You know that moment when you’re scrolling through memes online and someone drops a “witch vibes only” post? Cute, right? But in parts of Africa, that same word, witch, can flip your whole social status upside down or at least used to. Not in a Hogwarts way, but in a you might get exiled by sunrise kind of way.In many African cosmologies, there’s this idea that your grandparents, great grandparents and that one mysterious great aunt who never smiled in photos… are still around. Spiritually, at least. They guide you, protect you, and occasionally, if you ignore them, remind you who really runs the bloodline.

According to a study from South Africa’s AmaZizi chiefdom, ancestors are believed to either protect you or refuse to protect you. The basic translation is that if you skip the rituals, mock tradition or just mess up, your ancestors might ghost you (literally). Suddenly, your crops fail, your car breaks down, the list of endless atrocities.

Now here’s where it gets confusing. At what point does ancestral power become witchcraft? Who decides what’s evil?

Because if we’re being honest, in Western pop culture, a witch is just aesthetic. Think crystals, herbal tea and mercury is in retrograde tweets. But in many African contexts, witchcraft is not cute. It’s serious business,sometimes life and death serious.

A theological paper explains that African witchcraft beliefs often serve as social explanations for suffering or death. Where a Western doctor might say stroke, a village might say witchcraft. Both are diagnoses, but one comes with exile. And then there’s the community angle. If your aunt suddenly buys a new car, someone will whisper, “Hmm… Nyongo?” (That’s a real thing, the Nyongo society is a secret cult myth from Cameroon that supposedly exchanges souls for wealth.) So yes, imagine you’re in a group chat with your ancestors, your jealous co worker and one neighbourhood gossip who always knows too much. Someone drops a cursed GIF. Who picks the GIF? Who moderates the chat? That’s the social version of deciding who’s evil and who’s just energetically gifted.

Because,witchcraft in many African traditions isn’t inherently bad.

A recent paper on spiritual warfare in Africa explains that witchcraft is both defensive and offensive. You can use it to harm or to protect. Some people use it for good energy, others use it to hack your peace.Even the Encyclopedia of African Witchcraft says the term “witch” originally wasn’t moralized. It simply meant someone with power, spiritual power that could be used in either direction. So really, evil isn’t a fixed category, it’s a social decision, I’d like to think.

And here’s where things turn tragic. In rural parts of Uganda, older women have been attacked or killed after being accused of witchcraft, often when the harvest fails or someone dies unexpectedly.  And the worst part is that it’s not about curses, it’s about vulnerability. According to AP News, these accusations often serve as scapegoating mechanisms in moments of collective stress. The label witch becomes a way to explain suffering when modern systems like healthcare or governance fall short.

Sometimes those whispers about black magic we grew up hearing? They weren’t random. They were social tools. Witchcraft accusations maintained morality, enforced communal behavior, and explained the unexplainable. For the younger generations, yes, your Pinterest altar is cute, your crystals are shiny and your soft witch energy playlist but don’t forget the context. In many African spaces, witch isn’t a vibe, it’s a verdict. So let’s sit with that contradiction. In one world, witchcraft is empowerment, feminism and  moon rituals. In another, it’s exile, death and fear. Both rooted in the same human instinct to explain what we can’t control.

So who decides what’s evil? The chief? The pastor? The state? Maybe all of us do, each time we label a power source as dark just because we don’t understand it. Maybe the real magic is recognizing that not every unseen force is out to harm us. Some are just ancestors doing quality control.

Anyway, I’m off to light my candle, drink my tea, and remind my great-grandmother that I still honor her even if I’ve replaced her shrine with a scented diffuser.