D. Jason Miller

I am fully aware that the term witch doctor can be considered culturally inappropriate these days. But as is often the case, the people who take offense are not necessarily the people being referenced in the first place. Nowadays, at least here in the States, terms such as African Traditional Religion practitioners are often preferred to describe the diverse range of Indigenous African spiritual specialists, herbalists, diviners, and traditional healers. Based on my experience in Africa, however, villagers themselves often refer to the local medicine man or woman as a witch doctor, and I have rarely seen anyone take offense at the term.

Keep in mind that I am not referring to traditional medicine practitioners who possess a wealth of knowledge about the medicinal uses of plants and animals. That is an entirely different subject.

I have also heard the argument that a sangoma in Southern Africa, or a shaman elsewhere, relies on superstition and falsehood, using fear, simple tricks, and manipulation to keep local people under control while building power and reputation. However, I have seen firsthand what I considered to be the horrific aftermath of curses and the darkness surrounding some of these practices.

But let’s get on with my story, shall we?

I was conducting a survey of water sources in a very remote area of Central Africa. I will keep the exact location private, as I still work there occasionally and have no desire to put anyone in danger.

Sadly, this region had been devastated by years of war and civil unrest. The population was living in desperation, roads and infrastructure were virtually nonexistent, and the wildlife had been decimated long ago. The dusty land appeared almost completely devoid of vegetation. This was truly desperate country, and the people living there faced desperate circumstances.

I arrived at the dusty airstrip first thing in the morning. We had a fifteen-hour drive ahead of us to reach a remote village where we planned to bring aid. There were three of us, plus a driver, and thankfully one of my companions spoke enough English to act as a translator.

We packed plenty of water and stopped at a roadside market to pick up food that should last us two days or more. The village we were heading to wasn’t expecting us, and we wanted to make sure we didn’t put any additional strain on the local food supply.

We turned north onto a dusty trail that seemed to lead into no man’s land. Hours passed as we drove through the barren countryside, and the sun made its presence known in a big way. The old Land Cruiser ran hot, forcing us to stop along the road and add water to its struggling radiator. The area had been caught up in civil war, and anything that represented life seemed to have been destroyed. There wasn’t a shade tree in sight.

As we bounced along, dodging potholes large enough to swallow our truck, I found myself asking my companions all kinds of questions, partly out of sheer boredom. One by one, they told me their life stories, their escapes, and the challenges they had faced. Many had lost family members to war or famine, and every one of them had lived through hardship and uncertainty.

I always cherish these stories. They remind me of the blessings in my own life, and they reinforce my desire to become a blessing to the people I meet along the way.

Hours would pass without us seeing a single person. We carried extra diesel and would stop periodically to rest and refuel before piling back into the hot, sweaty Land Cruiser and continuing our journey. It was unbearably hot, and we had two choices: roll down the windows and get covered in dust or roll them up and slowly smother in the heat. Needless to say, neither option was particularly pleasant, and the smell inside the vehicle wasn’t helping matters.

I am a huge wildlife fan, and I am always asking questions about animals. So, naturally, I began asking about wildlife encounters and when any of my companions had last seen an animal in the wild. They looked at me as though I had just arrived from another planet.

According to them, there was virtually no wildlife left in the area. During the civil war in the 1980s, guerrilla fighters had killed anything they could find, either for food or, in some cases, simply out of wanton destruction.

No sooner had our conversation moved on to another subject than, up ahead, clear as day and about twenty yards from the road, stood a beautiful striped zebra.

It stood perfectly still, alone, watching us without the slightest sign of fear or concern. We nearly jumped out of our seats in amazement. These guys had lived in Africa their entire lives, yet some had never seen a zebra in the wild. I was equally shocked and rolled down the window to get a better look.

What a beautiful animal, standing all alone in the middle of that barren landscape. I was surprised to see it by itself, as zebras usually travel in herds, but there it stood in all its grandeur. I grabbed my phone and snapped a few pictures, promising to send them to everyone once we could get Starlink up and running.

For the next few hours, the conversation never strayed far from the zebra. Where had it come from? Where was its herd? How did it find water? For a while, we forgot about the heat, the dust, and our miserable journey as we tried to make sense of the remarkable sight we had just witnessed.

As the day wore on and the sun began its slow journey toward the western horizon, we settled back into our routine of sweating and trying to find a comfortable position among our scattered gear.

Eventually, we came to a fork in the dusty trail, and our driver wasn’t sure which route to take. This wasn’t part of the plan, and choosing the wrong road could have serious consequences. While the others discussed our options in their own language, I stepped out of the truck to find a convenient bush.

As I stood there looking into the distance, I noticed something unusual. Far down the road, just to the left of the fork, stood a tall giraffe, towering above the surrounding countryside.

I truly couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My companions were equally amazed, as you can imagine. We took the left fork and continued along the trail. The giraffe kept its distance, just as the zebra had, and we watched each other until the animal finally disappeared from view behind us.

I began teasing my companions that we must have stumbled into some sort of national park. They talked excitedly among themselves about the wildlife encounters they had just witnessed, although there was an uneasy edge to their conversation. I couldn’t quite understand why. Perhaps they were wondering whether a lion would be the next animal to appear on the trail.

Darkness fell quickly, as it does in Africa, and our headlights illuminated the dusty path ahead. We still had about four hours to go. We even considered stopping to camp along the way, but we decided it was safer to spend the night inside a village, even one where we were strangers. So, we pressed on.

I had fallen asleep in the back of the Land Cruiser when I began hearing the guys talking nervously and almost nonstop. I could tell we were getting close to our destination. Peeking over the back seat, with my head resting on my arms, I could make out two men standing in the road ahead. They were waving us down.

One man was tall and dignified, dressed in traditional clothing. The other was shorter, covered in animal skins and carrying a long staff. Both looked friendly and were smiling, so I wasn’t particularly concerned.

We had arrived at the village. Men, women, and children were gathered around a large fire, and a meal of local food had been laid out for each of us. A hut near the center of the village had been emptied and prepared for us to spend the night.

I was a little perplexed. These people hadn’t been expecting us, yet everything was ready. I kept asking my companions whether they had sent word ahead or somehow managed to let the village know we were coming.

All I received were strange looks followed by a quick change of subject, a familiar response when someone wants to avoid answering a question. Later that night, while we were unpacking our gear, I pressed the issue again.

Finally, one of them explained in a whisper that the animals we had seen along the road were, in fact, the witch doctor. According to the story I was told, he had transformed himself into the zebra and the giraffe, watching us as we made our way through the countryside. The two men who had met us on the road were the witch doctor and the local chief.

That, apparently, was how the village knew we were coming. They had been prepared for our arrival long before we ever reached their homes.

I lay sweating in that hut for most of the night, trying to make sense of what I had just been told. I was genuinely shaken and didn’t sleep a wink.

Once morning came, I got up and set up my solar charger to power my phone. Then I quickly opened my photographs, eager to look at the pictures I had taken of the zebra and the giraffe.

There was nothing.

Every photograph showed only the barren landscape we had been traveling through. No zebra. No giraffe. Nothing but the empty, dusty countryside.

I stared at the screen, scrolling back and forth through the pictures, trying to figure out what had happened. I knew what I had seen. So did the others.

And yet, there was nothing on my phone to prove it.

The WitchDoctor
Copyright © 2026 by Jason Miller

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