Healers and witches in Oku: an occult system of knowledge in northwest Cameroon

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Content HEALERS AND WITCHES IN OKU:
AN OCCULT SYSTEM OF KNOWLEDGE IN NORTHWEST CAMEROON
by
Brian A. Bartelt
A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(ANTHROPOLOGY)
December 2006
Copyright 2006 Brian A. Bartelt
ii
Dedication
To David Nchinda and the healers of Oku and Kejom, who trusted me with their
intellectual property; to the late Fon Ngum III, who gave his blessing to my research;
to Dr. Janet Hoskins, Dr. Martin Fusi and Mr. Njakoi Jon Bah, who helped to get this
project off the ground; and to everybody – family, friends, professors and colleagues
– whose support and encouragement gave me the will to see this through, I dedicate
this dissertation.
iii
Table of Contents
Dedication ii
Abstract v
Introduction 1
From California to Cameroon: A Cross-Cultural Pursuit of the Occult 2
The Ethnographic Process, or “Getting into the Native’s Head” 4
Chapter 1: African Traditional Religion and Indigenous Thought Systems 15
Anthropological Approaches to African Religion 16
The Theological Approach 20
Indigenous Thought Systems and the African Worldview 23
African Traditional Religions 30
Religion as Ritual 41
Divination: Foundation of the African Worldview 47
The Reality of Witchcraft 51
Chapter 2: Cameroon & the Northwest Province culture area 55
The Grassfields under Colonial Rule 59
Northwest Cameroon: Ethnographic Overview 64
The Institution of Chiefdomship in the Northwest 67
The History of Oku 74
Chapter 3: Oku Cosmology 82
Emyin: The Local Deities 84
The Myth of Mawes 86
Ancestors 92
The Biotic Community 95
The Hierarchy of Consciousness 100
Keyoi: The Vital Force 105
Traditional Religion and Abrahamic Incursions 108
New Religious Movements 112
Conclusion 117
Chapter 4: The Sphere of Traditional Medicine 121
Following the Phenomena 121
The Significance of Traditional Healing 124
iv
Traditional Medicine as Practiced in the NW Province of Cameroon 128
The Healers of Oku 135
Chapter 5: Secret Societies & Juju 144
Kwifon & the Military Societies 147
Mask Societies 152
Samba Mask Society 159
Women’s Societies 160
Medicine Societies 162
Lum 171
Initiation 174
Initiation: A Personal Account 177
Chapter 6: Ways of Knowing 182
Anthropology and the Question of Reality 182
Phenomenology and the Senses 185
The Oku Sensorium 188
Vision, Dreams, and Sacrifice 192
Music and Sound 199
Divination 206
Chapter 7: Witchcraft, Healers, & Morality 219
Locating Witchcraft in Oku 222
Witches and Healers 228
The Modernity of Witchcraft 233
Mossock and the Ambiguity of Traditional Healing 238
The Morality of Chiesse 243
Conclusion 247
Chapter 8: Conclusions 250
Indigenous Knowledges and the Legacy of African Traditional Values 250
Towards an Interpretation of Occult Phenomena 259
The Reality of Consciousness 261
Bibliography 267
Appendices 280
Appendix A: Flawed Approaches to African Development 280
Appendix B: Consciousness as a Unified Field 282
Appendix C: Consciousness & the Manifestation of Occult Phenomena 284
v
Abstract
Many sub-Saharan African cultures share a worldview in which access to
multiple levels of consciousness are positively sanctioned and enculturated. In these
cultures, experiences had in dreams, visions, and under various ritual conditions
contribute to the society’s general system of knowledge. Using a phenomenological
approach, this dissertation examines traditional healing and ways of knowing in the
community of Oku, Cameroon, where the intervention of occult forces permeates all
aspects of society. From sorcery and divination to dream diagnostics, the healers’
senses are directed towards discovering the reasons for disharmony and how to
restore the balance. Analyzing the role of sensory orders in the manifestation of
occult phenomena reveals a complex relationship between consciousness, perception,
and spirituality that is at the heart of traditional medicine in Cameroon. The very
embodiment of occult religious practice in Oku, traditional healers operate in various
spheres of the occult collectively known as ju-ju. This secrecy and the potential to
use ju-ju to afflict rather than heal represent in particular the ‘dark side’ of traditional
healing, wherein various fetishes are understood to have agency over human affairs.
The strength of Oku society lies in its medicines, established by the ancestors
and vigorously maintained by a strict adherence to traditional laws. By retaining their
holistic outlook without the scientific and technological expertise, Oku’s traditional
healers echo postmodern thinking that there exist other dimensions of knowing and
experiencing beyond the ‘rationalist’ approach of modern science. Moving from the
vi
mystical-religious domain and into an explainable one, witchcraft and other occult-
related phenomena in Oku can be understood without necessarily opposing reality
and fantasy, by studying the links among witchcraft, spirituality, and healing, and
their combined effects on consciousness.
1
Introduction
What is it that continues to nurture the spirit of African people in the midst of
great suffering and confusion brought about by an oppressive model of globalization,
a system that keeps Africa and other developing nations in a state of perpetual
servitude? Looking beyond political and economic variables alone, this dissertation
examines the legacy of spirituality and values that could not be destroyed by Western
rational systems. Often left out of the study of globalization and religion because its
local variations are seen as remnants of a by-gone era of so-called ‘primitive’ beliefs,
the impact of African traditional belief systems is often ignored in the search of an
African modernity and for the continent's development. Yet this is precisely why a
careful study of African traditional religion and spirituality is necessary, since they
continue to influence and mediate the experiences of contemporary Africans as they
encounter the forces of globalization and rapid urbanization.
While there is arguably no single or generalized African religion, it is a fact
that African traditional religions share a specific vision of life, or worldview, in
which access to multiple levels of consciousness are positively sanctioned and
enculturated. In these cultures, experiences had in dreams, visions, and various ritual
conditions contribute to the society’s general system of knowledge. Within this
system of thought other realities exist which many of us in the Western world fail to
comprehend due to a materialistic conception of consciousness and reductionary
discourse concerning reality versus fantasy. This dissertation reverses that trend by
2
taking a phenomenological approach to African traditional religion as manifested in
Cameroon, and focusing on the complex relationship between consciousness,
perception, and spirituality that characterizes the ambiguous nature of occult religious
practice throughout sub-Saharan Africa.
From California to Cameroon: A Cross-Cultural Pursuit of the Occult
Somewhat paradoxically, my desire to pursue occult studies in Cameroon was
motivated by previous field research into the occult in California during the late
1990s.
1
A focus on contemporary occult phenomena as practiced by various New-
Age groups in California revealed ‘traditional’ notions turning up everywhere in
modern contexts, as evidenced by the numerous examples of indigenous cultural
elements embedded in their rituals. It also occurred to me that the various modern
incantations of these traditions advanced a set of beliefs and values that conjured up
parallels with many indigenous societies - where it is understood that forces such as
witchcraft, magic, and other occult phenomena occur naturally and indeed exist.
Shortly after completing my Masters thesis, I was presented with an
opportunity to investigate this relationship further via collaboration with Dr. Martin
Fusi, at that time a Professor of Theatre at the University of Southern California, on
his Theatre for Development Program. A ground-breaking mix of theatre,
anthropology, and community dialogue, the program proposes to determine and

1
Bartelt, Brian. 1999. “Moontribe: Neopaganism in the Southern California Rave
Scene.” Masters Thesis, Visual Anthropology, University of Southern California.
3
analyze the cause of educational and health problems within a village community by
focusing on the community’s use of ritual drama and performance. Recognizing the
opportunity before us, Dr. Fusi and I agreed that I should go to his native Cameroon
on a survey trip before implementing the program. This would also give me an
opportunity to compare firsthand ‘traditional,’ indigenous rituals with contemporary
ritualization in the West.
In July of 2002 I left for Cameroon expecting to document the ecstatic
experience I associated with many African traditional ritual performances, including
those involving spirit possession and/or hallucinogenic plants such as iboga.
However, instead of the non-changing, communal and stable ritualization I had come
to understand existed throughout Cameroon based on the ethnographic record, I saw
less formal and more personal rituals that readily intertwined the occult with modern
changes. Even more confounding was the seeming lack of any kind of ecstatic
experience associated with their occult practices. This was especially true throughout
the area in the Northwest Province of Cameroon known as the Grassfields. Here the
focal point around which much of the occult revolved was not formalized ritual or
celebration per se, but rather interpersonal relationships between members of the
community and their traditional healers.
The information gathered and the relationships fostered during that trip
provided a foundation upon which to engage in further praxis-oriented research
concerning the world of traditional healing and the practice of the occult in a modern
context. The following year, on a travel grant from the Center f!!or International
4
Policy, Planning, and Development, I elected to return to the Grassfields and do
fieldwork amongst their traditional healers. Upon hearing this, Dr. Fusi became
quite concerned, and pleaded with me to consider another avenue to pursuing ritual
studies. Getting into the head of a traditional healer, Dr. Fusi insisted, is a dangerous
thing for any man, and something that “only a crazy white man like yourself would
even consider doing.” Despite having living in the West for over twenty years, Dr.
Fusi remained steadfast in his conviction that the occult practices associated with
witchcraft and Grassfields healers alike retain their efficacy today, and should not be
taken lightly. “Whatever you do,” said Dr. Fusi, “ do not go to Oku.”
The Ethnographic Process, or “Getting into the Native’s Head”
Ethnography and history are nowhere more tightly bound up with identity and
ethnicity than in the broad field of colonial and post-colonial African studies.
Cameroon's geographical position makes it a true African crossroads, a "microcosm
of the continent" (Fowler 1996: xviii). Cameroon is a meeting ground for a wide
diversity of cultures both native to Africa & intrusive from Europe, which must be
taken into account. Sally Chilver is regarded by most scholars of Cameroon as
having laid the groundwork for Cameroon studies. She adopted an early stance
against the "short-sightedness" of ethnographers by retaining a focus on historical
issues while collaborating with the renowned anthropologist, Phyllis Kaberry (Fowler
1996: 2). Chilver brought what was at the time an innovative and broad historical
5
methodology and perspective to African ethnography. In both their collaborative
efforts there is argued to be an emergent 'anthropology' which retains greater currency
today than the more methodologically narrow functionalism of the time. Similarly,
this research contributes to an emerging anthropology today by adopting a
phenomenological approach to ethnographic research.
From academia to politics, the idea that the West is the ‘vanguard of the
modern’ has become entrenched in the Western worldview, reinforcing the distinction
between the rational and the occult. As anyone who grows up with a Western
worldview, I carried a certain amount of ‘intellectual baggage’ that made the hidden
nature of occult phenomena in Cameroon difficult to verify. Indeed, although
witchcraft and magic are rarely “seen,” all sorts of events are understood as
consequences of human acts. As an outsider, attributing human agency to everything
from disease to lightening storms may seem at first the result of gross
misunderstandings and/or ignorance of basic principles of the ‘natural’ sciences. Yet
this is primarily, if not completely, the result of a shift in modern Western culture
towards the eye as the locus and arbiter of all knowledge, i.e. ‘seeing is believing’.
Therefore as an outsider/anthropologist investigating such phenomena, it becomes
important to not only document accounts of such happenings, but to experience them
directly.
A number of scholars (Laughlin 1995, d'Aquili 1990) have pointed out that
the experiences associated with some religious texts and ritual practices are of an
exceptional nature and cannot easily be accessed by routine ethnographic field
6
methods. Phenomenological anthropology refers to a way of doing ethnography and
ethnology that emphasizes the study of consciousness. Generally speaking, a
phenomenological study is one that is grounded in the direct experience of aspects of
ones own consciousness, although in a more philosophical sense, phenomenology
refers to any method for the study of consciousness that:
(1) Grounds knowledge about consciousness in intuition as the prime source of
insight and as the final arbiter of truth about consciousness, and
(2) Recognizes the possibility of, and seeks knowledge about the essential structures
of consciousness (Spiegelberg, 1982: 5-6).
Phenomenologists owe some of their ideas and methods to the works of
Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), who wrote such books as Cartesian Meditations
(1931), Ideas: General Introduction to Pure Phenomenology (1931) and The Crisis of
European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology (1935). In these works,
Husserl argued for a method of “exploring and intuitively realizing” the universal
structures of experience that required “dropping ones culturally conditioned views of
self and consciousness” (Spiegelberg, 1982: 69-165). In keeping with Husserl's view,
phenomenological anthropology is concerned with methods that may be utilized in
fieldwork to "get into the native's head" and understand what the native is
experiencing.
Getting into the head of a traditional healer is not an easy task, made more
difficult in a society where secrecy is essential to acquiring prestige and power as
well as spiritual potency. Amongst healers especially, knowledge is protected and
7
rarely given freely, as I was reminded by my would-be teacher and informant,
Nchinda David:
“Secrecy must be maintained. I believe this is partly due to the fact
that the rules are more easily maintained in the hands of one
person…as opposed to giving the secret to a group of people, running
the risk that one person in that group will miss a step or do something
wrong, and thereby making all the medicine ineffective. Keeping the
secret is akin to keeping an oath with the spirit world, as the impact of
the medicines is purely spiritual. The spirit is the force. By releasing
the secret, you betray the spiritual force.” p.c. 2003
Most people in the Grassfields are also well aware of the Euro-American
inclination to give away knowledge freely, which is at odds with their morality:
secrets are dangerous by definition, and should not be entrusted to just anyone lest
they fall into the wrong hands. Most dangerous of all are secrets of the mystical
realm, which will not only, as Nchinda pointed out, render spiritual medicines
ineffective, it may also “betray” the medicine by inviting witchcraft into the
community. Personal knowledge is thus rarely revealed at all levels of Grassfields
society, if for no other reason than to avoid accusations of witchcraft. Kent Maynard,
who has studied traditional healing and its relationship to modern medicine in the
Grassfields, suggested that knowledge in their worldview rested on multiple
principles: “it is hierarchical, more secret as it comes closer to the mystical plane, and
never free” (2004: xiii). As such, mystical secrets or secrets dealing with “spiritual
force” continue to be grounded in a complex hierarchy of secret societies; to join
involves a series of initiations and accompanying ritual exchanges in order to pass
into the higher levels where the secrets are known.
8
Complicating matters, anthropologists have long tended to view indigenous
occult practices within a strictly local context, focusing on how they serve to maintain
the status quo in the face of new external influences. The practice of differentiating
scientific knowledge from local representations dominates the discussion of
witchcraft in anthropology, while the idea that “it does not really exist” still marks
most anthropological studies. The problem here concerns the relationship between
dialogue and action: how does one account for the effects of actions that are very hard
to discern?
One way is to personally experience the forces of healing, witchcraft, and
sorcery, and in Cameroon today there is very good chance that may occur.
Unfortunately, it usually involves becoming afflicted with something or the other, as
happened to me during my initial field-stay in 2002. The affliction occurred rather
suddenly while visiting a remote outpost in Eastern Cameroon near the town of
Bertoua. Motivated by the successful start to my fieldwork in the Grassfields and
intrigued by the almost daily reports of witchcraft activity in the East, I somewhat
naively decided to visit a Pygmy village with the expectation that I might interview a
native healer. The interview went far better than I had dared hope. In fact, the
Pygmy healer was so accommodating that my translator and assistant, who hails from
the Grassfields, thought the better of it and suggested we not stay any longer than
necessary. As we prepared to leave, our overly gracious host offered us a gift of
tobacco leaf. Not wanting to insult him, I placed it in my backpack and we proceeded
back to Bertoua.
9
By the time we got to our hotel, I was already light-headed and burning with
fever. Later that night I had double vision and could barely move a muscle. By the
time the morning came around, my muscles were in lock-down and I could barely lift
my head off the pillow. A medical doctor from the clinic in Bertoua thought it might
be malaria and suggested that I go to the hospital in the capital city of Yaounde. To
his credit, my assistant ignored his advice and arranged to have us catch a transport
back to the Northwest Province. I was immediately taken to a traditional healer, Joe
Mgah, whose divination revealed that I was poisoned by someone in Bertoua. Joe
then asked me if I took anything from the Pygmies. I told him no…well, unless he
considered the leaf in my backpack to be something I ‘took’ from the Pygmies. Joe
scolded me for my ignorance; indeed, I should have known better, as witchcraft is
commonly transmitted through objects in a phenomenon known in the Northwest as
chiesse.
Having isolated the problem, Joe proceeded to “kill the powers of the leaf” by
placing various ‘spiritual powders’ on top before depositing it in a nearby river.
Turning the table on researcher and subject, Joe then gave me the same treatment I
had many times observed, but never personally experienced, regarding cases of
witchcraft poisoning. Finally, I was given an herbal concoction with the instruction
to drink the entire amount before I went to sleep that night. The next morning I was
able to walk and eat for the first time in five days; in two days I was back to normal.
The sudden affliction, followed by the rapid turnaround beginning with Joe
Mgah’s treatment, gave me pause to reflect upon the relationship between healing and
10
witchcraft, and the role of traditional healers in this vicious cycle. In the tradition of
phenomenology, I had experienced the effects of this cycle personally, and I was left
with the conviction that what happened to me was, as they say in Cameroon,
“unnatural.” Motivated by the desire for a deeper understanding of my experience, I
resolved to return to the Northwest the following year and train as a healer, and
thereby get access to the various secret societies and other economies of the occult in
which healers (and witches) operate.
Throughout the Northwest Province, it is common knowledge that the most
powerful and effective healers reside in Oku; a relatively isolated community of up to
100,000 people, dispersed in 15 villages nestled in the forests of the Kilum mountain
range. Indeed, the reputation of Oku’s ‘magic’ is such that the general consensus
amongst Northwesterners concerning healing potency is that the healers from Oku are
without fail ‘real’, while most other Grassfields healers are characterized as ‘weak’ or
even charlatans. Paradoxically, Oku is also a place to be feared and avoided, as the
close association of witchcraft with healing would suggest. Everyone I spoke with
during my survey trip in 2002 warned me against traveling to Oku, including Dr.
Fusi; so much so that it was next to impossible to locate a guide willing to take me
there. Given such a reputation, an anthropologist can only make one choice, and
upon my return to the Grassfields in 2003 I was determined to install myself in Oku.
The result of that decision, and the ‘mystical’ circumstances that ensued, are perhaps
best conveyed in the following excerpt from my field journal:
June 7, 2003: Arrived in Oku last Monday…finally! The trip from Bamenda to
Kumbo was pleasant enough, by African standards: only one accident, no
11
injuries. But the 40km journey from Kumbo to Oku was far more dangerous, if
not miraculous. Inaccessible by bus or ‘normal’ taxi, one has to hire a stripped-
down Toyota with a raised chassis in the style of the Mad Max movies from my
childhood. A 2-door car that fits 5 at best is crammed full with 10 people: 6 in the
back, 4 in front. The driver, in fact, must drive with his head outside of the
window, while the passenger occupying half of the driver’s seat has the additional
responsibility of shifting the gears upon the driver’s command - and there is no
fare reduction for this added responsibility. The driver then proceeds full throttle
up the mountain, displaying an uncanny foreknowledge of other cars rumbling
down the mountain at equally break-neck velocities. (I later found out !!why such
speed is necessary: if one so much as hesitates at a blind curve or hole in the road,
the car – loaded as it were with 10 people and over 400 pounds of potatoes, live
fowls, and other luggage on the roof – would never re-gain the momentum to
climb the hill).

