Between Shrines and Shadows (Part Two): The Witch Is Not the Danger—Wounded Names and the Liturgy of Resistance

 

By Emmanuel Mihiingo Kaija

A Real-Life Story: The Tragedy of Annet — A True Account from Uganda

In 2019, a fragile shadow named Annet, a 12-year-old girl from a small village in Eastern Uganda’s Mbale district, was accused of witchcraft by her own neighbors after a sudden illness struck the family. When Annet’s younger brother died from malaria, the villagers whispered that her “bad spirit” had cursed him. Rumors spread like wildfire, fueled by fear and superstition. Without trial or advocate, Annet was banished from her home, her school, and her community.

Local reports from Human Rights Watch detailed how Annet was forced to live in a decrepit hut with no food or water, surviving by the mercy of strangers. Attempts by her family to bring her back were met with threats from community elders and “prophets” who insisted she must be “delivered” through harsh exorcisms. Eventually, a church group from Kampala intervened, rescuing Annet and placing her in a shelter for accused children. Yet, the trauma left deep scars—psychological, social, and spiritual—that no single act of charity could fully erase.

Annet’s story was one of thousands recorded by Uganda’s Ministry of Gender, Labour and Social Development, which estimates that 20,000 children have been accused of witchcraft and cast out from their families between 2010 and 2020. Her case reveals how accusation becomes not just a personal tragedy, but a community-wide crisis—woven with poverty, failed healthcare, religious exploitation, and patriarchal control.

I. Introduction: Smoke on the Altar, Ashes on the Child

In the trembling lungs of Africa’s forgotten, the cry of witchcraft is not a myth but a weapon sharpened on the whetstone of fear and pain. From Congo’s borderlands where rivers weep for the lost, to Nairobi’s sprawling urban slums where neon lights drown out old songs, the “witch” is no longer a mere shadow cast by flickering firelight. The witch has become flesh and blood—a child whose voice stutters beneath the weight of accusation; a woman whose bleeding womb no longer nourishes a patriarchal promise; a grandmother whose wisdom has outlasted her usefulness in a world that fears what it cannot control.

The crucible has changed, but the fire still burns—sometimes quiet as a whisper in the wind, sometimes roaring in the hearts of those who seek someone to blame for the harvests that fail, the dreams that darken, and the lives that crumble. This reflection is a prophetic unveiling of the contemporary witchcraft crisis, not as a relic of superstition but as a weaponized narrative of social blame, a prism through which fear refracts and fractures communities.

Rooted in scripture’s deep well, infused with the rhythms of African oral wisdom, weighted with the statistics of sorrow, and sharpened by gender studies and media critique, this work calls church, state, and society to a fateful crossroads: to continue the cycle of accusation or to walk the difficult path of healing and resistance.

II. The New “Witch”: Between Suffering and Scapegoating

The word “witch” is no longer simply a name whispered in shadows—it has become a sentence, a verdict passed down by communities drowning in fear and grief. It is a label that marks the vulnerable for exile, torture, and silence. Take, for example, the story of Annet, a child whose name has come to embody the fragile innocence crushed beneath the boot of accusation. In her small village near Mbale, Uganda, after the sudden death of her younger brother, whispers rose like smoke from burning leaves: “She carries a bad spirit.” Annet, only twelve, found herself not cradled by her family but cast out, abandoned to the wilderness of suspicion and superstition. Her trials are not anomalies—they are the echoes of thousands whose lives have been shattered by the cruel alchemy of grief turned to blame.

Between 2000 and 2020, over 15,000 children were accused of witchcraft in Akwa Ibom, Nigeria alone. Many were not just exiled but violently beaten, starved, or even killed—ghosts in the margin of public consciousness, their stories silenced beneath layers of stigma and denial. These numbers, stark and unyielding, are not mere statistics—they are the broken heartbeats of a generation robbed of childhood and dignity.

Across the great swaths of East and West Africa, the elderly—especially women—bear a similar burden. In Tanzania, a 2023 UNHCR report uncovered the grim truth that more than 3,000 elderly persons, mostly women, have been murdered over the past decade in accusations linked to witchcraft and ritual violence. Malawi’s judiciary reported that in 2021, 75% of witchcraft-related arrests involved women over the age of 60. These are not isolated incidents but symptoms of deep structural pain—a society that turns against its own elders, its own mothers, as though they were harbingers of doom rather than vessels of wisdom.

