The art of letting go: Rituals, djinns and the unexpected paths to healing

We bury things to release them. We write names on paper and burn them. We walk into oceans at dawn, light candles on balconies, or shave our heads when grief becomes too heavy for words.

But rituals are slippery things. Some are handed down through generations with holy reverence. Others are invented on the spot, usually when we’re struck by a burst of emotion, creativity, or artistic flair.

Which brings me to a day in January 2020.

My life at the time was, let’s put it this way, a disaster. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong. In times like this, I resort to calling my sister, Mary, who is the Knower of All Things. If Mary weren’t a successful writer, and if she had a little more… patience, she could easily be crowned Supreme Psycho-Social Support Person of the World.

Alternative advice

If you booked a session with Mary, you’d need to be prepared for two things: the truth, delivered as only she can deliver it; and some, let’s call it, alternative advice.

So off I went, listing my woes. Mary listened attentively, validated the chaos, and said, very gently: “This is a lot. Are you sure there isn’t an evil spirit following you? Specifically, might there be a djinn?”

Now some context might be helpful here. Mary had been deep in research for her novel Blood to Poison, which meant that she was living in a world of magic, myth and mysticism. Djinns were her bread and butter. For the uninitiated, allow me to explain. 

So here goes: Djinns are supernatural beings, distinct from both angels and humans, created by smokeless fire. They inhabit a parallel realm to ours, invisible to humans unless they decide to show themselves. Think of them as the 13th fairy who wasn’t invited to Sleeping Beauty’s christening. All religions have them, more or less. Different names but same same. 

Now I feel it’s only fair to share something about myself here, just to help you understand what happened next. How to put this? I might be a tad on the gullible side. The words were barely out of Mary’s mouth when I swear I felt it — the djinn — in the room with us. Laughing. Loudly. As Mary and I sat there calmly discussing her, like she wasn’t listening and plotting her next move. 

I lowered my voice and said, “Mary, this explains everything. I have a djinn. What do we do?”

And this is where my sister truly shines. She is nothing if not resourceful, always armed with an encyclopaedic knowledge base that spans obscure folklore, historical uprisings, and the dark corners of social media. As it turned out, she had recently stumbled upon a post, from someone who, I can only assume, is both spiritually advanced and a content creator, outlining the precise steps to remove a djinn from one’s life.

Here they are in a nutshell: Find a place with many trees. Go there. (Preferably when no one else is around); arm yourself with an egg; select a tree that feels right. (I don’t have specific advice for this. Just do your best. Tune into the frequency or whatever); focus on the tree; summon the djinn to mind; throw the egg at the tree; go home; on your way home, make sure that the djinn is not following you.

Djinn-free by nightfall

If followed in this exact chronological order, you are allegedly guaranteed to be djinn-free by nightfall. 

Now, not being A Person of Great Courage, I immediately knew that I needed back-up. I’m not stupid enough to walk into a forest alone with a djinn. I’ve seen the movies. So I called up my friends Luan and Jill. I explained the mission — djinn removal via egg sacrifice and asked if they might be interested in joining. You couldn’t blink before those girls said yes. No hesitation. No djinn fear, they were in. Luan, ever the pragmatist, reminded me that I have never been particularly gifted at throwing things. “You’re going to need a six-pack of eggs,” she said. “Minimum. Just to make sure that you actually hit the tree.”  

So on a warm summer evening, off we set. In the end, I decided to take my dogs, Charlie and Thandi, with us. Just to be safe. I figured their presence might intimidate the djinn. Also, it seemed so wrong to leave them out of a family cleansing ritual. 

The dogs were in their element. We arrived at an arboretum in Kirstenbosch, and they leapt out of the car, in a mad frenzy of excitement, as if they too understood the gravity of what we were about to do. Their tails wagged with purpose. They were ready to rid us of the djinn. 

After some gentle contestation and loud bickering, we eventually agreed that we had found it — a tree sufficiently conducive to holding the spirit of a djinn. Lu opened the egg carton, looked me dead in the eye, and said: “Do your best. Aim properly. Avoid egg wastage.” 

I called for a moment of silence to focus our intent. We closed our eyes. The dogs, sensing that things had slowed down, wandered off to sniff tree trunks and chase shadows. I opened my eyes, summoned my intent and hurled the first egg at the tree. It missed. By far. Possibly by metres. Luan and Jill were trying their best to be supportive and kept their mouths shut. Just the soft whir of judgement hanging in the air. 

I took a second egg and threw again. 

Another miss. 

After the third egg veered off like a rogue comet, Luan broke the silence. 

“Are you serious? What is wrong with you? Move forward. Stand right in front of the tree. We only have three eggs left.” 

Bigger issues at stake

I decided that there were bigger issues at stake than dealing with Luan’s sarcasm. So I moved forward, squared my shoulders, and threw the next egg. 

We could go on about this all day, but let’s skip to the point. The sixth egg hit the mark. Wild jubilation broke out. 

Jill and Luan started dancing wildly around the tree. We hugged. We laughed. We could feel the djinn soaring off into the sunset, vanquished at last by sheer determination and a carton of eggs. And then, as the dust of our victory began to settle, Jill paused. She pointed.  “Is Thandi… Is she eating the egg?” she asked. 

We turned.

There she was, wagging her tail, licking the bark with unsettling enthusiasm. 

 “Is she eating the djinn?” Luan asked, her eyes widening. “Like, actually ingesting it?”

This was not in the manual Mary gave me. Naturally, I called her to give her an update. She was concerned.

“No animals are allowed at the cleansing ritual,” she said, dead serious.

Like… for real? This girl tells me now?

But here’s the thing: I’ve decided that Thandi was sent into my life as a blessing from the universe — a guardian, a golden-hearted distraction, a four-legged forcefield. And I refuse to believe that any djinn, no matter how vengeful, could mess with the light in that dog.

Now, I bet you want to know whether it worked. Whether my problems vanished. Whether the egg did its thing.

But guess what? I’m not going to tell you.

You’ll have to try it yourself. Let me know how it goes.

I’ll leave you with just one final thought: Covid-19 happened shortly after this ritual.

But let the record show, there is no legal system in the universe that’s going to pin that on me.

(PS: Thandi has been behaving strangely. But, to be fair, she was a strange soul before the djinn). DM