DEATH IN AN AFRICAN VILLAGE.—LAMENTATIONS.—THE FUNERAL CEREMONIES.—AN
AFRICAN CEMETERY.
What a strange thing is an African funeral! In a town on the banks of
the Rembo, called Conaco, where I had just arrived in my canoe, a man
was very ill. These poor savages seemed to be very sorry for him, but
did not know what to do. If I remember aright, the name of that man was
Irende. He had been a great warrior and a great hunter, but disease had
laid him prostrate, though he was still a young man.
The next day a great many people came into the village with their
tam-tams, or drums, and different sorts of musical instruments. They
were to try if they could not drive the devil away. With a great deal of
trouble a few guns had been obtained, and also some powder, in order to
make more noise.
[Sidenote: _DEATH IN A VILLAGE._]
In the evening the people entered the hut of Irende and began to sing.
The drummers had already gone inside and were beating their drums most
furiously; a few broken brass kettles added their noise to that of the
drums; some beat sticks on pieces of wood. In fact, every body tried to
make all the noise he could. At last those who had the guns came and
fired them close to the ears of the poor fellow, and also near his
stomach, where the _abambo_ (the devil) was supposed to be. I could not
stay more than five minutes in the hut, for the din was too great for
me. They wanted to drive the abambo out of the poor sick man so that he
might get well. But all the drumming they did, all the _mbuiti_ (idol)
had said concerning his recovery, all the care his wives, sisters and
his mother bestowed upon him, were of no avail.
The poor fellow died the second day after my arrival, right in the midst
of the drumming, just a few minutes after the guns had been fired near
his ears and stomach. It was midnight when he died. I was in my hut,
which was not far off, when suddenly there burst from one end of the
village to the other a wail that told me the sad story. Irende was dead!
What a wail it was! It went right to my heart, it was so piercing, so
heart-rending; I could not help but feel sorry for these poor people.
The wailing and the mourning-songs lasted all night; there was no sleep
for me.
In the morning I was led once more to the house where the body was laid.
The room was crowded: women from all the villages round had come, and
they were all seated on the floor. There must have been about three
hundred of them, and they were singing mournful songs to doleful and
monotonous airs. The tears were running down their cheeks. The wives of
the poor fellow, ten in number, had shaven their hair, had taken off
their garments and were almost naked, and they had rubbed their bodies
with ashes. Their anklets and bracelets had been removed, and round
their necks they wore a piece of native cord indicating that they were
widows and in mourning.
At length through the thick crowd I discovered the body of Irende. It
was seated on a stool, the back leaning against the wall. It was dressed
in an old coat, and by its side was a harp—for Irende had the reputation
of being a great musician; there also lay his spear and his gun, which
were to be buried with him.
[Illustration: MOURNING THE DEAD.]
His wives were round him, talking, begging him to speak to them, and
then silence followed. No answer came. Then there burst forth a
heart-piercing wail. “He is dead! he is dead!” they shouted. “His lips
will speak to us no more; he will not hunt for us any more; he will play
no more on the _wombi_ for us!” Then all ended in a long plaintive song.
The mother came, and kneeling before him took hold of his feet, which is
the most supplicating manner of address in Africa; she looked in his
face and said in a very plaintive voice—“My son, you have not spoken to
your wives, but I know you will speak to your mother. You will say to
her that you are not dead.”
The same silence ensued.
They all waited in vain for an answer for a few minutes; then the poor
mother rolled herself on the ground at her son’s feet, shrieked and
cried, and said—“Irende, why do you not speak to your mother?” The poor
mother’s shrieks were so long, so piercing, and she uttered such a wail
of grief, that the tears came into my eyes. The poor African mother had
a heart!
As I left the hut, thinking how strangely the mind of man is
constituted, the wailing continued, and was to be kept up until the
burial of the corpse.
[Sidenote: _AN AFRICAN FUNERAL._]
The day of the funeral came, and we went to the burial-ground. As the
body left the village and was put into a canoe, the wailing was
tremendous. The men that were to paddle were all painted, almost naked,
and covered with fetiches. The drum beat as we descended the stream.
As we approached the burial-ground (for these Commi have a sort of
cemetery) all became silent. Not a word was said; they prayed _Ovengua_
not to get hold of them, and the corpse was left on the sand, a certain
amount of which was thrown over it. His _wombi_ was laid by his side,
his gun and his spear were placed in his hand, and necklaces and
ornaments were left with him. A cooked dish of plantain and a jar of
water were placed beside him, so that he might drink and eat if he
chose, then all was over and we came away.
What a strange burial-ground it was! It was situated on a prairie, with
no trees in the neighborhood, and poles were the only signs that could
show it to be a cemetery. Here and there a grim skeleton could be seen,
and the remains of things that had accompanied the deceased men and
women to the grave.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]