In the rural north of Ghana, more than half a dozen “witch camps” stand as bleak monuments to centuries of banishment, housing women who live lives shrouded in silence and shame. Their trials are neither legal nor just; they are tribal verdicts steeped in fear and myth.

“When the roots of a tree begin to decay, it spreads death to the branches.” — Yoruba proverb

This epidemic is a parable of powerlessness writ large—how communities under siege from poverty, illness, and broken promises seek faces to blame, bodies to punish. The witch is not merely a scapegoat; she is a mirror reflecting the unspoken trauma, the fractured humanity of those who accuse.

Fear coils around the hearts of the vulnerable like a serpent. The old woman who cannot explain the drought, the child who cannot make sense of sudden death, the widow whose land is coveted—all become vessels into which the poison of accusation is poured. Yet this poison is a lie; it is not their blood that infects the soil, but the rot of silence, neglect, and greed.

The social fabric tears further when faith, instead of being a balm, becomes a blade. Prophets and pastors who trade in spectacle and fear deepen the wounds, recasting the innocent as enemies of God. In this crucible of accusation, the sacred is twisted into a weapon of exclusion, and the body of Christ fractures into shards of suspicion and hate.

III. Theological Grounding: What the Bible Does and Does Not Say

In the tumultuous landscape of accusation and fear, scripture is often wielded as both sword and shield, but too frequently with a dull edge that cuts the innocent rather than cleaving the chains of oppression. The oft-cited command in Exodus 22:18—“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”—echoes through many pulpits, yet the weight of its meaning is frequently lost beneath the clangor of fear. The Hebrew word kashaph, here translated as “witch,” more precisely refers to manipulative sorcery used to deceive and oppress, embedded within systems of injustice and idolatry—not to children suffering illness, elderly women bearing wisdom, or marginalized souls marked by difference.

The very heart of the gospel calls us to a deeper discernment. Jesus himself, the innocent and holy, faced slanderous accusations: “He casts out demons by Beelzebul, the prince of demons” (Matthew 12:24). This divine paradox shows that holiness is no shield against the cruelty of false accusation. Innocence does not guarantee immunity; in fact, it often invites the fury of suspicion.

Within the pages of Acts 16:16–19, we meet a slave girl possessed by a spirit of divination—a spirit that enslaves her body and spirit, yet also enslaves her to those who exploit her for profit. Paul’s deliverance of this girl is not merely a spiritual exorcism but an act of liberation from economic exploitation and systemic abuse. This story calls the church beyond mere condemnation toward restorative justice—a healing that unbinds the chains of both spiritual and social captivity.

“The Scriptures are not stones for the hand but bread for the hungry.” — Congolese proverb (adapted)

In this light, the church must become a discerning body—not one that hastily invents spirits to slay, but one that patiently weighs truth with justice and mercy. The armor of God described in Ephesians 6 is not forged to destroy neighbors, but to resist the spiritual forces that bind communities in fear and falsehood. Deuteronomy’s prohibition against sorcery serves as an ethical safeguard, a call to holiness that refuses manipulation and injustice—not a license to fuel mob violence or social exclusion.

The church’s role is not to judge appearances but to judge with right judgment (John 7:24), embodying a theology of compassion that uplifts the weak, defends the oppressed, and embraces the outcast. To do otherwise is to repeat the errors of Job’s friends, who sought explanations for suffering by blaming the innocent, missing the deeper mystery of grace amid pain.

III. Theological Grounding (Continued): Annet’s Story in the Light of Scripture

Annet’s exile was not only a personal wound but a reflection of a church and society that failed to embody the liberating power of scripture. When her village branded her a witch, they wielded the ancient command from Exodus as a weapon, forgetting that the law’s heart beats for justice and mercy, not for fear-fueled exile.

No pastor, prophet, or neighbor paused to ask: Who is this child before God? How might the Spirit move to heal rather than harm? Instead, scripture was twisted into chains, and Annet was cast out—not unlike the outcast who wandered the dusty roads in the footsteps of Christ.