An hour and half later, I extricated myself from the death-!!trap and immediately
experienced a paradigm shift of the sort I encounter only in dreams. Here was a
different world indeed, a place beyond the confines of time where tradition truly
lived. Here was a blacksmith tending to an Mbororo man’s horse, a woman
dressed in colorful wraps grinding corn to make foo-foo, and children on wooden
bicycles pausing to pay respects to an old man walking by, adorned with beads
signifying his high status. Here even the air seemed somehow magical, an
illusion enhanced by clouds rolling down the mountains and enveloping me where
I stood. The village itself was quaint and colorful: a main street with adobe and
wood houses on either side, from which paths extending into the forest would lead
to additional abodes. At the end o!!f the street was cul de sac of sorts with rows of
stalls bustling with life, for it happened to be market day. Feeling confident, I
gathered my backpack from the roof of the car and proceeded to the market to
look for accommodation and food.
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a familiar person materialized in front of
me. It was the same person whom I had met in Douala two weeks earlier,
followed by another suspicious encounter in Bamenda the following week. His
behavior during those previous encounters suggested that he was after something
other than my friendship. The fact that he suddenly appeared in Oku when I
never told him where I was going was too much of coincidence, and gave me
pause to reflect upon the warnings I did not heed when I chose to come to Oku.
Not sure how to handle this, I pretended I didn’t see him and instead left the
market and headed for the sacred starting point of every successful
anthropological endeavor!!!: the local bar.
Obscenely loud and distorted makossa music from an old stereo powered by a car
battery greeted me I entered the establishment. The furniture and décor of the
place was all skillfully improvised from readily available materials, such as beer
12
crates and calendars from the 1980s. The place was alive and full, so I pulled up
a crate next to an older man adorned with a flowing green gown and sporting a
thick, handle bar mustache. Before I could even order a beer, however, the
mysterious man who I saw in the market enters along with two other young men,
and take seats across from me. Realizing he was not going to leave me alone, I
decided to confront him by letting him know that I was aware of his following
me, and that I would appreciate him letting me do my ‘work’ in peace. Of course
this was unacceptable to the young man and his friends, who insisted on being
“reimbursed” for their attention to my wellbeing. By this time some other bar
patrons become interested and begin to crowd around me, wanting to know why I,
a rich white foreigner, refused to pay these young men for their bringing me to
Oku. My business is now everyone’s business, and soon people begin taking
sides. Not wanting to kill any chance of meaningful fieldwork by causing conflict
my first night in Oku, I try to defuse the situation. Before I know it I am handing
over 5000 francs to these guys to supposedly pay for their travel back to
Bamenda.
Big mistake. Now they want more: this time, its compensation for having
traveled out here in the first place. The situation becomes tense. I become upset,
and reach to take my money back, which is lying on the table. The young man
slams his hand on top of the money in order to prevent me from doing so. At that
moment the old man next to me calmly reaches over and grasps the man’s arm.
Holding tight, he looks directly into his eyes and with startling conviction says:
“you are NOT an Oku man.” Suddenly the man’s body goes limp...he backs away
and utters something in his local dialect to his friends. The old man responds by
pointing to the door and telling them to leave Oku by first light, or he would have
them thrown out. Practically tripping over themselves, the three young men run
out of the bar, and presumably out of Oku itself, for I have yet to see them again.
“I was expecting you.” With these words the old man greeted me and identified
himself as Dr. David Nchinda.
A potentially disastrous introduction to the Oku community had become a
fortuitous encounter indeed, as David Nchinda, unbeknownst to me, was one of the
most renowned (and feared) healers in Oku. Although initially hesitant to ally myself
with such a powerful figure in the community (for fear of alienating other potential
sources), I quickly came to realize the great opportunity before me. In a hierarchical
system such as in Oku, where adherence to tradition is paramount to the efficacy of
13
occult phenomena, David Nchinda’s tacit support and approval of my research
opened doors that would surely have remained closed to an outsider investigating
such matters.
My relationship with David Nchinda evolved into an apprenticeship, where as
his assistant I was able to visually document and experience various rituals of
affliction as well as explore further the relationship between spirits, ancestors and the
biotic environment. A key element in the economy of the occult, it is a widely known
truth in Cameroon that particular plants can acted upon by the healer to perform
‘spiritual’ treatment; in some cases the plants themselves operate as a medium of
communication between the skilled healer and his or her ancestors. Yet the potential
to use such knowledge to afflict rather than heal has made this a source of widespread
fear amongst many Cameroonians, ultimately blurring the line between healer and
witch.
By the time I returned to Oku for a third field stay (May-August 2004), I had
progressed enough in my training as a traditional healer that I was permitted to
initiate myself into the lower levels of numerous secret societies. Traditional
medicine in Oku is inextricably linked to the secret societies that harbor the recipes,
prayers, and ritual knowledge necessary to treat specific maladies. A healer must be
initiated into a particular society in order to use its medicine in his practice. To
“own” the medicine, one must be initiated into the uppermost levels of the society - a
privilege that was ultimately denied to me because I had yet to father any children!
14
Overall, my four trips to Cameroon between 2002-2005 amounted to one year
of fieldwork in the Grassfields, with most of it in Oku. Employing a
phenomenological approach to information gathering, I strived to attain the
extraordinary experiences and levels of consciousness that inform their religious
system, and subsequently evaluated these experiences relative to patterns in their
traditional religious practice and cosmology. What emerges is a portrait of the
traditional healer as the very embodiment of occult religious practice in contemporary
Cameroon. The healers’ use of sorcery, divination, and spiritual healing represent a
seamless blend of modernity and tradition in which contemporary crises are often
explained and treated according to an existential understanding of consciousness; i.e.
where mind, body, and spirit are essentially united. It is this very essence, coupled
with the awareness and understanding of the human role in the biotic community, that
distinguishes indigenous healers, and Oku healers in particular, from their modern
western counterparts.
15
Chapter 1:
African Traditional Religion and Indigenous Thought Systems
In the course of anthropological history, the claim to "explain" religious
phenomena has greatly diminished, moving from explanation towards interpretation.
Furthermore, attempts at veracity are argued to belong to an outdated epistemology of
positivism, influenced in no small way by the manner in which the West has made
them objects of study and research. Shaped by the dominant philosophical theme of
rationalism, Western science typically questions the ‘reality’ of spirits, ancestors, and
other spiritual phenomena, accepting as proof only that which is empirically
observable.
Recently, anthropologists have acknowledged that their discipline has often
been the servant for imperialism, exoticizing Africans in particular, and representing
them as very different from us in order to make their third-world subordination seem
appropriate. From academia to politics, the idea that the West is the "vanguard of the
modern" has become entrenched in the Western worldview, reinforcing the
distinction between modern and tradition and the division between the rational and
the occult. From Plato to Descartes, mind-body and self-other dichotomies have
influenced Western social sciences to such a degree that it has precluded many
Westerners from recognizing occult consciousness as a legitimate form of knowledge.
It therefore follows that before any analysis of African religious practice can ensue,
the existing theoretical frameworks and thought systems concerning religions must be
examined. As most theoretical frameworks dealing with religion have a strong
16
Western component, an adequate understanding of both the mistakes and insights of
theorists in this field is necessary.
Anthropological Approaches to African Religion
The prevailing pre-anthropological approaches to African religion focused on
fetishism, which proposed that the origin of religion derived from imbuing natural
objects with sacred or divine power. This developed into the ‘infamous’ three-fold
scheme of religious evolution: fetishism followed by polytheism, monotheism (with
animism replacing fetishism as the initial stage) (Ray 1976: 4). Similarly, Frazer
(1921), in his pioneering work The Golden Bough, introduced a three-fold scheme of
‘intellectual’ evolution: magic, then religion, and finally science. Western,
monotheistic biases aside, Frazer’s scheme had a lasting influence on anthropology,
including his concept of ‘divine kingship’ that proposed a “god-man” stage in
religious evolution, wherein human beings were worshipped as spiritual beings
(Frazer 1921). Nevertheless, Frazer’s work rested on the illogical assumption that
‘magic’ existed devoid of religion (for which there is no proof) while arguing that
both magic and science share the same concept of “natural law” (thereby relegating
‘religion’ as a step backward in the evolutionary scheme) (Horton 1993: 106). This
split between magic, religion and science has had a profound effect on Western
philosophy and thinking, making it difficult to envision alternatives.
17
It was around the same time that social evolutionary thinking dominated
anthropology, as anthropologists (Tylor 1871, Frazer 1890) mistook witchcraft and
other occult practices in Africa and elsewhere for evidence of the type of primitive
thinking that Europeans had in the past endured but had now outgrown (Moore
2001:2). As societies ‘evolved,’ a number of things were supposed to occur:
scientific understanding grew, rationality increased, and finally a secular worldview
would triumph while ‘superstitions’ such as magic and witchcraft would vanish.
As anthropology contributed to the growing pool of theories of social progress
and social evolutionism, analyzing religious practice as a functional component of the
social order; i.e. as a ‘reflex’ of the social order, came to dominate the field. Emil
Durkheim (1858-1917) was one of the first to explain the existence and quality of
different parts of a society by reference to what function they served in keeping the
society healthy and balanced -- a position that would come to be known as
functionalism. Examining social order in traditional and modern societies, Durkheim
(1912) argued that traditional societies operate under the principle of ‘collective
consciousness’: a way of explaining how an entire community and/or culture come to
share certain beliefs and values. Traditional societies were ‘mechanical,’ held
together by the fact that everyone was more or less the same (common heritage,
subsistence, self-sufficiency, etc.), which contrasted with modern societies, where
people earn money and rely on others (grocers, tailors, bankers, etc) to meet their
needs. This results in the emergence of individual consciousness, which often comes
into conflict with the collective consciousness.
18
In terms of religious life, Durkheim’s concept of collective consciousness is a
useful tool for understanding the importance of tradition and belief in maintaining not
only a unity of consciousness, but also the manifestation of certain occult
phenomenon (i.e. witchcraft) that tend not to materialize outside of the culture
wherein it is practiced. Nevertheless, this approach has been criticized as useful until
the “sociological analysis becomes deterministic, and religious phenomena are
explained away as mere reflections of the social conditions” (Westmoreland 1991:
16).
Durkheim, Levi-Bruhl and even Marx shared a concern to explain the tenacity
of what seemed to them irrational religious beliefs, but Evans-Pritchard took the
problem well beyond the sphere of religion. Moving from function to meaning, Dr.
Evans-Pritchard argued for a phenomenological approach that studied behavior
according to the person’s own universe of thought. In his seminal work Witchcraft,
Oracles and Magic Among the Azande, Evans-Pritchard (1976) suggested that one
cannot write off witchcraft as symptomatic of a society in the throes of change (a
functional explanation), but rather as something embodied in the individual.
Questioning the prevailing postulate of a ‘primitive’ cast of mind to explain
apparently irrational beliefs, Evans-Pritchard (1976: xxi) offered insight into the
nature of ‘collective representations’: those beliefs which, after eliminating all
individual variation, every individual in that society unconsciously accepts. Valuing
contexts and meanings in cultures, he saw religion as a moral system rather than
19
natural system, arguing that anthropology should be modeled on humanities,
especially history, rather than on science that searches for universal laws.
This in turn paved the way for Victor Turner’s emphasis on symbols and their
different levels of meaning. For Turner, ritual, religious beliefs, and symbols were
essentially related. Rituals were argued to be storehouses of meaningful symbols by
which information is revealed; the handling of such symbols in ritual exposes their
powers to act upon and change the persons involved in ritual performance. In sum,
Turner's definition of religion refers to ritual performances involving manipulation of
symbols that refer to religious beliefs (Turner 1967).
Similarly, the French School focused on the symbolic and philosophical order,
but unlike the British School, viewed it as the determining aspect of social structure
(the early British School argued that religious beliefs could form independently of a
social order). The father of French Structuralism, Claude Levi-Strauss argued that
there exists a basic need for order in the human mind. When confronted with
phenomena too complex to be reduced to phenomena of a lower order, then it follows
that one can only approach them by looking at their relationships; that is, by trying to
understand what kind of original system they make up (Levi-Strauss 1979:10).
A major critique here concerns the etic perspective, or the tendency to give
meaning to symbols that may or may not have meaning to the human beings studied
(Westmoreland 1991: 20). Others have criticized this approach for its logical rigidity,
which presupposes an innate logic based on universal laws of thought structure that
operate with different cultural materials (Zeusse 1979: 11). Likewise, Turner was
20
criticized for overestimating the role of religion in his study of ritual. Horton (1964),
for instance, argued that "ritual man" is but part of "theory-building man"; both
religion and other secular systems of thought have as basic aims to explain and
predict the events of things in the world. Religion in Horton's view cannot be given
superior status over other forms of knowledge.
The Theological Approach
The principal non-anthropological theoretical framework is the comparative
studies, or theological, approach. The predominant view here concerns religion as a
phenomenon unto itself that can be studied apart from its cultural context. Most
critiques of this approach concern the interpretation of indigenous concepts according
to Western philosophical traditions. Benjamin Ray (1976) points out that most
comparative studies of African religion involve the categorization of African belief
structures into God/divinities/spirits/magical objects, which is akin to "Christianizing
African religions" according to a Western structure (24).
Comparing religions as such requires a working definition of religion, which
range from treating the term religion as something that cannot be sharply defined, and
so must include any phenomena the author selects for treatment, to treating religious
beliefs as a class of metaphorical statements or actions concerning social relationships
and claims to status (Horton 1993: 19). The latter, introduced by Durkheim,
Radcliffe-Brown, Leach, and others, focuses on ritual and symbolism as essential
21
characteristics that reflect the social structure. Scholars such as Horton have argued
that symbols, ritual, and myth can just as easily be incidental to religion, citing cases
in Africa and the West where a person professes a belief in a god merely to make a
statement of social relations, and not necessarily because they "really believe" (1993:
22). In effect, Horton makes a convincing argument that defining religion as
structural symbolism is akin to defining the substance 'linen' in terms of its occasional
use as a flag: "the symbolic function is as incidental to the nature of the first as it is to
that of the second" (1993: 23). For Horton, religion, like science, represents an
exploratory theory of the world. Critics of Horton counter by arguing that religious
beliefs have some kind of "surplus value" over and above other, secular forms of
thought, if only for the subjects involved in religious rituals (Deflem 1991).
The third principal definition of religion has existed as a working concept
since Tylor, and defines it as belief in a certain object, whether this be 'spirits' or 'the
supernatural.' While the 'belief in spirits' definition is admittedly vague, it has
survived because of its validity in terms of common usage. Horton views it as
valuable in terms of its analogy between humans and religious objects, noting that
there should not be a necessary distinction between religious and secular objects in
terms of evoking religion. He quotes William James (1902):
The moment we are willing to treat the term 'religious sentiment' as a
collective name for the many sentiments which religious objects may arouse
in alternation, we see that it probably contains nothing of a psychologically
specific nature. There is religious fear, religious love, religious joy, etc. But
religious love is only man's natural emotion of love directed to a religious
object; religious fear is only the ordinary fear . . . as the notion of divine
retribution may arouse it.... As there seems to be no one elementary religious
emotion, but only a common store house of emotions on which religious
22
objects draw, so there might conceivably also prove to be no one specific and
essential kind of religious object and no one specific and essential kind of
religious act.
Building on Tylor, Horton argues that the relationship between human beings
and religious objects can be defined as governed by ideas "of patterning and
obligation such as characterize the relationships amongst human beings;" in short,
religion can be looked upon as an extension of peoples social relationships beyond
the confines of pure human society (1993: 31). Acknowledging that many
anthropologists may object to an emphasis on the similarities between man-to-god
and man-to-man relationships, i.e. missing that crucial "something extra" which is the
essence of religion, Horton argues that there is in fact no "something extra" which
distinguishes religious from secular relationships. He also rejects the Durkheimian
association of religion with collective action and the attainment of socially approved
goals, by citing numerous examples in which religious relationships between a god
and an individual are considered essential to the individuals competitive and social
aspirations [e.g. many in the West African and North American culture areas] (1993:
41).
Horton's critique rests on a division of religious life into two major aspects:
manipulation and communion. Manipulation refers to religion as a system of theory
and practice aimed at comprehending and controlling events in the everyday space-
time world, while communion refers to a set of personal relationships entered into by
humans as ends in themselves (1993: 5). He argues that the two principal theoretical
frameworks, anthropological (symbolic) and comparative (theological), tend to
23
promote one aspect at the expense of the other: symbolists focus on manipulation,
while theologians focus on communion. Considering the inadequacies of these
theoretical frameworks, Horton and others have argued for a
philosophical/ontological approach focused on indigenous and Western thought
systems (worldviews) before any comparative analysis of religions can occur.
Indigenous Thought Systems & the African Worldview
Indigenous thought systems are defined as bodies of knowledge associated
with long term occupancy of a certain place, referring to traditional norms and values,
and mental constructs that guide, organize, and regulate the people's way of living.
For most of human history, indigenous cultures are believed to have been guided by a
world view based on seeing the individual as part of nature; respecting and reviving
the wisdom of elders; sharing responsibility, wealth and resources; and embracing
spiritual values, traditions, and practices that connect a higher order, the culture, and
the earth (Shiva 2000: 6). Western thought systems, in contrast, are dualistic,
dependent on rationality, and perceive of the universe as a mechanical system. It is
often associated with different streams of patriarchal Western culture such as the
scientific and industrial revolutions, while embracing the notion of unlimited material
progress through economic and technological growth and competition (Rosenberg
2000: 139). It is situated at the opposite end of the indigenous worldview, and as
24
such is sometimes described as being "exploitative of women, nature, and indigenous
and other marginalized peoples” (Rosenberg 2000: 139).
Diversity and pluralism are a characteristic of indigenous thought systems, yet
under colonial influence this plurality of knowledge systems was transformed into a
hierarchy of knowledge systems. The epistemological foundations of Western
knowledge were imposed on non-Western knowledge systems, resulting in diverse
systems being reduced to the language and logic of one system: Western knowledge.
The failures of this approach are becoming increasingly commonplace, ranging from
the effects of hazardous drugs to the use of chemicals to control pests, providing us
with an opportunity to re-evaluate indigenous knowledge systems and move back
towards a plurality (Shiva 2000).
It follows that as indigenous and colonized peoples respond to the challenges
of global development, there is a strategic recourse to sustain the traditional
knowledge base. There is perhaps no better example of this than in Africa today,
where the holistic quality of knowledge remains viable in spite of centuries of
Western influence and its corresponding Cartesian efforts to isolate experiences and
make sense of them apart from the environment.
As a manifestation of indigenous thought systems, the African worldview
characterizes itself, in all its variations in the different parts of the continent, through
the emphasis on the optimum success of the relationships within the community
(Udeani 1999: 1). This community encompasses space and time, and is argued to
encompass the living as well as the dead. The strong connection with the community
25
provides inner stability and constitutes the foundation for meaning in the African’s
life. “The African traditional world view expresses itself in every aspect of the life of
the African and can in no way be separated from his daily life. The way the African
eats, plants grain in the field, celebrates feasts and festivals, manages social contact
etc., all these are influenced by the African traditional world view. Principally, every
action of the African is executed from this background (Udeani 1999: 2).
In the African worldview there is no formal distinction between the sacred and
the secular, religious and non-religious, spiritual and material. A person cannot
detach themselves from the religion of his community; to be without religion amounts
to a self ex-communication from the entire life of the society (Mbiti 1997: 2). Since
African religion functions on a communal rather than on an individual basis, the
beliefs are held by the community, and whether the individual accepts all these beliefs
are not important (Mbiti 1991:15). This is reflected in the argument that a person's
motivation to observe and participate in a particular religion is more of a determining
factor of their religious commitment & identity than their public profession to observe
certain laws and perform certain rituals (Magesa 1997: 10).
The concept of time is perhaps most important in understanding the
differences between African and Western thought systems. Mbiti points out that the
Africans' belief in life after death does not constitute hope for a future and better life;
to live here and now is most important. There is no line between spiritual and
physical, no paradise or hell; the soul does not long for spiritual redemption or closer
contact with God. Man is therefore at the center of African religion, and the religion
26
is concentrated in earthly matters. The concept of time helps explain the existence of
God: there is no messianic hope / apocalyptic vision of God emerging from a future
moment to radically alter the normal life-course. For the African, worshipping or
turning to God is pragmatic and utilitarian rather than spiritual or mystical (Mbiti
1997: 4-5).
