She is the doctor of the night
Fragile scullion in the daylight
Do not be fooled so easily
She is a Black Obeah Lady
Heard they used rice to prevent her plans
When she threatened to suck blood from a baby’s hand
The sound of her talking drums, heard miles away
That ritual rhythm played every day, serenading her praises
To Gods unknown to a common man
Spells cast as she dances in white and moves her hands
Neighbours talk over fences, squinting just to catch a view
Of the dirty works within her home, they are asking who
Whose time has come to die? Why? Maybe it is you
Worried faces, afraid of what is to come
Black Obeah lady’s spirits will make them run
Her pot is on fire, the scent of herbs freshens the air – repugnantly
She leads the dance, her followers voice along ‘ I am I, Dahomeyans, I Ashanti’
Making ashes from burnt bread for sad hearts seeking their lovers back
Craving names into black candles and the spirits will attack
Turning brooms upside down to chase the unwanted away
Squatting over rice, sprinkling salt, soaking names into sugar-water for days
Displaying bones drenched in chicken blood from the fowls in town
Leaving food on the back stairs for her dead Obeah man, Papa Brown
Many recipes in her Oanga bag
To serve paying customers who visit this old hag
Her secrets lie in the power of her spells
Enemies feel her wrath and she inflicts it well
‘Do fah do ain’t obeah’ says the Obeah Lady
Ms Obayifo, my shadow catching Aunty.
