Bohlale’s (Bo’s) ordeal began a few days before, when she pricked her finger with a rusty sewing needle while mending a blanket.
Now, she feels dizzy and nauseous; sweat streams off her in rivulets. Aching muscles and joints, a throbbing pain that pulses through her skull, and extreme lethargy compound her suffering. The stench of infection permeates the hut. Lacking the strength to even sit up, she relies on her mother, Mosa, to lift her head and guide the water-calabash to her lips. Her thirst is unrelenting and unquenchable. She is confused and non-responsive.
There is a rudimentary medical clinic in the area – a bare-basics facility serving the village and nearby settlements. From Ha Khotso the clinic is a demanding hike which – Mosa knows – Bo is in no condition to undertake. Instead, Mosa decides to call in the sangoma, the village shaman, to assess her daughter’s condition.
In her leopard-skin cloak, paws draped over her shoulders, the sangoma is imposing and formidable. A powerfully built woman, necklaces of beads and bones and shells hang in heavy loops around her neck. Her wrists and ankles are similarly adorned. Streaks of clay and ochre adorn her stern countenance.
“Thank you, thank you,” says Mosa frantically, “My daughter needs your help. Please come inside.”
The sangoma enters the hut. She circles Bo’s sleeping-mat, chanting the words of power. Rhythmically she stamps the earthen floor with her bare feet, shaking a gourd rattle in a syncopated polyrhythm to induce the state required to engage with the spirits of the ancestors.
Then squatting on her haunches, she sketches a series of symbols onto the ground with a stick of charcoal. Next, to cleanse the chamber of negative energies, she tosses a bundle of dried Lengana (wormwood) leaves on the still-smouldering hearth; the resinous fragrance permeates the darkness of the hut.
Mosa sits on a stool outside the hut, foreboding mingled with concern.
An hour later, the sangoma emerges from the hut wearing a grave expression.
“She has been called,” asserts the sangoma authoritatively. “The ancestors have work for her, important tasks she must fulfill. Should she neglect these tasks, a grave curse will fall upon her. Her affliction will continue until she answers the call.”
“What are these tasks?” inquires Mosa, “How can she be expected to do anything in this state?”
“The tasks will be revealed when she attains the required proficiency. Her training must begin without delay,” responds the sangoma. “Her potential is vast, her strength considerable.”
“But she is extremely ill. Can you not help her?”
“We must take her to the Cave of the Ancestors,” responds the sangoma.
final version, "Decoherence", oils on art paper, 42cmx30cm