"We saw. What was left was tiny...."

One tries not to be too concerned with this sort of thing, but seeing both of these stories in the same week was irresistible. We also couldn't let the first of these, which has been all over the interwebs, go by without mentioning that some ten or eleven years ago Mr. AK718 himself traveled to Casamance in Senegal to debunk the pernicious myth of the penis-shrinkers, scooping this story by more than a decade. He demonstrated that such accusations of witchcraft are invariably used to drive out envied undesirables; they are always an attempt to target "the other," often newly arrived or prosperous immigrants generally disliked by the community. The strategy works well, because claims of diminished sexual function and even allegations of organ shrinkage are difficult to prove, since any red-blooded male asked to show the evidence will, after pulling down his trousers in public, quite naturally point at the member in horror and propose that it is usually much more robust and imposing. Even an honest and generally upstanding citizen like myself has been known to say things along the lines of "you should have been here yesterday."

However, for those who feel they really have been victims of this particularly pernicious sorcery, there is always a solution.

UPDATE: People have already written to in to ask how the whole penis-shrinkage witchcraft operation works. I suspect this means they are just too lazy to read the linked article, but let's run through a scenario, using you and me as examples:

I don't like you, and I want to be rid of you. I therefore publicly accuse you of having exploited your magical evil powers of penile shriveling against me, perhaps choosing a moment when both of us happen to be in the village square.

I jump up and down, agitated, pointing at you. "That [man / woman / ex-girlfriend] touched me, and now my thing has been withered away to nothing," I say. People gather around in horror. "Is it really true?" They ask. "Yes, yes, it's true," I scream. "Last night I went home and it wasn't even working at all. Be very careful. Don't let that horrible sorcerer touch you. The same thing could happen again. We must burn / hang / shoot him, before the entire village becomes just a bunch of dickless wonders."

You, the accused, the real victim, no doubt protest, but nobody wants to go near you. They are already wondering how they will bundle you up for burning, without touching you. "This is ridiculous," you say. "I have done nothing."

Then you make the fatal mistake. "Show us the evidence," you insist. I whip it out. "Two days ago," I say, "it was mighty, like the baobab tree. But then last night there was nothing there at all, just a bald spot. Thank God today, at least, there is just a little bit coming back, but as you all can see, it is very, very small! Nothing like before." Everyone notes that, indeed, there is little to see.

At this point the enraged crowd lynches you in the town square and I have succeeded. Soon after your death, perhaps at the barbershop, or while watching a football game with the fellows, I will boast that my full girth and function have been mercifully restored to me. No need to show you all, but I assure you that I am once again as fit and robust as any young man!