Paul’s deliverance of the slave girl in Acts illuminates a sacred path forward. It calls the church to recognize not only spiritual bondage but economic and social exploitation. Annet was doubly imprisoned—first by superstition, second by the community’s greed and silence. Her rescue by a Kampala church group was an act of grace, yet it came too late to undo all the brokenness left in her wake.

“To misread the Word is to misread the world.” — African theological saying

Annet’s story challenges the church to ask whether it is a place of refuge or accusation, of sanctuary or spectacle. It summons leaders to embody the armor of God—not as a weapon for judgment, but as protection for the vulnerable.

IV. The Psychology of Accusation: Fear, Poverty, and the Algorithm

In the shadowy corridors of human fear, where logic falters and pain grows wild, accusation finds fertile soil. Communities haunted by disease, hunger, and grief seek bodies to bear the weight of unspoken anguish. It is in these moments that the fragile illusion of control takes shape—scapegoating becomes a survival strategy, painful yet potent.

The accused are often those who differ: children with epilepsy, elders with dementia, women whose strength threatens established power. They are the mirrors reflecting communal trauma, the vessels for unspoken sorrow.

In Kisii County, Kenya, this ancient fear finds new forms through technology. Viral WhatsApp voice notes and doctored videos become weapons, convincing communities that a grandmother’s tremor or a child’s cough is proof of evil. Mobs assemble, propelled not only by superstition but by digital frenzy—a modern-day witch-hunt conducted in the court of social media likes and shares.

Platforms like TikTok and Facebook now monetize the spectacle of “deliverance,” transforming sacred rites into viral entertainment. Deepfake technology conjures fake miracles and forged prophecies, intensifying hysteria and distrust. The internet, once a tool of enlightenment, has become an oracle without wisdom.

“The internet has become our new shrine—but the priest is an algorithm, and it does not confess.”

This digital-age hysteria deepens isolation, replaces community discernment with crowdsourced judgment, and erodes the spiritual depth needed to navigate suffering.

V. Feminist and Decolonial Readings: Whose Body Is Called a Witch?

In the echoing chambers of accusation, women’s bodies become battlegrounds where ancient fears meet modern power struggles. Dr. Isabel Phiri’s piercing insight—that “African women’s theology must uncover how spirituality has been hijacked by patriarchy”—pierces the veil of silence and demands reckoning. Witchcraft accusations are often not about spirits or curses but about controlling women whose land, labor, or voice unsettles entrenched hierarchies.

The colonial encounter carved Africa’s rich spiritual landscapes into rigid binaries, criminalizing female power and spiritual authority. Ifi Amadiume’s profound work reminds us that precolonial gender systems were fluid and sacred, but the colonial gaze hardened this fluidity into a rigid cage, labeling women healers and leaders as witches or deviants.

Annet’s story is emblematic here: her banishment was not only about fear but also about silencing a girl who, by her very existence, challenged patriarchal norms that prefer women invisible and voiceless. Her exile was an erasure—not just of her innocence but of a daughter’s rightful place in community and family.

“A woman who speaks too boldly is called a witch. A man who lies loudly is called a prophet.”

The witchcraft label frequently masks broader social conflicts: inheritance battles, land grabs, disputes over wealth and authority. Widows lose land; single mothers face suspicion; the elderly are pushed to margins—all under the cloak of “spiritual cleansing.”

Who benefits when a widow is branded a witch? Who profits when her fields are seized or her children are orphaned by rumor? The witch, then, is not an evil spirit but a symbol of systemic theft and silencing.

Yet within this shadow, sacred resistance glimmers. Women-led organizations across Africa reclaim spiritual narratives, weaving new stories of power, healing, and liberation. They expose the gendered violence cloaked as spiritual warfare and call the church to accountability and reform.

Annet’s rescue by a Kampala church group is not merely charity—it is a radical act of reclaiming a girl’s humanity against forces bent on erasure. Her survival is a testament to the power of communal resistance, of voices rising to challenge systems that seek to bury them alive.

