I didn't know what I was getting myself into when I went to Africa back then. It was just an assignment. But that trip changed my life. Not suddenly. Not planned. But for good. What I experienced there was strange. It touched something in me that I couldn't see before. I am taking you with me on this journey.
The first story shows how change begins: inconspicuous, incomprehensible - and irreversible.
Lucas+
I'm sitting on a Nigerian Airways plane, sandwiched between two fat African women. The air is thin, there's rubbish everywhere. I feel strangely protected between them. They pay no attention to me. They laugh, eat, hand out manioc. Light clouds of smoke rise. They are cooking. Fish, chicken, manioc and rice, all mixed in ketchup, are passed around with their hands. A few rows behind me, two chickens are clucking. They sit in a home-made cage between the seats, like luggage. Children snatch tidbits from a pot. If you reach in too late, you'll miss the best bits. A man opens a bottle of beer with his teeth - for me. I wave it off, but have no choice but to accept it. This world has its own rules. If I didn't know I was on an aeroplane, I wouldn't believe it. A bag tips, eggs roll across the aisle. Nobody scolds me. Everyone helps calmly. Order has a different face here. The plane vibrates, squeaks, groans as if it wants to lose itself - and touches down in Douala late in the evening. I stop at customs. Question after question. Mamadou, a colleague and local, is suddenly standing next to me. He has skilfully cheated his way through with his invalid ID. How good that he knows the rules of the game. I follow him - without understanding. And I'm already in the middle of my future life.
If your back is against the wall in your life - your way of life no longer stands a chance - I am there for you. Give me a call.
Phone and WhatsApp: +49(0)162 20 831 82
e-mail: info@lucas-scherpereel.com
When I accepted a work assignment in Africa over thirty years ago, I never dreamed that I would be putting my life in danger there. But I was very wrong. I was caught in the middle of the violent unrest in Central Africa and often had to fear for my life. It was a terrible time. But I also had wonderful times with new friends who were open, friendly and kind to me. And who gave me an insight into the mysterious world of magic. White and black magic, the world of spirits and fetishes. I met traditional healers, medicine men, aladjis, ceremonies, voodoo, ancestor work and spiritual cleansing. I saw what works - and what destroys. It all amazed and frightened me. At the same time, however, these new experiences and realisations made me realise that I should change my life in the future. The experiences had a profound impact on me and broadened my understanding of energy, protection and spiritual truth. They showed me how fine the line is between help and manipulation. And how important it is to work with humility.
I have embraced my new future. Today I accompany people - in private, emotional and economic crises. My immediate mediumistic help and clairvoyance, as well as my ability to transform negative energies into positive ones, bring quick and successful support. I am not here to prove what works. I am here because I have been called. What I do is not done by myself, but in connection with a force that is greater than our minds. In this way, I have become the last resort for many people who are medically considered to be out of therapy, who have their backs to the wall. Still. Clearly, and with what I was given.
A man wrote to me: All the blockages, fears and illnesses are gone. My wife's anger no longer exists and I have fallen in love with my wife all over again. My wife was obsessed for years, as you said Mr Scherpereel. I finally see the love that my wife carries in her heart and I thank God and you Mr Scherpereel for the best work a person could ever do for me.
If you have found me here, this could be your new beginning. Give me a call. Only then can I help. You can trust me.
I don't know what to expect from Francisco. I shrug my shoulders when he asks me what I'm interested in. What do I know about magic, about the supernatural? Francisco starts to tell me about himself. He comes from São Tomé, is small and well-fed. He is friendly, but very mysterious. He normally speaks Portuguese. His French is difficult to understand. As he talks, he looks at me and Abdou so penetratingly that we clutch the armrests of our chairs tighter. Then Francisco says: "I want to show you four things today to convince you that I work excellently as a magician. There are many who work incorrectly. And there are some who siphon off the life force of customers for themselves. I, on the other hand, work from my own strength. I meditate a lot." He turns to me and hands me a piece of paper. "Write down a question that is important to you. You'll get an answer in your own language." I write my name, my address and then the question in French: When will I be back in Germany for sure? I hold my hand over it, like I used to do at school. Then I fold up the sheet. "Put it in the envelope and sit on it," says Francisco. I obey. Every now and then I lift myself slightly to feel. Yes, the envelope is still there. But suddenly it's gone. Just like that. I have no explanation. How can that be? "The letter's gone," says Francisco. "You want an answer, don't you?" "Of course I do," I reply. Fifteen minutes later, the envelope is back. All of a sudden. And without warning. Francisco says: "Open it." I feel woozy. What if I read something bad? I slowly open the envelope. Everything is intact. There's something written in red ink on the note. Handwritten, neatly. I read just for myself: "My dear friend! I can tell you that you will arrive in Germany on 21 January 1991. Unfortunately, you will end up arriving empty-handed." I am shocked. Another year in Libreville? I try to stay calm. "Interesting," I say. My voice trembles. "Keep the note safe," says Francisco. "You'll come back to it later."
I can anticipate it here: I land in Düsseldorf on 21 January 1991. I'm very glad to have escaped with my life. Apart from the clothes on my body, I didn't take anything with me.
I have seen many things that cannot be explained. And I know that help is also possible for you. Give me a call. Only then can I help.
