Likoma Island, Malawi

"Hey Mazungu!" a voice calls, "I am Gift, and this is my brother, Advice." The younger boy smiles shyly. Mazungu is a generic Swahili word meaning white man, although its curious literal translation is man without smell. Gift offers himself as a guide. I ask Advice what pearls of wisdom he can impart. He points to the lake and says, "crocodiles."

Likoma Island lies near the north tip of Lake Malawi, nudging into Mozambique waters. Baobab trees front the shore acting as natural umbrellas, for the humidity is intense and the sun dangerously hot.

Over the next week, the brothers spend their days showing off the island. I pant along behind, no longer without smell. Gift introduces his friends and we spend idyllic afternoons as the boys coach me in dialect and I teach them chess.

One blue-sky morning we walk across to a neighbouring village and wait in the dusty square. Slowly villagers drift in from the fields and we head into a large adobe hall. A squat man, bearded and grey walks to the front. Dressed in dirty whites covered by an ornate robe, he looks impressive and the hum from the crowd cuts to silence. He introduces himself as the Likoma Witchdoctor.

The ceremony begins with song, a lilting prayer sung in harmony. Patients come forward and describe their symptoms. The maladies are often emotional and alien to western prognosis. Spells and omens play a central role and the doctor removes the evil spirits using thick cleansing potions or by slaughtering cockerels.

There’s a small hospital on the island, set up by a Christian charity, but pills and injections are viewed with suspicion and locals prefer the less orthodox prescriptions of the witch doctor. After closing song, I’m asked to say a few words and shuffle embarrassingly to my feet, thanking everyone for allowing me to witness the ceremony. The doctor requests I tell my friends at home to visit. I think of them in their suits & offices and smile.

Outside, I thank the brothers and we retire to a bar to continue our chess game. The Doctor unwinds in the corner, wiping blood from his knife and drinking Carlsberg. Advice is young and restless, but Gift is keen on chess and soon has my king backed into a corner. My pawns are overrun one by one. I swear in Chichewa and my opponent laughs at the pronunciation. Gift is several years my junior, but we share a sense of humour and an obsession with football. A friendship grows between us.

The night before the mainland ferry docks, we travel to Gift’s home village. He introduces his mother and an endless stream of relatives. Overlooking the lake, we sip thin tea from cracked china cups. The air is still and darkening towards twilight. I feel happy, part of the scene and a long way from home.

One of the villagers walks down to the lake to wash. Wrapped to her back a baby squeals. Mother and child slip into the water. I watch with detachment, chatting to family, framing it as background. But then the woman screams and ducks beneath the water. She re-emerges in a whirlpool of blood amid the thrashing tail of a crocodile. She is only six feet from the shore in waist deep water. A couple of men wade in, but mother and baby are gone. Gift’s mother screams and rushes to the shore.

The wake begins at once. At the top of the valley is a wooden Anglican cathedral. On this island of Christians and witch doctors, crosses and offerings, the church becomes the focus of grief. The women begin to wail and the noise is incessant. The dead woman is Gift's cousin. I drink my tea, say a million sorrys and slip away. I am invisible anyway.

The brothers catch me up the following morning, as I board the ferry back to mainland Malawi. I hug them both and smile weakly. Gift senses my discomfort and says, "it happens, it happens;" but it doesn't happen where I'm from and I don't know what to say.

I subsequently tell the story many times, passing long African evenings with other westerners. The tale is always well received. I notice the hush as I turn the perfect afternoon into a bloodbath. With each performance the story improves; a change of tone, more flesh on the characters and a fine closing line, “if you meet someone called Advice, listen to what he has to say”, until one evening someone gets upset and accuses me of exploitation. We have a pointless shouting match, but I know she’s right. Two people lost their lives that afternoon and I’ve turned it into an anecdote.