Photo: A mojo bag.
“From spending days off the campaign trail golfing, to coming up with frankly weak nicknames like ‘Kamabala,’ it feels like he’s lost his mojo…”
— recent quote from Alyssa Farah Griffin, former White House Director of Strategic Communications and Assistant to the President in 2020 during the Trump administration.
I would not wish a lost mojo on anyone. Not even on a prominent politician.
Part of the reason being, I don’t know what kind of “mojo” Alyssa Farah Griffin is talking about, exactly.
According to the dictionary, mojo can mean a magic charm or amulet, typically worn around the neck. It can also mean a cloth bag, also worn around the neck, containing various magic charms, or occasionally, loose change.
When magic charms aren’t working, the loose change can come in handy.
Mojo can also mean a Cuban sauce or marinade, composed primarily of olive oil, garlic, citrus juice, and spices such as black pepper and cumin. Not typically worn around the neck.
If those definitions don’t do the trick, mojo can also mean “a seemingly supernatural power, influence, or ability.”
The only thing I’ve seen Donald Trump wear around his neck is a red necktie. It’s remotely possible that the necktie is magical. But that seems unlikely.
And I would hate to think Alyssa Farah Griffin was talking about a Cuban sauce. I seriously doubt Donald Trump would want to be seen in the company of a Cuban sauce, considering his attitude towards immigrants and communists.
That leaves us with a “seemingly supernatural power, influence, or ability.”
Anyone who has watched Donald Trump address a crowd of MAGA supporters has witnessed the seemingly supernatural power of a Trump speech. Thousands of people who are normally depressed, angry, and fearful about America’s future exhibit unbounded hope and enthusiasm during a Trump Rally — spontaneously breaking out in cheers and chants. It can feel like you’re watching the reaction to a home team touchdown at a high school football game.
A football team can also have mojo. And can lose it. For example, we all saw the Denver Broncos lose to the Seattle Seahawks, 43-8, in the 2014 Superbowl.
If a politician — any politician — were to lose his (or her) mojo, he (or she) might wish that the mojo was, in fact, some amulets in a cloth bag. Or some loose change. That kind of mojo, when lost, can later be found.
Maybe he was watching Fox News, and the mojo slipped between the couch cushions?
“Honey, have you seen my mojo anywhere?”
“Look in the couch cushions. You probably dropped it while you were watching Fox News.”
“You were right. Here it is.”
How do wives know these things? It’s amazing. And they do it effortlessly.
But if the mojo you lost was “a seemingly supernatural power, influence, or ability”, not even your wife will be able to help you find it. Not in the couch cushions, anyway.
The internet nowadays contains pretty much the entire knowledge of humankind, including information about mojos and who may have lost theirs. And according to the internet, mojos are related to the religion known as Voodoo.
While doing my research for this column, I watched a few YouTube videos about Voodoo, and several of the videos began with an advertisement from Donald Trump, suggesting that I could contribute to his presidential campaign, if I could afford it. (Maybe some loose change?)
But even if I couldn’t afford to contribute, he told me, he was going to win the election anyway, on my behalf. Without needing my help.
That strikes me as a supernatural power, when you can win an election without anyone’s help.
I haven’t studied the Voodoo religion extensively. (I haven’t studied anything extensively.) But I’ve heard that, in the American South, a mojo bag is typically made of red flannel, because the color red symbolizes protection from evil spirits.
Did I mention Trump’s red tie? And his red MAGA hat?
Probably no connection, but it’s a weird world we live in.