6 Dec – December Rain

6 Dec – December Rain

The other night, Inno turns to me and says, I have been thinking about something since early this afternoon and I want to talk to you about it. I immediately started racking my brain for my most recent social blunder, or waiting to hear about his second wife and child waiting for him in the North…he must have seen the confusion in my face because he said, no no don’t worry, ce n’est pas mal.

“Have you ever heard of African mysticism?”

I think before responding, a bit surprised that he is bringing this up…yes, I say, I have heard of it, but I have never seen it with my own eyes. Adding a tone of skepticism to my voice I say, do you believe in that stuff? He nods his head from side to side, not saying yes, but not saying no.

“Kira,” he says, “This is Africa. Mysticism is not something to believe in or not believe in. You may not be able to understand this, but I am going to try to tell you anyway…that here, in Africa, it is real.”

Several people have spoken to me about mystics, sorcerers and superstitions during my time spent in Togo. So and so’s brother in law was narcissistic ever since he got that new job, that’s why he died in his sleep one night…so and so’s mother? Oh she was so vain and self-absorbed after winning the lottery, that’s why she was in that accident and died. In all instances, the mysterious deaths are tied to an individual’s success, achievement or improved status in life, and their behavior as a result of the experience.

I have always taken these stories with a grain of salt, knowing that, from my suburban American education and approach towards problem solving, that there is a scientific or rational explanation for nearly everything. However, it is here that I have learned the significance of nearly everything. As our conversation goes on, I learn that it is this element of mysticism, the relationship of cause and effect between one’s behavior, others’ intentions, and good and evil, that Innocent is most interested in speaking to me about.

Benin, less than 100km away, is the voodoo center of West Africa, if not all of Africa. Although I have never been there, an almost fearful reverence for the power of Beninoise voodoo has permeated my perception of the country. Every Beninoise I have met has made some mention of fortune, chance and spirituality, and, while it less prevalent here in Togo, it is a sharp reality for many.

Innocent says, Kira, you know me, I would not place my fortune in the hands of a sage, but have you ever noticed that the reason that Africa doesn’t evolve like the rest of the world is because people are always jealous of each other? No one can be happy for one another when they are better off than their neighbor. Instead, evil brews, and no one advances. (Sidenote: I asked him then, where does economic development and corrupt governance fit it? What about those explanations for poverty and lack of progress? Je ne te refuse pas, he said, those are also justifications for Africa’s problems, but trust me, they are only part of the game.)

Mensah and Akpene have both mentioned this underlying element of jealousy in African society to me as well, from the very beginning – cautioning me to be wary of any trinkets anyone might give me, open drinks or food whose source is unknown. Mensah says they could sabotage my project with some kind of herbal potion in my beverage – I will no longer be able to think clearly about my ideas and SunPower Afrique will fall apart. Akpene says that they could convince me to unknowingly carry around an evil talisman, and when I arrive back in the US, I will forget all about Innocent and how I feel about him. “You can be sitting together, laughing and chatting,” Mensah says, “With your closest friends…but no one is happy. Everyone is hiding something. Everyone is jealous, resentful and plotting. You must always be careful.”

Now –

a) I find this very hard to believe about my dear friends here in Kpalimé, and I think that there is both a level of exaggeration and also a difference between coveting thy Togolese neighbor and coveting thy yovo.

b) One would think that this is quite a precarious environment for someone like me, with a relentless case of verbal diarrhea and lack of self-consciousness. But I have learned quickly and, while maintaining my personality of sincerity and trustfulness, I have indeed changed my level of openness with others about my private life. In many ways I am still as naïve as I used to be, some things about me will never change and I actually grateful for that, but I know now how to be just as observant and direct in my interactions, yet protective. I am not in Kansas anymore.

I ask Innocent how he knows that mysticism is real. He says, “Do you know why I am still here in Togo?” I shake me head and he continues, “If my father was still alive, I would have gone to university in Europe. I would never have met you.”

“My father was a member of the National Assembly. He was moving up in the world. And someone didn’t like it. My father was killed by an evil spirit.” I try not to roll my eyes and ask him how his father died. He tells me that he had an accident – he was walking in the sand by the side of the road, fell down and died. With a raised eyebrow, I ask him how he knows that this was a spell of malice that killed him…Inno insists that there were no rocks, no branches, no weapons in sight – he fell, seemingly out of nowhere, in the middle of a pile of sand, and died. I ask Innocent if he saw it happen and he says no, no one did. I tell him then, Inno, your father must have had a seizure, an aneurism, must have fallen in a position that caused his spine to contort just so, that it killed him. “No,” he refuses, “You will say that and you will think that, but it is not true. You don’t understand.” I will tell you another story, he says.

A frère, in Lomé, married a European woman. He lived with her in Europe and once, came back to Togo with a new car. He drove all around the city, showing off his fancy automobile, swanky clothing and shiny watches, disrespecting his friends and neighbors. That night, he was driving home and went to cross the railroad tracks when his car suddenly stalled. The frère couldn’t re-start the car and when he tried to get out, the doors were all jammed in the locked position. He also couldn’t break open the windows. The train hit his car and the frère died. Final Destination anyone?

I tried for about 10 minutes to explain to him that this was impossible. Perhaps there was an electrical malfunction with the doors’ locks, perhaps he committed suicide. There are several gaps in this story – a) Inno did not see it happen. He claims that he saw the smashed car the next day. b) By the time Innocent would have been old enough to understand or witness such an event, the train system in Togo was gaté.

I don’t buy it. Inno and I argued for a few minutes about the implausibility of his story and in the end, agreed to disagree.

But…

I wonder if the chill I sometimes feel, looking deep into the tall reeds and baobabs of the plains between Aventonou and Kpalimé, is simply some romanticized perception of shadows in the darkness of the African night or if truly, there is a third level of existence – one of ancient spirits and whispered history, bearing both powerful malevolence and incomprehensible compassion – that radiates out of Africa.

Is this third level of existence somehow related to Africans’ intense sensibility of the patterns of the natural world? There is a heightened level of consciousness of weather, seasons and temperature. As if there is a spirit or overlying energy governing us all and the world around us – untouchable and uncontrollable by humans, yet as reliable as the sun rising every day. These are the things one can depend on, because the essence of this force will always exist and will always ensure our existence. There is no room for scientific, biological, yovo explanations for cold fronts, global warming or fluctuating jet streams…

Everyone I know in Togo in a tizzy right now because it is December and it has rained 3 days in a row – Athanase said to me yesterday, staring out at the sky, perplexed, “Il ne pleut pas en decembre. En Decembre c’est l’Harmattan.” It is as simple as that – in December it does not rain. It is the Harmattan Winds. Period.

So I believe, on one hand, that there is a heightened sense of spirituality and general experience here in Africa. I do. I love it here because there is something about this place that does not exist in the states – whether it is the simplicity and openness of the people here, the optimism and resilience that permeates the meaning of life, the complexity of a third level of spiritual existence, or a combination of all of the above, I am still not sure. But it is here, and you can’t find it elsewhere. And you can’t find it here after one week, not even after 3 months…I didn’t truly sense it until this trip, and I won’t claim to fully understand it. No one really does – part of its magnetism and strength is its impalpability…

However, I am still a yovo, I am still Kira Costanza, and although I have been strangely convinced to keep my life as private as possible to prevent someone from slotting any evil intentions towards Innocent (why I somehow believe that is possible I could not tell you,) I still have not heard a story, from anyone, that I truly believe to be the result of mysticism.

Evil spells do not exist, and accidents do happen, even in Africa.