VI. Sacred Resistance: From Silence to Advocacy

In the midst of darkness, the faintest light holds the promise of dawn. Across Africa, amidst the shadows cast by accusation and exile, sacred resistance blooms like a stubborn flower breaking through cracked earth. This resistance is not loud or militant, but tender and resolute—a gentle rising of voices, stories, and actions that refuse to be silenced.

In Kinshasa, the NGO EPED shelters children accused of witchcraft, weaving storytelling into therapy—a practice both ancient and transformative. Through narrative, survivors like Annet find their voices again, turning scars into songs and pain into poetry. These stories reclaim identity from the jaws of accusation and restore the fractured self.

Ghana’s Witch Camps Reconciliation Commission quietly works to reunite mothers and daughters torn apart by suspicion and fear, stitching back together the fabric of families and communities once rent asunder. Their work reminds us that healing is not just personal but profoundly communal.

In Uganda, leaders like Dr. Catherine Kyobutungi of the African Population and Health Research Center call for clergy training grounded in trauma-informed care—inviting ministers to move beyond spectacle and panic, toward prayerful discernment and compassionate support. This shift signals a church wrestling with its shadow, choosing intercession over accusation.

Pentecostal churches in Nairobi and Mbale lead this transformation, creating spaces where deliverance is no longer a theatrical exorcism but a careful, prayerful process rooted in the Scriptures and psychological wisdom. They embody the truth that even the fiercest lion, fed with wisdom, can lie down in peace with lambs.

“Even a lion, if fed with wisdom, will lie down with lambs.” — Banyoro proverb

Sacred resistance is not merely survival; it is prophetic witness. It is the refusal to accept fear as final, accusation as truth, or exile as destiny. It is the reclaiming of the witch as a symbol of resilience, the accused child as a bearer of hope, and the banished grandmother as a keeper of ancestral wisdom.

Annet’s survival is emblematic—a testament to the power of sanctuary and storytelling, to the fierce love that defies accusation and restores belonging. Her journey beckons the church, the state, and society to rise in solidarity, to light candles in the darkness, and to build altars of remembrance and justice.

VII. Recommendations: Toward a Theology and Policy of Protection

The path forward demands courage—not the courage to cast stones, but the courage to heal broken bones. It calls for a multi-layered approach where theology, law, media, and community converge to protect the vulnerable and dismantle the architecture of accusation.

1.Theological Reform:

The church must return to the wellspring of scripture with fresh eyes—engaging Hebrew and Greek scholarship that reveals the nuance of words like kashaph, and reclaiming a theology of liberation rather than condemnation. Seminaries should integrate trauma-informed care into pastoral training, equipping ministers to discern with compassion, not perform with fear. Pastoral care must shift from spectacle to sanctuary—offering prayerful accompaniment that restores dignity and belonging.

2.Legal and State Policy:

Governments must enforce child protection laws decisively, criminalizing spiritual abuse and witchcraft accusations that lead to harm. The repeal of outdated laws criminalizing witchcraft, such as Ghana’s 2020 legislation, should be expanded continent-wide, ensuring the law protects accused persons rather than enabling persecution. Special rural advocacy programs are urgently needed to safeguard elderly women and other vulnerable groups, ensuring their access to justice and social support.

3.Media Ethics and Digital Regulation:

The viral culture of monetized “deliverance” must be confronted. Platforms hosting videos that exploit children or amplify hysteria should be regulated, with clear bans on content that incites violence or spreads falsehoods. Governments and civil society should promote digital literacy programs that empower communities to discern truth from manipulation, fostering a culture of critical engagement rather than viral panic.

4.Community Healing:

Healing must be communal and sacred. Churches are called to light candles of lament for those falsely accused, creating sacred spaces where stories can be told without fear. National memorial days honoring victims should be established to break cycles of silence. Survivors, poets, and storytellers must be empowered to name wounds publicly—turning pain into prophecy, sorrow into song. This reclaiming of narrative is itself an act of sacred resistance.

“A person who is not taught by their mother will be taught by the world.” — Wolof proverb

Let us teach again. Let faith be a balm, not a blade.

About the author

Emmanuel Mihiingo Kaija, Evangelist And Missionary Grounded In Bible Studies, Theology, Church Ministry And Interdisciplinary Studie

Emkaijawrites@gmail.com