What has not already taken place and what is not inevitable or immediate to
occur, does not fall into the category of "time." For Africans there is what is present
and what is past (actual time), and what falls within the rhythm of natural phenomena
(which Mbiti calls potential time). The idea of a distant future does not exist (Mbiti
1997: 17). Mbiti points out that numerical calendars typically do not exist in African
traditional societies; rather, a phenomenon calendar exists, wherein events or
phenomena are considered in their relation with one another (expectant mothers count
the lunar months of their pregnancy, travelers count the number of days walking
distance between villages, etc.). What is important is not the time factor in an event,
but the event itself. Often described as circular time, as opposed to western, linear
time, it is argued that "traditional" Africans are not controlled by time; rather, they
control it (Oosthuizen 1991: 42).
The concept of circular time was put forth by Durkheim to describe collective
representations of time both derived from society and dictated to society. Durkheim
rejected the realist assumption that time is an external fact of nature that people have
developed concepts for measuring; instead he raised the possibility that collective
representations of time do not passively reflect time, but actually create time (Gell
27
1992: 5). Durkheim identifies reason with collective representation grounded in
social and historical conditions, which “obliges people to think in common because
their lives are lived in common" (Gell 1992: 7). Collective representations bring it
about that 'nature' is placed 'inside society.' By this Durkheim does not mean that the
moon is a member of that society, but the member conceives of the moon through a
series of conceptual schemes that are socially derived. Thus the phenomenal world is
"structured by mind-contrived conceptual underpinnings" (Gell 1992: 10).
Evans-Pritchard builds on Durkheim approach that all time is socially derived,
but makes the distinction between ecological time and structural time (both socially
derived). He proposes the idea that for "pre-technical" people, the passage of time
and the carrying out of a regular sequence of productive tasks and social activities
cannot be separated from one another. This he terms ecological time, which is
concrete and process-linked, as opposed to being abstract, homogenous, and
transcendent (Gell 1992: 17). The latter he describes as structural time, or time that
lasts longer than an ecological cycle, involving processes that are abstract in the sense
of having no real-world counterpart (such as the hierarchy of age and correlating
levels or status). For Evans-Pritchard (1940), structural time is different from the
time that pervades the microcosmic world in which time actually passes: "....
structural time is, in a sense an illusion, for the structure remains fairly constant and
the perception of time is no more than the movement of persons, often as groups,
through the structure...the lineage structure never grows; it follows that the distance
between the beginning of the world and the present day remains unalterable. Time is
28
not thus a continuum but a constant structural relation between two points, the first
and last persons in a line of agnatic descent” (107-108).
Edmund Leach (1961) also argued for two distinct experiences of time:
1. Certain natural phenomena repeat themselves
2. For the individual organism, life changes are irreversible and death inevitable.
Leach goes on to say that the strategy of religious thought is to try to convince man
that the kind of time they live in is more along the lines of 1 than 2; i.e. humans are
immortal because time repeats itself. Leach argues repetitive and non-repetitive
events are not logically the same, and would therefore not be under the same category
of 'time' if it were not for religion. Humans treat both as aspects of one thing, time,
because of religious prejudice: "....the idea of time, like the idea of God, is one of
those categories we find necessary because we are social animals rather than because
of anything empirical in our objective experience of the world." (Leach 1961: 125).
Perhaps Leach’s most significant contribution to the anthropology of time concerns
his distinction between secular or profane time - which moves forwards - and sacred
time - the time of world-restoring rituals when time goes backwards. Sacred time has
a structure which loosely follows van Gennep's model of three stages in rites of
passage: death of the profane individual and removal to higher moral plane, followed
by marginality where time has stopped, followed by rebirth of the individual into the
profane world (Leach 1961:136).
Rounding out our understanding of time is Maurice Bloch, who asks the
question: if we are to assume that there are two kinds of time, cognitively universal
29
time and cyclic ritual time, then where does non-ritual (practical) time come from?
According to Bloch (1989), it is in contexts "where man is most directly in contact
with nature that we find universal concepts, thus the hypothesis that it is something in
the world, but beyond society, which constrains at least some of our categories is
strengthened" (285). From the theories outlined above, we can conclude that cyclic
time is produced by nature, but nature as the subject of human activity produces
practical time, which is linear.
The concept of cyclical time in relation to human life is as a natural rhythm
that includes birth, puberty, initiation, marriage, procreation, death, etc. Regarding
death and immortality, Mbiti (1997) stresses the recognition of departed ones by
name; while they are remembered by name they are considered to be still alive in the
sense they are living dead, or in a state of "personal immortality" (25). This also
helps explain the religious significance of marriage in African societies. Without
close relatives to remember him when he has physically died, he vanishes out of
existence; therefore it is a religious and ontological duty to get married. Once the
living dead are no longer personally remembered, they pass on to a collective
immortality - the state of spirits who are "no longer formal members of the human
families" (Mbiti 1997: 26). Such spirits have no personal communication with
humans, though human beings may approach god through them. Mbiti also notes that
space and time are closely linked; often the same word is used for both. (1997: 26).
In terms of the departed, it binds them together through space (for example, the "land
of their forefathers"). Thus Mbiti argues that because the traditional concept of time
30
is intimately bound up with African life, understanding it forms a necessary
background to examining the religious systems.
African Traditional Religions
Mbiti and other African scholars have argued that African traditional religions
are specific to the people among whom it evolved - there is no proselytizing, and no
conversion from one traditional religion to another. Unlike Christianity and Islam,
African religion did not have founders who started them. Geography, forces of
nature, historic events, migrations, questions about origins, etc. all played a part in its
development. African religion has no scriptures or holy books, thus it is able to
move with the times. There is no "pure" African religion as there is no authority on
what it was originally (Mbiti 1991: 17). This has led Mbiti (1997) and others to
assert that a person must be born into the religious system to which he belongs.
"Those few Europeans who claim to have been converted to African religions...do not
know what they are saying. To pour out libation or observe a few rituals like
Africans does not constitute conversion to traditional religions." (4). Other Western
misconceptions of African religion concern equating it with ancestor worship or
paganism; Mbiti (1991) argues that respect does not equal worship, while pagan
describes those who did not follow Christianity or Islam (28).
The lack of historical information and an anthropological bias against history
has limited most anthropological approaches to a timeless ethnographic present.
31
Recent scholars have criticized both theological and anthropological methods as
having paid too little attention to history in their respective analyses. This has
resulted in the impression that African traditional religion is static and unchanging;
when in fact it has changed so much (especially due to the incursion of Islam and
Christianity) that there are no longer any "pristine" forms anywhere in Africa
(Olupona 1990: 3).
While there is arguably no single or generalized African Religion, there is
argued to be an "African genius for religion: a shared creativity of Africans in
expressing their experiences through religion, to find new expressions for old and
new feelings, new answers for old and new questions” (Blakeley 1994: 18). A major
reason for the widespread plurality of religious options and notions and the absence
of systemic conflict lie in the non-dogmatic nature of indigenous religions, as well as
the ‘action-orientedness’ of African religions. This propensity for continuous
transformation permeates the ways Africans have creatively acted upon the new
options and possibilities opened by the various forms of Christianity and Islam. To
borrow a term from Levi-Strauss, they are essential "bricoleurs" who use
combinations of old meanings to reassemble them into new forms and meanings in
order to solve a practical problem. Religion is most easily mobilized as the preferred
channel for creating and recreating meaning (Blakeley 1994: 17).
Despite this diversity there are argued to be various commonalities that justify
the designation of an ‘African religion’ distinct from other indigenous religions:
32
1. African religions operate at any social level or geographical echelon; it has no
privileged sociopolitical echelon, no particular level of group identity; implying that
religion in Africa has a very flexible and fluid interaction with the institutional
environment in which it operates (Blakeley 1994: 15).
2. African religions never operate in a religious vacuum. The continuous interaction
between religions has created a paradox: a variety so big that people are tempted to
speak of one religion (Mbiti 1969). On no other continent have so many religions
interacted with one another.
3. Colonizing, decolonizing, and neocolonizing processes, more present in Africa
than in almost any other part of the world, have generated countless parameters of
variation.... so much that African religions can be looked at as expressions of
flexibility. "Africans have managed to create and recreate expressions of religion in
any situation, reacting to multiple changes, dangers, and possibilities" (Blakeley
1994: 16).
4. African religion supports and encourages pluralism and as such emphasizes
tolerance toward other religious and cultural traditions.
5. Women have a significant place in African religious heritage, as evidenced in the
complementary male and female principles and values essential for the survival of
any African community (Olupona 2000).
6. African religion places the responsibility of salvation primarily in the hands of
individuals and not in a transcendent being as in other world religions (Zahan 4).
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Another argument in favor of the unity of African religious beliefs argues that
morality, or ethics, is at the heart of African religion. African religious scholar
Laurenti Magesa (1997) defines morality as "a normative ordering, in terms of
perceived meanings, values, purposes and goals of human existence, of the lives of
persons with regard to the ways in which they can choose to relate themselves to
reality" (14). Ethics, then, is the scientific study of such a normative order. Magesa
(1994) notes that African morality is usually seen exclusively in the light of Christian
ethics and morality (especially in areas where Christianity has succeeded in gaining
large number of converts), but to Africans themselves, the moral perspectives of
traditional African religion remain alive, as seen in the use of the dominant symbol
system of African Religion among African Christians (16).
Like Mbiti and other African scholars, Magesa begins with premise that the
phenomenon of religion in Africa has to be considered multiple, while the philosophy
underlying the religious expression is singular. This unity can be seen in the "moral
universe" of the African world view, in which God (the great ancestor, the power
behind everything that is), the ancestors (custodians of the tradition, in constant
contact with both god and humanity), and spirits (disincarnate human beings and/or
powers residing in natural phenomena) are the powers or forces that impinge on
human life, and in this sense are moral agents (Magesa 1997: 41-42). The concept of
spirits is argued to reinforce morality, as spirits are generally considered to "be
around" because as humans, they perhaps died without meeting life's expectations.
Spirits as such are not an ontological phenomenon, but something inherent in
34
existence and essentially linked to it. Scholars of African religion have argued that
spirits should not be understood as something invisible, nor contrasted to the body (as
in supernatural). Nor should it be understood as ‘idea’ in contrast to matter -- the
spirits are in and with nature, manifested on earth and understood
anthropomorphically (Sundermeier 1998: 148).
As in most religions, God is considered the ultimate guardian of the moral
order, whose ultimate purpose is to benefit humanity. However, the Supreme Deity is
not the pole toward which the threads of African spirituality converge; there is rarely
any connection between mystic phenomenon and the Supreme Being. Often, it is the
secondary divinities that have the monopoly on the piety of the believers. The
distancing of God is argued to be the most widespread and firmly rooted belief in
African religion (Zahan 1979: 5). The distancing of God engenders the search for
what is absent, which is accomplished by the less noble but perhaps more efficient
intermediaries, ancestors and spirits.
The ancestor cult is crucial to African spirituality. The death of the individual
does not represent the end of human existence, but rather a change in status. Not all
dead automatically gain this status; he or she must be someone who dies according to
the rules of society to which he belongs. Death by an 'ill reputed' disease such as
leprosy, or death via an accident such as lightening often means exclusion form the
society of ancestors (Zahan 1979: 11). In addition, only one who is a member of the
family, lineage, or tribe to which one belongs can be an ancestor; slaves and
outsiders, even if integrated into social unity, can never attain that status (Zahan
35
1979:12). Another specific feature of the ancestor cult lies in the scale of values;
ancestors represent a perfect community, exempt from contradictions, strife, tensions,
and oppositions that beset the society of the living. They reside in "slow time" and in
a constant state of renewal with the "newly dead" (Zahan 1979: 12). It is not a fixed
or static world, but involves back and force movement with the society of the living
by way of libations and sacrifices.
Honoring ancestors is an act of communion in remembrance involving a
constant state of exchanging gifts and favors. The purpose of ancestor rituals is not
only to repair the relationship, but also to restore the status quo, as calamities that
befall humans are often indicators that something is amiss in the relationship (Magesa
1997: 77-78). Libations provide a means of exploring the world of ancestors, to
discover their dispositions and to provoke their reactions with regard to a particular
situation for which their intervention is sought (Zahan 1979: 13). They usually
consist of three media: fresh water, millet flour mixed with water, and millet beer (or
palm wine). Each possesses a particular virtue: water is tender and affectionate, and
thus caresses; water + flour is more than a sacred touch, it awakens, driving the
ancestor to act; palm wine and millet beer are stimulants, causing the ancestors to lose
control and react just as the living would like. In the order of libations, fermented
beer always follows the other two - a last recourse before the noblest gift, the
sacrifice.
Anthropologists have differed over the years concerning the significance of
sacrifice in traditional religions. Edward Tylor put forth the view of sacrifice as a
36
gift, offered to ‘supernatural’ beings by man for the purpose of securing their favor or
minimizing their hostility. The analogy he pursues is that as prayer "is a request made
to a deity as if he were a man, so sacrifice is a gift made to a deity as if he were a
man." Following Tylor, Hubert and Mauss developed a theory most frequently
referred to among anthropologists. Sacrifice, for Hubert and Mauss, functions
essentially to mediate the arrival or the departure of the divine: sacrifice is a religious
act which, through the consecration of a victim, modifies the condition of the moral
person who accomplishes it or that of certain objects with which he is concerned”
(1964: 9). In their view, based on an analysis of Hebrew and Hindu forms of
sacrifice, the unity of sacrifice consists in the-immediate aim of the ritual, not in the
ultimate end to be attained. This unity consists in the idea that every sacrifice
involves putting the divine in communication with the profane by an intermediary, a
messenger or a means of divination.
Evans-Pritchard's extensive work with the traditional religion of the Nuer led
him to focus on sacrifice of a "personal and piacular type," although he acknowledged
that sacrifice also played a crucial role in "changes of social status and the interaction
of social groups" (1956). He disagreed with the view of Hubert and Mauss,
suggesting that the formal mediation of the sacred and the profane is not held to be a
feature of sacrifice. Basing his argument on his study of the Nuer, who do not regard
Spirit as consuming the flesh of the sacrifice, he argues that the function of the gift is
"to separate God and man, not to unite them" (1956).
37
The preceding theories are based on the sociological assumption (shared with
Emile Durkheim) that the dichotomy between the sacred and the profane is the
foundation of all societies. Yet as we have seen with respect to traditional African
religion and worldview, dualistic thinking and separation of the sacred and the secular
is not necessarily compatible with the African experience. The undeniably human
relationship with ancestors and spirits lends credence to Magesa’s and Horton’s
argument that the moral thought behind African religion is best understood through
the understanding of human relationships. I suggest that the same holds true for the
practice of sacrifice in African religion, which is best understood in terms of
humanity’s relationship with the ancestors. In this context, sacrifice exists not to
commune with the divine or re-connect the sacred and the secular (the connection is
always there), but to bring the world of the ancestors and humans together, usually for
the purposes of well being in the community (see Chapter Six).
African religion is human centered, overtly utilitarian in the communal sense.
But the centrality of human beings in the order of the universe does not imply "human
license" (i.e. treating visible/invisible creatures without reverence or respect) (Magesa
1997: 72). As man is not the center of the universe, disturbing the universal order
only hurts man the most. It also illustrates that religious, social, and natural causes of
affliction cannot be seen in Africa as entirely separate and unconnected. For
example, it is accepted that a snake may bite the person walking in tall grass, but at
the social level of causation, the issue becomes why the person walking in front or
behind the person was not bitten. Magesa argues that African morality demands that
38
the causes of disruption and affliction in human life be identified, and that something
be done about it (87-88).
One of the most distinctive features of African philosophy is this element of
sociality, which extends the realm of the individual potentialities to embrace the life
of others and their concerns. "The whole African society, living and living-dead is a
living net-work of relations almost like that between the various parts of an organism.
When one part of the body is sick the whole body is affected. When one member of a
family or clan is honored or successful, the whole group rejoices and shares in the
glory, not only psychologically (as one would rejoice when one's local soccer team
has won a match) but ontologically: each member of the group is really part of the
honor" (Senghor 1964: 93). The ontology of being one-with-all strongly
characterizes and distinguishes African philosophy from Western philosophical
systems where the individual and the reality of the individual enjoy a distinct status of
autonomy. For Africans, the individual exists not exclusively for himself but for
others as well in the sense that his independent existence would neither be a reality
nor a factor in the absence of the community (Nyasani 1999: 1). In a society where
man finds his full dimension in a community, that society will display such values as
solidarity, togetherness and strong family ties connecting both the living and the dead.
This society of living and living-dead is a network of relations, a vital union which
Professor Mulago aptly describes as: "...a relationship of being and of life of everyone
with descendants, his family, his clan-brothers, his ascendants and with God, the
ultimate source of all life; an analogical relation of everyone with his milieu, with his
39
foundations, together with everything they contain and produce, with everything that
grows and lives in it. We might say that the 'vital union' ... is the vital link which
unites between themselves, vertically and horizontally, the living beings and
deceased; it is a vivifying principle in which they all share" (Mulago 1965: 117).
This mystical union is characterized by a vision of totality in which beings
perceived as distinct are nevertheless ontologically and intimately related with each
other. This relationship leads to a world-view which puts a greater emphasis on the
links between beings than on the beings thus linked: “...just like the soul and body
enter into a psychosomatic relationship with each other and engage in interactive
processes, so is the life of the Africans with their invisible spirits...their world is
characterized by an extended psychosomatic relationship whereby the body (the
living) must interact with the "non-living" (the spirits of the ancestors)” (Nyasani
1999: 7). The whole ontology rests on a common base - the mutual participation in
the life-force as pre-ordained by tradition. “Each member of the community is born
into a pre-ordained moral regime in perpetual reconciliation with nature, the
perpetuation of the social conditions of harmony and the maintenance of the vital
ontological union with the non-living” (Nyasani 1999: 8).
It has been hypothesized that this use of "we" in African ontology was born
out of a hostile environment fraught with all kinds of dangers and enemies, both
physical and psychological. A sense of collective security had to be developed in
order to cope with this environment. Gradually the attitude that “I cannot make it on
my own without commending myself to the others” had to grow naturally. Thus,
40
from a purely accidental hostile situation, an element of mutual concern in the form
of solidarity, togetherness, brotherhood and extended family structures began to take
concrete shapes. Joseph Nyasani (1999) sums up his hypothesis thus: “Whatever
negative aspects that this curious philosophy of sociality might evince, it has certainly
succeeded to keep generations of Africans in a genuine state of cohesion, mutual
dependence and humanistically healthy. The world could look to Africa for the
principles of social harmony and interdependence especially now that there is a
worldwide movement to return to the roots of humanity and humanism” (8).
To emphasize the importance of harmony, African religion erects a system of
totems and taboos. Taboos have great moral authority, and together with totems
represent moral codes that are "intended to serve harmony and the order of the
existence of the universe...taboos exist to make sure that the moral structure of the
universe remains undisturbed for the good of humanity" (Magesa 1997: 76). To
maintain the harmony at times of crisis (puberty, marriage, child-birth, etc.) accounts
for the various rites of passage, which are argued to enhance or preserve the vital
power, or life force, of the individual and the community (Magesa 1997: 81).
Regarding the often painful initiations during various rites, Magesa suggests that the
purpose behind inflicting pain is to celebrate courage; without courage it is believed
the life-force of not only the individual but also the clan withers and eventually dies
[if the young men are cowards, who will defend the clan?] (98). For this reason, it is
argued that marriage and children particularly important in the moral universe of
Africans, as losing the continuity of the life-force is perceived as an end itself.
