Altered Children

Sitting in front of his family’s ten-by-thirteen-foot, two-room hut on a hot, bright afternoon, Masanja Kayange heard them again. He’d been hearing the voices, yet not actually hearing them, off and on for several years.

He still had no idea who—or what—was speaking. Masanja sometimes grasped the gist of what they said, but seldom clearly understood the words. When he did, it was as if a villager was calling out, but no one else heard the voices. By this time, he accepted them as a completely normal occurrence—for him.

His seventh birthday was two months ago, in September 2025. None of the children in the village attended school and the villagers had never learned about the western calendar. No time for celebration. None was expected. Everyone was too busy working in the village, and its fields and pastures, for such things.

The hut in which Masanja and his family lived had walls of wood packed with mud, a roof of grass thatch and a dirt floor—like all the huts in the village. An acacia thorn fence separated his hut and the five nearby in his extended family’s compound from other family compounds.

Masanja was one and a half years younger than his sister and three years younger than his brother. He slept in the main living room with his siblings. Their father, Kayange Makoye, and mother, Llimi Kishusha, slept in the second room. For beds, they spread animal skins and woven mats neatly on the hut’s dirt floor.

Masanja, wearing nothing but a worn-out loincloth, brushed the flies away from his bare skin. His hair was closely cropped like most boys and men. He raised his head and sniffed the warm breeze that brought him the aroma of chicken cooking in the nearby compound of another family. His own family hadn’t eaten meat for several weeks.

Masanja tried to understand why some villagers seemed to fear him and would not let their children play with him. He’d never done anything to hurt them. But it wasn’t really a problem for him because, for the most part, he was popular. Masanja always had playmates. Both children and adults would vie for his attention. Masanja contemplated his strange abilities, which nobody else appeared to have.

A few months ago, a wagon had collapsed on one of the villagers while he was replacing a broken wheel. Masanja had been the only one nearby and somehow had been able to lift the heavy wagon so villagers could drag the injured man out from under it. It’d seemed like the wagon rose up when Masanja pushed with his mind more than with his muscles.

He considered what happened eight days past. Another villager had been looking for a half dozen lost sheep. Masanja had volunteered to help. He’d concentrated on where they might have wandered to and seen in his mind an image of them in a gully a mile south of the village. He informed the villager where they were.

Together with his best friend, Lupandagila Kahemejo, Masanja had led the man over a savanna unbroken by hills or trees to the gully. They had to work their way through dense vegetation along a small stream to get to the sheep. Together, they drove the villager’s sheep into their pen near his compound in the village.

The man had thanked them and gave Masanja’s family a large basket of wool as a reward, with a smaller basket going to Lupandagila’s parents.

Later, the villager narrated to his family and a neighbor the story of what Masanja had done for him, and soon the word had gotten back to Shoka Nkandala, brother of the Ntemi (village chief). Shoka was concerned about Masanja’s growing popularity and was unhappy at the news.

Masanja reflected on those recent events trying to make sense of them. Finally, he shook his head, arose from the dirt, stretched, and finished helping his mother sweep the family compound. He drew water from the well and then went to see Lupandagila.

Upon seeing his friend, he had a vision of Lupandagila sleeping so soundly he couldn’t be awakened. He conveyed this to Lupandagila and placed a hand on his shoulder. “My friend, I’m sure you’re sick.”

“Sick,” his friend muttered. “I don’t feel sick.”

“I told you what I saw in my mind. You are sick. I feel it.”

“don’t say that!” Lupandagila shouted, pushing Masanja away. Frightened, he ran home and reported to his mother what Masanja had said. The next day Lupandagila became feverish, getting worse over the following two days until he fell into a coma. Masanja could not comprehend how he’d been the only person who had known his friend was sick.

Lupandagila could not be awakened in the morning. As his worried mother cried and tried to wake him, his father visited Wimana Luhende, the village’s most popular nfumu (traditional doctor and diviner), and asked him to come quickly and treat Lupandagila. Almost dragging the nfumu to his hut, Lupandagila’s father described his son’s symptoms.

They arrived to find Lupandagila’s mother in the primary living room, sitting and holding her son’s hand, crying softly. Typical of the villagers, both of Lupandagila’s parents wore sandals and, draped from their waists, the white cotton cloth that was their bed sheet at night.

Wimana was wearing a kanga over his other garments, looking impressive in the decorated, colored cloth. He placed a lupingu around Lupandagila’s neck. The sick boy would wear the necklace of beads with its central, triangular polished shell in honor of his ancestors.

