Chicken Prescription

We went in to see how the ailing elderly woman was doing. She had arrived at the medicine man’s place the night before with a bloated, taut tummy and experiencing severe abdominal pain.

She lay on her side on a mat, using her arms for a pillow and spoke and breathed with obvious difficulty. Her daughter, a woman of about 50 years who was with her, sought to contain our anxiety with assurances that the medicine man was famous for the potency of his medicine; the ailing woman was a long-time patient of this medicine man and that the condition of the patient had improved since the night before. We remained quizzical.

The 6 foot cubicle in which the ailing woman lay was dark except for the streaks of sunlight coming through the doorway when the door was opened and cracks in the wall joints. A little gap had been left between the lintel and the roofing sheets but much of the space was blocked with wood and rags.  A lone candle stood on the bare cemented floor less than a foot away from the ailing woman’s feet. In a corner was a carrier bag which seemed to be carrying the patient’s belongings. Not much else was in the room or could have been except the little stool that I got to sit on at her feet.

The ailing woman had been brought to the medicine man’s village from a clinic situated in one of the major districts of Accra and about an hour’s drive away. Recent history has it that the patient was placed on “drip” at the clinic; a rather routine clinical first aid practice in ‘clinics”. Why this is so, I cannot tell ... for now. Obviously this did not impress those who took the old lady to the clinic nor the old lady herself; hence the decision to seek the medicine man.

Suffice it to say, this is how come for the first time in my lengthy life, I came to meet a medicine man. Contrary to expectations, he was a rather harmless looking fellow. Tall and weary looking, he wore a pair of black togas (long shorts), a knee length lacy tunic and orange flip flops to match.   I suspect the weariness came from the prospect of explaining his trade to a wide-eyed ignoramus. His words were few, calm and self-assured.  

He had administered some medication to the ailing woman he said, which had delivered much of the offending guests from the patient’s tummy. As we spoke, he was awaiting delivery of a cock to him. He explained that in his line of work, an important and indeed primary business process entailed seeking direction from the powers that be. I believe some people would dare call this diagnosis. And what did the cock have to do with this? Well, on its arrival, some rituals were to be done; a letter would be scribbled on a piece of paper and voila, the direction as to which herbs were to be collected and what concoction was to be cooked would become evident. I am not sure who was to do the scribbling but I suspect the cock on death row would undoubtedly leave its marks after its throat was slit.  

Herbalists, traditional healers, native doctors or in this case medicine men - have often been criticized because of their unorthodox methods and potentially hazardous processes; take a prescription writing cockerel and the ailing old lady's "ward" for example. However, the growing sense that there is a "science" behind what they do is no more worthy of debate so perhaps its time they did away with the mysticism and embraced "cleaner" methods for taking care of their patients. Especially since often times, the choice is between the medicine man and lousy service at the clinic.