41
Magesa suggests that the entire process of initiation in all its various formations are
mainly directed towards eventual marriage and procreation, which constitute "the
acceptable social structure for transmitting life, the life that preserves the vital force
of humans, families, and clans" (110).
Approaching African traditional religion from the perspective of personal
relationships is argued to be helpful in accounting for its various manifestations.
Benjamin Ray (1976) asserts that the differences in terms of lesser deities do not
constitute different religious systems, but stem from different standpoints within the
religious system itself (71). He argues what we construe as internal psychic factors
are often construed in African religious systems as external spiritual beings [i.e.
aspects of the self which are personified and symbolically projected onto external
spirits]. Thus a case can be made that many lesser gods are external symbolic
realities representing internal psychological states (such as anxiety or guilt). When
these are identified (as deities/spirits), Africans can link them with moral situations
that can be examined and adjusted (Ray 1976: 75-77)
Religion as Ritual
Ritual is the definitive component of processes that constitute the
interrelationships among religion, society, and culture (Bell 1992: 16). One of the
most prominent ritual specialists in anthropology, Victor Turner (1967: 19) defined
ritual as "prescribed formal behavior for occasions not given over to technological
42
routine, having reference to beliefs in mystical beings and powers." A common
thread in the relatively broad field of ritual studies regards rituals as functional
devices for the maintenance of the social system, looking at ritual itself as a
mechanism for the resolution of basic oppositions. Bell, however, asserts that the
conflicts addressed are imposed by the categories of the observer (1992: 35-36).
Furthermore, this suggests that meaning for the participants can be, and often is,
different than meaning for the outside theorist. In most scholarly definitions, the
components of ritual include repetition, sacredness (pertaining to something of
'utmost significance'), formalization (consisting of prescribed, unchanging
actions/movements), tradition (claiming ancient history or authorized by myth), and
intention (non-random actions, done with awareness of meaning) (Grimes 1982: 60-
61). The problem with these categories lies in the implicit, conservative assumption
that rituals are more or less stable and non-changing, which can lead scholars to
dismiss less formal ritualization as non-ritual activity. By moving away from a more
formal view of ritual as model, Grimes argues that we can we can lessen the risk of
"aborting the newest forms of ritual life" (1982: 62).
Turner himself transgressed this framework by analyzing ritual not simply as
a mechanism of redress, but as cultural performances of an essentially processual
nature (Deflem 1991: 16). Having adopted the processual view on ritual from Van
Gennep, Turner interest was primarily ‘ritual in action’ and the use of symbols during
ritual performance. For Turner, a symbol is the smallest unit of ritual, which still
retains the specific properties of ritual behavior; it is a "storage unit" filled with a vast
43
amount of information (1968: 1-2). Symbols can be objects, activities, words,
relationships, events, gestures, or spatial units (Turner 1967: 19). Ritual, religious
beliefs, and symbols are in Turner's perspective essentially related. In sum, Turner's
definition of ritual refers to ritual performances involving manipulation of symbols
that refer to religious beliefs (Deflem 1991: 6).
According to Turner, a symbol operates on three different levels: exegetical,
operational, and positional (1967: 50-52). The exegetical meaning is obtained from
questioning indigenous informants about observed ritual behavior, so that a symbol's
manifest sense (of which the ritual subjects are fully aware) can be revealed. A
symbol's operational meaning, revealing its latent sense (of which the subjects are
only marginally aware), is derived from observing not only what is said about a ritual,
but also what is done with it and how it is used. The positional meaning of a symbol
refers to its relationship with other symbols in the total ritual complex and reveals the
symbol's hidden (unconscious) senses. This differs somewhat from French
structuralist anthropology, wherein ritual symbols are studied through the analysis of
ritual speech and mythology, which is thought to be at the roots of ritual. From this
perspective the abstract universal principles underlying ritual (and in fact all human
behavior) are analyzed. A "thought-structuralist" study of rituals implies a study of
the cognitive-classificatory aspects of ritual symbols through an analysis of myths.
For Turner, on the other hand, studying symbols meant primarily "studying symbols
in social action, in practice" (1985: 216). Turner’s approach is argued to be more
appropriate for an analysis of African symbolism, as human beings are considered the
44
source, origin, and reference point of symbols. (Sundermeier 1998: 41). Recently,
scholars such as Theo Sundermeier (1998) have argued that Africans experience the
world as full of powers which have a relationship to them and their bodies -
everything can symbolize the body, and the body can symbolize everything else.
These symbols in turn need an interpreter, a role usually filled by a diviner or
traditional healer.
The effect of Van Gennep’s ‘rites de passage’ on Turner’s analyses of ritual is
significant, primarily the discovery that rituals almost always accompany transitions
from one situation to another and from one cosmic or social world to another (Van
Gennep1960: 13). The order in which ritual events are performed is therefore an
essential element, and liminality must be taken into account. According to Turner
(1982: 80), without liminality, ritual becomes ceremony. [Ceremony indicates, ritual
transforms]. Turner also criticizes the notion that ritual promotes group solidarity, or
that is reflective of components of social structure, instead arguing that ritual is
capable of creative modification on all or any of its levels. Yet he does concede that
the innovative potential of ritual liminality is often circumscribed to maintain the
existing social order. Even so, room for "play" abounds in tribal rituals during the
liminal phase. The loss of liminality in western industrial societies is tied to this loss
of the powerful play component. Religion, like art, lives in so far as it is performed.
Taking away the ritual component, argues Turner, means diminishing the religion
(1982: 81).
45
In Turner's perspective, religion is ritualistic, and is studied primarily through
the analysis of ritual action. He goes even further in asserting not only that ritual is
religious, but also that religion has ontological value: in Turner's approach, religious
belief seems to correspond with the nature of reality itself (Deflem 1991: 8).
Similarly, Maidoma Some (1997) suggests that we turn to the indigenous world view,
where it is understood that all healing must begin by first addressing the energetic
problems, and it is in ritual where this healing occurs (31). Like Turner, Some'
breaks down the ritual process into smaller categories: preparing the ritual space,
invocation (inviting the spirits/energy), healing (spontaneous release of emotions),
and closing (releasing the spirits/energy). He stresses that nature is a key determinant
in how rituals are performed, as it represents the foundation of healing. It is also key
to understanding the nature of magic, as it is recognized that certain mental
conditionings shape our psyche's ability to embrace the "broader" spectrum of reality
as we become older (hence children have a certain openness that allow for "magical
experiences"). But as evidenced in indigenous cultures, adults can still access the
magical/mystical realm, and Some argues that the energies of nature help one open a
"magical" space. The centrality of nature is evidenced by the Dagara, whose
philosophy of the hierarchy of consciousness is reverse of the modern west: plants &
tree are the most conscious, as they need no words to communicate; followed by
animals, who need only a minimum of utterances, and lastly the humans, who
represent the least amount of consciousness because they need words to communicate
(Some 1997: 50).
46
In his discussions of the ritual complex among the Ndembu, Turner makes a
distinction between life-crisis rituals and rituals of affliction. Life-crisis rituals refer
to that class of rituals, which mark the transition of one phase in the development of a
person to another phase. Such phases are important points in the physical or social
development of the ritual subject, such as birth, puberty, or death. Rituals of
affliction, on the other hand, are therapeutic rituals performed for individuals who
have been adversely affected (‘afflicted’), for various reasons, by ancestors or spirits
(i.e. via ‘unnatural’ causes). The list of religious specialists involved with these
rituals are many and varied, including medicine men (traditional healers), mediums,
and priests, and symbolically they represent the life of their communities (Mbiti
1997: 188). By officiating at rituals and ceremonies, serving as repositories of
customs, knowledge, and taboos, and by interceding with spirits and/or divinities on
behalf of his people, they are regarded as symbols of their country's existence,
prosperity, and continuity (Mbiti 1997: 185).
The various manifestations of the occult in Sub-Saharan Africa widely occurs
within a framework of cults, specialized communities, or networks that often have a
therapeutic dimension. Ngoma is a term widely used in sub-Saharan Africa to reflect
the gamut of expressive dimensions of the occult. It also serves as a springboard for
identifying a common core that could account for local variations of occult practice.
As a common lexicon, ngoma refers primarily to the drum used in rituals of affliction
across central Africa. In southern Africa, ngoma refers more often to those who carry
47
out the tasks of not only drumming but also dancing, singing, and divining (the Zulu
‘isangoma’ diviner is literally 'one who does ngoma') (Janzen 1994: 165).
A widespread dichotomy distinguishing misfortune or afflictions stemming
from 'natural' or god-given causes to those stemming from human involvement is also
characteristic throughout the region (Janzen 1994: 166). Beneath the diversity lies a
characteristic worldview regarding misfortune and how it is dealt with. 'Natural
causes' or those that occur as part of the natural order of things are treated with
"straightforward remedies, techniques, and interventions that are often individual and
private; extraordinary adversities, or those attributed to spirit or human forces, are
dealt by placating these forces or intervening in that same sphere” (Janzen 1994:
167). Cults of affliction address this level of adversity. The world view that inspires
cults of affliction includes the idea that spirits (ancestral or alien) may influence or
intervene in human affairs.
Divination: Foundation of the African Worldview
An important dimension common to all rituals of affliction is the diagnostic or
analytical function of evaluating the nature of life and the reasons for misfortune.
Janzen (1994) points out that a distinction is often drawn between divination
(intellectual analysis of situation) and ritual therapy (attempt to intervene in the
situation to change it) (168). This distinction could also account for some of the
diversity; where social change is intense, the need increases for cognitive clarity, as
48
evidenced by divination cults being in great demand (especially those aimed at
conflict resolution) (Janzen 1994: 168). Rituals of affliction always have divination
present, as a continuing questioning into the whys, who's, and wherefores (Janzen
1994:168). As a technique, divination may be based on a mechanistic system of signs
and interpretations, or a direct recourse to possession in which the diviner as medium
speaks the words of the ancestor or spirit in answer to a query.
Central to understanding divination is the concept of time, in which the past is
capable of being repeatedly reenacted in the present and future. Time, as argued
above, is not determined by a series of successive moments, but is related to
observable natural phenomena that determine and express objective time. The
cyclical nature of time is argued to be binary in nature: day and night, east and west,
etc. These binaries are reflected in the ritual time of divination, which harmonizes
and reconciles two worlds (ancestors and living) because it is conducted in the human
world and penetrates the spirit world (Danfulani 2000: 89-90). As an agent between
these two worlds, the diviner "explores and exploits the mystical world to normalize,
ameliorate, restore and reconcile estranged relationships for a harmonious and
habitable universe" (Danfulani 2000: 87).
The pervading sense in African societies is that the true reasons for all events
can be known, and when 'normal' means of inquiry is insufficient, divination is
sought. Diagnosing causes of affliction, Magesa argues, is a central preoccupation of
African Religion, emphasizing that the driving force behind divination is the need to
reestablish harmony and equilibrium in life (1997: 208). Magesa divides divination
49
into oracular (through objects/animals) and mediumistic (through the diviner, or
medium). A diviner's reputation depends on his or her success in making a correct
diagnosis; she or he is never a charlatan, although everyone knows such characters
exist (Sundermeier 1998). What characterizes diviners is their liminal state -
belonging somewhere between the everyday and the mystical world. Divination,
then, is the recognition that there are deeper realities in life than what the eye sees; it
provides a way of knowing these deeper realities. Knowing the causes of an
affliction is to name them, and to name them gives one power over them (Magesa
1997: 215). The identity of the true diviner is determined by the ancestors, not by
human desires. Diviners are fully aware of the tensions in the community, and
expose them during enquiry, thus functioning as a sort of catalyst, offering
opportunity to talk about the misfortune that has befallen them (Sundermeier 1998:
203). It is not a mechanical exercise or technique, but an intensive form of
communication, encouraging people to speak. The diviner sees him or herself only as
medium, an instrument of the ancestors, and hence their respect in traditional society
(Sunderemeier 204).
African diviners diagnose the causes of misfortune and attribute them to a
variety of occult forces, which scholars have argued all refer to the system of values
held by members of society as well as violations of these values. Thus from an etic
perspective, what appears on the surface as a system of mystical causation is really a
system of social causation (Schoffeleer 1994: 77). Indeed, the diviners themselves
relate the mystical causes to specific disturbances in the patient's social environment,
50
suggesting that divination works as a kind of social analysis (Turner 1975: 244).
Turner also suggests that most diviners are marginal people, whose social-structural
inferiority or outsider status allows them to respond sensitively to stress and strain in
social relationships. As marginal outsiders, they may be thought of as more objective
than those involved in the struggle for goods and prizes. Turner goes on to suggest
that divinatory séances are largely informed by paranoia, which in turn reduces the
successful and orthodox villager to his own marginal status. (1975: 24-25).
A divination system is often the primary institutional means of articulating the
epistemology of a people; i.e. they are the means of knowing which underlie and
validate all else, demonstrating the foundations of a people’s worldview and social
harmony (Peek 1991). Given the pivotal role of divination in African societies, the
study of divination must assume a central role in the understanding of said cultures.
Viewing divination from a Western scientific tradition, however, inherently prevents
one from analyzing it. According to Western labels of cognitive processes, African
divination systems involve a combination of logic and intuition whose distinction is
rigidly maintained in Anglo-European tradition.
The tremendous variety of divination forms defies any easy categorization.
Western-based typologies involve separating states of consciousness and
human/spiritual worlds. African based typologies reflect a similar pattern: possession
(psychic), diviner interviewing client (psychological), and chance cast of objects
(causal). Causal schemes can be broken down further into open-ended analogical
schemes, as in West Africa basket divination, to fixed-response binary systems (such
51
as the casting of cowry shells). Most analyses try to distinguish between normal
states of consciousness and those involving ecstatic states, but the only real difference
is that in ecstatic states the occult powers “speak” through the diviner rather than
through the divinatory apparatus (Peek 1991). Thus it is argued to be more useful to
focus on the total process than individual methods of divinatory diagnosis, because all
are similar means to the same end.
The Reality of Witchcraft
Magesa argues that Western scholars are often guilty of psychologizing the
phenomenon, by suggesting it is provides an outlet for repressed hostility/frustration,
or that the belief in witchcraft "serves as a medium through which real or imagined
episodes reinforce the social norms" by attributing anti-social phenomena to the
concept of a witch (1997: 173). Similarly, Mbiti argues that all Africans are directly
or indirectly affected by beliefs and activities connected with mystical power; as such
they cannot be dismissed as trickery or purely psychological conditions (1997: 192).
In the African worldview there exists good magic (healing), bad magic (use of magic
to do harm to human beings or their property), and sorcery (employment of mystical
power in the context of divination and healing) (Mbiti 1997: 195). Bad magic is often
the only 'satisfactory' answer for affliction or misfortune (Mbiti provides the
following example: "it is known that mosquito bites cause malaria, but why did the
mosquito bite this person and not the other? Someone must have worked evil magic
52
against that person, as nothing harmful happens by chance") (1997: 197). Witchcraft,
as a term, is used in Africa more broadly, encompassing both magic and sorcery.
The general paradigm of witchcraft is argued to involve the reverse of normal
values and behavior; as such witches are often associated with misfortune, death,
immorality, the night and darkness, certain dangerous animals, secrecy, power,
spirits, caprice, and other things that threaten social order (Bourdillon 2000: 178).
Although the paradigm of witchcraft is overtly negative, the term can be used without
all of the negative connotations. It may depict someone who only occasionally uses
harmful magic, such as the traditional healer in Cameroon, who openly engages in the
practice of black magic, yet is expected not to use black magic for negative ends
(those that openly do so are described as witches). Nevertheless the healers are
respected and feared because of this latent ability, and as such continue to be force in
society. Furthermore, traditional healers are increasingly called upon by courts,
police, and government officials to intervene in local and national politics, showing
that witchcraft is not, as commonly proposed by anthropologists, necessarily a
conservative force. Far from being discouraged, traditional healers are accepted and
indeed encouraged by the government. From state to local communities,
Associations of Traditional Healers have formed which give them an official,
government endorsed status to their occult practice. The only requirement was that
those who enter the Association renounce their use of black magic for “negative
ends.” This leads to another paradox: it is OK to use black magic to heal a person
who was the victim of sorcery, even if it means taking the life of another person in
53
order to save the patient; yet the Association does not approve of using black magic
to instigate such an attack.
In all of these cases, the concept of witchcraft occurs in a context in which
supernatural powers are believed to influence society. In a society built around
personal relations, events are often understood in personal terms (Horton 1993: 237).
In such a society, it is not always easy to differentiate between material misfortunes
and the moral shortcomings of people; i.e. when things go wrong after everyone has
done their best, an explanation must be found outside the realm of moral norms
(Bourdillon 2000: 180). According to Bourdillon, “belief in witchcraft provides a
way of thinking about things, a way of ordering and understanding things that come
into the experience of believers" (181). The denial of the beliefs of witchcraft
according to western worldviews and world religions does not eliminate them,
because of the social realities that underlie them. For Bourdillon (2000), witchcraft
accusations result largely from social conflict when people are forced to live together.
These conflicts are argued to arise primarily from contradictions between ideals and
the lived reality.
As with all studies of the occult, part of the difficulty in researching the
phenomena of witchcraft concerns the question of reality. A common response is: "it
is a discourse that is real to the people who use it". Oppositions such as reality and
fantasy, etic and emic representations dominate the discussion of witchcraft in
anthropology, yet the idea that "they do not really exist" still marks most
anthropological studies. Evans-Pritchard made his view clear: “Witchcraft is an
54
imaginary offense because it is impossible. A witch cannot do what he is supposed to
do and has in fact no real existence” (1937: 418). Others, such as Lucy Mair (1969)
maintain that locals themselves do not really believe in witchcraft accusations, but
instead are conscious of the fact that other motives are being explained in witchcraft
terms. One way to avoid the question of ‘reality’ altogether is to go along with the
argument that if the belief in witchcraft is widespread in a society, then it is highly
probable that certain individuals will try to use it. In this respect, witches exist, and if
one wants to understand it, one must "go along with it" (Geschierre 1997).
55
Chapter 2:
Cameroon and the Northwest Province Culture Area
Ethnography and history are nowhere more tightly bound up with identity and
ethnicity than in the broad field of colonial and post-colonial African studies.
Cameroon's geographical position makes it a true African crossroads, a "microcosm
of the continent" (Fowler 1996: xviii). Cameroon is a meeting ground for a wide
diversity of cultures both native to Africa & intrusive from Europe, which must be
taken into account. Sally Chilver is regarded by most scholars of Cameroon as
having the laid the groundwork for Cameroon studies. She adopted an early stance
against the "short-sightedness" of ethnographers by retaining a focus on historical
issues while collaborating with the renowned anthropologist, Phyllis Kaberry (Fowler
1996: 2). Chilver brought what was at the time an innovative and broad historical
methodology and perspective to the investigation of the ethnography of the
Grassfields. In both their collaborative efforts there is argued to be an emergent
'anthropology' which retains greater currency today than the more methodologically
narrow functionalism of the time.
Like most West and Central African states, Cameroon is divided into belts
determined by climate and vegetation. On the whole Cameroon is hilly and
mountainous; although there are no specifically mountain cultures, many groups have
sought refuge there. Most of the mountains are volcanic in origin, including the
active volcano Mt. Cameroon, West Africa's highest. Lowland plains are found
inland from the coast, fanning out towards the east as far as the Congo. This area is
56
characterized by heavy rainfall (second highest in the world) as well as mangrove
swamps. A third area consists of a narrow strip of coast that stretches from Nigeria to
Equatorial New Guinea. A flat area crossed by numerous rivers, its distinguishing
characteristics include high rainfall, fertile soil, and home to large plantations
(originally established by the Germans). Also known as '”old Cameroons,” it remains
the chief industrial resource of present-day western Cameroon (Delancey 1989: 82).
