Scarivacation

The first two times I met Nana, he was weaving. He is a kente weaver, and bears the signature fat callouses between his first two toes from operating the loom. Nana is a term of kinship, he is called that because he is one of the sub-chiefs in town, a family member to all.

The third time I met him, we talked about juju. He is an herbalist, which means that the magic he works is only available when the plants are. Many herbalists claim that when they pick, they are guided by invisible hands. He talked about what magical protection he could offer this time of year, and where it would be placed into my body. We agreed to meet again later on that night, something about too many beating hearts in the area. Bring cigarettes, he said.

Nana has a deep scar on his cheek because he is Ashanti. In addition, he has a whole line of cuts going back from each eye, cuts on his forehead and between his eyebrows, cuts on his chest, cuts on his wrists, and cuts on his feet. He has spent years endowing himself with magical protection.

That night, Eric and I bought a razor blade and went to his house. We sat on the porch, lit only by coals from the dying fire, and talked some small talk. A chicken snoozed on a perch by his shoulder. He bummed a cigarette. Then we went inside.

The only light inside the mud hut was a small kerosene lantern. He turned it up and pulled a box out from under his bed. Many strange things came out of the box- antelope horns and wooden totems and other tools of juju. He found what he was looking for, a gourd, and set it on the low table. Tradition demanded that I offer something in return for the powder in the gourd. I put my money beside the gourd and he pointed to them- this, for this.

The gourd contained a gritty black powder. I asked him what was in it and he said a bunch of plants that he doesn't know the English name for, and some groundup cowrie shells, and some human bones. I didn't ask where he got the bones. He bade me remove my shoes and stand on the money.

With Eric holding the lantern, he cut me. Three small slashes, like hash marks- on the side of each eye, on the back of my wrists, on the tops of my feet, and on my sternum. Then he ground the powder into the wounds. Then, he poured some powder into his left hand. In Ghana, it's considered disgusting to eat with your left hand, and insulting to wave with it. But eat with it he did, a palmful of bone dust. Then he made me hold out my left handand gave me a tablespoon or so. At this point I was in waaaaay over my head. I tipped back my hand... and swallowed it.

It tasted like tomb dust. I gagged it down and swallowed a glass of akpeteci, the local gin. I coughed and coughed from the nasty taste and the gin.

And so my lifelong quest to taste the forbidden human came to an unappetizing and bloodsoaked end.

I'm happy with my scars- it's something I've been interested in since I first started to modify my body. I'm lucky to end up in a place where I can have it done. The experience was so life-affirming that it was worth the risk. And now I have these old souls, these ancestors, lurking in my head and reminding me how lucky I am to be alive. I haven't wasted a moment of life since.