Voodoo Killed My Mother
My mother is dead. The doctors say she died of meningitis, but I know that is not the whole truth. My mother was killed by a voodoo spell.
Our family comes from a rainy northern city. My mum always hated the cold and spent her entire life trying to get away from it. She did get away; she made it to the jungles and beaches of Asia and Africa, but life always forced her back into cold cities.
The last time in Africa, she met a young man, an ex-police officer for whom she fell head over heels. He had nothing – no job, no home, nothing but debt and a big family. My mother paid his bills. He was still married, but she refused to believe it. We do not know how he lost his job in law enforcement, but you don’t get fired from Africa’s police because you are too clean. When her cash cards were emptied at the ATM, she said it was a banking miracle, not him stealing.
Together they built a house near the beach and opened a restaurant. She wouldn’t listen to anybody, cutting off those who questioned the young man. In the end, she gave up her family, her children, and everything else that mattered to her, except for her dogs, because they were loyal and uncritical, no matter what the young man did to her. She never saw her grandchild, not even a photo, because the young man warned her that a voodoo curse might be attached to the photo.
It was not her will, she said, but the voodoo spell that bound her. She wanted to escape but she couldn’t. Every time she tried to leave him, she got terribly sick. She tried counter-spells too, but they didn’t work; probably her sorceress was no good, she said. In Africa, musungus never get the real deal.
The restaurant was robbed many times, miraculously whenever they held some cash. Traumatized by violent crimes, my mother sold the house near the beach and followed the young man to the up-countries, where his wife and children lived.
He convinced her that building an apartment house would be a solid investment. Her remaining funds went into twelve flats in Nairobi. She kept the address of the apartment house secret so we could not find her or her young man.
Nairobi (or “Nai-Robbery” to the insider) is almost as cold and rainy as the city where she was born. It was there that her life’s cycle closed. When she had no more money to invest, she was chased away by the young man’s wife and soon succumbed to illness.
“I know you don’t believe me, but there are things in Africa that one cannot explain. Things beyond our understanding.” It was one of the last things she said to me.
The young man had her buried behind the graveyard’s toilet, next to the garbage, but only after we sent money for the funeral. He had no cash, he said even though my mother’s will left all to him, the apartment house and the car. He did not bother to put a stone or a flower on her grave. My mother’s beloved dogs went to an animal shelter; we will never get her personal belongings, as her will stipulates, because the young man is afraid that we will put a spell on him.
Remarkably, my mother never went to church. The church just wanted her money, she said. However, against all indications, my mother was not stupid. In fact, she was very successful in everything she did except in regards to men.
She was a nihilist and a misanthrope, yet it was love that killed her.
Love in the form of a voodoo spell.
By the time I officially became a teenager, I was a hippie already. I had stopped combing my hair (don’t even mention cutting it); wore ripped jeans and adored Jim Morrison.
Smoking hash was, of course, very important. Business-minded from birth, I thought it would be extra cool to sell hash too. Fortunately, I didn’t have the money to actually buy serious quantities to wholesale. Thus I concentrated on services by rolling joints for my fellow classmates. It was a silly teenager act; however, it could have gotten me into serious trouble.
In my class was an obese girl; she was very un-cool according to my value system, but I rolled her a few joints. She kept a diary about her experimental drug use and, predictably, her mother read it. My name was mentioned and I was reported to the local police.
As I learned later, they also heard of my family’s business in Asia and thought I might be a professional dealer, possibly a major catch if with my family was involved. The prospect of an international drug-ring must have been too much for our small-town officers, so they escalated the affair to the state drug agency. My case was taken by a man whose name was legend and program: Mr. Happydrink was an alcoholic and he hated illegal drugs.
One terrible day, I was sitting in class probably dreaming of Jim Morrison, the school master rushed into the room and straight for me. While I was escorted to his office I thought of dumping my hash but it was just too precious so I hid it.
As I entered the school master’s private office, Mr. Happydrink’s Special Forces team jumped upon me. I imagine they were disappointed with me being such a milk face but they stripped and frisked me professionally.
They emptied the contents of my Moroccan hippie-bag onto the table and found the tell-tale missing cardboard of the cigarette papers but no pot. They dug through my leather jacket with the ‘Bob Marley’ stickers and multiple secret pockets – no pot, only old tobacco. My jeans, more patches than fabric, revealed nothing, not even inside the patches. My socks were empty, my t-shirt was all holes and my painted converse sneakers were filled with nothing but dirt.
Now, in my stained underpants, I was not a hippie anymore but only a bony, white and pimply thirteen year old, sweating and shivering simultaneously.
“My underpants, too?” I asked.
After all, officer Happydrink must have felt sorry. He did not call my bluff.
Though there was no hard evidence Happydrink took me to the police station for a full course of one-on-one gangster grilling. I knew nothing.
Mug shots were taken; left and right. As I was standing there I felt a little plop down my trouser. The hash had worked its way out from my underpants and down my jeans. There it lay, neatly packed in aluminum foil, too precious and dangerous to be left behind so I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Happydrink’s mug-shot-shooter did not notice.