The fourth culture area consists of the central highlands, where mountains
give way to a high, continuous plateau and various plains known as the Grassfields.
Its smooth open area offers ease of movement and as a result has been subject to
countless shifts in population and changes in social structure. The highlands
gradually level out towards the northeast; also referred to as Northern Cameroon, it is
an integral part of the region known as the western Sudan - a vast stretch of savanna
allowing for free passage of migratory peoples and cultural movements such as Islam.
The earliest known kingdoms of Nigeria and Cameroon (Nok, Sao, and Cush) are
argued to have developed here, inspired by Egyptian civilization. Elements of this
African culture, most notably iron production and the political organization of divine
kingship, originated here and are believed to have produced such West African
empires as ancient Ghana and Kanem-Bornu (Mbuagbaw 1987: 10-12).
The multiplicity of independent and linguistically distinct groupings gives the
Grassfields area its unique character. Some scholars have argued for the "shatterbelt
phenomenon," wherein a homogenous group was fragmented by raiding groups from
the north (Zeitlyn 1996: 2). Other scholars consider this a negative view of
57
Grassfields society and history, arguing instead that the region was not culturally
homogenous to begin with. Economic specialization in the region is cited as a
characteristic that led to the multiplicity of political sets (Zeitlyn 1996). Chiefs
engaged in more or less continuous exchanges with each other that had dimensions of
competition and alliance. The nature of political power in the Grassfields is argued to
have less to do with population size or military clout, but rather with competitive
exchange of materials and objects (Zeitlyn 1996).
It is now widely believed that Cameroon was the original home of the Bantu
language group, who today populate the forests and plains of sub-Saharan Africa.
The distribution of Bantu speaking peoples from Cameroon to southern Africa "is so
complete that it is assumed to be the result of peaceful expansion and repopulation
rather than conquest." (Mbuagbaw 1987: 17) The present inhabitants of Cameroon
are not necessarily the direct descendants, however, as the Bantu have come and gone
throughout the region in waves. The semi-Bantu language group of central
Cameroon, including the Grassfields, is distinguished from the Bantu in that it has a
considerable degree of Sudanic influence.
The southward migrations of Bantu and semi-Bantu groups within the last two
centuries are primarily associated with the movements of northern warrior groups
(particularly the Fulani). Originally all of northern Cameroon had been pagan; some
northern Cameroon peoples, called 'Kirdi," sought refuge in the inaccessible hill
country and remain pagan today (Neba 1987). Islam was first introduced by traders
and then by Fulani conquests. The Fulani are argued to represent a common theme in
58
West African countries: that of the migrating pastoralists. The Fulani actively
resisted the encroachment of Islam for most of their Sudanic migrations, but in the
18th and 19th centuries Islam began to take hold, and eventually became militant
missionaries of the Islamic faith and began establishing empires through conquest.
Through a large-scale jihad, Fulani rule spread across large areas of Cameroon,
enjoying a clear-cut military success against the poorly organized and armed peoples
of the Grassfields. The greatest period of Islamic expansion occurred during this
time, as Islam adapted more easily than other world religions to African ways of
thought and social organization. [i.e. polygamy and bridewealth are not accepted by
Christians but are part of the Islamic systems] (Mbuagbaw 1987: 24). The basis of
the Fulani economy became slavery, where they were sold to the north or given as
tribute to the Fulani emirs. However, Fulani dominance and exploitation of local
peoples lasted a relatively short time, as their power was immediately curtailed by the
arrival of the Germans at the end of the 19th century.
The pressure of northern raiders had important effects on the Grassfields of
the central highlands. Many of the groups that form the relatively unified culture area
of the Grassfields migrated southwards as a result of the raids. It is impossible to take
into account the many different oral traditions which describe the arrival of different
groups in this are, yet throughout this area there were common themes: chieftainship
was universally important, ranging in groups composed of a few hundred to tens of
thousands (Mbuagbaw 1987: 28). The chief had sacred attributes (divine) and was
usually supported by a queen mother or a queen sister. Divination was another
59
common theme, as well as ancestor cults and similar attitudes regarding the birth of
twins, who were universally honored and feared (Mbuagbaw 1987: 28). Other
similarities included a distinction between commoners and royalty, hereditary big
men, and military organization based on village 'warrior lodges,' or secret military
societies in which adult men would meet for purposes of recreation, and "giving
military services when called upon to do so" (Mbuagbaw 1987: 31). There were also
similarities in material culture: housing styles with grass thatched roofs, embroidering
and weaving, metal crafts (especially bronze), as well as musical instruments
(xylophones, gourd trumpets, flutes, drums and gongs).
The Grassfields under Colonial Rule
In1884 Germany becomes the first European power to annex Cameroon, by
getting local chiefs to surrender sovereignty over their areas in exchange for German
protection from the British (Eyongetah 1974). For the first time boundaries were
drawn and a potential identity established. Although brief (1884-1916), the German
occupation precipitated major infrastructural development, tying Cameroon to the
world capitalist economy and the beginnings of a new national elite (Delancey 1989).
The major German interests were economic - obtaining materials needed in
German industry and commerce and providing a market for German finished goods
(Delancey 1989). This brought German traders into direct conflict with inland
traders, mainly Hausa and other Islamic groups, whom they "resented because they
60
were Muslim, used slave labor, and continued to trade via Nigeria and other non-
German centers" (Delancey 1989: 10). The Germans also placed great hope on
developing large-scale agricultural plantations as another source of income besides
trading; under German rule much of Cameroonian land turned from the production of
crops for local consumption to crops for consumption in Europe (production for the
internal economy to production for the external economy), a pattern that was to carry
on for many decades after German rule.
Germany was not committed to large-scale political investment in its colonies,
preferring ‘indirect rule’ wherein active cooperation with the traditional rulers was
necessary. Under this system, treaties were signed with the chiefs and the
administration would rely on their support, while delegating administrative duties to
interested merchants (Nkwi 1976: 136). The administration thus remained small,
with military organization growing slowly and based mainly on African recruits
(Austen 1996). The goal was to make the interior of Cameroon more accessible to
direct European trade; the Germans formalized this relationship by delegating official
powers to chiefs who accepted their authority.
Expanding northwards, the Germans did not arrive in the Grassfields until
1889. During their fifteen years of occupation, the Germans signed treaties with the
traditional rulers and began to rely on their support for the operation of their
administration. Establishing their hold in the Grassfields 1902, the Germans relied on
the Fons (the traditional chiefs, or ‘divine kings’, of the various clans in the
Northwest Province) for supply of labor, collection of tax and maintenance of law and
61
order. In return, they would back the cooperating Fons’ authority with military
support (Nkwi 1976: 142). Judicial institutions were left largely intact by the
Germans, with the Fon remaining the supreme judge, and the Fon's court enjoying
jurisdiction in any suit or manner (Nkwi 1976: 156). While by no means benign (the
occupying Germans were notorious for their brutality and use of forced labor),
historians generally agree that the Germans "had at no time in their 30 years of
occupation applied the principle of assimilation.....it can be said that, on the whole,
the Germans were in a very high degree considerate of native practices and customs"
(Rudin 1968: 298). During this time most Grassfield tribes continued to operate
under their traditional administrations without any direct interference from the
Germans, who were more interested in the coastal area for the economic benefits that
region provided.
The overall effect of German occupation is argued to have decreased the
Cameroon population, via the new labor demands and introduction of new diseases
(Delancey 1989). Changes in population distribution also occurred, as older
population centers such as Douala (the original capital of the economy) were
encouraged to grow and new centers (Yaoundé and Bamenda) were founded.
Another aspect of the German period involved providing the elements of a new
identity, due to the drawing of boundaries and the use of the name Kamerun.
The British and French invasion during World War One brought an end to
German rule, and the colony was divided between the victors - the larger share going
to France, the smaller to the British. The British sector was attached to Nigeria and
62
for much of the era of British rule was treated as part of Nigeria. Both colonial
powers contained a strong impulse to impose their alien culture on the colonized,
although the French were stronger in that regard, aided by the more rapid economic
and social development that occurred in the French sector (Delancey 1989).
The new colonial powers of Cameroon continued the process begun by the
Germans of adapting the economy to suit the needs of the urban centers. For both
powers, it was necessary to extract labor and produce from the Cameroonian to pay
the costs of colonialism and provide the goods desired by European consumers; both
saw rural areas and African farmers as the sources to satisfy these needs, and both
were willing to use force. The reliance on forced labour was soon abandoned due in a
large part to the death of over twenty percent of the population to an influenza
epidemic in 1918 (Delancey 1989: 18).
‘Direct rule’ was associated with the French colonial administration, which
sought to preserve and integrate traditional institutions into their administrative
structure. Under this system, African chiefs were direct instruments of the
administration (Nkwi 1976: 135). The British applied indirect rule according to the
varying circumstances of the territories; there was no unified policy. Traditional
institutions were adapted for the purposes of the local government, wherein
traditional rulers were integrated into the colonial hierarchy. They had responsibility
for management of their own affairs at the local level (Nkwi 1976: 140).
The British established control of the Grassfields in 1915, and sought to
maintain the status quo of the German administration. The period of 1916-1921 was
63
characterized by poor administration due to lack of a definite policy and understaffing
compared to German military and civil administrators in the area. In 1922 the British
received the mandate from League of Nations to administer the southern Cameroons.
New regulations were laid down for "the resuscitation of tribal units, the selection of
the rightful chief, his installation with appropriate ceremonial, and the re-
establishment of the clan council together with the definition of the jurisdiction and
powers of the clan council or chief" (Chilver 1963: 108). This system enhanced the
prestige of the Fon and favored loyal cooperation between the Fon and government.
The traditional political set-up underneath the Fon was maintained: village heads,
Kwifon, and sub-chiefs in the running of local affairs. These Fons became known as
"native authorities" (Nkwi 1976: 144).
In 1938 the native authority remodeled to include "elected and western
educated men." (Nkwi 1976: 145). Administrative power shifted to clan council to
which people could be elected. The Fon lost the presidency of this new body but
remained an ex-officio member, and council sessions continued to be held in the
Fon's palace. The complexity of modern political processes shifted power into the
hands of the literate representatives; yet despite this democratic trend, the Fon
remained the cornerstone of the unity of his people and of maintenance of law and
order (Nkwi 1976: 146).
After World War II, new laws were passed by the French which provided
Cameroonians their first opportunity to form real political organizations; it is
important to note that both France and Britain used their powers to influence the
64
eventual shape of Cameroon's independence "in ways that probably ran counter to the
interests of the inhabitants" (Delancey 1989: 38). British Cameroon soon followed
suit, albeit with the added complexity of being a region within the Nigerian political
system. While pushing for separation from Nigeria, there was a reluctance to join
French Cameroon and inherit French cultural baggage that was quite different from
the British heritage. Before British Cameroonians could determine reunification for
themselves, anti-colonial powers within the UN stepped in and enforced immediate
elections, with the choice being independence as part of Nigeria, or independence as
part of the Republic of Cameroon. The voters selected union with Cameroon in
October 1961, although there is strong evidence that had the third alternative been
independence from both French Cameroon and Nigeria, it would have won
considerable support (Delancey 1989: 43).
Northwest Cameroon: Ethnographic Overview
Since the first professional ethnographer, Ankermann, toured parts of the
Western Grassfields in 1907-9, they have been something of a puzzle to
ethnographers. For a time interest in the art and culture of the present-day
North West Province was rather overshadowed by the 'discovery' (in mid-
1902) of the spectacular neighboring kingdom of Bamum. But the complexity
and diversity of its political systems, ceremonial life and material culture
never ceased to engage the attention of successive generations of missionaries
and colonial administrators, among whom were to be found some who made
important contributions to its study. - Sally Chilver
The Western Grassfields, referred to administratively as the Northwest
Province, covers 17,910 square km of the western portion of the Grassfields of
65
Cameroon. It extends eastward along the Nun valley and the highlands of Bamboutos,
northwesterly along the Nigerian border and southwards along the northern fringes of
the tropical forest region of Manyu Division. According to the 1953 census, the
population of the Western Grassfields was about 429,100 and by the 1987 census it
stood at 1.2 million inhabitants (Mbunwe-Samba 1994). The rapid population growth
is exerting excessive pressure on the available resources; consequently the tropical
highland forest which forty years ago was estimated to cover 37% of the region has
virtually disappeared, the only noticeable remnant being the Kilum mountain forest
whose existence is still constantly threatened by agricultural and grazing
encroachments (Mbunwe-Samba 1994). Referring to this aspect of the region, Nkwi
and Warnier point out that evidence from archaeology and botany indicate that the
highlands were once covered with forests and their inhabitants were forest-dwelling
people (1982: 23).
The Western Grassfields on the whole are fertile and well watered, with a dry
period from November to March during which the Harmattan from the north envelops
the region in a haze of dust. Rising from deep river valleys at an elevation of about
2000 feet, the Western Grassfields ascend to open savannahs, often a sea of elephant
grass, punctuated by monolithic rocks, escarpments, and mountain peaks upwards of
8000 feet high. Their economy is mixed, comprised of mainly farming, small-scale
stock keeping and trade. Agricultural production traditionally was in the hands of
women who produced enough food to satisfy local needs; men assisted in the clearing
of farm plots and in the harvest of crops, with maize being the staple diet (Nkwi
66
1976). The material culture of the Grassfields overwhelmingly consists of
woodcarvings and basketry; smithing was once a prestigious and lucrative
occupation, but is no longer widely practiced.
The traditions of origin of some of these dynasties have provided the basis for
the colonial census classification of the peoples of the Western Grassfields because of
their leading role in the sociopolitical and economic life of the area. Thus peoples
whose dynasties claim a Tikar origin were classified as 'Tikar' irrespective of the fact
that other groups claim separate origins. Constituting about 60% of the total
population, the ‘Tikar’ are represented by the Nso', Oku, Mbum, Kom, Bafut, Yamba,
Aghem, and Babanki chiefdoms. Other groups included the Widekum, comprising
approximately 30% of the population and represented by the Oshie and Batibo
chiefdoms, and the Chamba, making up five percent of the population and
represented primarily by the Bali chiefdom. The others, that is those who do not fit
into any of the three groups (roughly 5%) are the Hausa, Ibo, and the Fulani, also
known as Fulbe or Mbororo (Mbunwe-Samba 1994).
The kinship systems of all of these groups are mostly patrilineal, except for
the Kom, Aghem and some peoples of the Fungom area who are matrilineal. In their
political systems the descendants of the Tikar (including the Oku, Kom, and Babanki)
and Chamba are characterized by centralized structures under the rule of powerful
kings, called Fons. On the other hand, the Widekum group is marked by
decentralized or segmentary political systems, where power is diffused among clan
elders (Mbunwe-Samba 1992).
67
The Western Grassfields is therefore an area of immense diversity. The
various groups constitute neither linguistic nor cultural unity, although their tight
commercial network, their experience of the northern raids, the Islamic and Christian
religious influences as well as a shared colonial experience (first with the Germans
and later with the British), all seem to have installed and paved the way for a common
future culture (Mbunwe-Samba 1996). For the moment, however, pluralism remains
the keynote characteristic of the region.
The Institution of Chiefdomship in the Northwest
One of the most defining characteristics of the Northwest culture area
concerns the institution of the chief, commonly termed Fon. Deriving its legitimacy
from a myth of origin that confers traditional authority on the Fon, myth and ritual
orderings give a spiritual content to the exercise of this authority, also known as
sacred kingship (Fisiy 1993). Historically, the Fon occupied a mediating role
between God and the ancestors, and his spiritual authority was effected by rites of
installation performed when the Fon took the stool, or throne (Nkwi 1976: 49).
Before his installation, the Fon was considered an ordinary person, subject to all the
laws of the state. The rites of installation were meant to transform the new king into a
spiritual leader. These rights included seclusion for eight days in the grave shrine
next to the deceased Fons, thus submitting himself to the influence of ancestral spirits
and asserting his legitimacy (it was understood that the ancestors would reject the
68
new Fon if he was a usurper, bringing drought and famine to the people) (Nkwi 1976:
51). The final ritual act involved the sacrifice of a goat over the grave of his
immediate predecessor, while invoking the names of most recently deceased kings.
Although the person of the Fon is seen as 'sacred', the sacredness stems from
the royalty itself as epitomized by the royal regalia, as homage is paid to this regalia
even when the person of the Fon himself is absent. It is interesting to note that the
Fon’s ‘palace’, as it is called in the Northwest, typically does not exhibit any material
riches associated with their European counterparts. As the dwelling of a spiritual
leader, the Fon’s palace exemplifies sacred space as it is understood in the Northwest:
natural dwellings - simple structures of mud, bamboo, and stone, with thatched straw
roofs - and a quiet space typically away from the ‘secular’ center, or market place.
The palace as such represents a ritual space, where most sacred rituals concerning the
“gods of the land” begin and end (see Chapter 3).
Endowed with such mythic qualities, the authority of the Fon is not contested;
no ordinary individual, no matter how wealthy, can become Fon (Fisiy 1995). The
threat of ritual sanctions constituted an effective safeguard against abuses of power.
Any violation of the sacred norms of the land, whether by junior or senior members
of the chiefdom, could wrack havoc as the 'earth may pass judgment' (Fisiy 1995).
The priestly functions of the Fon are arguably his greatest obligations and
responsibilities to his subjects, and these various strands of authority gave meaning to
the institution of chieftaincy and other traditional repositories of power.
69
The basis of the Fon's secular authority was the dogma of descent. As an
absolute monarch, he had no council of advisors; rather he delegated power to people
and this became a check on the Fon's exercise of authority. Although the Fon needed
them to assert his supremacy and maintain his prestige, it is the Fon's "sacred person
that gave real meaning to his secular authority” (Nkwi 1976: 41). Access to the
palace and the Fon even today remains hedged with strict rules, set gestures, and
praise names. Historically, the Fon was also the supreme judicial head of the highest
court of appeal; no decision was taken without his prior knowledge, although he did
not attend all court sessions of his court. The practice of seeking the Fon's
intervention made it susceptible to corruption, and often was; even today it remains
customary to bring gifts to the Fon prior to decisions.
Thus the Fon is not only the recognized ruler, but also "the axis of their
political relations, the symbol of their unity and exclusiveness and the embodiment of
their essential values" (Fortes 1940: 16). His palace was an "epicenter for the
distribution of wealth, offices and specific duties" (Fortes 1940: 19). The relationship
between the Fon and his subjects may be characterized as one of interdependence. It
is said that the Fon is only treated as such because he has people to rule. Phyllis
Kaberry, one of the first anthropologists to write about this institution, summarized
this relationship in 1952: "The Fon often says: 'what is a Fon without people? I am
in the hands of my people,' while the subjects often say 'The Fon has everything', 'the
Fon is a poor man' and 'the Fon rules the people, but the people hold the Fon'"
(Kaberry 1952: 379). In recent times this relationship of interdependence has been
70
much eroded as alternative sources of authority, both internal and external, compete
for the regulation of community issues.
An example of the marginalization of traditional authority can be seen in the
Fon's claim to ownership of all land under his jurisdiction: since such claims were
based on his political dominance, is he still justified in claiming that 'all this is my
land'? (Fisiy 1995). At the height of their power, the Fon could exact from his
subjects allegiance and tribute as a sign of their submission to him, which included
surrendering all 'royal game', such as python, leopard, and buffalo to the Fon (Fisiy
1995). The ‘real’ power behind the stool, however, was the Kwifon, in effect the
‘executive’ arm of the Fon. Almost synonymous with government, the Kwifon was
seen as the organism composed of state functionaries who carried out decrees issued
by the Fon's court. As such, they provided the Fon with police force, emissaries, and
economists (Nkwi 1976: 64). One of Kwifon’s most important functions which
continues in modern times concerns the selection of the new Fon from among the
deceased Fon’s sons. It is important to note that the rule of primogeniture, common
among many chiefdoms, does not apply here. Instead, Kwifon is entrusted to make
their selection on the basis of sound morals and evidence of leadership.
