Lamin and the Lost Juju
“You will feel better and your life will get better.”
Those were the words Lamin Barrow used when he described the effect his father’s juju would have upon me.
The words were echoed by Lamin in a phone call I had with him a few days after I’d returned to England following that eventful 2019 visit to The Gambia.
“You will feel better and your life will get better.”
Now, to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure what to think.
The juju itself was an extraordinarily kind gift from Bantang Barrow and I was genuinely touched that he had chosen to give it to me. But the idea that it might somehow influence my wellbeing, my future, or my destiny seemed rather unlikely.
I am, after all, British.
We don’t generally believe that small goat skin pouches possess mysterious supernatural powers.
We believe in spreadsheets, central heating and nice hot cups of tea.
So I started wearing the juju simply because Lamin told me I should.
Whether it contained mystical forces capable of altering the course of my life never really crossed my mind.
And yet…
Over the following year, three curious things happened.
Three very curious things.
Individually, each could probably be explained away as coincidence.
Collectively, however, they have occasionally caused me to wonder whether there might be something in West African juju after all.
THE FIRST CURIOUS EVENT
Upon returning to England, I once again found myself fully immersed in the events which would ultimately lead to my resignation from teaching.
Things appeared to be drawing towards a conclusion, but not necessarily the conclusion I had hoped for.
Various people involved in the situation had gently suggested that I should perhaps lower my expectations regarding the eventual outcome.
This was not especially encouraging.
I don’t intend to discuss the details because they are largely irrelevant to this story and, frankly, about as interesting as a documentary on the drying properties of household paint.
More importantly, it is a period of my life that I have no particular desire to revisit.
Suffice it to say that my physical health suffered considerably, my mental health suffered considerably, and what had once been a career that I loved appeared to be approaching a rather unhappy ending.
Then, one afternoon, whilst I was out with a friend, my phone rang.
It was the person acting on my behalf in the whole sorry affair.
The conversation was brief.
There had been a dramatic rethink.
Positions had changed.
People who had previously seemed determined to head in one direction had suddenly decided to travel in the opposite one.
The tide had turned.
And, to cut a very long story short, I was able to leave with my dignity intact and with a far more secure immediate future than I had dared hope for only a few days earlier.
The sense of relief was enormous.
For many months I had carried a weight around with me that seemed to grow heavier every day.
Suddenly, much of that weight had gone.
The constant anxiety eased.
The self-doubt began to fade.
For the first time in a very long while, I genuinely felt optimistic about the future.
“You will feel better and your life will get better.”
Those were the words Lamin had used when I started wearing the juju.
And, whether by coincidence or otherwise, that is exactly what happened.
I felt better.
Much better.
And my life had most definitely become better.
Of course, sensible people might reasonably argue that this had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with small goat skin pouches hanging around my neck.
At the time, I would have agreed with them.
After all, one fortunate change in circumstances hardly constitutes proof of supernatural intervention.
It was simply a curious coincidence.
Or so I thought.
THE SECOND CURIOUS EVENT
I like horror films.
More specifically, I like a good old-fashioned ghost story.
Not the modern variety where somebody is dismembered every seven minutes whilst an orchestra repeatedly attempts to leap out of the screen and punch you in the face.
I mean proper ghost stories.
The slow-burning psychological kind.
The sort that leave you glancing nervously over your shoulder when you get up to make a cup of tea.
One of my favourites is the black-and-white 1961 film The Innocents, based on Henry James’ classic novella The Turn of the Screw.
It’s wonderfully atmospheric and genuinely unsettling.
If you’ve never seen it, I thoroughly recommend it.
Sorry.
I’m wandering off the subject again.
The point is that I’ve always enjoyed ghost stories.
For a while I also enjoyed watching those television programmes in which teams of paranormal investigators spend an hour wandering around allegedly haunted buildings carrying more electronic equipment than can be found on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.
Each week there would be an unexplained knock.
Or a mysterious creak.
Or a door would move by approximately three millimetres.
At which point half the team would sprint towards the nearest exit whilst the other half would stare excitedly at a flickering screen and announce that definitive proof of the afterlife had finally been discovered.
It was tremendous fun.
For a while.
Anyway, a friend of mine called Sarah suggested that we attend a ghost-hunting evening at a local pub.
