INTRODUCTION:
Reading the book Witchcraft Oracles, And Magic Among The Azande by E. E. Evans-Pritchard, I'm falling in love with the culture of the Zande people of North Congo. They are a tribe of warriors, and the book focuses on their belief of witchcraft to explain misfortune. I decided to write a short story about two of my favourite chapter until now: ones on witch-doctors and the seances they perform to divine the location of witchcraft. I've paraphrased the book as to what the characters say in the rituals. As I was unable to find much information, and the book focuses on their belief of witchcraft, not their lifestyle, I've had to invent some things with the little information I gathered online or that is mentioned past in the book. These include the shapes of their houses and the organisation of their villages, and, lacking a Zande language source, I was obliged to name a number of my characters with Swahili names. Nevertheless, none of these I think are central to the plot, and I hope no informed reader might be too disturbed by them. Some readers might feel disturbed by the male dominance of the characters; while I don't sympathise with this aspect to the Zande culture, I have decided to stay true to it as Evans portrays it in his ethnographic research, so please just let it slide as a minor thing.
STORY:In returning from a day of hunting with hands that had grown used to emptiness, Gbaru looked at the worn out point of his spear, blunt of hitting soil and rocks, but no flesh. Imamu walked by him; his spear had the hints of blood, but whatever shadow it had hit was able to escape before they could get to it. Now their faces carried not only the expectancy of hunger, but shame. The sun was setting behind the mountains when Gbaru set foot in his house and handed his lance to his wife Eshe, ignoring every worried voice and pretentious question that might approach him, only lifting his hands in front of his eyes and up to his head, walking without pause to the backyard, to contemplate the fair products of his orchard.
The next morning he left the house without breaking his fast, and left his wife Eshe and his wife Furaha at home caring for the vegetables. The entire month he had been going to the woods with Imamu trying to hunt something to satisfy their families’ hunger, fruitlessly, and today he had resolved in his mind that he would rest. He passed the house of Kisanga, and of Imamu – all houses were round, their walls made of arid mud and their roofs of dry thatch. To his eyes, the street looked like a path of warm red all the way from his house to the house of Imamu and then to that of his friend Mwenye, surrounded by a large formation of houses of cold blue, like an intimidating shadow that watched over it with eyes of enmity. He entered the apartment of Mwenye, who received him with joy and drink. They sat together to converse and joke while the host’s wives worked the orchard; Gbaru, through the back of his eye, watched the quality of the vegetables, and found the sorrow of his soul shrunk when the void it created filled with the superiority of his own orchard. Mwenye, who had been in town all that time, his luck being greater, thus the hunting employing him less hours, began to whisper to him the fresh gossip of town: that Jengo, one of the sons of their neighbour Mosi, had been overheard by other men in town expressing to his mother his desire to initiate himself in the office of the witch-doctors; his mother thus had replied that they should wait for his father and ask his consent, and if he should not refuse, they would go to Kamanga, the chief witch-doctor of the village, to ask for the service of instruction; The other men and I have been waiting with angst for more news, but it appears Mosi hasn’t yet been informed – that, or the reply was so negative they should never want to bring it up again! added Mwenye. A witch-doctor, Gbaru thought to himself, that’s what he was in need of, for a whole month of unpaid hunting could not be the product of chance. Mwenye continued, with a much more serious look; he reminded Gbaru of Kisanga’s father, who had died two weeks prior. An autopsy, he said, had found witchcraft substance in his belly. Gbaru was confused: Kisanga’s father had frequently suffered misfortune, and the poison oracle had indicated to him that he was under the influence of witchcraft. Why would a witch bewitch him if he was a witch, and why would a witch ask for the service of the poison oracle? – after all, the souls of witches wake in their sleep and plan whom to bewitch, so he would have known who the other witches were and asked for mercy directly. Moreover, the witches were one body against the people, there weren’t conflicts amongst them. On his walk back to his house that midday, Gbaru continued to think about witchcraft: he had been one of the best hunters, with periods where he alone had fed the families of Mwenye and Imamu, as well as his own; no, a month of misfortune couldn’t be just bad luck – he was being bewitched.