Kwifon emerged as a secret society whose "medicine" helped the Fon rule
(see Chapter Five). Strictly speaking, Kwifon stands for sacra and medicine, and
refers to the Fon's retainers whose duty was to assist the Fon in the exercise of his
secular authority and in the preservation of the customs and traditions of the state
(Nkwi 1976: 67). This group of retainers was said to possess supernatural power,
71
which was inherent in the sacra and medicine. If there was misfortune, drought, crop
failure, etc, the Kwifon was obliged to seek out seers and determine the cause; this
would be followed by a call for cleansing or healing rituals as well as blessings from
the Kwifon. The Kwifon were believed to have some mystical powers "which helped
its members in the exercise of their duties" (Nkwi 1976: 96). By 1933 it was
considered "too secretive" to be an executive arm of the government, with the British
government declaring that secret societies "cannot now be recognized by the
government" (Nkwi 1976: 147).
All of these practices are argued to be now on the decline, as the chieftaincy
has been bureaucratized and reduced to the lower ranks of the administrative ladder.
In the colonial period, the selection of chiefs laid emphasis on time-tested initiation
rites and cultural values of the people and did not emphasize knowledge of Western
education. Indeed, when the British administered Southern Cameroons, new
regulations were laid down for "the resuscitation of tribal units, the selection of the
rightful chief, his installation with appropriate ceremonial, the re-establishment of the
clan council together with the definition of the jurisdiction and powers of the clan
council or chief" (Chilver 1963: 108). This system enhanced the prestige of the Fon,
who became known as ‘native authorities,’ and the traditional political set-up
underneath the Fon was maintained. This changed in 1938 when the native authority
was remodeled to include "elected and western educated men" (Nkwi 1976: 145).
The Fon lost the presidency of this new body but remained an ex-officio member,
until the 1970s and 1980s when it became fashionable to install well-educated princes
72
who, it was believed, could blend the 'white man's way of life' with the local culture.
Chiefs had to be literate in order to better perform the bureaucratic tasks expected of
them (Fisiy 1995).
In the wake of independence numerous African political parties were
developed, and the new political elite were not as eager to share power with the
Chiefs. The Fon could no longer interfere with the affairs of the people, and his role
became that of an "overseer with no ability to punish" (Nkwi 1976: 188). These
conditions affected the Kwifon organization as well; the new political framework
with its network of police, local area councils, messengers, and divisional officers,
virtually put the Kwifon out of work. Clashes with the administration were frequent,
with the Fon and the Kwifon asserting their remaining power on the institution which
they still controlled: the religious. Motivated by its ritual duty, an increased focus on
ritual and its sanctions resulted, motivated by the fact that many people took pride in
their traditional values. At present, traditional dancing, masquerades, death
ceremonies, and various occult rituals continue to be performed, although some
(mostly Christian converts) do so without the weight of belief in traditional religion
(Nkwi 1976: 200).
The dual requirements of maintaining 'tradition' while adapting customary
rules to the changing social environment have sent conflicting messages to the local
community. The contemporary Fon has to satisfy the cultural aspirations of his
people while charting a new sociopolitical path for himself and his community. Some
chiefs have sought to define a separate ritual space for dealing with communal
73
interests, especially those associated with land tenure, while adopting an entirely
different approach in dealings with the state (Fisiy 1995).
Today's Fon symbolizes unity and represents the link with the ancestral past.
This symbolism is borne out by the perception of the land as 'the spirit of the people'
and as a ritual link between them and the ancestors, where the land is viewed more as
a source of sustenance rather than as a means of material accumulation (Goheen
1988). For example, the land must be ritually cleansed every year in order to recover
its fecundity. If there was peace, fertility, and good crops, he was ruling well. If
there was drought, misfortune, and general discontent, he was not ruling well. This
could only be achieved via ritual and if the Fon was 'in one mind and spirit' with his
people. In such rituals the people would expect the Fon and his notables to invoke
the mediation of the ancestors by pouring a libation to them so that the 'earth could
pass judgment' (Goheen 1988). As chief priest of the land, the Fon is expected to
pour a ritual libation at least once a year at the kingdom's shrine, invoking the
ancestors and gods of the land to protect the land and bestow numerous blessings on
it. Occasionally, this practice involved drinking the Fon's wine containing a speck of
earth from the disputed area (Chilver 1990).
These are the political rights and religious duties that accrue to the chief; their
observance enhances the protection of the gods and the productivity of the land. The
absence of these observances is argued to 'demystify' the land; it loses its spiritual
value and becomes a mere factor of production. "Once land ceases to serve as a link
with the past, it is easy for it to be turned into a commodity and then subjected to
74
bureaucratic control" (Fisiy 1995: 5). The chieftaincy appears to be going through
one of its most critical periods of transition. On the one side, the increasing demands
of the administration threaten the Fon; on the other side, the subjects accuse the Fon
of selling-out, by collaborating with bureaucrats to divest them of their rights to the
land. Nevertheless, the institution of the chieftaincy has shown remarkable powers of
survival. The expectation that the chieftaincy would wither away, as elected officials
assumed political power, has not fully materialized. In the colonial period, scholars
were already predicting the demise of customary chiefs (Fisiy 1995). Despite such
predictions, customary chiefs are still charting new spaces on the political landscape.
Peter Geschiere argues that it is important to highlight the ambivalence that
characterizes this institution, especially as it seems to mediate between the past and
the present by imaging itself as a 'symbol of tradition', and at the same time striving to
serve as an agency for 'modern projects' (1993: 152).
The History of Oku
As a symbol of tradition in Oku, the institution of the Fon represents a direct
link to the past, where history is seemingly of interest only as far as its relevance to
daily life is concerned. Obtaining information about the early history of Oku is thus a
difficult task, considering the relative timelessness of the African worldview (see
Chapter 1), as well as the close dependency on ancestors that brings the past into
constant interplay with the present lived reality. In addition to the lack of written
75
documentation, ‘traditional’ historians such as minstrels, griots, balladeers and the
like did not exist in the Grassfields, as they did in some regions of Africa (Koloss
2000: 29). Surprisingly, myths and legends are not very common in the Cameroon
Grasslands either, and this applies to Oku as well.
One relatively certain fact is that the first settlers in the area were the Ntul,
and their descendants today are still viewed as the “real” owners of the land. The
early history of the Ntul begins with a woman by the name of Nyianya, who not only
founded the Ntul tribe, but also introduced iron technology, and more importantly, the
magic medicine that has come to define Oku medicine today. (This is significant as
today such medicines remain strictly taboo for women). According to oral tradition,
Nyianya is said to have had only one son, Nghanga, who inherited both kingship and
magic medicine, and has remained since then in the hands of men.
Due in part to their location in one of the most mountainous areas of the
Grasslands, much of the population that migrated into the area were refugees and
immigrants, who were always accepted and assimilated into society without question.
Throughout this period the Ntul were respected as the primary occupants, under the
rule of a “Baba Ebfon,” whose authority the other immigrant groups accepted (as
evidenced by the regulation that all leopards killed in the area of the Ntul belong to
Baba Ebfon) (Koloss 2000: 31).
The arrival of the Mbele clan proved to be a significant change in regards to
respected Ntul authority. Although the Mbele greatly outnumbered the Ntul as well
as the other immigrant groups, Baba Ebfon apparently had no qualms accepting them
76
into his country. Not much is known about this period, except that through either
force or conniving, the leader of the Mbele succeeded in obtaining the right to rule
from the Ntul clan. He assumed the name “Nyanya,” meaning always on the move,
and became the first King of entire Oku. It is not known whether the Ntul alternated
kingship with the Mbele, nor is it certain to what extent the new King, or Fon, of Oku
actually controlled the people. The first, relatively authentic information about the
early history of Oku begins with Mkong Moteh, a Mbele king who seized power
forever from the Ntul and today is worshipped as a God of Oku.
Accredited with founding the Kingdom of Oku, Mkong Moteh is honored as
the most heroic figure in the history of Oku and its greatest and most successful
leader. He was believed to have extraordinary mystical powers, which he supposedly
used to defeat his enemies while uniting all of Oku, as illustrated in the following
well-known story:
He was known as a devilish chief because of the miracles he performed. He
was able to enter to the bottom of the lake, carry water in a basket made of
raffia [grass], and when there was war, such as with the Nso, he would make
all the streams in their country go dry. Mkong Moteh directed his people that
upon his death they should bury him in a certain forest known as Lumetu.
However, after his death Mkong Moteh was buried instead in the Palace
complex. One day the new Fon wanted to make a sacrifice at the grave.
Suddenly he saw a small hole on the grave and signs in the dust, showing that
a snake had come out of the hole. At once he knew that Mkong Moteh had
left the grave. The Fon and his people followed the track which ended at
Lumetu. Here they saw another small hole going into the ground. A house
was built there to shelter the hole, and then a sacrifice was made. Every year
Kwifon goes to dance at the grave, and a week later the women will also go
and clean the whole place. -as told by Fon Ngum III
That Mkong Moteh should be so revered is not surprising considering he was
Mbele, and history is typically written by the victor. A completely different version
77
of events surrounding Mkong Moteh has emerged in recent years thanks to the work
of local Oku historian John Bah, who uncovered historical accounts that reveal the
revered King as a ruthless despot. According to these accounts, Mkong Moteh set
fire to the foot of the mountain as the Ntul were performing their annual grass cutting
celebration for their Fon. Due to the strong upwinds, the Ntul had no possibility to
flee and perished in the flames, thus more or less decimating the entire Ntul
population (Bah 1996).
His unchallenged authority over all of Oku now assured, Mkong Moteh made
fundamental political changes that strengthened the power of the Mbele clan. He
dissolved the Kwifon societies of all other clans, leaving only one Kwifon in Oku.
Other Fons were degraded to family heads with a few special privileges. Yet there
was one important goal he was unable to achieve: the Ntul secrets to their magical
medicines. Essential for honoring the Gods of the Land and a requisite for the
ceremonies honoring the Gods of Oku at the beginning of the rainy season, these
medicines today remain in the hands of the Kekol (the former royal society of the
Ntul).
After the era of Mkong Moteh, there is apparently little oral documentation of
historical events. The first accounts of war-like conflicts with the Fulbe appear
towards the end of the 19
th
century, as the Fulbe horsemen attempted to invade the
Grasslands from the north. It is said that their attempts were repelled by the mask and
military societies Labeh and Nontang, which are still active today (Koloss 2000: 35).
Later conflicts with the neighboring Nso were also repelled by the medicine men of
78
Labeh and Nontang, adding to the mystique of Oku healers. Today Oku is proud of
the fact that their country has never been conquered by foreign powers due to the
power of their medicine and mask societies. In contrast to other tribes in the
Grasslands, a “distinctly defensive attitude in foreign policy can be recognized here,
which was not accompanied by an expansion of power”(Koloss 2000: 36).
Oku’s relative isolation and defensive attitude resulted in comparatively little
impact associated with the arrival of the Germans during the Colonial period. The
first German missionaries did not arrive in Oku until 1913 (two years before the
capitulation of the German colonial troops to the English) and promptly built a church
and school in Elak, the main village of Oku. Attempts by missionaries to impart the
Christian conviction and fear of one God proved disastrous. According to John Bah,
who has done extensive historical research in Oku, the first Christian houses were
built around the church to serve as a defense force, making sure no juju passed
through the church yard. This led to a fight between jujus and the Christian converts,
resulting in many injuries and subsequent deaths of Christians as a consequence of
their encounter with the dangerous medicines of the jujus (Bah 1996: 2). Following
this encounter, further missionary work in Oku did not commence again until 1940,
when Fon Ngek Yulam granted members of the American Baptist Church entry into
Oku. During the following decades both the Baptist Mission and the Catholic Church
intensified their missionary work in Oku, building many schools in the process.
In the ensuing years more “development” came to Oku, such as construction
of the first roads to Oku in the 1950s (the first automobile was said to have entered
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Oku in 1956), and the cultivation of coffee, today one of Oku’s most important
economical factors. Nonetheless economic conditions in Oku were and continue to
be very unfavorable, weakened by the drastic increase in population from 6000
inhabitants in 1905 (according to German census) to 32000 in 1976. Since then the
population has almost tripled, with estimates approximating 100,000 today (Fon
Ngum, p.c. 2003).
The population explosion combined with the new finance market and the
invasion of European articles had catastrophic effects on the traditional social system
of Oku, as it has elsewhere in Africa. Having to earn money necessarily weakened
family unity, for if indeed a person was fortunate to find work, his or her new
material security made them independent of social bonds (Koloss 2000: 40). Wealth,
according to tradition, was measured by the possession of many wives and children,
as well as the obligation to help others in need. Yet the large, extended family is
rapidly losing influence, with polygamy and many children becoming more of a
financial burden in the new economy, when they were considered assets in a
traditional, agrarian setting.
Western society, characterized by large houses, cars, fashion, trips abroad,
etc., have become the ideal for many Cameroonians, although for the majority of the
population the reality is quite the opposite. In rural areas such as Oku, these ideals
are argued to have weakened the traditional family to the point of endangering its
very existence. Elders routinely complain about the new incursions, the lack of
respect for ancestral rites, elders, and medicine, and especially the decline of social
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responsibility. Furthermore, the emergence of political parties increasingly threatens
the unity of the populace, in particular that of the commoners and their traditional
leaders.
In 1992, the present Fon of Oku, Ngum III, was enthroned and initiated a
series of changes, including bringing electricity to the main village of Elak. As
former executive secretary of the Cameroon Baptist Convention, Fon Ngum attended
the university in the U.S. and became the first scholar to ascend to the throne in Oku.
Under Ngum’s reign, many social and political traditions came into question,
resulting in much upheaveal and a continuing tension between traditionalists and the
“new solutions” promoted by Fon Ngum. These ranged from abolishing the
traditional Sunday (Ebkwey), a day of rest occurring every eight days, to his decision
to chop down the fabled tree of Kwifon, bringing strong criticism from the populace.
Other unpopular decisions on the part of the current Fon include his replacing
traditional dignitaries and members of Kwifon with people of Cameroon’s ruling
political party, the CPDM. In a region where most of the populace disapproves of
Biya’s rule, Ngum’s affiliation with the CPDM continues to draw strong criticism.
Indeed there may be little choice in the manner of confronting this new world, as Fon
Ngum informed me personally. Negotiating state laws and regulations with
traditional values and institutions will determine the future of Oku, and Ngum
believes he is doing his best to navigate both worlds. Nonetheless, in view of
development, a perspective that values material possession and technological progress
will have its limits in Oku. For as much as the economic and social life has changed
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with European influence, traditional rituals still carry their former significance in
specific and important spheres of life—hence the increase in ancestral ceremonies
and medicinal rituals in recent years.
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Chapter 3:
Oku Cosmology
According to Wole!! Soyinka (1976), the essence of African Religion is that it
draws man’s consciousness to the divide that exists between the world of transience
and that of eternity. The African who attempts to bridge this divide “is aggrieved by
a consciousness of the loss of the eternal essence of his being and must indulge in
symbolic transactions to recover his totality of being” from the "abyss of transition"
to seek reunion with the Gods (Soyinka 1976:144, 145). Likewise, Mbiti (see
Chapter One) argues African Religion predisposes Africans to an understanding of
the structured order of the universe and inspires them to explore nature physically,
spiritually and otherwise, for the wellbeing of the community (1969: 33). In sum,
African cosmology represents a unique system of multi-focal intercessory points
since the whole of nature is perceived as the immanent revelation of a transcendental
God. "Revelation is an act of God and to the understanding of African peoples;
divine messages can be obtained through the situation of things in the environment"
(Kayode 1984:2). An argument can therefore be made that the cosmology of the Oku
people was developed in response to nature, which to them constituted the bridge to
attain a reunion with the world of harmony and perfection. Their will and
determination to overcome is symbolized by resilient plants such as nkeng, a plant of
the dracaena specie, and kebvem, a milky perennial tree with ever green leaves, used
at shrines. “The galore of ever freshness at the shrines due to the choice of these
plants symbolizes fertility, posterity and continuity” (Aseh 2002).
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The Oku people, like their counterparts elsewhere in Africa, have an
understanding that man is part of the biotic community: that there is a symbiotic
relationship that exists between man and nature, and that their own very survival is a
function of this relationship. The main political and social institutions of Oku,
including family units, secret societies, and the monarchial system, can be
comprehended only when seen in relation to this dependency on the transcendental
powers inherent in nature. These transcendental powers include intercessory beings:
the Gods of Oku, the Gods of the Land, the ancestors, human and nature spirits and
mysterious powers, all of which represent different aspects of the one single,
omnipotent God, called Feyin in the Oku language.
In comparison to the Abrahamic religions, the Creation God in African
religions is often thought to have little influence upon the course of human destiny,
presumably because the “mediatorial functions of the lesser Gods and especially of
the ancestors led early Europeans to the erroneous assumption that there was no bond
between the African people and their highest God” (Koloss 2000: 383). Part of this
misunderstanding stems from the fact that there exists no idea as to Feyin’s outward
appearance, origin, or manner of existence. In contrast to the numerous lesser Gods
and ancestors, Feyin is presumably not dependent on offerings. However, field
research (Aseh 2002, Koloss 2000, Bartelt 2005) in recent years has shown that all
prayers and offerings made to intermediaries are ultimately directed towards Feyin,
and that far from being distant, Feyin has a decisive influence upon the fate of all
(Koloss 2000: 384). Yet despite this active role there are no visible bonds between
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Feyin and mankind; for this purpose the Oku man relates to Feyin either through the
lesser Gods and ancestors, through nature, and/or by engaging in the performance of
rituals to appease the spirits and permit Feyin to “let His will to be done in their lives”
(Aseh 2002: 4). Although Feyin has control over the life of mankind, He rarely steers
the fate of man directly. This is the role of the ancestors as well as the lesser deities,
or Emyin (the plural of Feyin), who both bless and punish the people (Koloss 2000:
384).
Emyin: The Local Dieties
The Emyin can be divided into two groups, the Gods of Oku and the Gods of
the Land. The Gods of Oku, or Emyin me Ebkwou, are viewed as distinct individual
beings, with names and designated sacred “precincts,” or particular spheres of
influence in the daily life of mankind. The Emyin me Ebkwou typically reveal
themselves to mankind in connection with unusual and extraordinary events, which
are usually interpreted by diviners and ascribed to a certain Emyin. The number of
Emyin in Oku remains relatively consistent, although they can increase whenever a
new deity comes into contact with a human being (Koloss 2000: 384). Indicative of
the centrality of nature in Oku cosmology, most of these deities are associated with
particularly prominent landscape features, which is seen in the way that nature as a
whole continues to be approached with a mixture of fear, respect, and caution.
Indeed throughout Oku it is understood that the Gods could appear at any time,
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especially ‘in the bush' and often in the form of an animal, in order to observe the
people’s behavior and in turn reward or punish them. As we will see in the next
chapter, encounters with the Emyin represent one way in which healers come upon
their calling: via personal interaction with one of the Emyin who reside in the forest.
The Emyin are not only concerned with a particular geographical area or
sphere of life, but also serve to protect the all of Oku against evil while ensuring that
“positive things do not leave Oku.” This is most apparent in the annual ceremonies in
honor of the Gods of Oku, which are led by the Fon himself. Assisted by the heads of
the Ntul clan, who retain the medicine necessary for honoring the Emyin (see Chapter
2), the offerings are prepared in the Palace and then carried to the various sacred
precincts. The Fon prepares the offerings, which consist of pounded coco yams and
garden eggs, personally. The Fon then fills calabashes with palm wine, corks them
with the sacred plant nkeng, and places both the food and the wine in raffia bags. As
the chief priest of the land, the Fon concludes the palace ceremony with a lengthy
prayer over the bags (Bah 2004).