Wimana turned to Lupandagila’s father. “Your family should give special offerings to appease any ancestor who Lupandagila—or one of you—might have offended.”

“I will make the arrangements for later today,” Lupandagila’s father promised.

Wimana walked across the room to the hut’s doorway. “Let me know how he’s doing tomorrow morning.” He pulled the animal skin aside and took a step outside.

Lupandagila’s mother whispered something to her husband, who cried out, “Wait, Wimana!”

Wimana moved back into the hut letting the skin drop.

“Four days ago Masanja Kayange told Lupandagila he was sick,” Lupandagila’s father said. “This scared Lupandagila and he ran home to tell us.” He scrunched his brow. “Lupandagila was fine before then. You know how strange Masanja is. Could he have made Lupandagila sick?”

Wimana rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger, and thought about the unusual powers Masanja had been exhibiting for the last few years. “Umm . . . yes, it’s possible. If Masanja had been angry with Lupandagila, he might have cursed him. Who knows what someone like Masanja might do.”

If Lupandagila’s family had taken him to a medical facility in Mwanza, a town of almost four hundred thousand people only thirty miles west, a blood test would have found the parasite “trypanosoma brucei”, transmitted by the bite of the tsetse fly.

Lupandagila was suffering from sleeping sickness, treatable if caught soon enough. The villagers, however, depended on their traditional doctor for all their medical care. Wimana was usually good with cuts and broken bones, and the villagers believed he often cured the illnesses with which they were afflicted from time to time. With his knowledge of herbal remedies, he frequently did.

When Shoka heard Lupandagila had fallen ill, he took the opportunity to talk to Wimana. They stood in front of Shoka’s hut.

Shoka was tall, well built, and loomed over the short, fragile-looking, middle-aged village doctor. Shoka could be extremely intimidating. He put an arm around Wimana’s shoulders and spoke quietly. “I heard of Lupandagila Kahemejo’s illness, and that Masanja Kayange told Lupandagila he was sick before it happened. You went to treat him didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking about this. Do you think Masanja cursed Lupandagila?”

“I don’t know for certain, but it is quite possible.”

“I’m not aware of any evil ancestors in Lupandagila’s family, Wimana. Are you?”

“No, Shoka, I’m not.”

Shoka put both hands on Wimana’s shoulders and turned Wimana around so they faced each other. “Were you able to determine how Lupandagila or someone else might have offended the spirit of one of their ancestors?”

“No,” Wimana replied. “But it’s very difficult to reveal what might offend an ancestor, and requires powerful magic.”

Shoka smiled. “If the family cannot cure Lupandagila by placating their ancestors, wouldn’t you say it’s likely Masanja caused Lupandagila to be sick?”

Wimana began to shift uneasily. “Yes, it could be said.”

“People depend on you to find the reasons for their illnesses and to cure them. If you fail too often, they will lose faith in you. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes,” Wimana admitted.

Shoka patted Wimana on his back. “You know, Wimana, I believe in you. But you need to prove your value to the village.” In a deceptively cordial tone, he said, “We would not want to see another doctor take your place.”

Wimana recognized the menace behind Shoka’s statement. “I do my best, Shoka.”

“I think if Lupandagila does not get better soon you should tell his father Masanja caused his son’s illness.”

“But—”

“You know our chief’s son is destined to become chief . . . unless that Masanja boy influences the villagers by his magic to choose him instead.” Shoka smirked and looked deep into Wimana’s eyes. “When Jefta’s son becomes chief, I’ll be able to enlarge your compound and provide you with an iduku.”

Wimana paused and pictured the round house, thatched from top to bottom, which would advertise the presence of a healer’s compound to those who pass by. Hmm, he thought, I could never afford an iduku before. Then he said, “Well Shoka, you might be right. I’ve already warned Lupandagila’s parents that Masanja could be responsible. I’ll read the entrails of a chicken to help me determine the cause of Lupandagila’s sickness.”

Two days passed and Lupandagila’s condition did not improve. His mother and father asked Wimana for help again. Wimana entered their hut and briefly looked at Lupandagila. He waved a rattle above the boy’s prostrate form and then sat down and mumbled something unintelligible. Then the nfumu’s eyes rolled up into his head and he fell backward. He sat up, shook his head and announced, “Masanja made Lupandagila sick by a curse.”

