Haitian Voodoo Discovers A Home In Philadelphia

PHILADELPHIA - Mambo Angela Novanyon pours rum on her hands, then cups her fingers around a candle. There's a burst of blue flame. Mambo rubs her face with the fiery liquid. A clap of her hands, and the flame dies out.

The high priestess of voodoo is ready.

For more than three hours, she and a group of voodoo followers have beaten hollow wooden drums and chanted songs and prayers in the Creole language. Mambo, who has undergone a visible transformation, is possessed, her followers say, by Papa Ogu - in voodoo, the spiritual force that governs the fires above Earth.

And now, in a ceremony that honors that spiritual force, Mambo straddles a black-and-white goat and brandishes a paring knife.

CEREMONY IN BASEMENT

It's long past midnight. Half a mile east of Broad Street and Olney Avenue - 1,600 miles north of Haiti - Mambo Angela, the former Jocelya Smith, Germantown High School Class of 1970, is hosting a Haitian voodoo ceremony. It takes place in the basement of her house in the Fern Rock section.

Mambo - the word is Haitian for priestess - is a former computer coder and a former dancer who went to Haiti to learn voodoo. She is one of the few African Americans to achieve the rank of high priestess.

In Haiti, where she was initiated into voodoo, Mambo lived in the bush country, slept in the same clothes for days, and ate meat from sacrificed goats and chickens.

But back in the United States, she is a thoroughly modern Mambo who drives an expensive new car, writes books on her three computers and delivers guest lectures on voodoo at the University of Pennsylvania.

"It's just the business of modern society," she says during a recent interview. "And we have to be equipped to deal with the business of modern society."

Mambo is teaching the ancient religion to 50 followers, mostly African Americans, who call themselves godchildren. In voodoo, the godchildren say, they found something lacking in other religions, a deep cultural connection with Africa.

"This is the element missing in African-American life," says George Ware, 51, one of the godchildren. "We try to make it in the American world, and we do pretty well, but there's an element missing, and I think this is it."

Ware is a former chemist and mathematics professor at Goddard and Hunter colleges. Now he publishes a rap-music magazine and is Mambo's unpaid public-relations director.

When Mambo is Mambo, she laughs uncontrollably at times and has a hint of flirtatiousness in her husky voice. But when she is possessed by Papa Ogu, her femininity disappears: After dispatching the goats, she sits on the tile floor of the voodoo sanctuary, smokes a fat cigar and waves a gift from a godchild, a bottle of rum. "Merci beaucoup! Merci beaucoup!" she screeches.

MESSENGERS OF GOD

Papa Ogu is just one of many spiritual forces, or loas, that regularly possess Mambo and the godchildren. In voodoo, the loas are the messengers of God, revealing truths that benefit humanity.

"Are you with me?" Mambo yells to the godchildren. "Kenyatta, you awake?"

Robert Kenyatta, who has drummed with John Coltrane, the Beach Boys and Wilson Pickett, is infamous for falling asleep on the job. The loas do not like this.

"I'm awake," he calls back.

It's a regular Sunday morning service at Le Peristyle Haitian Sanctuary. Inside the crowded voodoo sanctuary, known as a humofor, it's as hot as Haiti.

The godchildren are barefoot and dressed in white; the men and boys in white shirts and pants, the women and girls in white head wraps, blouses and long skirts. They dance around an altar covered with flowers and candles and plaster statues of Jesus Christ, the Black Madonna and several saints.

"Aaaayeee-bobo," Mambo chants. It's Creole for praise God. "Aaaayeee-bobo," Mambo's followers chant.

Three drummers beat tall wooden rada drums covered with the skin of bulls. The drumbeat moves fast, slow, then fast again, challenging the dancers to keep pace. White skirts swish, bare feet move rhythmically on the floor. Women fan their faces with woven straw fans. A chilled bottle of water passes from hand to hand.

SHE FALLS IN SLOW MOTION

A woman melts to the floor in what looks like a slow-motion faint. Mambo shakes a gourd rattle over the woman's shoulders. Moments later, the woman lies face down on the floor, her legs kicking convulsively.

She is possessed, the godchildren say, by Papa Dumbala, the loa of wisdom. Soon, two other women are crawling across the floor.

Mambo's eyes are closed and she sings and dances and shakes a rattle. Several godchildren hug her. She begins to stagger around the room.

Mambo is possessed, this time by Mali Louise, the loa who governs fate and destiny. Her face looks swollen, her lips are set in a scowl.

Mali Louise walks slowly through the crowd, stopping to talk to a woman. Mali Louise speaks firmly in Creole while a priest, or hungan, translates quietly.

"You are walking strong," Mali Louise tells her. "You do not let men and women see you cry, but you are crying inside."

The woman begins sobbing. Mali Louise speaks soothingly to the woman for several minutes.