December 16-22, 2004

naked city

That Ol' Black Magic

Up In smoke: Jenkanpe Josess breathes deep while giving divinations at Chestnut Hill's BnB International Cigars and Accessories. Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Clearing up a few misconceptions with Philadelphia Voodoo priest Jenkanpe Josess.

by Cory Frolik

I'm on my way to meet with a Voodoo priest. Which is just great. My natural talent for saying the absolute wrong thing is about to bite me in the ass. I know, I just know, I am going to wake up tomorrow as a giant insect.

OK, so my thoughts on the drive up before connecting with the Jenkanpe Josess—a Voodoo priest providing divinations at BnB International Cigars and Accessories—are perhaps a little rash. But can you blame me? As a guy raised on Hollywood slop, Voodoo has always meant horrible, irreversible curses.

But Josess, a man with no hocus-pocus about him, puts my fears at ease. On first glance at the quaint Chestnut Hill shop on the 7000 block of Germantown Avenue, no one would think, "Now that is where I can get some Voodoo on." The shop has more of a Cape Cod taffy joint quality. But the benign environment is no accident. Along with giving him $20 to read their futures, Josess hoped interested folks would come to learn the truth about Voodoo.

Josess sat at a small, dark green table, surrounded by colorful portraits of Voodoo's religious icons, including Papa Ogun (spirit of justice/strength/war) and Papa Legba (the intermediary between humans and the forces). Although Josess had some accessories that lent a spiritual air to the proceedings, the back room in which he toiled was still very much a kitchen. A less informed person—me, for instance—might have expected an eerie haunted-house vibe and for Josess to be dressed in attire Saruman would have approved. However, Josess, aside from looking inhumanly smooth in his outfit of a white suit and leather-brimmed bucket hat with a red vestment-type garment, has all kinds of normal-guy qualifications. He's worked as a substitute teacher for the Philadelphia public school system for 13 years and once was a professor at the Community College of Philadelphia. In fact, none of the other people in attendance had backgrounds or appearances that would cock an eyebrow: a lawyer, multiple teachers, even the owner of phillyhiphop.com mill about. Not a fire swallower in the bunch.

Furthermore, Josess behaved as any cigar shop visitor might, puffing long and deep on a Dominico maduro. Sure, there was a sense that the activity stirred a little deeper in him—the practice of smoking cigars pleases the loa of justice and strength—but nothing insidious. (More on those loas later.)

There is a common misunderstanding that Voodoo practitioners worship many gods. Thanks to countless sensationalized depictions—from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom to Major League, Voodoo has developed a bad rap. The entertainment industry has done to Voodoo what Peter Benchley did to the ocean.

"There is only God and Christ," says Josess, who presides over the LePeristyle Haitian Sanctuary in the city's Olney section. "Loas are God's messengers," he continues. These loas are forces assigned by God and Christ to govern over different facets of human life. All activities, problems and human preoccupations fall somewhere within the realm of their work.

Perhaps you're wondering: Must one mutilate a goat to praise a loa?

These loas, though austere in their requests for praise, don't demand barbaric sacrifices. Honey is always nice. Also, perfumes, cigars, rum—think "stocking stuffers"—are also as fancied by the loas.

But what about the dolls?

Voodoo dolls are bullshit, says Josess, elements of a doozy of a lie perpetuated upon America long ago. In Voodoo invocations, "packets"—medicinal herbs wrapped in cloth—are used to help channel the loas; if you squint they could look like dolls, what with the pins used to affix sequins to the cloth.

The tendency for gross misrepresentation about Voodoo beliefs is a large part of the reason Josess held this event at BnB and a similar event five days earlier at Toto's. Josess and his entourage, which include his wife (a certified mambo or Voodoo priestess), go out into the community to clear up this messy business. "The Lord is pushing us to go out and dispel the myths about Voodoo," says Josess. "To this day, when you mention the word "Voodoo,' it still has that stigma attached."

The stigma, says Josess, stems from a propaganda campaign waged on Voodooists during the early days of slavery. Successful slave revolts in Haiti against the French, motivated by deep religious convictions, terrified American slaveholders. "The American economy relied on slavery," explains Josess. "It would have been financially devastating to [lose] it."

"When we pray to God and the forces, we go out and [make] big things for ourselves," says Josess. None of this waiting-for-Godot business; Voodoo is more proactive about creating the conditions for a meaningful life (and unshackling the chains of slavery is always a good start). According to Josess, the slaveholders sought to contaminate the notion of Voodoo since it threatened to empower slaves. That propaganda was so efficient, it's survived to this day.

Josess's wife—aka Gro Mambo Satela Novanyon, Idizol—says, "People are naturally scared of what they don't know. [But] Voodoo is about God."

So wait, no shrunken heads? No zombies?

Turns out, you'd have better luck at a Slipknot concert.