Lupandagila’s mother knelt on a woven mat near her son; her eyes grew wide and she threw her hands to her face. His father stood stiffly and clenched his hands into fists. “Can you stop the curse and cure Lupandagila?” his father asked.

“Umm, not yet,” Wimana replied. “I am unable to cure him until I can determine how to counteract Masanja’s curse. I have to return to my hut and reflect on this.”

Lupandagila’s parents never questioned why Masanja would curse his playmate and good friend, even after Wimana had gone.

It was already sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit as the sun rose over the dusty Sukuma village of Ng’alita in the Shinyanga Region of Tanzania, East Africa. It was one of many villages in the flat savanna with few trees and nearly devoid of bush.

Most years the land was very fertile, especially for a village being twelve miles south of Lake Victoria’s Speck Gulf. In a year with a good rainy season, a family could produce enough food for themselves for a whole year.

But in mid-November 2025 the soil was much drier than normal, primarily due to two years of near drought conditions. Everybody in the district was anxiously awaiting the much overdue vuli (short rains) which generally lasted two months. The people depended on their two rainy seasons, the second of which occurred from February to May, to irrigate their fields and provide drinking water for their animals and families.

Some villagers raised goats, sheep or cattle, but most were engaged in subsistence farming. Corn, millet, sorghum, onions, tomatoes, plantains, and cassava were the crops they routinely grew. Cotton served as a cash crop for a few, but it was enormously difficult to get the crop to the nearest market by oxcart over the rutted, dirt roads.

The villagers were desperate. They prayed to Seba for rain, but they had been unsuccessful in persuading the creator god to reward their entreaties. So, they expected their chief to intercede with Seba.

Shoka awoke before sunrise, wrapped his cleanest white cotton cloth around his waist, and put on a tee shirt and sandals. He walked through his extended family’s compound of eight small huts.

He, his wife and five children lived in two adjacent huts. They were one of the one hundred twelve families, divided into sixteen extended families, in the village of around four hundred people. His second hut was for the two older children, who were past the age of puberty. Shoka received permission to enter, passed through the common area of his brother Jefta’s two-room hut and entered the sleeping room. At thirteen by seventeen feet, it was approximately a third larger than most of the village huts.

Shoka wanted to discuss an exceedingly serious matter before Jefta had to lead the dagashida (village assembly) which would deal with problems, lay down customary law and punish those who broke it.

He saw his brother, the chief, resting on a mat near one of the hut’s two windows. Since the recent hunting accident left Jefta paralyzed from the waist down, Shoka expected to be the power behind the next chief. Everyone thought Jefta’s son would be named Chief of Ng’alita, as soon as Jefta either died or was too weak to be effective. There had been no rival—until now.

“Ngwangaluka (good morning) Jefta,” Shoka said. “Ulimhola (how are you)?”

Jefta returned the greeting and answered, “I’m feeling as well as can be expected, Brother.”

Shoka sat down on a stool. “Everybody is talking about Masanja Kayange, He’s only seven years old and already developing quite a following.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed. A lot of the villagers turn away and avoid him, but it seems a majority want to get close to him.”

“My Brother, if this continues, the people will not want your son as chief when you are no longer able to carry out your duties. I’ve heard people say they think you’re not the sorcerer you once were, and your line may have been weakened.”

“Shoka, I know you think my son should be chief and you have worked hard to convince others.” Jefta shifted on his mat. “But if Masanja is truly a powerful sorcerer, or is becoming one, the people will demand he be made chief. You must accept it.”

“Yes, my Brother.” Shoka turned away with a sneer and thought, we will see what happens. He faced his brother once more. “Now, let us get prepared for the assembly.”

Jefta was dressed in his best white cloth—a kanga—and his chief’s headdress. Shoka and two cousins carried Jefta to the village gathering place where assemblies were held. Most men in the village had already arrived and were seated in a circle.

The assembly began shortly after dawn. Four disputes were resolved quickly, one regarding ownership of a number of cattle. In one instance a person was charged with being a thief. Though he claimed he was innocent, the members of the village chapter of the Sungusungu (biting ants) vigilante society decided he was guilty.

Without a hearing, and over the objection of Chief Jefta, the “thief” was publicly whipped before the assembly. Then, Lupandagila’s father got up and raised his voice.

“Many of you know my son, Lupandagila, is very sick.” He paused when he heard a murmur of agreement from the crowd and saw numerous heads nodding. “He sleeps as if dead, but is still alive. Wimana Luhende, our nfumu, has tried to cure him with his magic, and we have tried to appease ancestors whom we may have somehow offended. But still he does not wake. Lupandagila weakens by the day.