I’d always been curious about these events.
After all, I’d spent years watching them on television.
The opportunity to experience one for myself seemed too good to miss.
So, naturally, I said yes.
The pub in question was The Round of Beef in Colley Gate, deep in the heart of the Black Country.
The Round of Beef is one of those old Black Country pubs that has been around for so long that nobody seems entirely sure when it first appeared.
It is certainly more than a hundred years old and has probably witnessed more human drama than the Queen Vic in EastEnders, albeit with slightly fewer murders and surprise family revelations. Probably.
Over the years it has seen celebrations, heartbreaks, friendships, farewells and a great many questionable decisions.
It has also seen rather a lot of beer.
And, according to some people, not all of its visitors have necessarily been alive at the time.
The ghost-hunting evening was being organised by the landlord’s sister.
This seemed encouraging.
What was rather less encouraging was the fact that, upon our arrival, the landlord himself informed us that he thought the entire thing was a complete load of rubbish.
In fact, he was so unconvinced by the possibility of supernatural activity taking place in his pub that he announced he would be spending the evening somewhere else entirely.
Then he left.
Naturally, this did rather undermine confidence in the evening’s proceedings.
The interior of the pub was exactly what you’d expect from a century-old Black Country local.
The décor had seen better days, the furniture had seen better decades but the pub was full of character, full of history and just a little bit rough around the edges in a way that somehow added to its charm.
The evening began with a beige buffet and a few drinks.
I strongly suspect this was intentional.
People are generally far more receptive to supernatural possibilities after a pint or two than they are whilst eating a salad and remaining completely sober.
A group of actors dressed in Victorian costume also formed part of the entertainment.
They remained in character throughout the evening, wandering around the pub and helping to create exactly the sort of atmosphere one hopes for when attending a ghost-hunting event in a century-old public house.
The first major event of the evening was a session with a spirit medium.
This took place in a room at the back of the pub.
Naturally, there was also a bar.
Additional drinks were therefore available for anyone wishing to continue their gradual journey towards alcohol fuelled supernatural acceptance.
The success of this sort of performance depends largely upon two things.
Firstly, how willing you are to believe what the medium is telling you.
And secondly, whether there are any plants hidden amongst the audience.
Nevertheless, she identified several spirits who supposedly had connections to the pub and may or may not have been related to various members of the audience.
I remain unconvinced.
But I will admit that it was tremendous fun.
And as the evening progressed, the atmosphere inside The Round of Beef was becoming exactly the sort of spooky atmosphere that I enjoy.
You’re probably reading this and wondering what any of this has to do with West Africa and the power of juju.
Stay with me.
The next bit is the good bit.
Following the spirit medium’s performance, everyone was encouraged to wander around the pub.
People could chat with local ghost hunters, experiment with various pieces of paranormal investigation equipment or take part in a séance that was taking place in the cellar beneath the pub.
Sarah and I acquired another drink and sat down at a table.
We were informed that the spirit of a gentleman was known to frequent our particular table.
Quite what he was doing there wasn’t entirely clear.
I assumed he was waiting for somebody to buy him a pint.
Being a considerate sort of person, I pulled out an empty chair from beneath the table in case he wished to join us.
Nearby stood a larger table covered with ghost-hunting equipment.
There were sound recorders, infrared cameras, various flashing electronic gadgets and, amongst them, an SLS camera.
On its screen, people appeared as simple stick figures.
The theory was that it could also detect ghosts.
Unfortunately, it occasionally seemed equally capable of detecting chairs, coat stands and almost anything else that happened to vaguely resemble a human being.
You may be detecting a slight hint of scepticism in what I’m saying.
And you’d be absolutely right.
However, down in the cellar a séance was taking place.
And that genuinely intrigued me.
I’ve seen enough horror films to know that participating in a séance is generally considered to be a BAD IDEA.
Unfortunately, I’ve also seen enough ghost-hunting programmes to suspect that most supernatural activity is usually caused by an overenthusiastic participant with twitchy knees or a wandering cameraman quietly throwing things whilst hoping not to stray into shot.
So, despite my scepticism, and despite feeling slightly nervous, I made my way behind the bar and carefully descended the steep, twisting set of steps into the cellar.
I was particularly careful not to bang my head.
