Юнас Юнассон - The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man

All in all, the ceremony lasted under an hour, not the promised two. The assistant’s explanation was that Olekorinko was more filled with spiritual strength than usual that day so he transferred a greater amount of healing energy per minute. No one had been cheated.

Olekorinko stood in the background, nodding in agreement with his assistant’s words, and concluded with a ‘Hallelujah.’

Scattered hallelujah responses came from the field before ten thousand people simultaneously got ready to start the difficult journey back, more content and possibly liberated from inflamed prostates and AIDS.

The only ones who remained were those who had booked one-to-one time with the healer. And one meek, depressed agent from the German security service.

Sabine’s twenty minutes with Olekorinko began with him meditating silently to himself. Allan, Julius and Meitkini were on chairs at the very back of the tent and had been instructed not to take part in the session. If they did, Olekorinko would have to release more energy and this would cause the fee to increase accordingly.

‘He knows how to get paid,’ said Allan.

‘Quiet!’ said Julius.

After the meditation, Olekorinko opened his eyes and met Sabine’s gaze. ‘What can I do for you, my child?’ he asked.

Sabine did not feel in any way as if Olekorinko was her father. But she was finally where she needed to be. She would have loved her mother, Gertrud, to be at her side.

‘I have a few straightforward questions,’ she said. ‘The first is, what does your magical drink contain, aside from your own soul and the support of God?’

Olekorinko observed her cautiously. He had encountered journalists before. Was she another? Some had even smuggled out the miracle drink and analysed it in a laboratory. This had led all the way to a government decree stating that the drink ‘is not harmful to human health and is therefore permitted to be sold’. Even back then, seven Members of Parliament with various afflictions had made the round trip to the miracle man by helicopter.

‘The active ingredient is just what you said: the energy of God, by way of me, his servant. But the Lord and I work in symbiosis with nature. The bitter sweetness comes from the mtandamboo bush. Is that something you’re familiar with?’

No, Sabine wasn’t. But she realized that the miracle man wasn’t referring to any secret ingredient. Such a thing could be found, given a history and exported to become a suitable business model in Europe. But God wouldn’t be so simple. His advantages and shortcomings were already well known at home. And, by the way, God? Wasn’t Olekorinko a witch doctor?

‘At home I work with clairvoyance and the driving out of ghosts. What experience do you have with those?’

Olekorinko’s four bodyguards were suddenly on edge. Olekorinko himself fixed his gaze on his guest. Sabine had just said something terribly wrong.

‘Witchcraft is of the devil,’ he said. ‘If you’re a witch, drinking kikombe cha dawa is associated with death. It is reserved for people who have chosen the right path.’

What was this?

‘The right path,’ Sabine mumbled, noticing how tense the atmosphere in the tent had become. What had she missed in all her research?

‘The right path,’ Olekorinko repeated. And he went on, in a low, hostile tone, to give her something much like a lecture. It was about witchcraft and how best to fight it. Happily, five hundred Tanzanian women were killed each year for being witches. But that wasn’t enough. Evil was always a step ahead. The only solace was that witches and wizards killed each other. Recently a magic man in Ngorongoro had killed a witch and cut her up into decently large pieces, each intended to bring him luck. Now he himself was imprisoned for eighteen years. That was all his luck had brought him so far. Nevertheless: wizards shouldn’t end up in prison; they could too easily continue their depravity there. They should die along with the witches.

Sabine was confused. Was this character honestly sitting there and distancing himself from sorcery in general? But he was the reason she had come. And brought her friend. And Allan.

She was flooded with the feeling that their trip to Tanzania had been pointless. Or had they merely sought out the wrong representative of what might be possible for development and export? If drinking a holy liquid extracted from the roots of nature to rid oneself of prostatitis wasn’t witchcraft, then what was?

Unwisely enough, she posed this very question. But instead of responding, Olekorinko signalled his bodyguards. Each took one step forward, then another. Were they about to…

At that instant, Meitkini stood up. He said something in Swahili. It sounded stern, and the bodyguards stopped in their tracks. They glanced around, across the bush outside the tent. It was below Olekorinko’s dignity to follow suit, but he sat with his back straight, watching Meitkini intently.

The Maasai man had somehow bought time for himself and his friends. He instructed Allan, Julius and Sabine to leave the tent immediately and get into the car.

‘But I have a question,’ said Allan.

‘No, you don’t,’ said Meitkini, as he continued to keep an eye on Olekorinko. ‘Do as I say. Now!’

A minute or so later, they were driving away from the miracle man’s camp. After a little longer, Meitkini was able to relax. The first thing he did was apologize for sounding so harsh, but the situation had been more threatening than Sabine and the others had likely been aware.

‘May I say something now?’ Allan said.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Does that character believe in himself?’

Meitkini allowed himself to smile. ‘I’m glad you didn’t venture to ask that in the tent, Mr Karlsson. You wouldn’t have got much older if you had.’

‘I probably won’t anyway. What did you say that made them stop what they were doing like that?’

‘I said that the African poison-arrow tree was watching them and would give them a jab if they didn’t calm down.’

‘The African what?’

‘They knew what I meant. I unbuttoned my collar so they could see from my necklace that I’m Maasai. They found it believable enough that a nearby kinsman could have them in his sights. There were at least ten bushes, rocks and hollows to choose from. By now I’m sure they know I was lying, but it’s too late.’

‘Unless that’s them behind us,’ Sabine said anxiously.

Meitkini glanced in the rear-view mirror and recognized the model of the car and the decal above the windscreen. ‘No, that’s a rental car. The kind tourists drive around in, but not Olekorinko and the likes of him.’

‘The African what?’ Allan said again.

‘Poison-arrow tree. That’s where we extract the poison we dip the tips of our spears in. A good hit will kill a seven-hundred-kilo buffalo in ten seconds. For a slight man like Olekorinko, it wouldn’t take more than a scratch.’

‘Who’s the “we” in this context?’ Sabine enquired.

‘The Maasai.’

‘But didn’t you say you’re peaceful?’

‘Sure. Until someone is nasty to us.’

‘Like a buffalo, for example?’

‘Yes. Or a charlatan.’

Sabine still couldn’t come to grips with what had gone wrong. Olekorinko was a witch doctor . And she had passed herself off as a witch.

‘Well, it’s more complicated than you seem to think, Miss Sabine,’ said Meitkini. ‘Would you like me to explain?’

‘Very much.’

So Meitkini did.

Being a witch was considered a bad thing all over Africa. The best way to deal with witches was to beat them to death. Or, even better, pour petrol all over them and set it alight. Which, incidentally, was what Olekorinko’s men had been about to do to Sabine. Hence their hasty departure.