the dark. The Imam’s voice grew louder. It rumbled and rustled the hair on my arms like a breeze through tall grass, wind through leaves. Djibril and his father punctuated the prayer, chanting. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. A distressed cry from the white rooster. Amen. Amen. Amen. I focused on my hands in front of me, willing myself to believe in magic, God and blood sacrifice. The rooster continued to call out into the night. My vision blurred. Then a loud shriek, a gurgle, a sigh.
Then silence.
Right now Djibril is coming with some teasane, a tea-type concoction of leaves and traditional medicines. Then he will take a razor and cut a very small incision into my legs. He will rub ash and poultice into the wound and bandage it. I will drink the teasane quietly and marvel at the cross-section between faith and mystery; medicine and science, as the church behind my house plays its drums to the darkening sky- the evening stars strung out like chicken feed, the moon a red, round kola nut.