A Sitdown with the Juju Man

This is the third of six posts I’m writing about the witch camps of Northern Ghana.  Posts one and two are below.

I am sitting in a shack in Northern Ghana across from a fetish priest. The rain pounds the tin roof in an eerie symphony; the water slips through the rafters and pelts my shoulders.  There are a half-dozen voodoo dolls lying on the milk crate table in front of me.   A number of spears are mounted on the wall, along with a rifle, which looks old enough to be Davy Crockett’s.  Regardless, it is hard for me to treat this situation with legitimacy for one reason.  What sort of self-respecting fetish priest wears a Foster’s Beer shirt?  If this man really had spiritual powers, wouldn’t he be sporting, at the very least, a Miller High Life tank top?

Simon brought me to meet the juju man, because he is one of the few individuals recognized as having supernatural powers that are used exclusively for good.  The price to interview the juju man is three Cedi.  This is triple the price to interview a witch, but I have interviewed seven witches over the last two days and their stories have begun to stagnate in my mind.  I need another perspective and Kambuna, the Gambaranna’s spiritual adviser, is willing to chat.

According to Kambuna, he inherited his spiritual powers at the age of twenty-two from his father. Since then, he has been protecting the chief by entering the supernatural world in his dreams and locating any spirits that seek to do harm.  Kambuna says that if he meets a malicious witch in the spiritual world, he “beats it down” spiritually.  If that doesn’t work, then he will address the physical manifestation of the spirit (the flesh and blood witch) and give her a stern warning.  He says such a warning will almost always achieve results.  I want to know what else he sees in the spirit world, so I ask him.

He tells me that at night he holds court with a number of spiritual advisers that appear from across Ghana and the rest of the universe.  They appear, not while he is sleeping, but while he is awake, in the form of tiny dwarfs.  They are not visible to anyone besides him, and they advise him on what will happen in the future.  He informs me that he has the power to transfer spiritual powers to others and that he has been teaching them to his son.  The boy, about 14, is called in and enters nervously.  I ask him if he has seen any dwarfs recently.  He says he hasn’t.

Simon is taking the juju man in the Foster’s beer shirt very seriously, but there are moments when I feel like I’m on a hidden camera show.  I want to show deference to local culture–to keep my mind as open as possible–but at the same time I want answers, sane answers, so I start to dig in.  I ask Kambuna why his spiritual powers give him respect in the community, when the women accused of witchcraft are treated like criminals.  He answers quickly, telling me: “They use their powers for bad, while I use my powers for good.” I ask him if he thinks that all the women in the camp are actually witches. “Of course they are, that’s why they are there,” he says.

Then, I ask what prevents the women from using their spiritual powers in the camp.  He says that the power of the Gambaranna is so great that the women are rendered impotent.  “Then why doesn’t the Gambaranna  use his spiritual power to produce some food,” I ask.

He sidesteps me and says that the Gambaranna does plenty of things to help the women.   I ask the question again.  Simon translates it and once again, I get a vague answer.  I realize that regardless of how unimpressive he appears to me, this man holds an influential position in the Gambaga community.  He is a top adviser to the most powerful man in the village and clearly won’t answer any question he doesn’t want to.  If he was residing in Washington, D.C., instead of Africa, he might be Robert Gibbs.

I am frustrated and Kambuna appears to enjoy my irritation.  Without prompting, he states that he can teach anyone supernatural powers who wants them.  He asks me if I want them.  Simon translates the question with such gravity that you would think he would have asked me if I wanted his kidney.  “Of course, I want them,” I snap.  Kambuna smiles a big, fat toothless grin, and rubs his fingers through his stringy goatee.  Then, he mutters something to Simon.

“What did he say,” I jabber.

“He says that he doesn’t think you’re ready yet.”

Five minutes later, we leave.  I feel completely inept as a journalist, like a softball pitcher who just had eight line drives nailed off his head.  The mid-afternoon rain has cleared and Gambaga feels fresh and alive for the first time.  Simon takes me to the canteen behind the prison where I munch on spaghetti beans and egg.  It tastes bad, again.

Read the first post in this series or check out the photo gallery for more images from Gambaga