Oral Literature in Africa (72 page)

The whole organization of such speaking is carefully regulated. The speakers rise in order and are not expected to interrupt another speaker during his oration with any substantive point beyond the general reactions of an attentive audience. A man stands up to speak when the last speaker ‘passes the word’ to him by the recognized formula ‘so much (for what I have to say)’ (
tinde
), adding the name of the one who is to follow him. The new speaker must then speak appreciatively of the words of his predecessor (even if he disagrees with him), acknowledge the leading men present, then turn to the matter of his speech. Of course, not all live up to these ideals all the time. But many do, and the Limba are quite clear that someone who loses his temper or speaks with real and self-interested anger (as distinct from the occasional assumed anger of rhetoric) cannot be regarded as the cool and accomplished orator whom the Limba admire so much.

Much of the content and phraseology of these Limba orations may appear trite to someone from a different tradition. But it is certain that to the Limba themselves such speeches, when delivered by a recognized
orator, complete with flowing gesture and all the overtones of accustomed word and sentiment shot through with the fresh insights of the individual speaker, are an expression, through a beautiful medium, of some of the most profound truths of their society.

II

There are certain types of formal speech that, without being as lengthy and elaborate as formal oratory, have a tendency to become stylized. Just as stylized words in, say, the English Book of Common Prayer have a literary interest of their own, and must have had the same characteristic even before being crystallized into fixed and written form, so prayers in non-literate societies sometimes fall into a kind of literary mode; they may be characterized by a conventional form, perhaps marked by greater rhythm or allusiveness than everyday speech, within which the individual must cast his thoughts. The same is sometimes true of other forms of stylized expression—salutations, curses, oaths, petitions, or solemn instructions.

How far such utterances fall into a more or less fixed and formulaic mode varies according to the conventions of differing cultures. It is always of interest to inquire into this, not least because of the possibility that the fixity of such utterances has in the past been overemphasized.

It is clear that, in some cases at least, there can be both a conventionally recognized over-all form—a literary genre, as it were—and also, within this, scope for individual variation according to speaker and context. This can be illustrated, to take just one example, from the conventional mode of uttering curses among the Limba. (for further details see Finnegan 1964). In outline these curses are always much the same. The occasion that gives rise to them is when some unknown criminal is believed to have engaged, undetected, in any of the three crimes the Limba class together as ‘theft’ (actual physical theft, adultery, and witchcraft). Laying the curse is thought to stir up the object known as the ‘swear’ which pursues and punishes the unknown offender by its mystical power. The content of the curse follows prescribed lines: invocation of the ‘swear’; explanation of the offence concerned; instructions about the fate that the ‘swear’ should bring on its victim; and, finally, a provision that confession and restitution should be acceptable, sometimes accompanied by a clause that the innocent receiver of stolen goods should not suffer. Other details as to time and circumstance are also laid down.

The style and literary structure of these curses are clearly understood by speaker and audience. They begin and end with short formulas that are invariable and have no clear meaning beyond their acceptance as necessary adjuncts to ritual utterances. The main body of the curse is more flexible. It is usually spoken in a semi-intoned voice, particularly in the phrases describing the victim’s expected fate, and is partially expressed in balanced parallel phrases which, while not possessing a clear enough over-all rhythm to be classed as poetry, nevertheless from time to time exhibit a definite beat of their own. The rhythm is further brought out by the common accompaniment of much of the curse—a rhythmic beat of the speaker’s stick on the ground next to the ‘swear’, said to arouse it to action and power. The dignity of the occasion is further brought home by the singsong voice of the speaker and his controlled and rather sparse use of gesture. The key-phrases that threaten the victim are repeated in various slightly differing forms, and this repetition, sometimes repeated yet again by an assistant, enhances the serious and intense tone of the curse.

Provided these central points are included, the actual curse can be longer or shorter according to the wishes of the speaker, the heinousness of the crime, or—in some cases—the magnitude of the fee or the audience. The possible fates to which the offender is to fall victim may be only sketched in, or they may be elaborated at great length. The same is true of the phrases that safeguard the position of the innocent and the repentant. Provided the speaker includes the set formulas at start and finish plus the occasional prescribed points within the body of the curse, and covers the main headings mentioned above, the actual words he uses do not seem to be a matter of any very great concern.