“Masanja Kayange made Lupandagila sick by cursing him. I claim Masanja is a witch.” He then sat down.

Wimana rose, described Lupandagila’s illness and said, “I have divined that Masanja is responsible and is possessed by an evil ancestor. He is a danger to our village.”

Thousands of Tanzanians, mostly old women, were accused of witchcraft and murdered in the last three decades. Since then, witch killings had continued almost unabated. The accused was usually dispatched by killers hired by the family of a victim they believed had been killed by the witch’s sorcery.

The Tanzanian federal government had done little to resolve the situation until the last few years. With assistance from the United Nations, the government hoped to exert more control by extending the justice system into the primitive villages and to stop the witch killings. Among the more than three percent of Tanzania’s population of over fifty million who have followed the traditional animist religion, however, superstition and fear still guide many decisions.

Even in 2025, the government had not gained much influence over them, particularly those living in the rural districts. People in the village of Ng’alita followed the old ways.

Some in the crowd, especially members of the Sungusungu society called for punishment, even death for Masanja. But other voices could be heard to shout in opposition.

A man stood and dusted himself off as he scrutinized the crowd. “I do not believe Masanja would harm his good friend, Lupandagila. Masanja has helped many of us. A week ago a bunch of my sheep wandered off and I could not find them. Masanja led me right to them. Then he, Lupandagila and I drove them back to their pen. I think Masanja is a good boy.”

As the crowd stirred uneasily, a man raised himself up on crude wooden crutches, with the help of his eldest son and a brother. In a loud voice he exclaimed, “I too claim Masanja is not a witch. If anything, he’s a sorcerer our village should be glad to have living in it. If he’s evil, why did he save my life? I was being crushed and could not breathe when the wagon collapsed on me a few weeks ago. Look at me on these crutches. I am alive today because Masanja had the power to lift the wagon off me before anyone else could arrive to help.”

From the crowd came a great cry of approbation. Several villagers got up and yelled that Masanja had also helped them in one way or another.

Chief Jefta shouted for silence. “We must consider all the good things Masanja Kayange has done. No other instance of evil action has ever been charged against him. It is possible he did this one harmful thing. But maybe . . . maybe it is not his fault. Maybe he or someone in his family offended an ancestor of his own or of Lupandagila’s.

“Perhaps both Masanja’s and Lupandagila’s families should together give special offerings to ancestors who may have used Masanja to act against Lupandagila for reasons we don’t understand. Wimana, what say you?”

Wimana got up again. He paused and pondered about the power Shoka might have one day, and the power Jefta already had today. “Chief Jefta makes good sense. While I still believe Masanja is responsible, it may be as Jefta says. We should permit the two families to do whatever they can to placate the offended ancestor, and see what happens. I will try to divine whose spirit has been angered.” He sat down.

When the assembly agreed overwhelmingly with the chief’s plan, Shoka smashed a fist into his palm. I almost had him, he thought. That Masanja has too many friends. I suppose I’ll have to do something more drastic.

Four days after the assembly, in the late afternoon, the two families began their preparations to make a special offering to the ancestor whose name Wimana had recently divined. Lupandagila’s mother walked across the compound and stepped inside their hut to see how her son, Lupandagila, was doing. At the sound of a great wail coming from the hut, those who were sitting leaped to their feet and all of them turned to face the hut.

Lupandagila’s mother suddenly appeared at the doorway, her eyes brimming with tears. “He’s dead . . . Lupandagila is dead.”

Lupandagila’s father turned to face Masanja’s parents, his face red with anger. In a slow, resolute manner he said, “Please leave and take your relatives with you. There’s nothing we can do now.”

“May I see my friend,” Masanja asked. “I didn’t do anything to hurt him . . . I swear.”

Despite the tears welling up in Masanja’s eyes, Lupandagila’s father was unmoved. “No, you may not. All of you . . . just leave.”

Masanja’s extended family gathered the materials they had brought and made their way out of the compound and went to their respective huts. His parents and siblings were distraught when they entered their hut.

“What will happen now?” Masanja’s mother, Llimi, asked.

“I don’t know,” Kayange replied. “But if they truly believe Masanja caused Lupandagila’s death by sorcery, they may hire someone to kill him.”

“I didn’t make him die . . . I didn’t!” Masanja sobbed. “I only told him he was sick.”

