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February 23, 2011
My grandfather gave me a set of chimes, passed down from generation to generation. Shaman to witch-doctor to voodoo priest to witch. It possesses great power, he tells me.

It is made of bones--tied together and hung from the window. They rattle in the breeze. Click. Clickclick. Click. A dry sound. The sound of desolation. Of hunger, famine. Of elephant graves and vast waterless wastelands.

"Our peoples' magic is not always good," he says. "Our people have cursed as well as blessed."

And the bones click and rattle as he speaks, reminding, always reminding.

We're not always good.