Two-Headed Lady

Over the next month, Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter’s health deteriorated so much that he could barely get out of bed. Urinating was painful and he had to use a bedpan. Leaking pus left greenish-yellow stains on the bedsheets and on his underwear. Friends feared he was near dying.

Huddie had heard of a grandmother, a two-headed lady, from the Dominican Republic, who had lived in New Orleans for several years. She practised a mixture of Orleans Voudou and Latin American Santèria. It was said she could cure “the serious illness” so Huddie asked for her.

The old madam arrived in a wheelchair pushed by a thin coal-black man. She was dressed in a black dress with a black lace collar. The man carried a small carpetbag.

He introduced himself as Migine, and the woman by the name of Mama Corojo. Mama Corojo was a Yoruba healer.

“The Yoruba people in Africa are thought to have been where voo doo originated,” Migine explained to Huddie.

Mama Corojo sat in her wheelchair, by Huddie’s bedside, and held his hand for a few minutes. Then she whispered something in Spanish to her companion.

“Mama Corojo says that the serious illness can be defeated with the help of Saint Lazarus, but you must wear a veve of grisgris, including a talisman, Las Muleta de San Lázaro. She will also prepare a powder for you to take which you must drink daily for six weeks,” said Migine.

“What kind of powder?” asked Huddie. Something about the old woman made him queasy.

“The powder is mixed with water and is a remedy from Old Orleans—a solution called Lafayette’s Mixture. It’s said that it was created for the Marquis de Lafayette, in the eighteenth century, by the voudoun, during the American Revolution, to cure the Marquis of his own serious illness. The grisgris you must not remove. Inside the veve is a tiny gold-plated pair of Saint Lazarus’s crutches. In Santèria belief, Lazarus is the Catholic equivalent of Babalú Ayéthe, Yoruba patron of the sick. You must drink Lafayette’s Mixture for six weeks. After that, for nine days, you then burn a candle, and, at the end of that time, leave the remains of the candle wax, and the crutches of San Lázaro, somewhere near a hospital.”

Migine opened his carpetbag, took out a small red pouch, placing the tiny talisman inside, and put it around Huddie’s neck. He poured some alcohol from a bottle into a basin and placed it before Mama Corojo.

The woman submerged her arms up to the elbows in the alcohol and stood up out of her chair. Striking a match, Migine set both her arms alight. The whoosh of flame startled Huddie and he jerked up in bed.

“No! No! Do not move!” shouted Migine, pushing him back down. “You must hold still!”

Mama Corojo began to shake and shout. She talked in glossolalia, in tongues—a strange blend of gibberish and Haitian Creole.

She held her arms out over Huddie’s bed. Her forearms were ablaze but the flames did not appear to concern her. Migine quickly wrapped a wet towel around Mama Corojo’s arms, dousing the flames.

She immediately placed both her hands on Huddie’s chest, pushing him hard into the bed, whispering gently into his face.

Suddenly, she slumped back into her wheelchair, head down, as though sleeping.

Huddie noticed that the skin of her arms had no burns.

“You must now prepare Lafayette’s Mixture, one time per day,” Migine repeated carefully.

“There is enough in this bag for six weeks. At the end of that time, you burn the candle for nine days,” he said, removing a red candle from the carpetbag.

“When the candle has burnt completely down, you take the melted wax and Las Muleta de San Lázaro and place them near a hospital. The serious illness will then leave your body.”

Huddie did as he was told.

Six weeks later, all trace of the gonorrhea had disappeared.