It was early afternoon when they let me go and I remember a terrible exhaustion. My mind, however, was set. I was not going to face this drama; I was going to run; run hard and far. In Greece, in the seventies, there were still islands to discover.
Though it was deep winter I walked home and made plans for my final escape. At that time, I was living alone with my dad. My mother and sister had gone to find a new life in Sri Lanka, again. My father always worked late. I had the rest of the day for myself to prepare the break.
My dad had some cash hidden in a secret compartment in the old cabinet and a small revolver under his socks. The gangster I now was needed both (for my American readers: guns are very illegal in Europe). I packed my gemstones from Sri Lanka, some cloths, my passport, the diary with addresses and a few essential music tapes into an old army backpack, poured some cognac and orange juice into a plastic flask and I was ready to go.
Never, in my memory, had my father, ever, come home early; except on that day.
He stood behind the kitchen door and when I walked by he jumped at me with a good-natured whoop. It is a miracle that I did not die of a heart attack.
“Hey! Let’s walk the dog!’ he said.
He didn’t know and he had no foreboding, pre-vision or something; he just came home early, that’s it. Coincidence, fate or parental sixth sense? I still don’t know.
He was in a good mood, probably because my mother was gone and all, but not for long. I told him about my day with officer Happydrink. He sat down and listened.
My father could fly into a violent rage over bad table manners but in a case like this he was all business: “Did they find something? Was it true? Would I have to leave school?”
“No, yes and yes.” I did not mention the contents of my backpack and he did not ask.
“We will talk later” he said and left me in despair.
I had no energy left for Greek islands. I put back the revolver and the cash.
Then, finally, I cried.
The Buddha thought that the idea of ‘Me’ is a fiction of the human mind and ego. If you find this hard to believe take it from science: We are made up of approximately 10 trillion cells. That is ‘Me’, sort of. Those 10 trillions cells are not all that there is to ‘Me’. There also are 100 trillion microbes living in, on and around each of us. They run errands; they feed, clean, and maintain our cells. We cannot function without them. They also sicken us at times, even kill, but who is free of evil?
The universe is incomprehensible and I will not dare to pass judgment on, or get in a tussle with, a 100 trillion creatures living inside of me. Were they to abandon me, I would probably not get out of the door alive. From now on, I will think twice before unleashing antibiotics into my blood stream. Truth be told, antibiotics have saved my life many times from unnamed tropical diseases but I am against the dumping of tons of antibiotics into salmon farms or pigs (just so we can stuff them in even smaller spaces).
For those who like clean linen it is a shocking insight: There are more microbes in your body than humans on earth. Many more. So, when you sit there and read ‘Me’ it is not only you, but 110 trillions cells and microbes in a joint effort.
Let’s not discount all those creatures as dumb or simple. What do we know? They have been around much longer. We are just a blip in their history on earth. What do they feel? Do they sleep? Why are parts of our DNA made from old virus-DNA? What does it do there?
Maybe that part in us that clings more to life than our rational brains would allow, maybe that part is the will, the culminated survival instinct, of 100 trillion little creatures living with us. Who knows? At the end of the 19th century a group of London scientists proclaimed “the end of science”. They thought they knew it all and nothing was left to discover. How totally wrong were they?
Out of the plane I can hear “Geee-cko-Geee-cko” coming from the main building. This is Rangoon International Airport. It is quite and darkish.
French raiders in the hotel bar discuss the ‘great opportunities’ of Burmese antiques under the ‘current circumstances’.
My local contact secretly squirrels away gems for an escape abroad. He looks at the stacks of local bills and says: ‘This no good’.
Our lapidary keeps the doors open. No security is needed. Burma is safe, as long as you don’t mess with the generals.
First time visitors shed tears at the Shwedagon Paya.
A sign at the muddy river: ‘No foreigners beyond this point’. There is no brigde.
Hollywood-stile villas and new SUVs proof that economic sanctions don’t work for the upper 1000.
My taxi has wooden seats and a plastic bucket taped to the floor. It is half full with red slime. Many Burmese still chew betel-nuts, but they are not allowed to spit on the streets anymore.
Strings hang from upper apartments replacing electric bells.
Grand colonial buildings are occupied by the military. Specky shirts hang to dry from broken windows. Nobody is allowed on the sidewalk. They are serious: I get yelled at.
A local garage makes ‘new’ cars; by hand; one by one; out of scrap metal and an engine. They produce three per month at $1.5k
Drunken monks fight over cigarettes. Religion can be anything.
Burmese food is delicious, not just numbing hot or sweet, but individually cooked, untouched by industrial standards.
Nobody dances at a pop festival. VIP kids sit behind security and fences.
No ATMs, no mobile phones and no computers proof that economic sanctions do work for the lower 35.000.000.
A grainy TV show features stone-faced farmers dancing in shabby costumes. A subtitle reads: ‘Here they still live happily without foreigners’. So very thin they are.
For good and bad, Burma is past caged in a country and its people.