Wizard of the Crow

9

Early the next day Machokali called on the Wizard of the Crow. The sorcerer, who was fiddling with his tie in front of a mirror, gestured to Machokali to sit and continued fumbling. But the minister just stood and looked on.

“You slept well?” Machokali began in an attempt at small talk.

The more Machokali encountered the Wizard of the Crow, the more he had his doubts. How did such a youth become so adept at healing?

“I am told that you diagnose and heal by means of a mirror?”

“It depends on the illness and the mirror. Mirrors can be thick or thin, convex or concave: every illness calls for a mirror appropriate to the challenge it poses. It takes time for me to interpret the images in the mirror. I must also speak to everyone who has had any contact with a patient. You and all the ministers, for example…”

What if Sikiokuu had hired this man to implicate Machokali or the other ministers in a conspiracy to harm the Ruler?

“You know, don’t you, that this matter should not spread beyond these walls? That it should be confined to the small circle of those who are here?”

“Mr. Minister, my motto is Get It by the Roots, and the Illness Shall Be No More. If I am to root the illness out, I must talk to whomever I deem necessary.”

“Okay You may see all the ministers, the security men, and his doctor.”

“How many doctors does he have?”

“Just one. Dr. Wilfred Kaboca. His personal physician. He never leaves his side.”

“Is he the only doctor who has seen him? No other doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Fine with me.”

“That’s wise. There is no point wasting time talking to too many people. Time is of the essence. Consult your mirror and…”

“Take the next flight home,” the Wizard of the Crow completed

Machokali’s thought. “Believe me, Mr. Minister, I am not keen on staying in America a minute longer than necessary. I prefer the bush and its healing properties. My procedure will be quick or slow depending on whether or not those who have had dealings with the patient are telling all they know.”

“Would a government minister lie to you?” Machokali said, offended.

“Are you now telling me the truth?” the Wizard of the Crow asked him offhandedly, continuing to fumble with his tie.

“Don’t flay with me, Sorcerer Kagogo,” Machokali said angrily in Kiswahili. “Why would I lie to you? I don’t want anything from you. I am not the patient here.”

“Excuse me, but please come over here,” the Wizard of the Crow said, beckoning him with a finger.

Machokali was not happy with the sorcerer giving him orders, but to speed up matters he toned down his own antagonism and did as asked.

“Please look in the mirror,” the Wizard of the Crow requested, stepping aside to give him ample room.

Machokali did so as the Wizard of the Crow looked at the palm of his own right hand.

“What do you see?” the wizard asked Machokali.

“My reflection,” Machokali said. “And yours standing there staring into your hand.”

“Focus on your own reflection. Look at it carefully.”

“So?”

“If you look hard at yourself you will see what I am seeing. I will ask you again. Is Kaboca the Ruler’s only doctor?”

“And I will answer you again: why would I lie to you?”

“Keep looking at the mirror,” said the Wizard of the Crow. “What do you see? Do you see something white, like the whiteness of white people? Two white figures?”

No matter how hard he tried, Machokali could not see any face other than his own. Where were the white figures the wizard was talking about?

“No. This is a charade,” he said, and looked away.

But the Wizard of the Crow continued to look intensely at his palm as if it were a handheld mirror.

“There, there they are,” the wizard said excitedly.

Machokali quickly turned his eyes to the mirror and stared feverishly. He saw nothing.

“There are two wearing stethoscopes. One walks like he comes from New York. Very confident in the streets. And the other? Where is he from?” he said, fixing his eyes on Machokali.

Machokali’s lips trembled. How did he know about Furyk and Clarkwell, and that they were from different places? Machokali had forgotten that last night he had left the Wizard of the Crow in A.G.’s company. He looked at the wizard and for a few seconds they sized each other up.

“Oh, those two,” Machokali said, not wanting to be caught in more lies. “It is strange, but really I never thought of them as doctors. I thought that you would not want to see Professor Din Furyk and Clement C. Clarkwell. I have heard it said that white science and black sorcery do not mix, that they are like night and day. Are you sure that you want to talk to them as well?”

The Wizard of the Crow indicated with a gesture that the two of them should now sit down for an additional chat.

“Mr. Minister. When I said that I wanted to talk to everyone who has had some contact with the patient, I meant what I said,” explained the Wizard of the Crow.

“How do you want me to introduce you?”

“Tell them the truth.”

“That you are a sorcerer?”

“That I am a healer. An African healer. That I trap the bad to save the good.”

“Okay Leave that to me,” Machokali said. “Whom would you like to talk to first?”

“You!”

“What do you want to know?”

“How it all began.”

10

If Machokali’s affairs had begun to take the wrong turn when he failed to secure a state visit for the Ruler, they had worsened after the delegation’s arrival in America. He tried to ameliorate the failure by appealing to his American friends to influence the president to receive the Ruler of Aburlria, even for fifteen minutes. But apparently the American president was fully booked.

As for the vice president, the secretary of state, senators, and right down to congressmen, the results were similar. Finally, through much furious lobbying, a prayer breakfast with the president was secured.

The Ruler was very glad to hear that he and the American president were going to have a prayer breakfast, his only regret being that he had forgotten to include a cleric in his delegation to put in a word of prayer for Aburlria. The Ruler chartered a plane to Washington, where he and his entourage were met by the Aburlrian ambassador and his deputy, Yunice Immaculate Mgenzi, who addressed the Ruler as if she were the real ambassador. From there, in a fleet of limos, they headed toward the place of prayer.

Machokali was beginning to feel his spirits rise when, as luck would have it, they arrived at the venue only to confront demonstrators carrying placards and chanting slogans all denouncing the Aburlrian dictator and his plans for Marching to Heaven. Who are these crazy fellows who dared to call themselves Friends of Democracy and Human Rights in Aburlria? Machokali wondered bitterly. He peeked through the window of the limo and recognized one of the demonstrators, perhaps even its mastermind, Materu, former professor of history at the University of Aburlria, who earlier had been released after serving ten of ten and half years of hard labor in the country’s maximum-security prison for writing about the independence of Aburlria and failing to mention that the Ruler had