The most important part of the preparation, the prayer is directed to the Gods,
following a uniform procedure that includes asking for blessings and prosperity, as
well as personal entreaties regarding current problems and issues in which the Gods
are addressed as human beings (Koloss 2000: 386). Following the prayer, the
messengers of the Fon carry bags containing the offerings to the various abodes of the
Gods. Upon reaching, the messengers hang the bags from a tree and call the name of
the particular deity. The bags remain for two days, after which they are brought back
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and examined by the Fon to see if they were accepted or not (i.e. whether or not they
were “consumed”). The only bag that is not brought back is that which goes to
Lumeto, the sacred forest that is the abode of Mkong Moteh, the “father of Oku” (see
Chapter 2).
In order to maintain this sacred relationship, nature had to be separated into
two categories: that which is useful and that which is ordinary. That which is useful
is set aside, made sacred and forbidden, becoming the abodes of the Gods (Aseh
2002: 4). In Oku society, many Emyin reside at conspicuously awesome sites within
the fondom, such as waterfalls, lakes and rivers, or at the base of strikingly large
unusual trees and boulders. The most well-known of the sites is Lake Mawes, home
of the major Emyin in Oku and the only God whose first appearance is documented in
several myths.
The Myth of Mawes
A certain person, Mawes, appeared from the west…terribly bushy and
unkempt. He went to the Kejom chief and asked for a shave. He was told no,
he was too dirty to have the chief’s attention. So he passed and came here,
and asked to be attended to . The chief of Oku received him, shaved him, and
applied camwood (spiritual ointment used by the Fon to bless, or ‘wash’, an
individual) on him. So he stayed for some time, and enjoyed Oku’s
hospitality. In time Mawes asked for a place to settle. The Fon showed him
the hill…he accepted. He took off for the hill. On the way he went to the
Kejom village, and asked for food. Some gave, some refused to give. So he
told those who gave: when it rains, they should take their babies and food
baskets up to the mountain. To those who refused, Mawes said: stay put, and
pick the tadpoles that will fall with the rains.
Soon, it started raining. Those who stayed thought it was a joke. They soon
find that the water that had settled was at their knees….then their waists…and
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soon.up to their navels. And they knew it was dangerous. But it was too late,
soon the compounds were all swallowed in the water. Those who did not hear
the voices of their children, who had been drowned, threw themselves in
despair into the rising water. And that is how the lake was formed…
This account of the origin of the Lake was told to me by the current Fon of
Oku, Ngum III. While there are various versions, the essential structure remains
consistent; namely that Mawes was accepted in Oku, but received in a most
unfriendly manner by the neighboring Kejom. Thereupon Mawes punished the
Kejom by causing a great proportion of their population to drown in a flood, with the
survivors leaving their homeland and establishing the village of Kejom further south.
Many scholars schooled in “Levi-Straussian” analysis have likened this myth to the
classic flood-myth that is prevalent in many religious texts, most notably Christianity.
Analyzing Mawes as such results in an over-simplication of the myth,
precisely because it is interpreted independently from the actual experiences of the
people who tell the myths. Paul Ricoeur (1974) counters Levi-Strauss by saying that
an accurate interpretation of a native text requires accessing the experiences of living
people who are influenced by the text. In other words, true hermeneutics involves a
dialogue between a text (i.e. myth, drama, fairy story, dream report, oral history, etc.)
and the experiences evoked in people participating in the text (Ricour 1974). The
meaning of the text is developed within the consciousness of living people, so that
there is a movement from an initial hearing of the text, which then may lead to
experiences that illuminate the meaning of the text. Then later people may reflect
conceptually upon both the text and the memory of experiences related to the text.
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By implication, the ethnographer must approach religious texts such as the
myth of Mawes from an experiential stand point. Ethnographers cannot merely apply
formulaic, "exegetical" methods to a myth, or other text, and hope to understand it in
the same rich way the native does. Rather, the analysis must relate to direct human
experience in order to reconstruct the real meaning of texts as they exist and operate
in their native cultural contexts. In other words, the significance of Mawes and his
influence on the daily affairs of Oku people is best understood in terms of
experiencing the influence of Mawes in daily life, as opposed to a detached reading of
the myth. In the following example, David Nchinda addresses Mawes while standing
on the shores of the lake:
It is said, that people live under this body of water. Maybe spirit creatures,
and maybe humans that perished. But the story holds: we are children of the
same, maybe our parents equally perished, or they founded a new settlement.
But all the same – we are your children. And what little we have, we give you
with all our hearts, and we give you cheerfully (Nchinda throws kola nuts and
coins into the lake).
Turning to me, Nchinda explained:
We hold the belief that when you visit the lake as a healer, you gather a few
leaves, mix them up with your own leaves at home, and they will become all
the more effective. We believe that when you have a sick patient, and you
come to the lake and ask for any leaves, any leaves that come to you, you will
be certain to heal the patient – irrespective of the illness.
As a healer, Nchinda’s personal experience with Mawes provides information
that the text of the myth alone cannot; namely, the understanding that Mawes is not a
vengeful God (as in many flood myths), but instead is seen as a benevolent provider
to all who visit His abode with the proper respect (i.e. paying homage to those Mawes
drowned). And despite Mawes’ central role in Oku cosmology, He does not receive
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annual offerings like the other Emyin; only at the enthronement of a new Fon is a
sacrifice made to Mawes.
Most illuminating in terms of Nchinda’s relationship to the Lake concerns the
role of Mawes in terms of medicine. The fact that any leaves from the Lake are
charged with healing powers is indicative of the consciousness of the Oku people
concerning the duality in the nature of man: that man is both spiritual or essence and
biological or matter. Furthermore, this shows that the lake is considered not only a
point of interaction between the living and the spirit, but also as the place where
Mawes reveals his generosity and good will for the continual sustenance of humans.
In addition to the Emyin me Ebkwuo (Gods of Oku) are the Gods of the Land,
or Emyikn Mentieh, who are considered to be omnipresent throughout the Oku
landscape. Little is known about the appearance and gender of the Emyin Mentieh,
yet it is generally assumed that they represent a ‘family’ of sorts: a male diety, his
wife, and their children (Koloss 2000: 390). Unlike the Gods of Oku, the Emyikn
Mentieh have no individual names and are more or less anonymous. Associated with
the flora and fauna that dominate the open country and the woodlands, their influence
forms the basis for the ‘spiritual force’ of plants used in both healing and witchcraft.
Stemming from the Gods of the Land, this force permeates the landscape and is
largely considered to be favorable to mankind. Hence, contrary to most peoples of
West Africa, “who view their forests as areas of chaos and peril, the woods of Oku
are looked upon as grounds of order and stability” (Koloss 2000: 390).
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Another common misapplication of the African worldview with respect to the
Grassfields concerns the idea that earth is seen as a God in and of itself. Indeed, in
other parts of Africa this is so, but in the Grassfields the earth is not identified with
any particular personal or divine characteristics (Chilver 1990). Instead, the earth
upon which man lives belongs to the Emyikn Mentieh, and therefore these Gods take
on an importance often surpassing that of the Gods of Oku. In general, the Emyikn
Mentieh are favorably inclined towards mankind, so long as each person respect and
abide by their laws, which include staying in close contact through prayers,
requesting the Gods’ permission with respect to land use, and commemorating them
with appropriate ceremonies, rituals, and offerings. Personal prayers to the Gods are
carried out by everyone, mostly in thought, and occur on a daily basis (in a survey by
Koloss, there are days when people average over fifty prayers to the Gods) (2000:
390).
Offerings to the Gods are not accepted from everyone, however, and must be
carried out by the priests of the land, typically the village heads. The major
ceremonies, which follow the course of land cultivation, are less dependent on
offerings and more concerned with the medicine rituals that are undertaken by
qualified healers. These ceremonies include protection rituals for the crops and
rituals for crop fertility, undertaken at the beginning of the rainy season, as well as
harvest time rituals (particularly for corn and beans) directed towards thanking the
Gods and ensuring well-being for the Oku people.
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The sacredness of the earth, the womb of all energy sources, did not permit
the practice of land alienation; it was not to be commodified. Available literature
indicates that the commodification of land was unknown in sub-Saharan Africa
before the colonial period (Maynard 2004). The religious cosmology of the Oku
people was also the ideology base for their economic organization, and thus defined
the categories of entities that were outside the market economy (Aseh 2002). Land
fell in the categories of unmarketable entities. Thus selling land was like alienating
man from his ‘natural‘ rights. An informant in nearby Kejom reported "just as the
Judaeo- Christian belief would not permit the sell of the ‘heaven’, where its God
resides, the Kejom did not find it prudent selling the ‘ground’ that held their
ancestors.” Also indicative of the sacredness of the land is that all libations or rituals
for the appeasement of the spiritual world were performed on the earth; thus any
piece of food item that fell to the ground was considered as a gift to the spirits and so
should not be picked up again by ‘ordinary’ people. When seeds were planted or
anything else that was expected to germinate and grow, it was forbidden to uproot or
dig up again.
While the Gods of the land generally attend to the wellbeing of the families
that live in their territory, the Oku person must occasionally reckon with hostile
forces, known as ‘bad’ Gods (Emyin embeh). According to the healers of Oku, such
forces are only confronted when mankind has acted on them intentionally, via
negligence of divine laws or at the bequest of malevolent humans (witches). “Evil
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does not attack without the consent of humans,” explains Nchinda David, “else they
(Emyin embeh) will have no affect on humans. A spirit alone will dare not attack.”
Ancestors
Equally if not more influential in the daily affairs of humans are the ancestors,
who act similar to the Gods of the Land in that they are omnipresent and always near
to mankind. Unlike the Emyikn Mentieh, however, the ancestors do not reside on the
earth, but rather in a vaguely conceived “land of the dead people.” When pressed
further, most of my informants explained it as a world similar to life on earth, with
the ancestors occupying more or less the same position in the ancestral reality that
they did while living on earth. Furthermore, the ancestors exercise their influence on
human life only as long as the living remember them. This is significant as it sheds
light as to how the ancestors can be so influential in human affairs – both spheres
coexist simultaneously and cannot exist without the other.
The Oku metaphysical construction of the celestial abode is as largely a sacred
and ordered place. In equal measure, the human world is not just a symmetrical
pantomime of the sacred supernatural world, but also a continuum of the supernatural
world. As such the human world should be structurally ordered to accommodate the
presence of the Feyin amongst them. He lives with them in varying and inexplicable
forms and His messages are revealed to his people through vertical as well as diffused
channels such as dreams and visions. This cosmological disposition is clearly
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reflected in the Oku socio-political organization, which was equally a religious
organization, or a sacred society (Aseh 2002). These two worlds are brought together
during memorial ceremonies that honor the ancestors, which take place throughout
the year under the guidance of the respective family heads; i.e. the ancestors of the
maternal family can only be reached by the maternal family head, etc. (Koloss 2000:
401). The actual location of the ceremony is not important (with the exception of the
memorial stones – see Chapter Five) and is typically open to everyone.
Although the ancestors have a direct influence on daily life, they are not
actually Gods because the power they have does not originate with them; it comes
from Feyin Himself. As intermediaries to Feyin, the ancestors bestow blessings on
their family members who are obeying the Laws of God, also referred to as the Laws
of the Land. The blessings follow ordinary prayers, memorial ceremonies, and
medicine rituals that invoke the ancestors. The simplest way to reach the ancestors is
through prayer and the use of emkan, oracular pieces of wood used when addressing
Gods and ancestors (see Chapter Six - Divination). Following this, more serious
problems involve the addition of ‘special food’ (njemte, or the food of the Gods) and
palm wine, where the transcendental power of the biotic community, expressed
through the staples of corn and palm wine, are argued to help bring the two worlds
closer together. The ancestors that answer the call, so to speak, are the ‘good souls’
who led a life in compliance with the Laws of Feyin. Those who died with unatoned
sins, including witches, are considered ‘bad ancestors’ and must be destroyed with
specific medicines lest they return to torment their families (Koloss 2000: 400).
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This is not to say that ‘good ancestors’ only bestow blessings; indeed, quite
often the good ancestors will punish the living with illness or misfortune, especially if
there are evil doings (i.e. lying, adultery, etc) that threaten peace and harmony in the
family. Ancestors may also punish to enact revenge for offenses they occurred while
living, or when sacred objects have been stolen from a family. In addition, the
‘punishment’ will not stop with the guilty party, but will typically continue to
adversely affect all members of the offending party’s family. For this reason offerings
of atonement, or ntangle, are much more frequent occurrences than offerings in honor
of the ancestors. Ntangle rituals involve invoking the ancestors for forgiveness while
reinstating harmony and/or recovery from an illness. Prior to this all offences are
discussed in the open and family members have the opportunity to admit
transgressions.
More serious problems, including all cases in which the ancestors are invoked
to avenge an offense, are carried out by qualified healers, usually with the assistance
of the relevant medicine society (see Chapter Four). The distinguishing feature of
these rituals concerns the use of oracles to secure the successful intervention of the
ancestors. In this manner the ancestors have the opportunity to communicate their
acceptance or displeasure with the ceremony. Oftentimes these ceremonies approach
the ancestors as Gods, and as such require their own special medicine rituals normally
reserved for the Gods. Their role as divinities is a temporary one, as they are not
referred to as such outside of the medicine ritual. The Fon, for his part, is also revered
as a divinity, in terms what he represents: as an institution he does not die. To overtly
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say that the Fon has died was synonymous to saying that all what he incarnates has
died. The Fon simply disappears and reappears in his successors, and is thus honored
as a divinity more so than an ancestor.
Symbolizing the community’s link with this cosmic world, the Fon was the
symbol of spiritual power, prosperity and continuity. At one time it was believed that
he had the capacity to transform into a leopard and !often went to the ‘other world’
where he received instructions. This ‘other world’ is not, as Westerners commonly
believed, necessarily separate from the human reality; instead it exists in nature. Oku
cosmology is far more connected with the earth and the corresponding earth-bound
world of Gods and ancestors than with the heavens; indeed the sky holds little interest
for most Grassfields cultures (Maynard 2004: 39). Neither the sun nor the moon, let
alone stars and constellations, is accorded any spiritual significance; instead we see
an emphasis on the spiritual significance of flora and fauna.
The Biotic Community
The special relationship between the Fon and the leopard speaks to the
significance of the animal world in terms of human relationships. The Fon’s
superiority over the leopard is symbolized by his resting his feet on the leopard skin
when sitting on the throne. Although referred to as a leopard, the Fon no longer
transforms into such; according to my informants, this is obvious, because the
scarcity of animals in the bush today would mean certain death to the Fon should the
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leopard be caught and eaten. In fact, it is said that the Fon no longer transforms at all
– those powers of transformation, should the new Fon have them, cease the day he
was made Fon thanks to the medicines “put on him by the whole of Oku which
prohibits internal and or external witchcraft on him” (Nforme Ndula – p.c. 2004).
The leopard is also considered to have its own witchcraft; it is believed that
witches can transform into it - if this happens, and the leopard is caught and eaten,
said witch will die as well. The spiritual significance of the leopard is evident in the
required rituals that the hunter must undergo immediately after killing the leopard.
He must first bring the animal to the Fon, whereupon the head, claws, and whiskers
are removed and remain with the Fon. Should the hunter fail to do this, it is widely
acknowledged that spots will appear all over the hunter’s body, followed by a period
of madness, and finally certain death. Following the presentation of the leopard, the
hunter is given a title (“tanjong”), symbolized by a red feather that he will display in
his cap, followed by an initiation into the Nseh masquerade society, which has
medicine that will cleanse the hunter after such a kill. Only after this has been done
can the leopard be eaten (the Fon does not eat the leopard meat as he himself is a
leopard). The bones are then gathered and kept in the palace, which are then typically
given to traditional healers should they request them (Nforme Ndula – pc 2004).
Supposedly certain traditional sites, including the palace and the various secret
societies, were built upon the ribs of a leopard. Following the leopard, other ‘royal’
animals include the lion, the buffalo, the chimpanzee and the hyena, all which must
be brought directly to the palace upon capture. Yet none of the these animals carry the
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same spiritual weight as the leopard, and are presented to the Fon only because of
their symbolic value as rare and dangerous animals. Two other animals that fall in
this category are the crocodile and the python, both of which are considered the
kwifon’s “catch.”
Not surprising, other animals that are of prime significance in Oku cosmology
include those that reside within the earth, especially earthworms, ants, snakes, and
earth spiders (tarantulas). As the abode of the Emyikn Mentieh, or Gods of the Land,
it stands to reason that creatures that inhabit the womb of the Gods act as messengers
between the worlds of men and gods, and are thus ‘favored’ by the Emyikn Mentieh.
This is especially apparent by the fact that many important healing rituals take place
at a giant ant hill, where the ants act as messengers for the Gods in terms of
conveying their acceptance or displeasure of the healing rite. (A related theory of the
anthill is offered by Koloss (2000), who argues that it is based on a belief that ants,
due to their omnipresence, can more easily contact the spirit world on behalf of
humans). The use of subterranean animals, such as the mole and the lion ant, in the
preparation of certain spiritual powders is also indicative of their spiritual
significance, which in the words of Nchinda David serve to “activate the spiritual
prowess of the medicines.”
Of all the animals whose abode is beneath the surface, none is more important
in Oku than the earth spider. Throughout Oku the spider motif is considered a royal
symbol, and the use in divination of spiders that live in holes in the ground is
widespread throughout southern Cameroon. In fact, there is a common term, ngam,
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which is used both for the spiders and, generically, for divination. As David Zeitlyn
(1993) has shown in research concerning spider divination among the
Mambila, “there seems little question that the technique has spread from a single
source over this area, suggesting it is a recent innovation on the basis of its
continuous distribution over a well-defined area” (220).
The divination technique consists of posing a question to a spider that lives in a
hole in the ground. An inhabited spider-hole is located and the area immediately
around it is cleared of vegetation. Over the hole is placed an old pot (1-2 feet
diameter), the upturned base of which is knocked out. Inside the pot are placed a set
of leaf-cards, made from the leaves of particular trees and marked with various
ideograms, as well as a number of sticks, or markers. Large numbers of cards may be
used, ranging from 75 to over 250. After the question has been asked the pot is
covered, and the diviner now waits (often overnight) for the spider to emerge. When
the spider emerges it disturbs the objects and the cards. The diviner interprets the
pattern resulting from the spider's passage to answer the question posed (Zeitlyn
1993). “At the very moment the spider comes out, then it is Feyin,” explained the
healer Nforme, “not that all the spiders are God, but at the time when ngam comes for
divination, it is God showing you what he wants to tell you” (p.c. 2005).
Another indication of the importance of animals in Oku cosmology concerns
the way certain actions by ordinary animals are weighted with spiritual significance.
For example, it is common knowledge in Oku that when a bee enters ones home
through the door, it indicates that one will shortly receive a visitor. The cry of a dove
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at night is a sure sign of an approaching threat, while any animal that crosses ones
path from right to left means that one will be receiving something beneficial. Of
course, the most significant of all animals in terms of “spiritual impact” is the
common fowl, which is used in virtually every medicinal ritual requiring a sacrifice.
Aside from the practicality of using a fowl for sacrifice (as one healer told me, a fowl
is a lot less expensive than a goat), it is seen in a spiritual light in that is understood to
have the ability to bridge the spirit world and the world of humans. Often used to
clean patients during treatment, the fowl is understood to absorb all the troubles of the
patient before it is sacrificed, in effect taking all the bad things and transferring them
back to the spirit world. When I questioned the necessity of killing the fowl in order
to do this, I was reminded that a fowl, like any living creature, can not travel to the
spirit world alive. (These and other ways of knowing are explained in more detail in
Chapter Six).
