In Lin, power doesn’t only come from votes. Sometimes it comes from things older than ballots. Senator Clarke was desperate. Poll numbers dropping. Scandals surfacing. Enemies closing in. So one night, he drove alone into the countryside beyond Spanish Town. No security. No phone. Just directions whispered to him by a party insider:
“If you want win, go see him.”
The hut stood alone in a clearing. No lights. No road sign. Just smoke drifting from a small fire. An old man sat outside, grinding something in a bowl.
“You late,”
The Obeahman said without looking up. Clarke froze.
“I didn’t say my name.”
The old man smiled.
“You don’t need to.”
Clarke explained what he wanted. Victory. Protection. Removal of obstacles. The Obeahman nodded slowly.
“Balance must keep,”
He said.
“What’s the cost?”
The old man stared into the fire.
“Not today. Later.”
The ritual was simple. Rum poured into the dirt. A black candle lit. Clarke pricked his finger and let blood drip into the bowl.
“Done,”
The Obeahman whispered. Two weeks later, Clarke’s main opponent died suddenly. Aneurysm. No prior health issues. Clarke won the election in a landslide. He celebrated. He forgot. Until one year later.
On the anniversary of his victory, his campaign manager died in a car crash. The next year, his media strategist drowned. The year after that, his driver had a stroke. Every anniversary. One person who helped him win. Dead. Clarke drove back to the clearing in panic. The hut was gone. No fire. No footprints. Just open land.
In the center of the clearing stood a wooden stake with a sign nailed to it. A list of names carved into the wood. All crossed out. Except one. His. Behind him, a voice whispered:
“Balance.”
He felt a hand press against his back. He stumbled forward. The ground beneath him collapsed revealing a grave. Freshly dug. And as he fell into it, dirt pouring down from nowhere, he saw something carved into the inside walls. Election date. Vote count. His name.
They found Senator Clarke weeks later. Buried on his own private estate. No signs of who dug the grave. On his desk at home was a single black candle. Melted. And a bowl stained dark.
In Jamaica, when politicians rise too fast, old people just nod and say:
“Him get help.”
And when they fall?
They say:
“Balance collect.”
