Magical Realism | Folktale
The Call of the Wanga Nègès
Magic and Tradition in the Haitian Highlands
The dense fog clung to the rolling hills of Furcy, swirling around Jean-Baptiste’s shoulders and dampening his shirt. The crisp morning air, characteristic of the highlands, hummed with the awakening of the valley below — a symphony of chirps, rustles, and the distant crow of roosters. He gripped the fistibal, its smooth wood a familiar comfort against his calloused palm. Today, this simple slingshot, swiped from his little brother’s bedside in a moment of desperate hope, held the weight of his mission. A silent apology settled in Jean-Baptiste’s gut, but the gravity of his task outweighed any childish transgression.
Jean-Baptiste’s face, etched with the lines of a life spent under the harsh Haitian sun, creased into a wry smile. He considered himself a man of reason, yet here he was, embarking on a pursuit fueled by desperation. Marjorie’s gaze, devoid of warmth, seemed to pierce right through him. The daughter of Boss Duckens, the village’s renowned blacksmith, she worked at the borlette bank in town, her beauty as enticing as the promise of fortune she sold daily. Her persistent indifference had shattered his self-worth and left him raw, vulnerable to the seductive whispers of tradition.