A sound of metal alarmed him. A shadow ran out of his backyard and disappeared into the bushes. He approached, and saw that someone had jumped the fence to his orchard. He ran inside the house, and went to the backyard, to find many of the vegetables had been stolen. His wives tried to calm him down when he began to scream and curse. In the morning he broke his fast with his wives. They had vegetables from the orchard. I am certain I am being bewitched, he said in a deep, grave voice, looking down at the food on his plate, shrunken between his shoulders. He was decided to go to Kamanga that same day. He stood and walked out the door like a flash of lightning, his eyes fixated on the floor, opened wide with redness around them, when he happened to run into Kisanga near the bushes around his house. Gbaru’s temper, being in the edge of explosion, troubled his breathing, and he slowly lifted his gaze to the man. Kisanga looked petrified and out of words, like a child whose mother catches in an antic. Gbaru looked at him, then at the bushes, and with the voice of a warrior said You have been assaulting my orchard again, haven’t you? Kisanga jumped back, and gave the cry of a wounded pride. Never, he protested, had he dared to dishonour his orchard or the orchard of any other man. Suspicion remained in Gbaru’s pupils, half hidden behind his sunken eyebrows. He, and everyone else, remembered the time Kisanga had been caught stealing from Imamu. Now people in town would sometimes call him the fox. Nevertheless, Gbaru only continued his impatient walk without saying another word. Kamanga’s house was quite far, and during his walk Gbaru entertained himself in imagining the seance in his house: the boys drumming, the horns of animals with the medicines of witch-doctors. He could see himself joke with the other men of town, who would, from that day and ever since, speak with joy to him, rather than ignore him (in the back of his mind, he was thinking: everyone likes seances, they will thus like me). Once he had arrived to the house of the witch-doctor, he informed him of his worries, and they arranged the seance for the next day; Gbaru hurried back to his house to make the preparatives; he asked Imamu and Mwenye for drums, and amongst the boys in the village, spread the voice that there was going to be a seance, and he got countless volunteers to play the instruments.
That evening, Mosi and his son Jengo showed up in Kamanga’s house. They informed him of the wish of the young man to be initiated as a witch-doctor. Kamanga raised an eyebrow: Do you understand that you must not betray us or misuse your knowledge of the medicines? It is important that the recipes are kept secret from the public. Jengo was convinced that he wanted to become a doctor, so he insisted in his request. Kamanga walked them to the door and asked the young novice to return on the morrow, and they would perform the procedure. Jengo called Kamanga’s name from the doorway to his house little after dawn, and when the witch-doctor walked him in, he found Gbudwe was there with him. Gbudwe was another witch-doctor, with less status in town than Kamanga. The novice was greeted with joy, but his gaze was captured by a pot on top of burning wood holding a handful of herbs and juices; Jengo approached and all sounds but the popping of the bubbles on the boiling medicines seemed to cease. That’s it, he thought, that’s the juice that allows its drinker to see the location of the witchcraft mangu. Kamanga tapped his shoulder, and the three of them sat around the pot of magic herbs. While the medicine leaked down the surface of the roots, the witch-doctors joked and gossiped about the men and their occurrences. Gbudwe, being from the other end of the village, had many fresh stories to tell. A pause came into place as Kamanga looked at the pot with knowing eye: It’s done, he said. He stood and poured the liquid into a smaller pot, and took what was left of the herbs out to the backyard and into a little hut. When he returned, Gbudwe placed the small pot with the medicines on the fire. Jengo only looked at it, imagining himself in the woods and caves of the ghosts, examining different herbs and knowing which ones were fit for medicines. Kamanga produced three small balls of paste, and placed one in front of each one of them; he flicked his own into the liquid, then Gbudwe, and then Jengo. They poured oil into the mix, and with the wooden stirrer Kamanga mixed the liquids. May no evil fall upon me, said the chief witch-doctor, but let me rest in peace. May no relative of mine die from the ill-luck of my medicine. My relatives are animals, my relative is eleusine, may eleusine be fruitful. He sighed deeply, and as he released the breath with the calm of a skilled master, he turned his face to the novice Jengo. When you dance in the witch-doctors’ dance may you not die. May your home be prosperous and may no witchcraft come to injure your friends. Your relatives are the animals, he told him. He thus handed the stirrer to Jengo, who swallowed a gulp of saliva and fixed his gaze on the medicine. You medicine that I am cooking, he said, mind you always speak the truth to me. Let me recognize all witches. It was Gbudwe’s turn; he gently grabbed the stirrer from Jengo’s hand. May no misfortune come upon me, was his speech, If anyone comes with envy and malice to my home may that envy and malice return to their owner. May I grow old in dancing the dance of divination. Kamanga poured some grains of salt to the mixture, and when this was in sound conditions, he poured the liquid into a gourd. He gazed at his novice and his fellow, and they produced offerings from their belts: Gbudwe a neck lace with the feathers of fowls, and Jengo a horn that his father had equipped him with that morning before allowing him to part. Kamanga looked at the gifts with approval, and filled a spoon with medicine; he approached it to Gbudwe’s lips, but when Gbudwe brought his face forward, he moved it back and fed it to the novice. Gbudwe was fed medicine next, and then Kamanga took a spoonful for himself. They ate the oily paste at the bottom of the pot with their bare hands, and placed their heads on the mouth of it, opening their eyes so the steam wound enter them, and with it its magic. There is a seance this afternoon, announced Kamanga to Jengo, you will come, and dance, but will answer no questions yet. Jengo nodded. He had been to countless seances, but never as a dancer, and though his role today would be next to invisible, he now saw a clear path to the day he would answer the questions of the unfortunate.
