Dave Kobrenski - Finding the Source: One Mans Quest for Healing in West Africa

Additional photos and content for this book are available at:

davekobrenski.com/fts

Malink names:

Lancin Cond: LAHN-see-nay COHN-day

Daouda: DOW-dah

Sako Gb: SAH-ko gbway

Mousso: MOO-so

Sayon: SY-oh(n)

Famoudou Konat: FAH-moo-doo ko-NAH-tay

Aminata: ah-mee-NAH-ta

Lamine: lah-MEEN

Elmina Castle, Ghana

The pain is searing. It radiates from the center of my spine, up my neck and down to my hips, flaring outward like the thorns of a brittle acacia branch along its route. This fiery serpent in my body consumes the whole of my being: I am the pain, and the pain is me. It is my curse to bear.

I shift my weight in the rickety wooden chair and brace myself for the oncoming surge, which hits me like a jolt of electricity. I grip the seat, my face contorting in agony. After a few moments, my invisible assailant lightens its grip, but the fear lingers. There will be more.

At least no one can see me here. Yes, that would be worse. To suffer like this publicly would be even more unbearable.

For now, I can be alone. In my hiding place behind the small round hut, chickens peck idly at the ground. The occasional lizard scurries past me. A little further, a spindly fence made of sticks separates me from the main compound. On the other side, women are pounding millet, unaware of my presence. A few children pass by the fence, a little too closely, pulling a reluctant goat by a rope. I stay perfectly still. I dont want to jeopardize this moment of solitude. These moments are scarce here.

Rhythmic blows of the mortar and pestle resound from nearby. A woman breaks into song, softly at first, and then she is joined by another:

Eh Daouda l! Dunin timba, tinya maka, Daouda!

The short song is followed by laughter. I recognize my name in their song, though Im frustrated I cant understand all the words. Are they mocking me? The intricacies of the language still elude me, even after all these years.

I turn my thoughts inward. The sun, though not yet at its apex, is already scorching and blindingly bright. The dry season is at its peak, that dust-choked time of year when rain seems like an impossible dream. The leaves of the giant kapok and baobab trees are brown, as desperate for relief as I am. Only the river brings respite now, and it is shrinking daily. The dry season has reduced even the mighty Djoliba River to a feeble current.

The rains will return, perhaps in a month, they say. A month! Clouds are building on the horizon, but hold only a vague promise of rain. I wonder if Ill still be here when the first drops fall from the sky. I imagine thirsty leaves turning upward, quavering with anticipation to catch the first plump droplets. When they overflow and roll off, theyll bead up on an earth still too dry to receive them. Small pools will form, and the cracked soil will yield, softening, allowing the water to penetrate. The thought of it quenching the land is soothing, in the way that I want to soothe the fire in my spine. Well, a month might as well be an eternity. How much more of this can I take? That rain might never fall for me.

I close my eyes and let the sensation of the suns heat take me over, trying to focus on anything besides my burning spine. The memory of the old shaman arises, her weathered face illuminated by firelight a world away from here. I recall her words that night: If you do not do this, the pain they will inflict on you will only grow worse.

I shudder at the thought. Im doing everything I can to appease them.

Sweat rolls down my neck and onto my bare chest. My shirt, still stained with blood, lies crumpled at my feet. I remember the pool of blood spreading on the ground, shockingly red in the midday sun. The smooth feel of the wooden shaft of the blade in my hand. The prayers and chants uttered in languages unintelligible to me. Under the hot African sun, the deed had been done.

You are in the fold now, on the inside, the old woman had said, and as such, you are beholden to the customs of the people.

A bolt of lightning crackles through my spine. My entire body convulses in response. Christ, its bad! I wince and ride it out with gritted teeth, clutching the chair.