“Well, we can’t do anything about it now,” Masanja’s mother said, shaking her head. “Let’s eat our ugali (cornmeal mush) and vegetable stew. Then we’ll do our evening chores before we sleep.”

Masanja went to get firewood from the pile stacked near their hut, while Llimi started to prepare the ugali. Masanja brought the firewood and then got water from the well. His father, Kayange, started the fire and put the pot filled with water over the fire. Llimi stirred in the plantains, onions and tomatoes she had gathered earlier from the plot they farmed and added peppers.

It was much the same meal they had three times a day, every day. They ate their meal in silence and contemplated their fate.

Shoka was aware that a large percent of the villagers were in desperate circumstances due to the lack of rain. He also knew who would be most willing to do whatever he asked of them.

“I’ve invited you to come to my hut to discuss something important you can do for the village,” Shoka asserted to the burly man and the stoop-shouldered man. “You will both be rewarded for doing this.”

The two men sat on stools in front of the fire, across from Shoka. They looked at each other and then to Shoka.

“I want to do whatever I can to help the village,” the stoop-shouldered man pledged.

“What kind of reward?” the burly man wanted to know.

Shoka looked at each of them. “I will provide your families with food from my land and two cows for each of you.”

The burly man smiled. “How can we help?”

Shoka grinned back. “Here’s what I want you to do . . .”

In the early hours of the next morning, November twenty-second, well before dawn and under the very pale light of a slight crescent moon, the burly man and the stoop-shouldered man skulked over to Lupandagila’s family compound. Using the heated embers and dried thatch they brought, they set fire to the thatch roofs of two huts in the compound.

The burly man ran out of the compound and stopped at the tree where he had previously tied one of his cows. He stood behind it next to the cow, nervously waiting for the stoop-shouldered man’s signal. The stoop-shouldered man had run part of the way toward his own compound, which lay just beyond Masanja’s family compound.

He stopped and checked to see the fires spreading, then turned to face the burly man. At the stoop-shouldered man’s signal, the burly man untied the cow and chased it in the direction of the burning huts.

Masanja woke from an uneasy sleep, dreaming about fire. He went outside and saw the fires just beginning to build on the roofs. He ran toward Lupandagila’s family compound. “Fire, fire,” he yelled.

At the same time, the stoop-shouldered man called out, “Wake up everybody, there’s a fire!”

Masanja pushed with his mind and some of the burning thatch flew off the huts. A majority fell on the ground as he hoped they would. But a couple of pieces fell onto the roof of another hut, which began to burn. The stoop-shouldered man and the burly man saw an opportunity and took advantage of it.

“He did it!” the stoop-shouldered man cried, pointing at Masanja. “I was on my way to the well and saw him do it.”

The burly man had caught his cow and was holding it by the rope. “I was chasing this loose cow and saw that boy use magic to throw burning thatch onto the huts,” the burly man informed the growing crowd, and pointed at Masanja.

People came running out of their ignited huts. One of them screamed she had been burned by flaming thatch which had fallen from the roof. Smoke began to billow in the night, covering the moon and causing people to gasp and cough.

Later that morning, after the fire was extinguished, Wimana went to see Chief Jefta and found him outside his hut sitting on a mat. Jefta was waving a whisk made from a lion’s tail, trying to keep the flies off. Wimana sat on a stool next to the chief.

“Jefta, remember the poor woman who fell into a hole and broke her neck two months ago?”

“Yes, how could I forget. Now her eight children are motherless. It is fortunate her sisters and cousins are able to help their father care for them.”

“I spent much time divining to find out if that was related to recent events. My divinations tell me Masanja is truly a nogi (witch). He caused the woman to fall and die, Lupandagila to become sick and die, and he caused the fires last night.”

Jefta shook his head and sighed. “Please bring Shoka here. We will decide what to do.”

The Sukuma people looked upon a death resulting from an accident with much greater superstition than a death due to natural causes. The death of anybody not yet fifty years old was considered particularly suspicious and customarily attributed to witches. If the nfumu divined that a person caused more than one unnatural death, the person was declared to be a nogi and would likely be killed.

Shoka concealed his glee with difficulty when he and Wimana arrived at Chief Jefta’s hut. “My brother, Wimana told me what he divined. You know my feelings. They haven’t changed. Masanja Kayange is a danger to our village. He must be killed.”

Jefta fixed his eyes on Wimana. “Is this your opinion also?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I will arrange for it,” Shoka said.

“All right, let it be so,” Jefta proclaimed.