Being rendered unconscious by a low ceiling would have been a disappointing end to the evening.
The cellar itself was surprisingly large and appeared to stretch beneath most of the pub.
Naturally, it contained a considerable quantity of beer.
It was also extremely dark.
To maintain the atmosphere, the organisers had elected not to switch on any lights.
Instead, a few candles flickered here and there amongst the shadows.
I have to admit, it looked impressively spooky.
In the centre of the cellar sat a table.
Around it were four people.
In the middle of the table was a Ouija board.
Several other people stood nearby watching.
As tradition dictates, the four participants had their fingertips resting lightly upon an inverted glass positioned on top of the board.
The letters of the alphabet were arranged around the edge together with the words YES, NO and GOODBYE.
By the time I arrived, the séance was already in full swing.
One of the seated participants was apparently engaged in conversation with a spirit who had decided to spend its evening in a Black Country pub cellar.
I watched with fascination as the glass moved from letter to letter across the board.
I couldn’t entirely follow the conversation, but contact with a nearby spirit was, evidently, taking place.
I studied the participants carefully.
Was somebody moving the glass?
If so, I couldn’t see how.
Nothing immediately suspicious was apparent.
Although, admittedly, it was very dark.
After several more minutes of lively paranormal correspondence, the gentleman leading the séance looked around at the observers.
“Would anyone like to swap places?” he asked.
Without the slightest hesitation, I raised my hand.
“Yes, please.”
One of the seated participants stood up and I took their place.
I carefully placed my fingers on the glass alongside the other three participants.
The séance resumed.
Or, more accurately, it didn’t.
The leader called out to any nearby spirits.
I waited.
Nothing happened.
The glass remained perfectly still.
A little more encouragement was offered to the spirit world.
Nothing.
Not a sausage.
No movement whatsoever.
The glass continued to display all the supernatural enthusiasm of a paving slab.
I glanced around the group whilst trying not to look as though I was glancing around the group.
There was now a slightly puzzled atmosphere developing.
Another minute passed.
Still nothing.
The spirits, it seemed, had abruptly lost all interest in communicating with humanity.
Or perhaps they had no interest in communicating with me.
Eventually, deciding that I had personally contributed enough to the ongoing failure of the séance, I politely excused myself and stood up.
Almost immediately another volunteer took my place.
A fourth hand was once again placed upon the glass.
The glass immediately sprang back into life.
Off it went.
Letter after letter.
Word after word.
Whatever spirits had previously been occupying the cellar had apparently returned and were once again keen to converse with the living.
They simply hadn’t wanted to talk to me.
I was slightly offended.
I climbed back up the narrow stone steps into the pub feeling somewhat deflated.
It seemed that even the dead didn’t want a conversation with me.
I bought myself another drink and returned to our table, taking care not to accidentally sit on the lap of the pub’s resident ghostly patron.
And then a thought occurred to me.
I reached up to my neck.
I already knew what I would find.
I was wearing my juju.
I had worn it every single day since returning from The Gambia.
What was it that Lamin had told me?
What protection had Bantang’s gift supposedly provided?
It would protect me from “bad people doing bad things”.
At least, that was how Lamin had explained it.
But what exactly counted as “people”?
And what exactly counted as “bad things”?
Did that protection extend beyond the living?
Was it possible that my collection of little West African goat skin pouches had just prevented me from participating in a conversation with the spirit world?
The idea seemed ridiculous.
And yet…
The séance had worked perfectly well before I sat down.
It had stopped completely whilst I was there.
Then it had immediately started working again the moment I left.
Later that evening I mentioned this to one of the ghost hunters.
Without the slightest hesitation, they informed me that this was exactly what had happened.
My juju, they assured me, had protected me.
Of course, a ghost hunter was hardly likely to offer a less supernatural explanation.
Nevertheless, I found the whole experience strangely unsettling.
But also oddly comforting.
For the second time since receiving Bantang’s gift, something had happened that I couldn’t quite explain away as easily as I would have liked.
THE THIRD CURIOUS EVENT
In 2019, I visited The Gambia three times.
April.
July.
And August.
There should probably have been a fourth visit in February but, as mentioned earlier, life had other ideas and I wasn’t quite up to it.
The April and July visits were with groups of friends.
The August visit was different.
