When light meets dark and all that happens in between.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON. 

It was hot and cloudy. Read: super humid. The clouds billowed dark, foreboding.

You’d think that with all that heat, it’d be impossible to feel chills, but that’s exactly what I felt as I looked over my shoulder and scanned the large entourage of motorcycles that followed behind us and the hearse. Even further behind the bikes were 10 trucks/buses hauling more people. I imagine it would have felt like part of a biker gang had we been going at a fast pace, yet we crept and crawled, often jolting and just nearly brushing past each other without swiping a leg or two on exhaust pipes. The second time I felt chills was seeing the witch.

But let me rewind a little.

We were headed to the University, Peter had pharmacology and I had a computer and book in my backpack. I was going to study and read in the library whilst Peter finished his class. That was my original trajectory. When our tire popped and we waited for it to get repaired, Fisner came along and said that his friend’s mother had passed away, he wants to go give his condolences, needs a ride, and so the three of us mount the bike and those newly patched tires (they’ve gone flat 4 times now). 

After dropping Peter off at class, I continue on with Fisner. We snake our way through the streets till we reach a place I’ve never been before, at the outskirts of San Pedro. A sharp right turn and we are now climbing a steep hill which is a basically rain-carved ravine, leaving a small path only big enough for a motorcycle. 

Getting to the top I half joke, “I’m fine with going up that hill, but I don’t want to go down!” At the destination I see a house and hoards of people surrounding it.

I’m always fairly self-conscious of being a foreigner, but I feel it strongly in this moment as we approach the crowds. This is an intimate space to be, a fragile environment, and I feel intrusive. Thankfully I am wearing a black skirt which helps a little, and I soon blend in as much as I can in situations like this. 

We hop off the bike and I unstrap my helmet, grabbing Fisner’s hand as we weave our way through till we make it to the door. In one corner is a distressed woman who has three people circling around her, holding onto her flailing arms. She’s crying out, saying something that I don’t understand. Others stand by with tears in their eyes. Another woman is being held in the arms of someone, she’s also acutely distraught. In the doorway we find Fisner’s friend. She has a sense of carefully developed strength, and even the way she carries herself shows that she has hope despite all the things her eyes have seen.

We hug.

Some words are exchanged between her and Fisner, and next thing I know we’re back on the bike, trailing behind the hearse that is slowly headed towards Santa Fe.

There’s a neon green bike that follows close behind the hearse. Upon it are three people, the driver is a man perhaps in his upper twenties with a salmon colored shirt, his hair is pulled back into a small ponytail. I take note of these things because all of the sudden the bike stops, the passengers get off, and this man is retching. I guess you could call it dry heaving. Let’s just say that if he had been throwing up something it would have gone e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e. 

He continues with this and out of nowhere this large, short man appears. I think he looks even larger than he actually is because he’s wearing oversized jeans and a huge hoodie. Around his neck is an intricate type of golden jewelry, on his fingers are rings, and his hands move. 

I find out later that this man is a witch. 

I can’t see everything because someone blocks my view. But now the witch is lifting up the arms of the distraught man, he (the witch) appears to give a punch to the driver’s chest. The dry-heaving stops, the motorcyclist shakes his head as if to clear his mind and then in the most bizarre and disconcerting manner, he smiles. I’d say this smile was a close cousin to the Joker’s smile.

Chills.

We all start up our motorcycles again. The witch disappears.

It’s a long ways to Santa Fe at this pace, but we finally arrive and enter the cemetery. They don’t technically have tombstones here, they’re more like little stone houses which are built over the burial site. In some ways, it replicates what the villages look like, each one painted a different brilliant color. The only difference between these houses and those in the neighborhoods is that upon each one are two dates, birth and death.

It’s a mob when we dismount our bikes.

Everyone is trying to get a front row seat to the burial scene.

I hang in the back with Fisner, the casket brushes past me. I catch a glimpse of the face within.