The kind of form and content characteristic of these curses can best be illustrated from extracts from two Limba examples. The first concerns the suspected secret theft of a hen:

Ka harika lontha, ka harika lontha
.

So and so bought a hen. He bought a hen at such and such a village. The hen was lost. He came to me. The man who ate it did not confess. I agreed. We are ‘swearing’ the eater this morning, Thursday.

The one who took the hen,

—If it is an animal in the bush, a wildcat, let it be caught;

Wherever it goes may it be met by a man with a gun;

May it be found by a hunter who does not miss;

If it meets a person, may it be killed.

But when it is killed, may the one who lulls and eats it [the wildcat] go free—
fo fen
.

—If it is an animal [that stole it],

Let it be killed in a trap;

Let it be killed going into a hole where it cannot come out.

—If it is a bird,

Let that bird be killed by a hunter or by a trap.

—If it was a person that stole and would not confess,

Let the ‘swear’ catch him.

—If it was a person,

If he stands on the road, let him meet with an accident;

If he takes a knife, let him meet with an accident;

If he is walking along the road, let him hit his foot on a stone and the blood not stop coming out;

If he begins farming—when he cuts at a tree with his cutlass, let him miss the tree and cut his hand;

If he has a wife and she knows about the hen, or two or three wives who helped him, let the ‘swear’ fall on them;

—If it is a man,

Let him always walk on a dangerous road, and when danger comes let him think about the hen he has stolen and confess.

If he does not confess,

Let him spend the whole night weeping [from pain].

When they ask why, let the ‘swear’ answer:

‘I am the one who caught the man, because he stole the fowl of the stranger.’

But if he confesses and says ‘I stole it’, and if the case is brought to me [the speaker] and I perform the ceremony [to release him],

—Let him no longer be ill.

—Quickly, quickly, let him be better—
fo feng

If he does not confess,

—Let him suffer long, for he is a thief.

The stolen hen—if someone ate it who did not know [that it was stolen], let the ‘swear’ not catch them. But those who ate knowing it was stolen, let them be caught, for it was the stranger’s hen.

Ka harika lontha, ka harika lontha
.

The second example is when a smith speaks over the pile of rice that has just been threshed and fanned in the farm. His words are intended both
to prevent the rice from being diminished through quarrels and as a curse against anyone who tries to steal it away through witchcraft. Though much shorter than the first example, the same kind of framework is evident:

Ka harika lontha, ka harika lontha
.

You the [dead] smiths, you the dead.
This is the rice, Sanasi’s rice, that we threshed today.

When we threshed it, it was not much.

When we fanned it, it was not much.

But when we gather it together—then let it be much!

—If it happens that someone tries to bewitch it as a big bird,
⁸
coming for the rice—let it be unsuccessful, let him not be able to take it.

—The ones we are warding off, they are no one else but
them
[i.e. witches].

You the smiths—if any one can say ‘since I was born, I have never needed the work of the smiths’ [i.e. iron], let that person only [i.e. no one] be able to bewitch the rice.

—If there is quarrelling in the house,

Let it [the rice] go free, fo fen,

Let it not follow the rice.

Ka harika lontha, ka harika lontha
.

Prayers are another very common type of solemn and stylized utterance that tend to manifest the same kind of characteristics as Limba curses. There are often accepted forms within which individuals can extemporize or even develop their own favourite phrases which they then produce on many occasions. Prayers also very often have their own special mode of delivery in terms of tone of voice, pitch, speed, gesture, or even occasionally anti-phonal form. This sets them apart from ordinary speech and can bring out a rhythm and balance in the central phrases. Very often too there is intensive use of metaphor, images through which the nature of God or the plight of the living are picturesquely conveyed.

