On the Kenyan coast, there are things that progress has never managed to displace. They coexist alongside smartphones, digital payments, and satellite dishes. They walk the same streets where people talk about artificial intelligence and book safaris online. These are ancient fears—those that dwell in the invisible and, when they resurface, turn a neighbor into a witch doctor and a rumor into a verdict.
It happened recently in Mombasa that some Jehovah’s Witnesses were attacked after being accused of making two men’s genitals “disappear.” An incident that brings to light the unresolved relationship between black magic, ancestral beliefs, and vigilante justice.
Ancestral legends, rituals, and superstitions—rich in anecdotes that confirm their credibility—spread through generations in East Africa faster than any news story. They require no evidence, nor photographs. A whisper is enough. All it takes is someone shouting at the market or on a street corner: “They made my balls disappear.” And suddenly, reason retreats, giving way to suspicion, anger, and, all too often, violence.
Because the real spell isn’t making a body part disappear. It’s managing to make doubt, common sense, and the ability to pause for a moment before striking disappear. That’s how it is, especially along the Kenyan coast, where the modern world still coexists with spirits, amulets, and witch doctors: fear continues to be the most powerful magic.

But let’s turn to the news: in Nyali, a suburb of Mombasa overlooking the Indian Ocean, this accusation—as bizarre as it is ancient—was enough to unleash chaos. Two men claimed that some Christian preachers, whom they had encountered during a door-to-door mission, had made their genitals disappear with a simple greeting or a mysterious gesture.
The rumor spread through the neighborhood like wildfire. Within a few hours, hundreds of people poured into the streets. Eight preachers, later identified as members of Jehovah’s Witnesses, found themselves besieged by an enraged mob. Four of them were beaten, sustaining injuries—some of them serious. To rescue them, the police had to intervene with reinforcements from several precincts, firing tear gas and warning shots into the air.
When the officers investigated the allegations, the reality turned out to be far less mysterious than the legend. The two complainants had lied. Their genitals were exactly where they had always been.
Yet it would be a mistake to dismiss the incident as mere folkloric nonsense.

Those who have lived on the Kenyan coast for some time know full well that witchcraft does not belong solely to the realm of fairy tales. It is part of a belief system that permeates villages, cities, families, and even educated circles. In Malindi, Kilifi, Mombasa, and the hinterland, tales of the evil eye, spells, spirits, and witch doctors continue to influence decisions, relationships, and behavior.
Over the years, there has been no shortage of tragic incidents. Elderly people accused of being witches and burned alive. Traditional healers lynched. People murdered because they were held responsible for illnesses, droughts, or family misfortunes. Each time, the pattern is similar: a suspicion, a rumor, an accusation, and finally a mob convinced it is administering a form of justice.
The phenomenon of the alleged “disappearance of genitals” is not even unique to Africa. Anthropologists and sociologists have been studying it for decades as an example of mass hysteria and social panic. Similar incidents have been reported in Nigeria, Ghana, Cameroon, Benin, and recently also in neighboring Tanzania, where dozens of people were arrested following similar accusations.
The pattern is almost always the same. A person experiences a physical sensation, becomes convinced that something has changed, and attributes the event to a stranger encountered shortly before. From that moment on, fear takes over. Individual belief becomes collective truth.
But it would be superficial to view these stories merely as the result of ignorance. In a society where ancestral traditions, modern religions, and deep economic inequalities coexist, witchcraft often serves as a way to explain what seems inexplicable. It is a cultural response to uncertainty, illness, misfortune, and anguish.

For this reason, the debate remains a sensitive one. On the one hand, science and the authorities reiterate that there is no evidence of supernatural powers capable of making body parts disappear. On the other hand, millions of people continue to believe that forces exist that are beyond human understanding.
The problem arises when belief turns into condemnation.
In Nyali, almost nothing has disappeared—except the line between fear and violence. And perhaps the lesson of this story lies precisely here. Because the testicles of the two accusers reappeared immediately, but the wounds sustained by the preachers will remain for much longer.
On the Kenyan coast, where the sun sets every evening behind the ocean and the stories of the ancestors continue to walk alongside people, black magic continues to instill fear. But what is even more frightening is the speed with which a legend can turn into a manhunt.