Kamanga, Jengo and Gbudwe arrived in the house of Gbaru, where labouring hands had adapted a wide area for the dancing and contacts with neighbours had gathered an arsenal of drums of all kinds, little after lunch. They wore hats decorated with feathers, carried large bags of skins, horns, whistles, leg-lets and armlets. With excitement he treated the witch-doctors with drinks, and in the surprise of seeing Jengo there with them, proposed to hold their cups up and cheers to him. Kamanga produced straightened horns from his bag, and placed them standing on the floor, filling them with pastes and herbs and oil, and starting from them, drew a big circle that occupied most of the space between the seats Gbaru had accumulated by the walls. Boys began to arrive in twos and threes and walked straight to their seats in the drums, some engaging in heated discussions of who got to seat where, and others warily reminding their friends who sat proud like musicians that after a couple of dances they were to let them take over the role of instrumentalist. Kamanga and the other witch-doctors put the string of whistles over their shoulders and across their chests and round their arms; under their waist rope they tucked skins of wild cats and genets, and over it they tied a string of fruits of doleib palm. When the sun just touched the top of the highest mountain, it seemed that no other passersby showed interest in the seance. Mosi, Jengo’s father, to the right of the room, now looked proud at his son; his other son, Bogwozu, seating beside him, and Kisanga to the other side, talking to him about the day’s hunting; Mwenye and Imamu sat behind them, all the women sat to the left with their little children and nephews, and anyone who stood minded not to step inside of the circle of the witch-doctors, might they not be shot a seed by one of them. Kamanga walked patiently to the horns with medicine in them. Gbaru, who stood in front of the horns, opposite to Kamanga and the semicircle traced by the audience, took a breath, and formulated his question: I haven’t had a good hunt for the last month, which has caused myself and my wives horrible hunger. Never before had I not caught good hunting for so long, am I being bewitched? And if so, by who? Kamanga asked, Who in this town are your enemies, who do you fear might have ill-will against you? The witch-doctors began their dancing with these names in mind: jumps and swirls and singing; the boys played catchy rhythms to the music, and the waiting boys humming a chorus, one which was imitated by the audience. Kamanga, with a heavy and sonorous step, put an end to the dance, with a face like that of the one who has spotted a lion crawling in the distance. He recalled the time Kisanga had been stealing, and he remembered that look on his face when the apparent was resentment: one that said he would do it again; he also remembered how Gbaru had looked at him since that day he’d dared to steal from his friend. The medicines have spoken to me, he said, Kisanga is bewitching you, Gbaru. Gbaru’s face turned red, his eyebrows seemed to sink between his eyes, but all was interrupted by Kisanga’s scream of fury, which when the witch-doctor turned, became louder and more threatening, claiming offence and dishonour to be called a witch. Kisanga had stood form his seat and thick veins covered his arms and his neck as he screamed to him once and again, demanding that the dance be rectified, with half his feet crossing the line of the circle of the witch-doctors. Panic exploded; other men tried to pull him back to his place, but seeing nothing was to be done, Kamanga raised his voice, announcing that he would dance to the same question again, to verify he hadn’t misinterpreted the medicines. Once again, the three of them began to dance, and when Kamanga once again stomped sonorously, he looked ashamed. I have made a mistake, he uttered, it is Bogwozu who wishes you ill. In the public, Bogwozu was petrified, and so was his father and brother, the novice witch-doctor. Jengo looked questioning at his master, but no sign of emotion was returned to him.
The next day, Mwenye arrived to Mosi’s house, to ask for Bogwzu, carrying in his hands a fowl’s wing and a pot of water. Mosi, with low spirits, called his son, who came to the door as though to the guillotine; Mwenye delivered to him the message that Gbaru had gone to see the poison oracle, the master of diviners, and his worries had been confirmed. He placed the fowl’s wing on the floor before the young man, and he spoke, If I carry witchcraft in my belly I am unaware of it. I do not bare ill-will to any man, and if unwittingly I am hurting any, may he be freed from my witchcraft, and he poured some water in his mouth and blew it on the fowl’s wing. His brother looked at him with profound sadness: how was he to be an efficient witch-doctor if witchcraft was present in those of his blood? However, he calmed himself down, telling himself that this was only the first time, anyone in his lineage was given a fowl’s wing. In the afternoon, as the sun hid behind the mountains, he met Kamanga in his house. I never thought my kin was contaminated, and even if witchcraft substance was in everyone of our bellies, I’d never have imagine one of us would use it. Kamanga sighed, staring into the nothingness of the forest. The second time I danced, he said,the medicines showed me Kisanga again. Anyway, his reaction betrayed him: only a witch would react so uncleverly to an accusation. Your brother is innocent. But Kisanga is a strong man, had I not retracted my statement, I fear that could have been a disaster.
Thank's a lot for reading. The names Kamanga and Kisanga are of real informants or associates of Evans, who helped him gather information of difficult access for a foreigner, such as the procedure of initiation of a witch-doctor. If you have enjoyed the read, recommending my work to your friends would be greatly valued, Thank you.
Thank's a lot for reading. The names Kamanga and Kisanga are of real informants or associates of Evans, who helped him gather information of difficult access for a foreigner, such as the procedure of initiation of a witch-doctor. If you have enjoyed the read, recommending my work to your friends would be greatly valued, Thank you.
