Obeah on Sunday Island: Fact or Superstition
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Obeah on Sunday Island: Fact or Superstition Cont'd

By Eric Mackenzie-Lamb
January 19, 2015 3:15 P.M

Roseau, Dominica (TDN) – "I'll ask Harold. He lives way up in the country. He'd know a lot more about things like that than I would. But he doesn't have a phone, and he's on holiday until next week. I'll have to drive up there to find him."

"Yes. Please do that as soon as you can ." "Call me back in two days. I should have an answer for you by then . Early evening is the best time to reach me."

When I next called him, Peterson had some good news. "Harold found someone," he said. "Some old lady who lives up in the hills near Soufriere . They call her Madame Tete Chien."

"Does he think that she 's for real?" "For sure. Harold told me that he went to her once for some problem he was having with a neighbor. He said that she done fix it good, whatever it was."

I made my decision. "I'll be down next Monday on the regular late afternoon LIAT flight from Antigua. Can you and Harold meet me at Melville Hall ?"

"Will do. I'll let Harold know. I'll ask Mr Pinard if I can borrow one of the jeeps. Don't worry, we have Land Rovers now. I'm sure he won't mind, especially since it's you. Besides, things are kind of slow right now. And the roads up there can be pretty rough ."

When I finally met Madame Tete Chien, I had to admit to myself that she wasn't quite what I'd expected. Especially because of her name, which meant boa constrictor in local Patois. (Only later did I learn from Harold that it had been given to her because of her reputation for being able to crush evil spirits).

She was an extremely thin, wizened black lady-probably well into her eighties, I guessed-with a thick crop of white hair tied into a bun.

Although I couldn't be certain, she seemed to have only one functional eye; the other was discolored, its iris pointed in a different direction and never moving.

For someone of her age, Madame Tete Chien herself moved with amazing agility. She smiled readily and spoke in a soft voice which I found both pleasant and soothing.

She offered me a cup of lemon grass tea, then we chatted for a while. Considering her isolated location, and the fact that she no radio or television, she seemed to possess an amazing knowledge of the outside world.

Her only constant companion, she said, was an old grey cat which she'd rescued after it had been hit by a passing banana truck. By strange coincidence, the cat, too, possessed only one eye. It didn't take long for me to feel reassured that I'd come to the right person.

Her home was a simple one-room wooden house perched on stilts on the top of a grassy knoll. The most prominent item of furniture was a small bookcase next to her bed, where her Bibles and other books were kept.

She had no electricity, she explained, only an old kerosene lamp, some candles, and a wood-burning stove. Above her bed was the only picture I could see in the house, a framed image of Jesus offering a blessing.

Finally, it was time to get down to business. Madame Tete Chien had already asked Harold and Peterson to wait outside until she called them. Now, she handed me a worn leather -covered Bible and a long white feather. She then instructed me to insert the feather anywhere I chose between the pages.

I did as I was told. She took back the Bible, opened it at the place marked by the feather, and began to read intently. Considering the dim light and the fact that she possessed only one good eye, I found it amazing that she could read anything at all.

After several minutes, she closed the Bible and placed it on the table between us. Her expression became serious.

"Here, young man, is what you must do," she said. "And you must do everything exactly as I tell you, otherwise you will not be freed from another's evil. Do you understand?"

"I do." "First, you must go and buy a bar of blue laundry soap. The kind which our local women use to wash clothing in the river. Do you know the kind of I mean?"

"Yes. I've seen them use it." "No other kind, and it must be blue," she continued. "Next, you must take a complete change of clothing-everything you wear on your body, including shoes-and put them into a carrying bag. The shoes can be canvas or leather, or any other material, but they must not be black or red. Can you remember that?"

I nodded. "Then, early in the morning , just after the sun has risen, you must go to a place where the river meets the sea. There, you must take off your clothes.-everything-until you are as naked as Adam when he was created. Then cast them away , as far as you can. You must not touch or even look at them again.

Take the blue soap and walk into the sea. Wash every part of your body .Do you understand?" "Yes." "After you have cleansed yourself from head to toe, throw the bar of soap into the sea and go back to the shore.

Dress yourself in your new clothes and leave as quickly as possible. Do not, under any circumstances, look back-even if you hear what you think is a familiar voice calling your name."

She looked at me intently, the light from the window playing over the lines and furrows of her face. "Do you now understand what you must do, young man?"

"Yes, I understand." The old woman rose from her chair and placed her hand gently on mine. "Then go with God, my son. He will protect you ."

In the early hours of the following morning, long before sunrise, Harold and Peterson picked me up from the small guest house where I'd spent the night, and drove me to the windward coast where the Rosalie river flowed into the Atlantic Ocean. The eastern sky was already beginning to lighten and the stars fading.

"Please wait for me here," I told them. "I won't be too long". I walked along the beach for about a quarter of a mile, carrying my bag of spare clothes over my shoulder. Overhead, a few seagulls called out their raucous cries, while, below, there was only the hissing sound of surf.

These same waves, I remember thinking, had probably come all the way from Africa, where Obeah had all begun. Now, I prayed, they would take it back.

A few minutes later, just as the first light of dawn seeped into the sky, I undressed and walked into the sea.

That same afternoon, after saying goodby to Harold and Peterson, I departed Dominica for New York.

I slept almost all the way, better than I had for months. When I finally arrived at my Manhattan apartment that night, I realized that there was a voice mail message waiting for me. The Ford Model Agency wanted me to call them.

I did so the next morning. I was put through to Joey Hunter, who was in charge of the men's division of the agency. "Hey, Eric, welcome back," said Joey. "How was your trip to the Caribbean, you lucky dog? I wish I had the time to have your life style."

"Oh, fine. Nothing special, just went down to visit a few people I hadn't seen for a long time," Obviously, I would leave it at that. "Listen, I have some really great news for you," he said. "Are you ready?"

"Tell me." "You know who Ralph Lauren is, don't you?" "Of course. Who wouldn't? He's probably America's most famous fashion designer."

"Not probably. Is." Joey paused "And guess what? We got a call from his office yesterday around noon. Ralph has personally chosen you to be his next Polo Man. For print ads as well as TV commercials. You know what that means?"

"I'm not quite sure. A little more money?"

"No, Eric. Not just a little. We're talking some good bucks here. From now on, just about every ad agency in the country will know your face. That's when the phones will start ringing, Congratulations, my man. You're in the Big Leagues now."

As it turned out, Joey had been right. From that day on, I never looked back. Not long afterwards, my first novel, Labyrinth, was accepted by a major publishing house. My life, and my luck, had turned around one hundred and eighty degrees.

Eventually, I did return to Dominica, but only for a very brief visit. That's when I learned , through Lionel Pinard, that Byron had been shot to death a couple of summers before during an argument at a casino table in Guadeloupe. As far as anyone in Dominica was aware, no one, not even his own family, had ever gone to claim his body.

As for Coconut Oasis, it no longer existed. It had been washed away some years ago during a hurricane. All that had remained, according to Pinard, were some twisted bamboo frames and an empty birdcage with some black feathers. Page 1|Page 2|Page 3|Page 4

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