Call Me Glinda

I’m a witch. No, not like that. And not like THAT either! Actually, I don’t think I am a witch but the locals in one place we lived believe that I am. My neighbours and I shared household help – a man named Henri. Since we were all close and in and out of each other’s homes as though they were our own, it seemed normal that our househelp would split his days between our homes as well. One day Henri did not show for work. We didn’t think much of it. Illness and accidents do happen. After a week, we worried but as Henri’s family had not come looking for money we figured that whatever was wrong was not too serious. After two weeks we assumed that he had died or quit and leaned towards ‘he quit’ as we had not been approached for money. Yes, that sounds callous but it is a fact of life. We have always made sure to pay anyone we hire very well (according to the standards of the country we are in) and we understand that should illness, accident or death occur we would be expected to contribute to, if not fully pay for, the medical care/burial costs.

A few days more went by and another neighbour approached me with an odd request. His household help, Patrick, wanted to talk to me. As Patrick also came and went in our home, it seemed strange he would not just come in and talk. My neighbour grinned and said “Oh just come out. It’s about Henri and, really, you want to hear this!” Out I went and there stood Patrick. He wouldn’t look me in the eye (stranger and stranger) and was mumbling. Since I have almost no French and his English wasn’t great, the mumbling was a problem. My neighbour just stood there trying to hide his grin and looking like he was desperately suppressing laughter. Finally, I said “Patrick, just tell me. I won’t be angry with you no matter what it is.” That was evidently the right thing to say as he then blurted out “Henri does not work for you any longer.” Not wanting to say something along the lines of “No kidding” I settled for “Oh? Why not?” Again the mumbling and not looking me in the eye began and I sighed and said “It isn’t your fault, you aren’t responsible, I won’t be mad at you.” Patrick looked up and said, “Because you are a witch and so is Madame W.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Accusations of witchcraft are still taken very seriously in this particular country and people are still stoned to death if they are believed to be a witch. So I took a deep breath and asked why. Patrick told me that Henri had related to him (and all the other househelp in the neighbourhood) how one of Madame W’s cats had strolled up to him (while Henri was working for me but had run over to Madame W's to get something) and greeted him with a cheery “Bon Jour, Henri!” And Henri came to the conclusion that since I was the dominant one (shush, the implications are obvious enough, thank you!) I must be ‘the witch’ and head of the coven and therefore he could not work for any of us but especially not me. Witches are dangerous, after all. My reaction was strange by any standard and I don’t know why I said it but it turns out to have been the perfect response: I said “Oh, Patrick, that is ridiculous. The cat could not have said Bon Jour, Henri. He doesn’t speak French; he is an American cat and only speaks English.” My neighbour almost burst a gut at that point, trying not to laugh, but the effect on Patrick was unbelievable. His eyes grew wide, he looked right at me and he gasped out “Madame, you are right. The cat does NOT speak French. Henri LIED!” And off he went to inform all the other household workers in our neighbourhood that, indeed, Henri lied and I was not a threat. My neighbour, my guy and I went into the house, shut the door and collapsed in laughter. It was just too funny. But that wasn’t the end, and it wasn’t funny at all.

The workers in the neighbourhood all knew us so once they were assured that Henri had made up the story about the cat (because I had ‘proven’ the cat only spoke English) then the rest didn’t matter as I had always been generous to them. Any ‘witch-y-ness’ on my part could be forgiven and ignored – in other words I am a good witch! The guards to our compound, on the other hand, did not know Madame W or me so well and were not reassured. They felt that we needed to be dealt with and that meant death. It took us a few nights to figure out what was going on. The guards were spending the nights trying to find ways into our houses. It needed to be reported, the guards had to be removed, new guards were brought in and I made sure to make them feel welcomed. That ended the threat but did not end the belief that I was a witch. No one tried to come after me (or any of us) again but tensions ran high and continued until a few months later when there was a coup attempt.

My guy suffers from gout and was in the middle of a rather wicked bout when the fighting broke out. He had to get to work, couldn’t drive himself and so was being picked up. As bullets were flying, it was all very nerve-wracking and, of course, the guards were on high alert. Suddenly, a vehicle shows up to pick up a man on crutches and go back into the mess. The guards stood there watching my guy with their mouths hanging open and expressions of incredulity on their faces. Our neighbour comes out, sees what is taking place, and yells - in French - to the guards “It’s ok, he’s in disguise, the crutches are secret weapons.” The guards visibly relax, high-five each other and grin madly. And off my guy goes. The coup attempt ended abruptly several hours later, my guy returned unharmed and the guards formed the belief that we, as a couple, were there to protect them from harm.

So there you have it: I’m a witch – but a good one!