A ‘doctor’ for body, soul and everything else

By Joseph Maina

The mganga business has experienced exponential growth in recent years, generating a frenzy that can be rivalled only by the recent quail farming mania.

In my county, there are numerous posters on trees, walls, lampposts and kiosks, with daktaris purporting to obliterate all the problems known to man.

The ‘doctors’ behind these activities provide nothing more than a cell phone number, while promising everything from great health to career success, court victories, freedom from divorce and a long, hullabaloo-free marriage.

Despite the growing presence of these practitioners, few people acknowledge their prowess, much less their contribution to our health sector. Many people view waganga with a dose of self-righteous suspicion, associating their trade with juju.

Mambo ya waganga ni ya ushetani,” Mama Jimmy says disdainfully, adding that she can never visit a mganga’s clinic, or whatever name they give to the hovels they operate from.

My friend, Odhiambo, shares her sentiment.

Mimi siamini mambo ya waganga,” he told me over a drink, while dismissing the juju business as ‘all foam and no beer’.

But for people like Kioko, the kiosk guy, the world would not be the same without some magic.

“A mganga’s medicine works like a charm, Baba Jim,” Kioko once told me, without supplying details.

Interestingly, not many people attribute their successes to a mganga. It would be interesting, for instance, to hear someone bragging: “My kids have all along performed poorly in school, scoring forked jembes in every exam, but after I visited a karumanzira, those kids morphed into overnight geniuses! They are scoring As like nobody’s business.”

Recently, a section of the media told of a woman who, aggrieved by the loss of her phone, consulted a mganga for disciplinary action. The daktari caused the thief’s belly to balloon into a monstrous orb. Details remain unclear on what was used to achieve this feat, but I would certainly love to grab hold of that supernatural pump.

I know this might shock you, but, as a family man, I am slowly developing an interest in the power of the mganga. For instance, I would love to meet a mganga who can triple my bank account, make my enemies eat grass or make this column write itself. I might also consider a mganga’s assistance before applying for a visa to certain countries, or when my team, Ingwe, is battling an opponent on the pitch.

My only problem, though, is the brazen nature of these mganga adverts, which seem not to care about the younger readership. On Tuesday evening, I was chilling my living room when little Tiffany stormed the room and shot the following question: “Daddy, kisonono ni nini?”

Er, ni ugonjwa ya watu wakubwa. Where did you see that?” I gasped, feeling a little embarrassed.

She relayed that she had seen it at our gate, so I made a beeline for the gate, where I found an A3-size advert with an enormous font. “Bi Osman Mganga Kutoka Tanzania,” screamed the headline.

Tunatibu homa, maray-ria, kifua kikuu, kaswende, matatizo ya kiume, kuvamiwa na mikora, kipindupindu, matatizo ya kinyumbani, na watoto kutopita mitihani.”

I could tell that Bi Osman did not pay much attention to her English teachers, but that is neither here nor there. The important thing is this: Bi Osman can treat Aids, tuberculosis and marital woes, as well as complex maladies such as paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia and idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura.

The footnote carried a disclaimer: “Come one, come all. We cure, but God heals.”

Curiously, Bi Osman had omitted dental checks, gynaecological services and psychiatry, but if you are a young man hunting for a wife, all you need to do is call her number, and POOF! A wife will materialise before you know it. And if you are a zealous employee hankering for a promotion, just call Bi Osman and leave the rest to her concoctions.

Well, I was okay with the “kukosa promotion kazini” bit, and I didn’t mind seeing diseases known as “Aphthous Stomatitis” or even “watoto kutopita mitihani”. But the minute I saw things like “we treat erectile dysfunction” and “tunatibu kaswende”, my soul was deeply troubled.

Thus, I tore up this X-rated literature, dumped it in the dustbin, and marched back to the hacienda. I saved Bi Osman’s number on my phone, but that is a story for another day.