You can’t live in Africa without noticing, at some point in time, a Muti Man’s shop. Well, that is what I call them. Shops that are found on street corners in every city, every town. Places where native medicine men, the sangomas, purvey their wares. Even in the heart of glitzy Johannesburg you would find these shops. At least you could in the early Eighties. I always hurried past them. They seemed to have an air of malevolence about them to me. A feeling, I suspect, borne of
