Life on the Congo

by W. Holman Bentley

The knowledge of the name of God gives us a good basis to work upon. We can tell them that we bring them a message from Nzambi Himself, not a story of a white man’s God, but their God and ours, and at once we get a ready and deeply interested hearing.

‘Have we seen Nzambi? Does He live in the white man’s land under the sea? How did we hear this news?’ Such are the questions they are ever ready to ask.

On one occasion, at Stanley Pool, a lad from the far upper river sold by Zombo traders to the Bayansi, asked me, ‘But, Mundele, all joking apart, what do you really come here for if you do not want to trade? Tell me truly.’ I told him that we had been commissioned with the message of good news from Nzambi, and that was our real and sole business. ‘What! Nzambi, who lives in the heavens? (Nzambi kun’Ezulu).’ As he said this he pointed up into the sky. Poor boy! I wondered how he knew that there was a God, and that he so instinctively pointed up to the blue sky. I saw him once or twice after that. He soon returned to his distant home, but could tell his people that he had seen white men, who were coming soon to bring them a good message from Nzambi.

They have a very decided idea of a future state, but as to what and where the opinion is much divided. Indeed, there is not the remotest notion that death can be a cessation of being. If any one dies they think that some one, living or dead, has established a connection with the unseen world, and somehow, and for some purpose, has ‘witched away’ the deceased.

When a man is sick he first resorts to bleeding and simple remedies. If no relief is obtained, a native doctor is called. The man’s friends and relatives help him to pay the fee, if large. Having agreed as to the fee, the doctor may fetch aromatic or bitter leaves from the woods, and make a decoction of them, wring them in water, or in some way extract their properties. Perhaps he may add a small scraping of a snake’s head, of a few nuts or seeds, or of some mysterious articles in his bundle of charms. There is an endless variety of procedure.

Mr. Comber was recently watching a ‘doctoring’ at Ngombe. A chief, Lutete, was sick, and the people were very anxious about him. The doctor called for a fowl, a string was tied to its leg, and the other end to Lutete’s arm. After some mysterious actions, and placing some white marks with pipeclay upon the body of the sufferer, he proceeded to push the complaint from the extremities into the body, from the body into the arm, and finally succeeded in drawing the disease down the arm, through the string, and into the unfortunate fowl, which doubtless was little the worse for its vicarious position, until the doctor had it killed for his evening meal.

There is far more knavery than skill in all their doctoring. If the disease does not yield to such treatment, other doctors are called in; and as matters become more serious, it is evidently not a simple case of sickness, for it will not yield to skilful physicians; it must be a case of witchcraft. The sufferer now becomes terribly anxious, and Nganga-a-moko (the charms doctor) is called in. His duty is to tell what and why the patient ails. He may say that it is a simple sickness, and prescribe accordingly. Or if he deems it really serious, he declares it to be a case of witchcraft. He professes to be able to ascertain who is ‘witching’ the sufferer; but as it is not his business to mention names, he does not do so, neither do people inquire. Having made thorough diagnosis, he shouts to the witch, who is spoken of as Nximbi (x = sh), to let his patient alone, to let him live. ‘Does he not know that this wicked course will bring its deserts? If he persists in destroying his victim the witch doctor will surely find him out.’ Then all the people join in calling upon the unknown Nximbi to relinquish his victim. The agony of mind of the sufferer, and of those dear to him, can be imagined.

If in spite of all the man dies, in grief and rage the family call for the witch doctor, Nganga-a-ngombo. Space prevents a detailed description of his methods of procedure. He is a cunning rogue, and has his agent, who ascertains whether any one is in special disfavour, or whom it will be safe to declare a witch. He may decide haphazard, or he may ascertain that the deceased man dreamed of some one. He consults Nganga-a-moko. At early dawn the sound of his ding-winti drum startles the town. Who knows whether he may not be accused of the crime?

After working people into the wildest frenzy by a protracted series of dances and mystery, the doctor at last selects one or two of those present, and declares him or them to be guilty of the devilish crime. The excitement culminates; the victim declares his innocence and ignorance; but the rascally doctor tells a long story of the way in which the crime was accomplished, till all feel the guilt fully established, and would like to tear the witch to pieces on the spot.

However, there is a regular course of things, and a market-day is appointed when the ordeal poison shall be taken. On the day decided, all the people of the district assemble in vast crowds, as they used to do in this country before executions were performed in private.