"Time passes quickly," the magician now urges a little hurriedly. "That's why I want to do something now where you can only marvel. I won't say anything and I won't answer any questions. But afterwards you can see for yourselves what is possible with magic." I hope it's a pleasant thing and nothing forbidden, I think to myself. I've actually had enough for today. Francisco murmurs a few words to himself again, then pushes a folded sheet of paper into an envelope and sticks it together. Nothing is added, nothing is put inside. The letter remains on the table. Everyone looks at it intently. But nothing happens. The letter doesn't get thicker, doesn't get thinner. It doesn't move. It just lies there. The tension mounts. "Voilà," says Francisco all at once. "There we have it already. Open the letter and tell me what you think." I don't actually want to open it until later in the hotel. Who knows what's in store for me this time? Francisco sticks to his request. He's slowly getting impatient. "Open the letter!" he barks at me. "It's nothing bad. Nothing will happen to you. You'll see what's inside." Okay, I think, then I follow his instructions. I open the letter and see a note inside. When I pull it apart, I realise a light blue bank statement that looks very familiar. "No," I groan, "that can't be true! That's my bank statement. My last one, my most recent one from yesterday!" With my account number, the date, my name, my address and details of what I've just transferred! Even yesterday's account balance is correct! Where did 'they' get it from? It couldn't have been stolen, and how did it end up in this envelope now of all times, here in Francisco's little village? How is that possible? How did the magician get hold of this extract? "You can see that many things are possible with magic," Francisco replies, as if he could read my mind. "But you don't have to believe it. It's still true." I am stunned.
And maybe you're feeling the same way right now. If you've tried everything in life and nothing has helped, you've come to the right place. Give me a call. Let me help you.
I'm supposed to help. But why me of all people? Someone knocks on my door at the weekend. It's one of the medicine men who have been going to the pastor's service for some time. Massou has come because he "knows no other way", as he says. "Three little girls from our village have a fever and haven't eaten for days," he tells me. "Now only you can help!" "Why me?" I ask. "Yes, you can!" he says. "Your eyes say so." I wave him off. But Massou simply sits down on my bed without invitation. "Please," he begs, "or they'll die." I don't want it to come to that. So I nod slowly. "Fine, then I'll come with you. Let's go." I learn that the girls were overcome by a high fever one night. Then came chills. Now they've stopped drinking and eating. "That's not normal," I say to Massou. He is as white as a sheet: "A bad sign," he mumbles. "I'm neither a pastor, nor a doctor, nor a medicine man, but I'm trying my luck." He doesn't hear me. Actually, I never wanted to accept my gift. But now it might be a matter of life or death. We set off in the middle of the night - out of the city. I forget about any danger. Later I wonder: where were the soldiers, the drunks? Nobody was out and about. It was as if it was deserted. We reach the hut. When I see the little ones, I shudder. The sight of them is sad. Their eyelids are swollen and closed. Their breathing is rapid, jerky. Sometimes their little bodies, bathed in sweat, rear up. I ask Massou and the parents to leave me alone. I am exhausted, but I begin. In silence. Concentrated. I don't know how long I sit there. Suddenly one of the girls opens her eyes and smiles. The second one sweats, suddenly stops freezing and jumps up. I smile. They look at me. "You were ill. Now you're going to get better," I say. They hardly listen. They are raving. The parents rush in. Massou too. "Well done," he whispers. I leave the hut, the village, return. I know now: I'm going to take a different path. Nothing will stop me now. If I ever survive the hell of Gabon, I swear to myself: I will change my life from the ground up.
Many people who were considered out of therapy, I have already been able to accompany and experience, how healing became possible. Perhaps today is the right moment for you. Give me a call. I am here for you.
I still remember the little boy playing football with his friends in the neighbourhood with an old leather ball on a lawn covered in deep holes. The ball has no air, so this little boy runs after it, stumbles, comes to a halt and cries out pitifully. His right arm is broken. He must be in incredible pain. His forearm is sticking up at 90 degrees, several splinters are visible through the skin. His face is contorted, he is screaming and shouting. When the village medicine man hears this, he comes running. The aladji calls me in so that I can be there when he is healed. He waits until I have reached him and the boy in the hut, then he gets started. The little boy lies on a wooden bench, a chair is handed to me and I sit close to the aladji. His name is Aladji Tall. He stretches the little boy's arm continuously, screaming incessantly. I sense that Aladji wants help from somewhere. It's a dodgy energy for me, but I can feel it. I am sure that we are not sitting alone next to the boy. The little boy's arm is stretched and stretched and stretched. The boy does not stop crying. New tears keep rolling down his cheeks. But Aladji Tall is not fazed and carries on. Stretching, removing fluid, discussing the arm. After four hours, the arm is fixed and looks normal, the boy goes home and there is no sign of the accident. He is healthy. The next day I see him happily playing football again. Again with the old, exhausted ball. What I have seen here with my own eyes is voodoo. I get on well with Aladji Tall. I'm grateful that I was able to be there when he healed the boy, but of course I want to know more about him and how he works. He is surprisingly open and honest. At first he is silent for a long time, thinking about what he can and cannot tell me. After an hour, he explains that he wants to show me more of his art. "But I don't believe in magic and certainly not in black magic," I reply, because I don't want to be drawn into anything that I will later regret. "Don't worry," he reassures me, "nothing will happen to you." He just wants me to put on one of his longer shirts that are lying on the sofa. As soon as I've done that, he mumbles something incomprehensible. And I'm amazed again!
Healing cannot always be explained. Perhaps you will also be amazed at what is possible. When no one can help - give me a call. I am here for you.
Yours
Lucas Scherpereel
English