He is a healer, however.
When I first shook Yorro’s hand I was in awe of his strength and agility. He is undoubtedly in his late 70s and may even be in his 80s. He did not shake or have tremors in his motion. He was very much in control of his limbs, movements, and mind. His warm smile is one that tells me he is by far the favorite parent among his many children and grandchildren.
After he shook my hand he gently felt my sternum. I wasn’t surprised and didn’t flinch as I had seen him do this with Tod, a colleague who accompanied Almamy and I. He nodded in a manner of approval and then told me that I get hot and tired easily and don’t sleep or relax well. This is probably an accurate diagnosis for any Toubab under the African sun, but I felt he meant something deeper. Perhaps he couldn’t explain my condition in a Western World manner, but it took him merely a handshake and a touch of my chest to translate his concern for me.
I was sick, but treatable, Yorro said.
Our visit continued. There were three of us there. We sat in the hand-made, wooden folding chairs that remained in his office, which is also his bedroom. Yorro’s grandkids constantly came in to greet their Papa’s visitors. Every new handshake came from a beautiful smiling and shining African child. If you could zoom forward 50 years, one of these kids will most certainly be practicing in the same or similar manner of Yorro. He is a Marabout, a religious Islamic healer. His title and abilities have been passed to him from past ancestors and generations.
Yorro heals all who are open to his practice, though there are some limitations. He makes no cuts or incisions and can not treat paralysis, among a few others ailments. Yorro has one remedy or treatment: the ritual of prayer, his prayer to Allah, and a concoction composed of water and roots and leaves from a specific plant found in the fields and bush of Senegal. Coincidently, perhaps, garab bi is the Wolof word for both medicine and tree or plant.
Yorro openly collaborates with a western medicine doctor in Kaolack, the closest city and regional capital of Kaolack. He refers his patients to this doctor, as does the doctor to Yorro. He spoke of this without judging or offering his opinion of western medicine, but with a sincere passion for his patients and his practice.
Almamy and Yorro passed the time talking in Wolof. Yorro entertained our questions and talked of things new with the family and the village. Almamy spoke of his family and the life in the metropolitan of Dakar, a place far removed from Combol by time, pace, and day-to-day realities. Yorro continually returned his attention to Tod and I in the honest and welcoming way Africans do. We were in his house, therefore, we were his brothers.
Before gently placing Almamy’s medicine in the plastic bags, Yorro blessed each piece. He was steadfast, pragmatic, and methodical. Slowly he caressed each bundle in his powerful, but gentle hands and recited his prayer. In one movement he softly and silently spat upon the roots and leaves as if sprinkling holy water upon them. Yorro was not fazed or angered by his grandchildren who continued to peek in at the visiting Toubabs or paraded by the mud hut, his medical office, with the latest found toy.
photos of sama garab bi
This experience makes me wonder what healing really means. Is it the recovery itself or is it the process? Is true healing the end feeling or is it the work, the mindset it takes to approach a sense of healing? Perhaps, it is somehow a mixture of the two. Is my friend truly healed by completing the grueling trip to Combol from Dakar or is it the process, the ritual that heals him? I presume, for now, that this was, for me, just one more unique experience, which I shall remember and use to question things I think I already know.
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