August 2019 was my first solo trip to The Gambia.
It was also my first solo trip to Senegal which, as detailed in earlier chapters, led directly to Lamin and I deciding that driving to Dakar sounded like a perfectly sensible thing to do.
The April visit was significant because it was when Lamin gave me the juju from his father, Bantang.
The August visit was significant because it was when I lost it.
As described in earlier chapters, I landed at Banjul International Airport, climbed into Lamin’s taxi and almost immediately suggested that we drive to Dakar.
Lamin, demonstrating the same impeccable judgement that has characterised much of our friendship, agreed.
When we weren’t wandering around West Africa, I was staying at Sally’s Holiday Apartments.
This was before I began staying at the house belonging to Lamin’s brother, Lamin Darboe.
Sally’s consisted of a large collection of apartments arranged around a central courtyard in much the same way as a traditional Gambian compound.
However, whereas a Gambian compound would normally have a large sandy open space in the middle where family life unfolds, Sally’s had replaced this with a swimming pool.
As a result, instead of goats, chickens and family gatherings, the centrepiece was occupied by holidaymakers and the occasional pool party.
The food was good, the staff were friendly and there was twenty-four-hour security keeping an eye on who came and went.
Because of our Senegal adventure, I stayed there for two nights before travelling to Dakar and then returned there again after crossing back into The Gambia.
Lamin, meanwhile, was staying at his brother’s house nearby.
Our routine was simple.
Each morning I would wake up, have a shower, get dressed and meet Lamin at the entrance.
We would then go in search of breakfast and whatever adventure, minor crisis or logistical challenge the day happened to have prepared for us.
Naturally, I wore my juju.
By this point I had worn it almost every day since Bantang had given it to me.
The only exception was when I was in the shower.
The collection of small goat skin pouches which made up my juju were many things.
Waterproof was not one of them.
So my actual morning routine looked something like this:
Wake up.
Remove juju and place it on the chest of drawers next to my cap.
(A cap is essential in West Africa if, like me, you are somewhat follically disadvantaged.)
Have a shower.
Get dressed.
Replace juju around neck.
Commence day.
A simple system.
A reliable system.
A system that had worked perfectly for months.
Until one particular morning.
Wake up.
Done.
Remove juju and place it on the chest of drawers.
Done.
Have a shower.
Done.
Although, admittedly, this occasionally depended upon whether the maintenance man had remembered to switch the water pump back on after turning it off overnight.
But on this occasion there was water.
So…
Shower.
Done.
Get dressed.
Done.
Replace juju around neck.
…
NOT DONE!
The juju had vanished.
It wasn’t on the chest of drawers.
It wasn’t next to my cap.
It wasn’t anywhere.
At first I simply stood in the middle of the room and looked around.
This is what is commonly known as a “man look”.
For those unfamiliar with the concept, a “man look” involves standing in the centre of a room and expecting the missing object to reveal itself through a combination of optimism, wishful thinking and absolutely no effort whatsoever.
The “man look” failed.
So I conducted a proper search.
I checked on the chest of drawers.
In the chest of drawers.
On the bed.
In the bed.
Under the bed.
Inside my luggage.
Inside my pockets.
Inside the bathroom.
Inside every conceivable location in which a collection of small Gambian goat skin pouches might reasonably choose to hide.
Nothing.
The juju had disappeared.
I was absolutely certain that I had left it beside my cap.
Yet it simply wasn’t there.
And to my surprise, I found myself genuinely upset.
This wasn’t just a lost possession.
It was a gift from Bantang.
A gift given with kindness and affection.
A gift which, by this point, I had worn almost every day.
I felt as though something important had gone missing.
Nevertheless, the morning was moving on and Lamin was waiting for me outside.
Reluctantly, I abandoned the search and headed down towards reception.
As I walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something valuable had been taken from me.
When I met Lamin, I explained what had happened.
We agreed that we would return later in the day and I could conduct a much more thorough search of the apartment.
Then we went for breakfast and got on with whatever adventures the day happened to have planned.
I can’t remember exactly what was on the itinerary.
It was probably something connected to the nursery school, which was still under construction at the time.
And almost certainly involved the occasional bottle of Julbrew.
Some traditions, after all, are important.
As planned, we returned to Sally’s later that afternoon.
