deep inside africa, hidden in a valley, there is a special place nobody
dares to go. children, old people, wise massai warriors all say: there
are spirits, angry and restless, cold glimmering, deadly and vengeful.
whoever ventures there, vanishes. never comes back.
once, there was a military convoy, by the government, soldiers, and jeeps,
and even some heavily armed trucks. they were accompanied by white people,
americans, or british, to explore this secret location, this forbidden
landscape. there were flashes of lightning in the night. and then silence.
an old shaman, wise and clever, appeases the spirits and talks to them.
a great wind of change comes, he whispers. a new order of things. where
there will be no more war, no more poverty or hunger. the villagers laugh,
they think he is mad, too old, a hermit who will die soon.
there is a ritual to bring the sick to this valley. they are carried and
put down at the entrance of this sacred valley. then, all people have to
leave. and the sickly, the mortally wounded, those without hope, remain
alone in the cold african nights. until they too vanish.
there is civil war. many atrocities. the old shaman cries in anger and
frustration. innocent people die. and the spirits are angry, too. they
look down upon us, and will punish the injust. and truly, the guilty
are found in the morning, burnt, some only ashes. deadly revenge.
the spirits walk the land, the old shaman says. they see and know our
darkness. they punish, they exact revenge, they cleanse the land of
foul evil. the murderers in uniform are quiet now. they prowl the night
full of fear, for the first time in their miserable lives.