The crowd quickly closes in around the casket, there is wailing, crying, and I do my best to strain my ears to hear what the preacher is saying above the clamor. I’m soon distracted as I can tell by the crowd dynamics that something has happened. My eyes scan, trying to figure out what’s going on and soon I see a girl, (one of the daughters), pulled out from the crowd. Two man are carrying her, and though she’s fairly small framed, it’s all they can do to keep her restrained. I’d like to say it looked like a seizure, but seizures aren’t nearly as bad as what I was seeing in this girl.

It’s not long till he appears again. From where, I do not know, but the witch begans to move his hands and I feel that those hands would be better far, far away.

I’ve come to greatly dislike his presence, and now as I observe him grab this girl’s body and lurch it up into the air while two kids (students who are still in their school uniforms and who appear to be friends of the daughter) hold onto her outstretched arms, my dislike turns into disgust. It’s like he’s trying to shake this demon out of her. He does it several times. She finally falls down to the ground, crumpled, but no longer flailing around.

She’s carried away, crying.

It is only seconds later that one of the school companions, a girl of perhaps 16 yrs, begins to shake, lurch, and flail around. The demon may have left the daughter, but it quickly took up residence in this girl.

I grab Fisner’s hand.

In this girl, the convulsions and possession are worse. The witch takes a rag and is puts it over the girl’s mouth. Her friends try to control her body, but it’s impossible. Even this large witch guy is unable to get a grip on her, but he attempts to lurch her around like he did to the other girl as well. She falls to the ground, I swear she’s dead. The man is calling out her name, “Niki!! Niki!”

Is she breathing?
Does she have a pulse?

She starts flailing again. I’m praying. I can’t stand it much longer. Somebody has to do something.

And then somebody does.

A woman approaches, she’s wearing glasses and a long, purple/pink dress. There’s light in her. A man who appears to be accompanying her holds onto Niki, and as he does this the woman of light begins to declare and proclaim the name of Jesus over Niki’s shaking body.

Her arm is up, her hand is open above the girl, as if a beam of light spreads from her hand to the innermost part of this child’s body.

Her words echo still within my chest “Fuera! Fuera! En el nombre de Jesucristo, en el NOMBRE de Jesucristo!”

“Out, out! In the name of Jesus Christ!! In the NAME of Jesus Christ”

It’s a matter of seconds and the girl’s body noticeably relaxes, her face acquires a peaceful aspect, and she is now calmly held in the arms of a companion. This woman, she walks away, “We adore you Jesus!” she declares as she brushes past me and disappears into the crowd.

“That is a warrior,” Fisner is speaking in my ear, but it takes a few moments for me to hear him, my vestibulocochlear nerve is functioning but prcoessing centers are in overload mode. Still holding my hand he says, “Let’s go.” That I understand because I was thinking the same thing. I can only nod. I have this heavy emotion within me akin to nausea yet juxtaposed with a strong relief. Tears fill my eyes but they go nowhere.

By the way, that witch, the entire time that this warrior woman was declaring Jesus’s name, he just stood there.

Impotent.
Defeated.

He walked away, coming towards me. That’s when Fisner placed himself between me and the witch, simultaneously backing us away and towards our exit.

We get on the motorcycle. We zoom past those burial houses, past the entrance, into the street. I look up at the clouds. I take a deep breath. It wasn’t till then that I realized I'd hardly taken a breath the entire time. My tight lungs relax.

LATER THAT NIGHT. 

It’s Thursday night, meaning a church night. We slip into our row and our arms raise while our voices lift up the name of Jesus.

Jesus, Who casts out darkness.

Jesus, Who has power and dominion over all.

Jesus, Who’s name in every single language breaks chains.

Jesus, Who is worthy of praise and adoration.

Jesus, Who is light.

Her words, her battle cry, it’s still in there bouncing around my rib cage, and I let my tongue form those Creole words to declare the faithfulness of our God: 

Bondye, Ou fidèl, kè m gen konfyans.

Good God, you are faithful, my heart has confidence.