Fear, superstition, and inherited grudges should not become excuses for abandoning the communities that shaped us.
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“Your village witches…”
What about them? I asked.
I have always found statements like this slightly condescending. They are usually said half-jokingly, but the message underneath is often serious: Why do you keep going back to your hometown? Why involve yourself so much in its development? Aren’t you afraid of the people there?
And, interestingly, why are witches always more popular in these conversations than wizards?
But that is beside the point.
When comments like these are thrown at me, I usually understand what they mean. And if you grew up in many parts of Africa, you probably understand too.
Who becomes “the witch”?
Too often, the people who end up carrying labels such as “witch” are among the most vulnerable in our communities.
An elderly woman begins behaving differently. Perhaps she is becoming forgetful. Perhaps dementia is setting in, although nobody calls it that.
A widow becomes isolated.
A woman loses one or two children under tragic circumstances.
Someone grows old, weak or socially withdrawn.
Suddenly, ordinary misfortune acquires a supernatural explanation.
“She flies at night.”
“She is responsible.”
“She is a witch.”
These accusations are not harmless. They can determine who is welcomed, who is feared, who receives care and, in extreme cases, who is abused or driven away.
So whenever we talk casually about “village witches”, I think we should also ask ourselves who carries the consequences of those labels.
“They are white witches”
I once had a conversation with a former classmate about the importance of going back home and contributing to the communities that raised us.
She objected strongly.
She lived thousands of kilometres away and told me that even from that distance she could still feel the influence of “the witches” back home. Going closer, she believed, would only make things worse.
So I jokingly asked her:
“Are there no witches in Europe where you live? No witches in America or Asia?”
Her answer still makes me laugh.
“They are white witches.”
By that, she meant they were somehow the good kind, unlike the supposedly dangerous ones from her village.
It was funny, but it also revealed something deeper.
Sometimes our fear of home becomes so deeply embedded that we begin to associate distance with safety and proximity with danger.
I am not dismissing faith or spirituality
I should be clear about something.
I am a practising Christian. My faith does not require me to pretend that questions of good, evil and the spiritual world do not exist.
But believing in evil should not mean attributing every tragedy, illness, disagreement or personal failure to someone in the village.
Faith should not remove our responsibility to think.
Nor should fear become an excuse for abandoning people and places.
There was a recent story from Ghana that captured this tension rather strikingly. A traditional leader reportedly questioned the power of a community deity after it was stolen: if someone could steal the god, he asked, how could that god protect the community?
Whatever one’s religious interpretation of that story, the question is fascinating. Our recourse to spirituality is often an admission of human limitation and a recognition of our dependence on a power greater than ourselves. Yet this raises a deeper question: what is the purpose of worship if the object of that worship cannot transcend the very limitations from which we seek refuge? And if what we worship desires evil rather than good, what moral value does that worship hold? Perhaps the true measure of worship lies not merely in the power of the deity, but also in the kind of people the worship produces.
Sometimes the things we fear retain their power because nobody is willing to question them.
The courage to do good
Evil, however we understand it, will probably always exist alongside good.
But I increasingly believe that the fear of evil must be overcome by the courage to do good.
There are communities where educated professionals, successful migrants and even entire families have withdrawn because of fears about “village people”, family disputes, traditional beliefs or conflicts inherited from previous generations.
Some people are carrying grudges they did not even start.
Yes, I am talking to you.
I am joking. Mostly.
But life is too short to inherit every battle our parents, grandparents, uncles and aunties fought.
Sometimes you return home and finally see the small family house that brothers and sisters have spent decades fighting over. You look at it and wonder whether the property was ever worth destroying relationships that could have created far more value together.
At some point, somebody has to decide that the cycle ends with them.
Some communities cannot wait for government
In my last two reflections, I wrote about the importance of giving back to the communities that raised us, or the communities that raised the parents, relatives and benefactors whose sacrifices made our own journeys possible.
I return to that point because some communities may never receive their fair share of development simply by waiting for government.
A scholarship may exist because somebody decided to contribute.
A classroom may improve because former students returned.
A health facility, tourism initiative, library, farm, road or community programme may begin because someone refused to accept that nothing could change.
And sometimes the biggest obstacle is not money.
It is fear.
Fear of people.
Fear of old disagreements.
Fear of what somebody might say.
And, yes, sometimes fear of “the witches”.
But imagine what would happen if the people with education, networks, resources and ideas all stayed away because they were afraid of the very communities that needed those advantages most.
Who, then, would remain to build?
I am not suggesting that anyone should ignore genuine threats, unhealthy family relationships or personal safety.
I am saying something much simpler:
Do not allow inherited fear to become your entire relationship with home.
Go back with wisdom.
Go back with respect.
Go back without romanticising the difficulties.
But, where you can, go back with something useful.
Because perhaps the strongest response to whatever darkness we believe exists in our communities is not permanent distance.
Perhaps it is bringing a little more light.
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