I never thought I would ever start a day with a chicken sacrifice, three for that matter, before my cup of coffee.
I woke up, just like any other morning in Togo. I didn’t really have any plans so I decided to make the day a “yes” day and went wandering around the village to see what I could get roped into doing. It had rained the night before so the morning was cool and crisp enough for me to wear my flannel. The ground squished under my feet as I rounded the corner and saw group of people surrounding the huge Baobob tree behind my house. It looked like some sort of ritual was going on so I decided to just keep walking. I was curious about what was going on, but not curious enough to interrupt something that got everyone together at 5:30 in the morning. As I walked past, between chants, someone in the group yelled “Gbandi, da,” or “come over here Gbandi.” It was impossible to say no, or make up some excuse, because I had decided before I left my house that it was going to take whatever the day threw at me and I happened upon the first of three chicken sacrifices before I ate my imaginary egg mcmuffin.
The ceremony took place under a Baobob tree, less than a stones throw away from my back window. The wind was rumbling in the newly budding trees. There was blood and feathers smeared on the tree and the rest of the chicken (besides the meat) lying in a pool at the base of the tree. Mangy dogs were circling in the background, noses to the ground, curiously wondering what in the world these god-giants could be doing and hoping to get a piece of the scent that was trapped in their noses. I walked to the rear of the 15 or so people squatting in a semi-circle around the tree and took my place as an elder in sunglasses and a ski cap was tapping the trunk of the tree with a stick and chanting something in Bassar in between drags of his cigarette. The others would nod and chant in concurrency. The ceremony moved forward as the charlatan, or leader, splashed water from a calabash on the bloody tree trunk. They chopped up the chicken that had been boiling in a pot resting over an open fire, which by now had been reduced to simmering, red coals. Everyone got a piece. I was handed a leg and thigh—a choice cut I assume-- and after we ate and reduced the chicken to a pile of broken, clean, chewed up bones, a calabash with the chicken broth was passed around for everyone to drink from. It was pretty good. Kinda like Campbells Chicken Noodle Soup minus the noodle and MSG and with a little pinch Togo greegree thrown in. We washed our hands together over the fire as the cigarette smoking, Ray Charles looking, charlatan poured the water causing new smoke to rise.
This type of ceremony happened two more times this day. I left full from the sacrificed chicken, which ended up being my breakfast for the day. I later learned that the chicken sacrifices were for a rabbit-raising project that I’m working with. Killing chickens to save rabbits. Puzzling.
There’s a saying among Togolese, although I don’t think it has or should receive adage status. “If you’re a Christian or Muslim during the day, you are an animist at night.” Lately, I’ve taken quite an interest on the topic of animism, or greegre, as it is very popular in my village and in the region I live in. I neglect to compare animism to what most people would refer as voodoo for two reasons. Voodoo sort of carries the connotation of devil worshiping, but through the research I’ve been doing in the form of asking questions, being curious, attending rituals, and watching sacrifices (the usual), I have found out that animism differs greatly from the heart ripping voodoo of Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom and although I’m no expert, I would imagine animism probably would resemble traditional Native American beliefs, after the introduction of Christianity and smallpox. This is no surprise when you see how close to the earth the people in my village live.
Sitting under the thatched roof of Bar L’amite one morning, trying to beat the heat, I asked a friend of mine to help me understand better greegree, how its practiced, and the differences between sorcery, voodoo, etc. He explained many things, a lot of which I couldn’t exactly follow, but one example he gave was that if someone was sick with a stomach ache, which in Togo there is no such thing as a simple stomach ache, you would walk into the bush to look for a root or tree known to fix the illness. After performing a small ritual, which more or less is simply preparing the bark of a tree or root in a sauce or soup, you would give this substance to the person who is ill and he or she would then be “healed.” Not exactly like popping a Pepto and continuing on your way. Thus, instead of paying homage to a deity, you would pay homage to the tree, root, or bush itself. The notion of greegree carries a lot of weight for many people in my village. My host family keeps a small bundle of feathers tied to a branch of the orange tree in my compound. One day I asked why this was and Gbati told me that someone had stolen oranges from the tree and the bundle of feathers was to prevent the person from stealing again because, if he did, the greegree would make him fall ill, or worse. One day, as I was getting ready to leave my house to go to the market, Gbati came over and told me not to eat anything at the market that day. I was hungry and asked him why and he said the radio in Bassar announced that a sorcerer (the bad form of greegree) had put an evil cham on the food in the market and if you ate it you would tombe malade. I took my chance, didn’t get sick, but was a bit unnerved by the lack of people eating in the market that day.