Normally, when we walked through the front gate, we would be greeted by one of the security guards with a smile, a handshake and the sort of warm welcome that seems to come naturally to Gambians.
In fact, whenever I stay in hotels in The Gambia, the security guards are usually amongst the first people I get to know.
Many of them become friends.
Some, eventually, may invite you back to their compounds to meet their families and experience genuine Gambian teranga.
I remember one of my early visits to The Gambia when I was staying at the Ocean Bay Hotel. One evening I ended up chatting with the security guard long into the night.
Before my flight to The Gambia, I’d bought a bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum in the duty-free shop at the airport in England and, for reasons that seemed perfectly sensible at the time, decided to work my way through it whilst the security guard attempted to teach me the entirety of the Wolof tribal language.
The security guard, being Muslim and therefore considerably wiser than me, abstained from the rum.
The exact sequence of events thereafter remains somewhat hazy.
What I do remember is finally going to bed at around 3am, convinced I had made remarkable progress in Wolof. The following morning suggested otherwise.
Fortunately, a few notes survived on my phone.
So the evening wasn’t a complete waste.
Anyway.
Back to the missing juju.
Lamin and I entered reception.
Instead of greeting me with his usual smile, the security guard stared at me.
Then he frowned.
“Peter.”
“What is the matter?”
I was slightly taken aback.
By this point I had largely resigned myself to the fact that the juju was missing.
I wasn’t visibly upset.
I certainly wasn’t emotional.
“Nothing,” I replied. “Everything’s fine.”
The security guard shook his head.
“No.”
He continued staring at me.
“There is something wrong.”
I smiled politely.
“No, honestly. Everything’s okay.”
Again he shook his head.
Then he said something that sent a chill straight down my spine.
“There is something missing around you.”
I stared at him.
For a moment I genuinely didn’t know how to respond.
What exactly was he seeing?
Or perhaps more importantly…
What exactly was he not seeing?
Then he spoke again.
“I can see you have lost something.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
I gathered myself as quickly as possible.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m just going up to my room to collect something.”
And with that, I walked past him and headed upstairs.
It was August.
The middle of the rainy season.
The air outside was warm and humid.
Yet as I climbed the stairs, it felt as though glaciers were sliding down my spine.
I unlocked the apartment door.
Walked inside.
And immediately saw the juju.
It was sitting exactly where I had left it.
On top of the chest of drawers.
Later that evening I discovered what had happened.
The cleaner had found the juju after it had slipped down behind the chest of drawers.
Assuming it belonged to me, she had simply placed it back on top of the drawers.
Mystery solved.
Or perhaps not.
Because the cleaner had never mentioned this to the security guard.
Why would she?
There was no reason for her to do so.
Which leaves one rather awkward question.
What exactly had the security guard seen when he looked at me?
And what did he mean when he said:
“There is something missing around you.”
I’ve spoken to Lamin about it several times.
He refuses to be drawn.
He simply laughs.
“Some people are very wise.”
And then changes the subject.
He’s not giving anything away.
CONCLUSION
The curious events described in this chapter may simply be coincidences.
Or they may hint at something rather deeper.
Who knows?
Perhaps there is no magic involved at all.
Perhaps everything can be explained through chance, psychology and circumstance.
But there is one thing I know for certain.
The juju was a gift from Bantang Barrow.
And he wanted to protect me in the only way he knew how.
So I still wear it every day.
It reminds me of Bantang.
And, in turn, it reminds me of my own father.
Of my parents.
If you spend enough time with me, you may occasionally notice me reach up to my chest to check that it is still there.
The juju hangs around my neck.
And the little goat skin pouches so carefully prepared by the Farabo, and so lovingly passed on by Bantang Barrow, rest over my heart.
Which seems entirely appropriate.
The juju was a gift from the heart.
From Bantang Barrow.
Read the Introduction to ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:
👉Travels With Lamin – An Introduction | Building Futures in the Gambia
Find all the other chapters here:
👉Travels With Lamin: Stories from The Gambia and West Africa | Building Futures in the Gambia
Book Lamin and his taxi here:
👉Lamin Barrow Taxis – The Gambia’s Number One Taxi Driver
And find out more about Lamin’s work with BFiG Busumbala Nursery School here:
