The natives of British Central Africa

by Alice Werner

That is, as soon as they had found out the use of fire, they began to kill and cook buffaloes and other animals. No hint is given here as to where or how these human beings originated. Mulungu evidently knows nothing about them (while the animals, with which they have been interfering, are ‘his people’), and makes the Chameleon responsible for them, just as a chief at the present day would hold any man who introduced strangers into a village responsible for their conduct. Two other points are noteworthy—the region into which Mulungu makes his escape is ‘above’; and the Spider, who helps him, is a conspicuous figure in West African folk-lore and mythology. This is the only instance except one where I have met with him in an Eastern Bantu story; but we have numerous examples in Duala, and one at least from the Congo.

This tale seems to be a very crude form of the myth in which a divine being is driven from earth by the wickedness of mankind—like Astræa and the Kintu of the Baganda. The curious, and, to us, inconsistent limitations of his power are just what one may expect to find in stories of this kind.

Perhaps we might include among legends of creation a story told at the mysteries (to which we shall recur later on) to account for the origin of Lake Nyasa.

‘In old days the Lake was small as a brook. Then there came a man out of the west with a silver sceptre.’ (The story is ‘taken down from native lips’; I do not know what is the original wording in this place; but we may suppose that the Lake people knew silver through the coast traders even before they were acquainted with Europeans. In any case, the ‘silver sceptre’ need not prove the story to be a recent invention; one constantly finds touches of ‘actuality’ introduced by the tellers of these tales.) ‘He married, and brought his wife to return with him to his country. She consented, and her brother said, “Yes, and I will go too.” But his brother-in-law said, “I will not have you go too.” Then he wept bitterly for his sister, when he saw her cross the lake, and he grew very angry, and he took his stick and struck the water, till it swelled up and covered all things and became a flood. Then the woman and her brother died, both of them together, and the corpse of the woman went to the north, and that of her brother to the south. When a cloud weeps in the south, the sister rests quietly in the north, and when a cloud appears and weeps in the north, the brother rests quietly in the south.’

In another chapter we shall find a legend of a river struck with a staff with the opposite purpose, viz., to make a passage through it. It is possible that these may be echoes of the Biblical stories heard from the missionaries, though, as a matter of fact, I do not think this is the case.

In the last chapter I spoke of magic as distinguished from religion. By the latter I mean appeals to—or attempts to propitiate—some unseen, superior powers, whether these be thought of as ancestral spirits, nature-powers, or what we generally understand by a Deity. Magic, on the other hand, consists in performing certain actions which will, in some occult way, have such an effect on natural forces as to produce the result desired; that is to say (to put it roughly), it enables man to control nature on his own account. I must confess, however, that I do not always see where the line should be drawn, and have included several matters in this chapter without attempting to decide how they should be classified. Usually people attempt to do magic on the principle that like produces like—as when water is poured out on the ground in the hope of bringing rain.

It will be remembered that, when we spoke in the last chapter of Chigunda’s people calling on Mpambe for rain, it was said that the ceremony concluded with ‘a rain-charm.’ This is described as follows:—‘The dance ceased, a large jar of water was brought and placed before the chief; first Mbudzi (his sister) washed her hands, arms, and face; then water was poured over her by another woman; then all the women rushed forward with calabashes in their hand, and dipping them into the jar, threw the water into the air with loud cries and wild gesticulations.’

This, however, might be taken as prayer and not magic, if we are to understand the water to be thrown into the air as a sign that water is wanted. Sometimes people smear themselves with mud and charcoal to show that they want washing. If the rain still does not come, they go and wash themselves in the rivers and streams.

In 1893 the rains were unusually late. In the West Shiré district we only had one or two showers up to December 12—by which time the crops should have been in the ground in the ordinary course of things; and though that day and the next were wet, the weather cleared again—except for delusive thunder and lightning which led to nothing. After about a week of this, I happened to go to a village, and found all the women busy cleaning out the well whence they obtained their usual water-supply. It was a large hole, three or four feet across, and perhaps ten or twelve feet deep, and pegs had been driven into one side, by which even the white-haired old grandmother of the party ascended and descended with the greatest agility. They had already dug out a large heap of mud, and seemed serious and preoccupied, and none of the men were to be seen—in fact, the huts appeared to be deserted. But it never struck me that they were doing anything else but digging out their well because the water had come to an end.

Some years later, when I read M. Junod’s Les Baronga, a passage in it forcibly recalled this scene, and showed that it had a meaning which had never occurred to me at the time. The Ronga women, it appears, have a solemn rite of clearing out the wells in time of drought. For this, they lay aside all their usual garments, clothing themselves only with grass or leaves, and start for the well, with special songs and dances. I did not notice anything special about the costume of the women at Pembereka’s, nor did I hear any singing, but probably that would accompany the dance, which would have taken place before they actually got to work. As the well was quite close to the huts, there would be no marching in procession—two or three of the women may have come from other kraals, but there were so few in all that the ceremony must have taken place on a very small scale. Not knowing of the Ronga usage, I could not ascertain whether or not the Anyanja women carried it out on the following points: (1) Before starting for the well, they go in a body to the house of a woman who has had twins, and pour water over her out of their calabash dippers; (2) When they have finished cleaning out the well, they go and pour water on the graves in the sacred grove.