"Madam, are you believing in electricity?"

     I had found myself in rural Central Tanzania teaching English at a school for African young men, not exactly what I had been expecting, but the situation required that nearly every native speaker of English among the teaching staff—aside from those who taught science and math—was put to work as an English teacher. This was the part of the class devoted to oral English when the students were encouraged to speak English, not just read and write it. Oral English was quite freeform, not like the rest of the class, where despite my best efforts, the students liked the certainties of Grieve, the standard textbook inherited from the old regime. Grieve by name, grief by nature was how it seemed to me. I liked oral English. One never knew what was coming next. I sensed this was going to be even more a case of "strap yourself in and see what develops" than usual. We had somehow got onto the subject of African medicine, which some called witchcraft. I tried to convey in a way that was not dismissive of their beliefs that I was inclined not to believe in it. This comment was one student's reply.

     "Yes, of course," I replied.

     "Are you seeing it?"

     "No, but I can see the effects. When the electricity generator goes on at 6p.m., the lights come on. That's how I know it exists."

     "It is the same with African medicine. We see certain things. People become ill, they die, and other bad things, or people may want certain things. People consult the African doctor, and we cannot see the power, but we see what happens. For example, this one has become ill, and his son sees the African doctor and the father gets well. Or it may be that a man's wife turns against him, and he sees the African doctor and things become well between them again."