with a vague satisfaction.
Calisto Simoni told me that the photos I had given Kalamatatu were now kept in his house.
“When the elder died,” Lipapa then said, “he left his mitela with three of us.” Lipapa reached out and pinched the cloth of Calisto’s and Henrique’s tattered shirts, indicating the threesome who had inherited Kalamatatu’s stores of medicinal substances. “Calisto holds the mitela in his house. But we work together.”
Later, we sat with the three men and talked about their work as healers. The triumvirate they formed replicated one that had once included Kalamatatu, his njomba (mother’s brother)/mentor, Mikuku, and Mikuku’s younger brother. Collaboration not only made the responsibility of healing less onerous for each healer but also ensured the continuity of the mitela with which they worked. “Kalamatatu knew that he could die at any time,” Lipapa told us. “He wanted to be sure that his mitela would survive, even if the one he passed it to died suddenly, unexpectedly.”
Before conversing further with Kalamatatu’s three successors, I requested that we visit Kalamatatu’s grave so that I might pay my respects. My request was anticipated—perhaps even expected—and off we went, despite a surprise shower in the midst of this, the dry season.
A bulging mound of earth with a small wooden cross at one end marked Kalamatatu’s resting place. Burned onto the crosswith a hot iron were the letters “PAUL O.” In his final moments, I learned, Kalamatatu had been baptized.
I gathered my thoughts for, now, I knew, I was expected to speak. I removed my hat, as did the others. I cleared my throat.
“Kalamatatu Ndudu Nankanda,” I said, clearly, intentionally, as if my words might somehow overwrite the name on the wooden cross. “From the very first time I spoke with the nang’olo (elder), I knew that I could learn many things from him. He was a man of important wisdom. But it was the second time I met him that I remember most dearly. I introduced him by name, ‘Kalamatatu,’ to my colleague here.” I looked at Marcos. “When he heard me pronounce his name correctly, he was so pleased that he told me, ‘From now on, you, too, are Kalamatatu!’” Everyone laughed, gently. “He not only shared his knowledge with me, he shared his name.” I reached into my pocket, where I had earlier placed one of my business cards. “When I visited him years ago, I gave him a card like this one with my name printed on it. He kept it, I know, because each time I returned, he retrieved it from his house and held it as we spoke.” Again, we shared gentle laughter. “Well, now I have a new card for Kalamatatu. As I promised him, I have become a ‘doctor.’”
“Doctor Andiliki.” Marcos interjected with a smile.
“I could not have accomplished this without my friend, my teacher, Kalamatatu. He taught me what I had to know.” Now looking at his three successors, I added, “and he was there with me when I was tested.”
Indeed, he had been. On the day of my dissertation defense, I wore tied around my arm beneath my shirt the ilishi (small packet of mitela ) that Kalamatatu had given me to ensure that I speak with the voice of a lion and that my words be respected. 1
The elder’s three successors nodded knowingly at my euphemism.
I felt a jag in my voice as I continued: “So now, as Kalamatatu shared his name with me, I share my title with him. We are doctors, he and I—Doctors Kalamatatu.”
An affirming murmur surrounded me as I placed the card at the base of the wooden cross.
As I stepped back, Marcos initiated a Catholic prayer in Shimakonde. The others followed along as best they could. Where words sometimes failed them, the gesture of the cross did not.
We reconvened at Lipapa’s house, where we spoke at length about their work, and about mine. I took their pictures, promising to give them copies when I next saw them. I then showed them pictures of my family.
Calisto Simoni told me that the photos I had given Kalamatatu were now kept in his house.
“When the elder died,” Lipapa then said, “he left his mitela with three of us.” Lipapa reached out and pinched the cloth of Calisto’s and Henrique’s tattered shirts, indicating the threesome who had inherited Kalamatatu’s stores of medicinal substances. “Calisto holds the mitela in his house. But we work together.”
Later, we sat with the three men and talked about their work as healers. The triumvirate they formed replicated one that had once included Kalamatatu, his njomba (mother’s brother)/mentor, Mikuku, and Mikuku’s younger brother. Collaboration not only made the responsibility of healing less onerous for each healer but also ensured the continuity of the mitela with which they worked. “Kalamatatu knew that he could die at any time,” Lipapa told us. “He wanted to be sure that his mitela would survive, even if the one he passed it to died suddenly, unexpectedly.”
Before conversing further with Kalamatatu’s three successors, I requested that we visit Kalamatatu’s grave so that I might pay my respects. My request was anticipated—perhaps even expected—and off we went, despite a surprise shower in the midst of this, the dry season.
A bulging mound of earth with a small wooden cross at one end marked Kalamatatu’s resting place. Burned onto the crosswith a hot iron were the letters “PAUL O.” In his final moments, I learned, Kalamatatu had been baptized.
I gathered my thoughts for, now, I knew, I was expected to speak. I removed my hat, as did the others. I cleared my throat.
“Kalamatatu Ndudu Nankanda,” I said, clearly, intentionally, as if my words might somehow overwrite the name on the wooden cross. “From the very first time I spoke with the nang’olo (elder), I knew that I could learn many things from him. He was a man of important wisdom. But it was the second time I met him that I remember most dearly. I introduced him by name, ‘Kalamatatu,’ to my colleague here.” I looked at Marcos. “When he heard me pronounce his name correctly, he was so pleased that he told me, ‘From now on, you, too, are Kalamatatu!’” Everyone laughed, gently. “He not only shared his knowledge with me, he shared his name.” I reached into my pocket, where I had earlier placed one of my business cards. “When I visited him years ago, I gave him a card like this one with my name printed on it. He kept it, I know, because each time I returned, he retrieved it from his house and held it as we spoke.” Again, we shared gentle laughter. “Well, now I have a new card for Kalamatatu. As I promised him, I have become a ‘doctor.’”
“Doctor Andiliki.” Marcos interjected with a smile.
“I could not have accomplished this without my friend, my teacher, Kalamatatu. He taught me what I had to know.” Now looking at his three successors, I added, “and he was there with me when I was tested.”
Indeed, he had been. On the day of my dissertation defense, I wore tied around my arm beneath my shirt the ilishi (small packet of mitela ) that Kalamatatu had given me to ensure that I speak with the voice of a lion and that my words be respected. 1
The elder’s three successors nodded knowingly at my euphemism.
I felt a jag in my voice as I continued: “So now, as Kalamatatu shared his name with me, I share my title with him. We are doctors, he and I—Doctors Kalamatatu.”
An affirming murmur surrounded me as I placed the card at the base of the wooden cross.
As I stepped back, Marcos initiated a Catholic prayer in Shimakonde. The others followed along as best they could. Where words sometimes failed them, the gesture of the cross did not.
We reconvened at Lipapa’s house, where we spoke at length about their work, and about mine. I took their pictures, promising to give them copies when I next saw them. I then showed them pictures of my family.
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