The Market Place: Part Two

I step into the dark recesses of the fetish priest’s shanty. A trickle of sunlight slants across the dirt floor. It smells like the walls are made of rotting meat, and, in a silent reminder that they are, a gust of wind lifts up the corner of a gory piece of hide. The man with the long fingers and hoary nails motions for me to sit down on a roughhewn bench next to a sinister looking shrine.

Sitting down, a particular shiver runs through my spine. It feels like, maybe, I’m being watched. That’s when I see them—the six eyes of the shrine. Three pairs are set deep into three gruesomely carved faces, and all are staring right at me. My gaze travels downward to a bowl filled with a dark liquid built into the base of the shrine. A part of me really hopes the liquid isn’t blood and another part of me really hopes it is. After all, I am looking for some special magic.

I take a good look at the priest. He is well dressed in a drab three button suit, and I judge from the slight protrusion of his lips and the wideness of the space between his eyes that he is either Togolese or Beninois. He affirms my guess with the first words out of his mouth.

“Bonjour, my friend, mon homme blanc. Juju here for you, eh? Vous voulez l'achat de la magie?” He says, partly in French, the official language of Togo and Benin. I’m too focused on the shrine to reply. He notices the queer staring contest going on between me and his altar and says quickly, “No black magic. No bad juju. Only white magic. Ne vous inquiétez pas.”

I don’t understand half of what he says, so, I decide to exercise the entirety of my French repertoire, “Je m’appelle Kegen. Je ne parler pas Francais.” My name is Kegen. I do not speak French.

The man laughs, either at my accent or, well, probably just at my accent. “Ha, ha, oui. Yes. Je m’appelle Steve.”

Steve? First, a tour guide named Alfonso. Now, a voodoo priest named Steve—who names these people? For one thing, it’s plain disconcerting to call a witchdoctor by the same name as my fifth grade science teacher. For another thing, it kind of takes away some of the mystery if, when I go home and people ask me questions about my magic monkey skull, I have to be like, “Oh, that…well, my witch-doctor, Steve—that’s right The Steve, Himself—talked to the gods in order to charm that little beauty.” I can see it now, everyone will laugh at me, and there’ll be a guy named Steve—there’s always a Steve—who will run around pretending to cast spells. The whole solemn occasion will be ruined, my monkey head disgraced, and all because of a fetish priest named Steve. Steve?!? It just doesn’t have the kick a good African name should have. If only he was named Kwaku or Kwabena or something. Then me and my monkey head would get some proper respect. But no. I get Steve.

And, worst of all, instead of a cursed monkey skull Steve is trying to sell me a stick.

“Look, see?, see?, you take stick, eh?, and take bark, eh?, put bark in water, and HEY!!!” Steve pumps his fist for emphasis as he finishes. The stick is supposed to help with erections. He called me in here to try and sell me some au naturale Viagra, which may be strong magic, but not quite the kind of magic I’m looking for.

“No, thanks. I'm still young,” I tell him, “I don’t need help getting erections. I need help getting rid of them.”

At this point, it becomes quite obvious to me that this man, Steve, does not have the kind of enchantment that I’m looking for, and even if he did I wouldn’t buy it from him because his name is Steve. I don’t buy magic from guys named Steve. I have my principles. However, I do grab a few of the sticks before I leave because, well, you never know when you might need a little juju to perk you up.

-Back to the top- Enjoy.

-Kegen Dean Benson