Let us take the case of a traditionalist village, or, if you prefer the phrase, a pagan village. It is usually to be found in a place with abundant undergrowth, which can serve as a hiding place for women and children, and even the men in time of war: this is certainly not, let me say straightaway, a purely imaginary situation. You enter the village by a long corridor which has been cut into the forest and which has two or three doorways, in succession, which provide a way into the village. Near the entry, there is an earthen bowl held in place by three sticks which is the rain bowl. One has to keep some water in this earthenware vessel, make an occasional offering of a piece of cloth which is hung above it, and burn some oil there and so on. This is the way in this dry land to avoid shortages of water. All the same, water is often scarce. But when one says this to the magician, he will reply that without the marvelous bowl, water would be much scarcer.
Rain gourd
Near at hand, in the thickets, is the little house of the Mwanza. From it, on certain days, there comes a sound so frightening that everyone who hears it shuts himself up in his house. The noise marks the passing of the Mwanza.
What is the Mwanza? Nobody is quite sure, but when he asks for something, he must have it without delay. It is hardly necessary to say that this kind of werewolf has as spokesman the local magician or the chief—two roles which are often combined in the same person. Sometimes, sacrifices are made to him. It may be to drive away war or an epidemic or famine, to rid oneself of some problem, to free oneself from the pressure of disturbing dreams; but also to make something succeed.
But how does this Mwanza speak? Reader, it is a big secret. However, if you promise me not to tell anybody, I can take you into my confidence. You take a tree trunk, which can be cut easily, you make of it a block of wood one-meter-long, you hollow out the inside, you close one end with a fully stretched skin, as you would do for a drum. Across the middle of this skin, a piece of gut, acting as a cord, passes through a hole. It is fixed to the interior of the cylinder and, on the outside, it is held in place by a stick which can be moved about. In the depths of the forest, and in the hands of a skilled operator, the instrument can produce sounds which freeze simple people with fear and bring them to the magician’s feet, to ask, “What does the Mwanza want?”
The wise soothsayer takes pity on them and commits himself to appease the angry creature, provided one does what he wants or makes an appropriate sacrifice. There is a rather surprising feature, which shows that this institution must go back to the distant past. It is found in one form or another in all the neighboring Nyika around, in the valley of the Tana, and as far away as the Congo and the Ogowe (Gabon). But what a pity that European Heads of State do not have at their disposal something similar to frighten their parliamentarians into voting for the measures submitted to them.
Digo villages do not occupy large stretches of ground. Along the coastline, one often sees isolated houses or a few houses close together. Further up, one can find villages of twenty, thirty, or forty houses, thrown together without any systematic plan, sometimes very close to each other, built in an unusual shape, neither round nor square. The door, the roof, and the walls are all made of interwoven coconut tree branches. One can wonder, if there should be a fire in such a community, what would be left. I posed this question to a member of one of the village councils. He smiled at my Western naivety, and, without saying a word, he pointed to the coconut trees, whose multi-colored leaves provided a covering for the village.
Side of a village on the coast.
Then I understood; when houses have become little heaps of ashes, the materials for rebuilding are always at hand.
The Digo do not do very much work. The coconut tree is such a help to them. It gives them food, it gives them drink. Often coconut trees are quite high, but the Digo learn to climb at the same time as they learn to walk. Moreover, they have developed techniques. People living near the coast make cuts in the trunk of a tree as it grows; this produces a kind of stairway. Other Digo, further inland, tie two long poles to the coconut tree, and attach them to different points on the tree with pieces of creepers, making them a kind of permanent ladder.
Palm wine tapping is for them a major occupation. However, they also plant cassava, guinea corn, maize, beans, pistachio trees, ambrevades (leganus indicos), various marrows, and a little sesame. When they can, they keep cattle, but they generally keep chickens, goats, sheep, and small dogs, which they keep for hunting.
As warriors, they are not remarkable. They get on reasonably well with each other, although they have a reputation of being quibblers. They are keen drinkers. They love wearing ornaments and music and dancing. They are very good at both these arts, and bring them into very many of their ceremonies, such as those for births, marriages, burials, anniversaries of a funeral, in fact any kind of social occasion. I once saw, as the closing ceremony at the annual remembrance service for the chief of Matonga—quite a minor figure—more than 2,000 dancers who had come from all over for this “anniversary service.” For these occasions, a special costume is worn, whose picturesque quality varies according to taste and resources. Hair oil is available in the form of red ochre mixed with the oil of the castor oil plant, which, poured on the heads of participants, produces a bright red coloring which is much admired. But for ordinary days, men dress in a simple loincloth with a piece of linen hanging from the shoulders. Women wear a sort of double short skirt and ornaments such as pendant earrings, pearl necklaces, copper bracelets, etc.
Many children and young people have, hanging from their necks, an eyebrow tweezer with which to remove hair from their eyebrows.
Digo country is divided into a large number of small chiefdoms, each with its own chief. However, all these chiefs accept, as at least honorary president, Kubo, who lived at Kikone in southern Digo country, and whom we wanted to visit.
When, however, we arrived at Kikone, brave old Kubo was not there. All the same, we settled down on the town square, which was actually outside the village, around a tamarind tree whose kindly head normally sheltered the local unemployed. We waited for a good hour or more; then we saw a large body, lean and elderly, clad in a slightly worn red overcoat, with, on top, a head severely marked by smallpox, accompanied by quite a lot of people, with, in front, a musician playing a trumpet. The body and the head were Kubo’s.
We found him a good conversationalist, welcoming, and well intentioned in his attitudes. He readily shared with us his loves and hates: he took a favorable view of the Arab governor of Vanga, but detested Mbaruku, the Swahili chief of Gasi, who had killed his uncle and three of his brothers and had ravaged the whole of Digo country. Kubo had understandably bitter feelings toward him.
We quickly noticed differences between the people at Kikone and those on the higher ground. Here people look at you in a less trustful way, they put on more clothes, and their way of acting is less straightforward; here, the influence of Islam was beginning to make itself felt.
For weapons, the Digo have rifles, spears, head-smashing clubs, big broad straight cutlasses, and bows. Here also you can find the arrow poison which is used in so many underdeveloped countries in Africa, the Americas, and Asia. It is taken from a tree. Unfortunately, I have never seen the tree which produces it, and I have never travelled in the area when the tree produces flowers at the end of the dry season. However, an old warrior who gave me some of this poison, gave me also some charming details about it. Here they are.
“You find it in a tree,” said he, “created specifically to be a poison tree. The birds are well aware of it, and they and the animals know many things at which we humans can only guess. They do not speak, and perhaps it is so that they do not reveal their secrets. The birds know what a poison tree looks like. They never settle on its branches, and you will find a lot of dead insects around its roots. To make the poison you have to cut pieces of wood from the tree, take also the roots, cut them all into small pieces, and boil them slowly in an earthenware bowl filled with fresh water, stirring it all the time