The sangoma’s rondavel had a certain eeriness about it. Alone on a hill and topped with a rubber tire, this was the home of the women with a direct link to the ancestors. We took off our shoes and sat on mats inside, women on one side and men on the other. A shy woman who never quite met our eyes sat between us with her legs outstretched, and in the quietness of rapt attention, began to tell us her story.
She never wanted to be a sangoma, said the interpreter, but the ancestors had other ideas. They afflicted her with terrible back pain until she finally accepted the task. Once she joined the ranks, the back pain subsided.
She now interprets between them and the living, much like the interpreter was doing between us and her. If you’ve been bitten by a poisonous snake for which there’s no medicinal cure, she has a remedy in a two-liter Coke bottle. If you’re having relationship problems and need a love potion, she has one for that, too. After all was said and shown, we rose to leave… well, everyone except me.
I had worn a knee-length skirt, which the laws of modesty required my legs to be folded to the side when we sat on the floor. This caused my legs to fall asleep. Really fall asleep. I’m talking long-dead-and-already-buried kind of sleep. When I stood up, the blood rushed through my legs and I instantly collapsed. I felt nothing below my hips except an ethereal blend of wispy pin-pricks. It was an experience I’d never had before then and have never had since. In any event, I was stuck on that mat.
Two people helped me to my feet, and with their assistance, I hobbled from the sangoma’s hut. Perhaps the momentary lapse of leg-life was caused by mischievous ancestors. Perhaps it was the skirt. If ever I were to go back to the Valley of a Thousand Hills, I’d probably wear shorts.