The Religious Ideas of the Natives.
There is nothing that can be said to take the place of a religion
throughout the whole region of the Congo. There is no idolatry, no
system of worship; nothing but a vague superstition, a groping in
the dark, the deepest, saddest ignorance, without a hope of light.
The people have the name of God, but know nothing further about Him.
The idea is not, however, of an evil being, or they would wish to
propitiate him. A mild and gentle chief gets little respect or honour.
A man who is hard and stern, reckless of life, is feared and respected.
Hence, as they fear no evil from God, they do not trouble themselves
about Him in any way--never even invoke Him. Perhaps it may be because
they regard Him as beyond their reach and ken, or careless of them.
Nzambi, or some slightly modified form, such as Nyambi or Anyambie,
is the name by which God is known over the explored regions of
the western portion, while the Bayansi of the upper river use
also Molongo, which is the same as Mulungu and Muungu of the east
coast. Of the derivation of Nzambi we cannot speak definitely or
even approximately. Suffice it to say that the word has a sense of
greatness, and conveys a definite idea of a Supreme Being. It cannot be
connected with a vague notion of sky, having nothing common with the
word Ezulu (heaven).
There is a decided idea of personality, and the Congos generally speak
of Nzambi-ampungu, the Most High (Supreme) God. The name of God is
all that they know, and certainly they have no notion of any means of
communication between God and man. They regard Him as the Creator, and
as the sender of rain, but would never under any circumstances think of
their voice being heard in heaven. So, having no helper, they betake
themselves to charms to avert evil and for general protection.
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.
The poor victim believes his innocence will be established, and
fearfully, but still generally willingly, he drinks the poisonous
draught. His stomach may reject the noxious compound. If he vomits,
the man is declared innocent, and the witch-doctor loses his
fee--indeed, in some parts is heavily fined for a false charge. More
often, if he has not avoided the risk by referring the death to some
charm, or to some person recently dead, he does his work too surely.
His victim staggers and falls. With a wild yell the bystanders rush at
him and beat him to death; shoot him, burn or bury him alive, throw
him over a precipice, or in some way finish the terrible work, with a
savage ferocity equal to their deep sense of the enormity of the crime
with which he is charged.
One could gather hundreds of terrible stories of the like kind with
much variety of detail; but the same principle runs through all. We
heard of a case where, on the Nganga making his declaration, the
witch-man went into his house close by, fetched his gun, and shot the
witch-doctor dead on the spot. He had to pay twenty slaves to the
friends of the Nganga; but no one ventured further to trouble that
witch.
Sometimes, and in some places, the witch-doctor is called in in case of
sickness only, and witches are killed to stay the sickness; and again
at the death of the person, sometimes even in the case of a baby. A
serious accident--as drowning, a fall from a palm-tree, or the death
of a chief--is considered the work of several witches; one alone could
not accomplish such a thing. Six men of the Vivi towns were drowned
through the upsetting of a canoe in the rapids, and three witches were
found for each man; eighteen victims had to suffer for the death of
those six men--twenty-four deaths in all.
Even when the victim vomits, and should be free, they sometimes find an
excuse to finish the work.
‘But why,’ you ask, ‘did you kill Mpanzu? What did he do to the man who
died? Did any one see him do it?’
‘Oh, Mundele! why do you ask such questions? Did not Nganga-a-ngombo
ascertain by his witch-charms? Did he not tell us how he did it? And
when he took the ordeal and swooned, was not his guilt proved? Why, we
should all say that any one who dared to question such a decision must
be himself a witch!’
‘But what does a witch do--how does he do it?’
‘How do I know? I am not a witch. Why, if we did not kill our witches
we should all die in no time! What would check them?’
You cannot get much further than this with young people or common
folk, all except the dictum of the Nganga _ex cathedrâ_. Indeed, many
of them have been accused, and have been fortunate enough to reject
the poison. Those who may escape by vomiting the draught are generally
confirmed in the truthfulness of the ordeal that established their
innocence.
However, I have never discussed the matter privately with an
intelligent native who did not acknowledge the wickedness and deplore
the custom. The fear of being dubbed a witch compels generosity, and
here lies the strength of the custom.
Nga Mbelenge, one of the chiefs of the district of Leopoldville,
Stanley Pool, has told me how it fared with him.
‘I had a town of my own when quite young. You know how the Bayansi sell
to the Bakongo, and we act as middlemen, and interpret for them. I
pushed business, and many traders came to me because they had so much
trouble with the other old chiefs about here. I soon became very rich,
married several wives, bought many slaves out of my profits, and my
town grew large.
‘The other old chiefs, instead of pushing their trade, grumbled that
I got so much. They would say, “Look at young Nga Mbelenge; how
rapidly he is growing rich! It seems only yesterday he was a boy,
and now to-day look at his town, see how rich he is! No doubt he is
selling souls also.” Without any warning or trial, they came down on
me suddenly, accused me of witchcraft, and in my own town compelled
me to drink the ordeal poison. I vomited, and thus my innocence was
established.’ He acknowledged that the whole custom is very wicked.
‘But what am I to do? If I say that I will have no more of it in my
town, my people will say that I am myself a witch, and therefore I do
not wish further execution for witchcraft. If I try to stop it, I bring
it upon myself.’
As a sequel to this, I learned that a fortnight after, another man was
killed in his town as a witch.
The question is naturally asked, What is this crime of witchcraft?
Those people who do any trading imagine that a witch is able by means
of some fell sorcery to possess himself of the spirit of his victim. He
can then put the spirit into a tusk of ivory, or among his merchandise,
and convey it to the coast, where the white men will buy it. In due
course, if not at the time, the ‘witched’ man dies. Then the white man
can make him work for him in his country under the sea. They believe
that very many of the coast labourers are men thus obtained, and
often when they go to trade look anxiously about for dead relatives.
Sometimes when we are travelling they look on with wonder and disgust
as we open our tinned provisions, ‘calculating’ that that at least must
be one of the uses to which we put their dead relatives.
The notion of the land under the sea has its origin in their faculty
of observation. They see ships coming in from sea appear, first the
mast, then the hull; and thus at a decent distance out, so as not to
reveal the trick, we white men emerge from the ocean. Travellers love
to enlarge upon the wonders they have seen, and so the story grows, and
the people have been brought up in the belief that away under the sea
their relatives make cloth, etc., for us white folk.
This is, however, a new idea, comparatively. The old notion still
prevails in many parts, that away in some dark forest land departed
spirits dwell. The witches, they think, have some interest in sending
away their fellows to the spirit land. Perhaps they get pay from the
spirits, no one knows or questions why. Who can know a witch’s business
but a witch?
Even if a man dies in war, or is taken by a wild beast or crocodile,
it is witchcraft. To such an extent is this believed, that people will
bathe in streams where crocodiles abound. So long as there are plenty
of people together, the cowardly reptiles are not likely to attack. In
this way the idea has come about that real crocodiles will not eat
men; but if such a thing occurs it is proof positive that either a
witch has transformed himself into a crocodile to obtain his victim, or
induced the reptile to do it for him. If you ask how, ‘I do not know;
I am not a witch.’ At Lukunga, Mr. Ingham, of the Livingstone Mission,
shot a huge crocodile which came out at night after his pigs. In the
stomach of the reptile were the anklets of a woman, which were at once
recognised by the townsfolk. Yet they told me that the crocodile cannot
have eaten the woman.
‘But how about those anklets?’
‘Very likely crocodiles have a fancy for such things. You see what a
lot of stones he had in his stomach. Perhaps he took off those anklets
when he had done as he was told to do.’
This was no ghastly joke. I discussed the matter further, and asked
a more intelligent companion whether he could really believe as he
asserted. He replied that the man was not joking.
A lad, who was for some time a scholar at our school at Underhill
Station, died in his own town a month or two after leaving us. The
people said that our Mr. Hughes had stolen the boy’s soul, and sent it
away to the white man’s land to be converted into Krooboys to work for
us.
The Ngombe people told us that once on the market near their town,
some travellers halted to buy palm wine, and all the people heard a
hoarse voice proceed from a tusk of ivory, ‘Give me a drink of wine, I
am fearfully thirsty.’ Some wine was poured into the tusk, there was a
sound of drinking, and after rest the travellers passed on. Everyone
believed the story, but I could never see any one who was present. It
was of course a spirit in transit to the coast.
Witch doctors are up to all manner of tricks in their wicked business.
Sometimes they declare that a dead man is the witch, and will dig in
the grave, and as they get near the corpse suddenly tell the people
to get out of the way. The doctor is going to shoot the witch, then
throwing down a little blood which he has secreted, he fires a gun and
points triumphantly to the blood of the escaped witch.
One of our boys told us how he had helped to unmask one of these
tricks. His mother was ill, and the doctor said that there was a witch
in the ground under the head of the bed on which she slept. The people
all went out of the house; but the boy, who was anxious to witness the
destruction of the witch, begged to remain, and while the doctor was
busy digging, he found a bundle under the bed, and took it out. It was
the doctor’s charms, and among them he found the gizzard of a fowl full
of blood. He took it to the chief, who examined it, and the doctor,
discovering his loss, emerged to say that the witch had been too sharp
for him; he was obliged to run away, the people were so angry with him
for trying thus to deceive them. It might seem too much to believe
that, once discovered, he would venture the same trick again; yet some
time after he was sent to inquire as to the death of a man in the town,
and declared that there were two witches, one he pointed out, the
other was a dead man. He proceeded to dig up the dead witch, and the
chief, remembering at once the old dodge of this very man, sent some
one to fetch his bundle, which he was more carefully watching. There
was another gizzard ready. This was too much for them. They seized
the wretched man, and, breaking his arms and legs, threw him over the
precipice, the fate intended for his victim.
There is a story which explains the cruelty of breaking the arms and
legs. A man had been accused of witchcraft, and thrown down into the
great chasm, a distance of over one hundred feet. He fell into some
soft mud at the bottom, and was able the next day to return to the
town. The people broke his arms and legs, to make sure of him, and
threw him down again; and such is the rule now.
Witch stories without end there are, but they still leave unsolved
the question, What is a witch? Some say a man who knows how to weave
the spell; others that an evil spirit takes up its abode in a man to
accomplish this; in either case, it is held to be an imperative duty
to kill the men. The spirit world is either under the sea or in a dark
forest land; but how the spirits live, and what they do, is not known,
since no one has ever returned to tell the story. But ghouls and evil
spirits are said to lurk about in the neighbourhood of graves and
uncanny places.
There is a natural fear of death--the spirit world is an unknown
land--but there is no apprehension of meeting Nzambi, nor is there a
burden of sin.
There is a sense of right and wrong. To steal, to lie, or to commit
other crimes is considered wrong, but only a wrong to those who suffer
thereby--there is no thought of God in it.