Consider, for example, this prayer by a Milembwe woman after a child’s birth, recorded in the Congo:

God almighty creator,

God Mbuuwa Mukungu a Kiayima,

Created trees, created people, created all in the countries,

Created the Been’ Ekiiye of Kalanda, created the Beena Mpaaza and BaaMilembwe,

Created the Beena Musolo and Muelaayi, created the Beena Kibeeji of Muteeba,

Created the white and whitish,

Created the Lomami, created the Luamba Kasseya [two rivers],

Created the land where the sun rises,

Created the fish at Msengye,

Created the eldest and youngest of a twin,

Created the guide who leads (child that opens the womb),

Created the eatable and uneatable ants.

God, thou art the lord,

Who cometh in the roar of the whirlwind,

Out of your dwelling place from where the sun rises.

God creator, thou art father and thou art mother.

Oh God I shouldn’t offend You as if You were a man;

There is no gratitude for what God bestows upon you,

Although He gives you a wife who grinds maize, a woman is a basket

[i.e. she leaves her family on marriage]

A man is a refuge, when rain falls I may enter [i.e. a man remains in the village and may be a solace for his parents],

God if he hasn’t given you a gift, He’ll remember when you praise Him,

Honour Him and you arrive at Musengye of the Mulopwe (?).

Everyone isn’t a welcome guest, only a child is a stranger who comes quite new in our midst.

Oh eldest and youngest of a twin, only a child is welcome as a stranger.

Friend good-day, friend good-day!

(Stappers 1952
b
: 6–7)

The prayer makes striking use of repetition, in the form of parallelisms through which the creative power of God is progressively described, then his relations with mankind meditated on, and, finally, the newborn child is welcomed.

The literary effectiveness of such prayers can be illustrated in some further examples from the Congo. These are taken from one of the largest published collections of prayers and invocations, that by Theuws in his Textes Luba (Katanga) (Theuws 1954). These Luba prayers are characterized by their rich use of figurative language, by their rhythm and balance, and by the stereotyped clichés recognized as the appropriate and natural way of praying among the Luba. Luba prayers are said to be particularly formulaic and fixed, but new ideas and new formulas are assimilated.
¹
It is
also clear from the following examples that a stereotyped form need not necessarily imply lack of variety or literary expressiveness:

1.    Toi, qui nous a fendu les doigts dans la main,

Toi, Créateur,
⁹

Toi, Kungwa Banze,

Pourquoi nous as-tu tourné le dos?

2.    Ainsi la mort vint parmi nous,

Maintenant nous sommes venus pour t’apaiser.

Tu étais fâché sur nous,

Alors nous sommes venus, maintenant nous nous sommes réunis.

3.    Et vous, pères et mères, qui êtes morts déjà,

De votre côté, tenez vos mains sur nous,

Intercédez pour nous.

4.    Toi, qui nous a fendu les doigts dans la main,

Toi, Créateur des montagnes,

Toi, Kungwa Banze,

Tu nous as tourné le dos.

Fais-nous devenir nombreux, nous tous,

Que notre race soit nombreuse.

5.    Vous, pères et mères qui êtes morts, Tenez vos mains sur nous,

Nous mourons.
¹⁰

6.    O Esprit, Seigneur des Hommes, Seigneur de la terre, Seigneur des arbres et Seigneur des termitières, Aujourd’hui nous venons nous plaindre de notre misère.

7.    Seigneur de tous les insectes, c’est Toi,

Les légumes nous tuent.
¹¹

The last two examples are on a much more personal note: the bitter complaint of a man who has already lost most of his family and has now suffered yet another death, and the rather quieter prayer for help in infirmity. Both are marked by a similar structure based on repetition, invocation, and complaint. But there is far more to each than the mere structure. Colour is added through imagery drawn from observation of the human and the natural world. The invocations are in places elaborated to comment on the
divine in relation to the human order and forcibly bring out the contrast between the dead (and the Spirit) and the survivor struggling to grasp the reason for his sufferings. In short, each piece, though in practice a prayer, is in effect a kind of poem expressing and reflecting on the personal plight and insights of the speaker: