Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
side was a brand new Land Cruiser, its windows blacked out, its wheel trims mysteriously
clean, in spite of the dust that swirled around. As Boston bid goodbye to the
boda-boda
driver, one of the black windows wound down and a Ugandan man stepped out.
'Have you brought gifts?' he began.
Boston said, 'You didn't mention gifts.'
The man looked far from impressed. 'You were told to bring a white cockerel and five
litres of fresh cow's milk. You should know, Levison Tembula, you cannot come without
gifts.'
I looked at Boston, who didn't seem in the least perturbed. 'We'll find them, Lev.
Come.'
The gifts, Boston told me as we headed into the shanties, were for Mama Fina, reputed
to be Kampala's richest witch doctor. 'She prefers to be called a traditional healer,' he ex-
plained as we made for what looked a likely stall among the shanties, 'but she was in the
Red Pepper
doing things that didn't look medicinal at all.'
The
Red Pepper
had been the favourite rag among the fishermen in Kasansero, and I had
already witnessed first-hand the sort of lurid headlines in which the tabloid specialised.
Photographs of Mama Fina had been spread across its central section, where the paper ex-
posed her as Kampala's most prolific nymphomaniac, who regularly used sex as part of
her dark magic.
'Then why are we going to see her?'
'So you can see for yourself, what these magicians can do.'
We came to a stall where it seemed we could buy eggs, Coke and other assorted goods
but our requests for fresh milk were, predictably, met with bewildered silence. In the end
Boston managed to unearth five litres of UHT in battered plastic cartons and, in place of a
cockerel, a small billy goat who looked at us, disgruntled, as we led him away on a length
of string. Before we got back to the Land Cruiser, Boston took a detour into the shanties,
managed to procure a small jerry can and, with the broadest grin, proceeded to decant the
UHT. 'This witch doctor will never know the difference, Lev. It's all for show.'
On inspection of our gifts - which, though blatantly not what was demanded, appeared
to be good enough - the man from the Land Cruiser led us down to the shore of the lake.
Towing the goat behind us, we trailed him along the beach until, at last, we began to see
people. Twenty or thirty of them - poor men, women, even a few children - were gathered
along the breakers of a secluded cove, where driftwood fires littered the sand. Clusters of
homemade spears were lodged in the ground beside each of the fires; as we approached, I
couldn't help thinking they had the appearance of shrines.
'Are they all waiting for her?' I asked.
'You don't have to wait, Tembula,' said the man who was leading us and, together, we
picked our way through the petitioners.
