When the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Tanzania sent The Reverend Babu Ambilikile Mwasapile into retirement, the pastor did not do what you (?) and I would do. He did not settle down to a life of daydreaming and picking lice from his clothes and jiggers from his toes. He went to sleep and dreamt.
When the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Tanzania sent The Reverend Babu Ambilikile Mwasapile into retirement, the pastor did not do what you (?) and I would do.
He did not settle down to a life of daydreaming and picking lice from his clothes and jiggers from his toes. He went to sleep and dreamt.
He didn’t dream the usual idle dream, either. He went into communication with his maker and – viola! He transformed into a miracle healer.
Now the whole world is converging on his dusty village of Samunge, Loliondo District, 400 km from Arusha. The poor hoi polloi and the high and mighty of the
global community are making a beeline for his nyakatsi (grass-thatched mud hut) to partake of his miracle cure.
Queues of patients on foot and in cars from all parts of Tanzania and outside are stretching thousands of kilometres from Babu’s nyakatsi. A swam of
helicopters is even threatening to blow away his grass-thatch, as the helicopters fly patients in and out of the hut.
To boot, ships are anchoring at ports along the east African coastline, bringing in passengers heading for the village. HIV patients on ARVs are abandoning
them and trooping to Samunge for the magic wand.
And stories abound of the miracles Babu’s potion can perform. A man flown in from South Africa was taken to Babu on a stretcher. After a dose, he sprang to
his feet and danced all the way back to his plane! After being healed, two Tanzanian senior bishops and a legislator are calling Babu’s hut ‘Semunge Super
Hospital’.
Political bigwigs, business tycoons, senior public figures and corporate executives are saving the money usually stolen from poor citizens and paying only
TShs 500 to get a cure, instead of flying to European and American hospitals.
There is a twist, though: to be healed, you must be a believer. An arrogant white man who made the mistake of administering the medicine to his dog lost the
pet when it suddenly died. A number of people have died after taking the potion, too. Reason to believe?
Me, you’ll never catch me trekking to that dust! And if you think it’s because I’m a sinner, perish your malicious thought. It’s simply because I know
healers who didn’t have to concoct magic potions to become miracle healers. They didn’t have to rely on sap from a mugagira tree as the cure-all and never
claimed such possibility.
In my time, there were many healers but the name I immediately remember is Gipfumure. He was a stocky, dark elder who was always seated under an umuvumu tree
in his compound. Apart from healing, he could tell your future or bring you fortune, according to your desire.
Gipfumure lived in a cluster known as Kibungo 17, in the refugee camp of Nshungerezi, south-western Uganda. His name defined the fee he charged for his
services, which was a ten-cent coin. The coin of the time had a hole in the middle and was known as igipfumure (something with a hole). For his powers, he
needed a chick (as in young chicken).
When I visited him, I wasn’t sick. I wanted to know why I’d failed my senior entrance exam. I’d not been particularly poor in class, so I picked a small
chick and went to ask Gipfumure why I’d flunked.
I gave him the coin and the chick and sat down to watch. He handed the chick to one of his sons who took it and soon brought it back without its head and
feathers. Gipfumire opened up its stomach and examined its entrails in detail. "I can see a metallic monster,” said he, as he scrutinised one string of the offal.
After a thorough examination, he grunted with satisfaction: "The monster ate your exam papers but I’ve ordered it to regurgitate them. Soon humans will
remark them and the right marks will be announced. Go look for good clothes; soon you’ll be going to school. Next!”
It was later that the truth dawned on me. That was 1968 and, indeed, huge computers of the time were used but ‘ate’ the marks and teachers had to remark the
papers. Correct results were announced later and we excitedly gallivanted to secondary school.
Gipfumure was simply the eighth wonder of the world!
Such a diviner we can appreciate in Rwanda today but I doubt that a healer would have the slimmest chance. I fear Mzee Babu would roundly be dismissed.
For one, Rwandans have discovered the importance of hygiene and I don’t see any of them using a plastic cup that someone else has used. Also, they’d not
accept to be in a crowded, dusty and dirty area that has no toilet, clean-water or other facilities.
After all, can Babu compete with the many health centres that are within easy reach of every Rwandan? Since almost everybody has health insurance and ambulance services are available countrywide, I don’t see anyone despairing and resorting to magic concoctions. No magic or miracle has ever served any Rwandan.Vicar Mwasapile is only good to those without hope.