Despite the spiritual role of animals in Oku daily life, it is important to
understand that in their cosmological system, animal spirits operate in their own
sphere. According to Nchinda David, “animal spirits cannot impact the human spirit-
world, just as humans, upon death, do not return to the animal spirit world, but to the
world of human spirits” (p.c. 2005). In other words, in Oku it is understood that
animals ‘communicate’ with humans not of their own volition, but via the directives
of the Gods, ancestors, and certain persons who have the ability to ‘transform’ (see
Chapter 7: Witchcraft, Healers, & Morality). Likewise, humans do not have any
influence in the spiritual affairs of animals: it is understood that humans and animals
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occupy different realities in the spirit world just as they do in the living world. This is
an important point in terms of the African worldview that is often misunderstood:
although everything in nature is viewed as having a spiritual component, it by no
means implies the spirit world is homogenous.
The Hierarchy of Consciousness
According to the Western worldview, there exists a hierarchy of
consciousness that most, if not all, Euro-Americans take for granted. For us, humans
occupy the highest rung of consciousness, followed by animals, and lastly trees and
plants. Yet for the people of Oku, especially the healers, this hierarchy is reversed.
Plants are understood to operate on a higher level of consciousness than both humans
and animals, for they can communicate directly with humans and animals alike
without any vocal apparatus. As David Nchinda explained, “A single plant can be
used five different ways in ten different societies….and they all respond to the human
command, which implies their being of a higher spiritual essence…or the fact that a
plant can have other effects, actions other than the healer intended, thus implying a
certain free will of the plant” (p.c. 2005).
The idea of plants having a ‘free will’ or consciousness is nothing new; since
the 1950s experiments with music reveal a sensitivity to other types of frequencies or
waves besides those of visible light. In an experiment now known as the Backster
Effect, Cleve Baxter attached electrodes from a polygraph to the leaves of a
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houseplant. By recording electrical impulses he found the plants to be extremely
sensitive to his thoughts, particularly thoughts that threatened their well-being.
Backster also noted that they have a kind of memory, reacting to someone who earlier
had done harm to another plant nearby: in a line-up of anonymous people the plant
could pick out the one who had performed the act (Tompkins 1973). Marcel Vogel, a
contemporary, performed most of Backster's experiments successfully, arriving at the
conclusion in the 1970s that there is a life force, a cosmic energy surrounding living
things, that all species share: “this oneness is what makes possible a mutual
sensitivity allowing plant and man not only to intercommunicate, but to record these
communications via the plant on a recording chart”
2
(Thompkins 1973: 24).
Despite such experiments by Western scientists, the belief that plants can
communicate messages directly to humans, without prior stimulus on the part of the
human, remains outside the framework of the Western worldview and its presumption
that consciousness is reserved solely for humans and various ‘higher’ animals such as
the chimpanzee. Yet the healers of Oku show us otherwise, most notably in their
ability to master various herbal remedies without ever having been taught. According
to the healers of Oku, those who are gifted can receive messages from the plants,

2
Vogel was able to duplicate the Backster effect of using plants as transducers for
bio-energetic fields that the human mind releases, demonstrating that plants respond
to thought. He used split leaf philodendrons connected to a Wheatstone Bridge that
would compare a known resistance to an unknown resistance. He learned that when
he released his breath slowly there was virtually no response from the plant. When he
pulsed his breath through the nostrils, as he held a thought in mind, the plant would
respond dramatically. It was also found that these fields, linked to the action of
breath and thought, do not have a significant time domain to them. The
responsiveness of the plants to thought was also the same whether eight inches away,
eight feet, or eight thousand miles!
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which inform them of said plants’ efficacy in treating a certain illness. For David
Nchinda, this communication often comes in the form of visions, in which plants
‘appear’ while he is walking through the rainforest. “I am moving, with an empty
board before me. It is a vision, you understand? And I begin to see the leaves that I
have to harvest. As I move through the forest, I see a leaf, and a message comes to
my mind: cut this. It’s not that I know where they are, but I am directed to them. And
so I continue to move through the forest, harvesting leaves, until the board is
completely full. Then I begin to see on the board, ‘go back home” (p.c. 2003).
A more vivid example comes from Joe Mgah, a healer in the nearby village of
Kejom, who uses a leaf from the ngang plant to gain insight into the cause of a
particular illness. Without asking the patient any information, he simply picks a fresh
leaf from the ngang plant and gives it to the patient to hold in a clenched fist. After a
few minutes, he instructs the patient to throw the leaf on the ground, whereupon Joe
picks it up and ‘reads’ it as if it were a scroll.
The key is that it is an herb that goes into your system very fast, very fast. If
you use it on an open wound, it will block anything else from coming in.
Thus for my sorcery, for diagnosing, it is very effective. I find it more
effective than my science, such as these shells, which you can practice and
learn to read, because it is only a matter of concentration. I still use this
method, but only to compare, to confirm. It is always good to have at least
two methods of diagnosing. With the leaf, the one thing it will always show
immediately is if what is affecting you is witchcraft. If you are sick, it will
indicate it, but it won’t necessarily show you details, specifics. But if it is
poison, witchcraft, it will show it clearly, as if I myself was in the same house
with you when it happened. I want to add that with everyone it is not the
same, their blood might be different, or they may be involved in certain things
that make the leaf not show it as clearly (Joe Mgah, p.c. 2004).
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The spiritual significance of the biotic environment goes beyond the healer’s
relationship with the herbs, for it is in many ways the foundation of their cosmology.
It can be said that the forest to the Oku man is like the Bible to the Christian: both are
means to communicate with God. Healers throughout Oku emphasize the role of the
forest when communicating with ancestors: “when I want to communicate with my
ancestors, I go to the secret forest.” The secret forest encompasses more than the
Lumeto Forest, and includes all the surrounding natural ‘shrines’ that are intimately
connected with the ancestors of the Oku people. I have documented numerous such
shrines, ranging from majestic waterfalls with hidden caves to small holes in the
ground obscured by the tropical undergrowth. Each shrine embodies the ancestor that
represents either the final abode of the ancestor or, more commonly, a place where
the ancestor and the energies of the forest ‘claimed’ a life in the name of sacrifice. In
the latter case, annual offerings in the form of ‘special food,’ libations, and animal
sacrifice are made to the shrines.
The practice of sharing special food, or njemte, in order to connect with the
ancestors further illustrates the relationship between the Oku man, earth, and the spirit
world. “Some of the food is thrown in the fire, some is thrown in the four directions,
and the rest is eaten by us, the members of the society. It means that the ancestors
have eaten the special food, and we have also eaten the same special food, and it is by
the njemte that the ancestors now recognize us” (Nchinda, p.c. 2003). Composed of
ground pumpkin seeds or corn mixed with palm oil and salt, njemte reminds us that
man and spirit can be brought together with the transcendental power of the biotic
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community. Squash and corn, staples of the Northwest diet, are the biological
expressions of sustenance and survival for the people. More than natural symbols,
such food does not merely represent in the static sense, but rather moves, penetrates,
and transforms relationships amongst humans living and dead. The same is true for
palm oil, also an essential part of the Cameroonian diet. With its anti-witchcraft and
anti-bacterial properties, palm oil is a popular ingredient in many traditional
medicines as well. As a mineral, salt is recognized for its healing properties as well
as its historical role in commerce and exchange (even today, salt is accepted as ritual
payment in Oku during initiations, to settle fines, and occasionally for services
rendered by a healer). Considering the sacredness of these three ingredients, njemte
essentially becomes a medium in a socio-cultural system where ancestors have an
active role in the daily affairs of humans.
What seems bizarre to the Westerner is not so difficult to understand when
one considers that many indigenous populations have co-existed with their biotic
environment on an intimate level for hundreds if not thousands of years. As scientists
in their own right, the traditional healers of Oku studied medicine from the standpoint
of religion, resulting in a religious world view that was holistic in approach and
addressed the totality of man in his combined nature: political, economic, cultural,
social, !! technological, etc. As A.N. Aseh points out, “the discovery of medicine in this
society must have been motivated by a determination to overcome bodily
dysfunctioning which they believed could equally affect the very essence of man.”
Combining the biological approach, the spiritual approach as well as the
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psychological and the sociological approach, ‘traditional healing’ was “aimed at
reviving the totality of man in their quest at exonerating man from imperfections or
by reducing their incidence of intervening circumstances which may be obstacles. In
short, the ‘biological determination’ approach can be understood from the fact that
biologically determined dysfunctions could be corrected equally by the use of
biological substances, while the spiritual approach took care of the spiritual
maladjustment inflicted through witchcraft, fetishism, magic, etc.” (Aseh 2002: 8)
Keyoi: The Vital Force
In the course of my research in Oku it became increasingly clear that there
existed a unifying force that not only connected mankind with the cosmological
forces described above, but also provided animals, plants, and even inanimate objects
(in the Western sense) with the ability to live, function and to become essentially
autonomous. Variously described in Oku in terms of ‘spiritual force’, ‘spiritual
impact’, or ‘spiritual potency’, the concept has long held a significant place in many
African religious systems (Mbiti 1969, Evans-Pritchard 1937). Stemming from the
indigenous worldview and the emphasis on harmony, the concept of ‘life-force’ not
only recognizes that the sum is larger than the parts; it also permits the interpretation
of all elements of experience. In Oku this force is called ‘keyoi,’ and its cultivation is
necessary if one is to lead a life of personal fulfillment and social harmony.
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Although the phenomenon of keyoi is of paramount importance, it is rarely
discussed in Oku as such. Instead it expresses itself in the manner in which all things
vital to mankind are infused with a force that needs to be renewed and replenished:
“just as plants are dependent on water, keyoi of mankind needs to be renewed and
augmented time and time again, and the blessings from Feyin are designated none
other than to add keyoi’” (Koloss 2000: 445). The idea of ‘adding keyoi’ is thus
synonymous with cultivating ones relationship with the unseen forces that support
well-being and harmony with the community.
The significance of keyoi in terms of maintaining peace and harmony is
supported by the principle of mutual concern for fellow man, and the emphasis on the
community over the individual. In the traditional African society, the individual’s
dependence upon the group is always emphasized: “I am because we are, and since
we are, therefore I am” (Mbiti 1997: 127). It is also true that peace within the family
and the tribe is the fundamental condition for mankind to achieve well-being (Mbiti
1997: 205). A family, which includes the ancestors, that is united in peace represents
the highest of social ideals, and is the basic goal towards which traditional religion in
Oku strives. To lead a life according to these principles is essential to receiving and
benefiting from keyoi. As the unseen force that people carry in their hearts, bestowed
by Feyin, keyoi is not only strength, but “truth in its broadest sense” (Koloss 2000:
446).
The amount of keyoi in mankind is not equally distributed; in my research I
found that healers and diviners are endowed with greater keyoi than ordinary people.
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Described in terms of ‘spiritual potency’ or spiritual power, keyoi in this sense forms
the basis for a healer’s efficacy. The more keyoi a healer has, the more effective he is
believed to be in terms of fighting witchcraft and other forces that cause affliction.
Oku healers also point out the necessity of their keyoi in terms of empowering their
medicines. Called “charging the medicine,” the Oku healer will augment his keyoi by
inviting help from God the creator, followed by the god of the land (the founder of
the community, or ancestor), and finally the person who initiated him into the
medicines, followed by more prayers asking for what one wants to achieve with the
medicine. The sphere of influence of the ancestors in this regard is critical to success,
and is manifested in the spiritual potency, or keyoi, of the Oku healers (see Chapter
Four).
While keyoi in humans is always a positive attribute, when applied to objects
or other living things it can be good or bad. During my apprenticeship with David
Nchinda, he would often point out a plant that “has strong spiritual impact” (keyoi),
while warning me of its destructive potential. Rain, for instance, is often seen as
possessing good keyoi, whereas thunder and lightening carry bad keyoi. Articles of
daily use that contain the ‘spiritual force’ of certain persons are considered
‘spiritually potent’ objects with profound meaning for the successive owner, but
dangerous for others. Basically, anything that is advantageous to good health, well-
being, and social harmony is good keyoi, while anything disadvantageous is
considered bad keyoi. Witches, or people suspect of intentionally harming others and
the community, are believed to possess the knowledge and means to direct the bad
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keyoi against others (see Chapter Seven). As such, the people of Oku do not consider
disgruntled ancestors and witches as the sole causes of affliction, but through keyoi
point to an understanding that wicked thoughts and actions can endanger social
harmony and peace.
Traditional Religion and Abrahamic Incursions
Until this point we have viewed Oku cosmology from the standpoint of Oku’s
traditional indigenous belief systems, but this is not to imply that foreign Christianity
and Islam do not exist. Yet despite the influence of Western beliefs, most of the
ethnic groups in the country continue to observe Oku traditional religious moments,
events, and festivities. Rituals have always incorporated elements of the environment
and they often tend to be conservative: "People do not part easily with their ritual
symbols, and as circumstances change, the symbols are maintained even if they are
not easily found in the environment" (Nkwi and Warnier: 1982:23). The influence of
foreign relations on traditional Grassfields practices and beliefs began with the
imposition of German rule at the beginning of the 20th century. Their military
victories opened the way for the first Catholic missionaries in the Grassfields, when
German priest from the Order of the Sacred Heart of Jesus established a mission in
1912 in Kumbo (35 km from Oku). After the war, in 1920, Catholic missions made
inroads into Oku, soon followed by North American Baptists and finally the
Presbyterian Church.
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Before independence, all three missions adopted a more hostile stance towards
indigenous culture, religion, and medicine as compared to the British authorities
(Maynard 2004: 224). According to the recollections of some Oku elders, the initial
harsh opposition of the Catholic missionaries to “Oku juju” included campaigns to
exterminate the revered earth spider, ban juju masquerades and eliminate sacrifice in
their efforts to attack the religious bases of traditional authority. Another recalls an
altercation that ensued between a juju masquerade and catholic missionaries in Oku
on mission grounds, as a particular juju group was on its way to a death celebration.
In an act of defiance, they danced directly through the mission grounds, provoking a
fight between missionaries and traditionalists that left one missionary dead and
numerous others injured.
The Christian missions also stood opposed to what they perceived as ‘ancestor
worship’ as well as the medicine houses, or secret societies, that form the backbone of
traditional medicine in Oku. During their first years in the Grassfields, missionaries
“vociferously attacked the ‘gehiembunde’ (secret societies), due in part to the
opposition of secret societies to Christian converts” (Maynard 2004: 230). This
resulted in a backlash from the non-converted, who “attacked and threatened
[Christians] with death unless they gave up attending worship services, preaching on
the roads was forbidden, children were forced to take oaths by drinking concoctions
of the secret societies, and Christians were to be deprived of the use of land unless
they renounced being Christians” (Dah 1988:171).
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This was the context in which the people of the Grassfields were introduced to
the 'foreign' religions of Christianity. Islam is the world religion with which the
region has been in contact the longest, and made a number of influential converts
(particularly among the traders). However, there have been no mass conversions,
despite surface similarities: blood sacrifice, the levirate, polygamy, and some features
of matrimony and inheritance (Banadzem 1996:135). In general, only those
chiefdoms which were conquered or which received a large Moslem immigrant
population adopted Islam. Throughout the Grassfields, it appears Islam had less to
offer than Christianity, which was "somewhat distant from the colonial power and
which was seen to offer positive improvements and attractive ethical values"
(Banadzem 1997: 136).
Contemporary experience describes Christian religion as something that has
caught up to the people's life pattern, with the three main Christian churches being
Catholic, Baptist, and Presbyterian. The fact that Catholicism is in a large part
experienced in sacraments and sacramentals led it to have some counterparts in
traditional rites (signs, blessings of property and articles of devotion, and the use of
holy water are some examples) (Banadzem 1996: 138). The concepts of sin and
penance are found in both religions. These factors help explain why many
Grassfields cultures could accept a foreign religion, while not abandoning traditional
beliefs in the face of strong external influences.
The Catholic church in Oku and its relationship with Oku cosmology
illustrates the ability for two belief systems to share the same pool of knowledge.
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Father Herman, who heads the Catholic church in Oku, points out that traditional
belief systems all have “the seed of truth in them...from the beginning everyone has
some knowledge of God, morality, and so on. In that sense Christianity is not new;
the only new thing is Jesus Christ. Everything else has always been here, in that the
people here follow their conscience, like all peoples since the beginning of time”
(Guenfler, p.c. 2005). The Catholic church’s tacit support of the belief in the
ancestors and ‘gods of the land’ that are so prevalent in Oku daily life supports
Father’s Herman’s “nothing new about Christianity” argument. Equating the
ancestors with Catholic Saints, he refutes the notion of ‘ancestor worship:’ “Not
everyone becomes an Ancestor; it’s usually the big-men. According to our own
doctrine, saints include everyone who is in heaven. But only when the pope declares
someone a saint, are they placed in the calendar. As with the ancestors in Oku, it’s
the big saints, the ones in the calendar, that we honor as such. And just as we ask the
saints to intercede on our behalf, so are the ancestors approached. Like Saints, they
are venerated – not worshipped” (p.c. 2005).
Divination is another realm where the forces of Catholicism and traditional
religion have some mutual overlap. Linking divination to prophecy, both belief
systems accept that God can reveal Herself through signs in nature, and both accept
that some people are more inclined to receive, and interpret, Feyin’s messages more
easily than others. Yet the Church stops short of bringing nature into the spiritual
landscape:
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“For me the plants, their healing power, was put there by God. Everything in nature
has its purpose, so I don’t agree with the idea that plants have the power to affect you
according to their will. This power, I think, comes from the ancestors and the power
of tradition, of doing something over and over again” (Guenfler, p.c. 2005).
Sacrifice remains a contentious issue within the church. According to
Christianity, Jesus Christ made the last sacrifice; as such sacrifice is no longer
necessary. This presents a quandary, for the fowl is used ubiquitously in Oku culture,
an essential ingredient in many traditional medicine rituals, not to mention its role in
communicating with ancestors. Father Herman insists that he and the Church do not
intercede unless it is a Christian doing such practices: “…for the non-Christian, I
must respect their belief. If they want to become a Christian, then I will explain that
they don’t need the blood anymore. For the healers who use sacrifice, I respect that
they are following their conscience. I am not out to convert anybody unless they ask
to be converted. I’m here to bear witness, to set an example. If they want to follow
me, and they learn the doctrine, and if they agree with it, then they are baptized” (p.c.
2005).
New Religious Movements
The worldwide phenomenon of indigenous religious traditions interacting
with world religions (especially Christianity) to produce new religious creativity and
experience have taken various forms and have been described by many different
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names: prophet, syncretist, messianic or millennial, independent or separatist,
nativistic or revitalization, crisis or deprivation cults, cargo cults, etc. These New
Religious Movements (NRM) are defined as "a historically new religious
phenomenon arising in the encounter of a primal society and its religion with one or
more of the higher cultures and their major religions, and involving some substantial
departure from the classical religious traditions of all the cultures concerned, in order
to find renewal through a different religious system" (H. Turner 1979: 23).
It is in sub-Saharan Africa where the most massive growth of NRMs is found,
most often due to the incursion of Christianity. The spectrum of movements
encompass a wide range beginning with what can be called ‘neo-primal,’ which
remain nearest to the original individual religion and seek to revitalize it in the light
of Christian influence. Following is syncretist, in the sense of rejecting the old primal
tradition yet also not wanting to become Christians in the church, thus taking their
religious content from both sources. Further along the spectrum are what Harold
Turner calls "Hebraist," for those who have made a radical transfer from individual
faith to the world of the Bible. This may include practicing a prophetic form of
religion under one moral God who acts as savior of his people, yet whom for the most
part still reject the Christian Church and the New Testament (H. Turner 1979: 8).
Finally, there is what may properly be called Independent Churches, bodies which
intend to be Christian, use the Scriptures, and often regard themselves as more
Christian than the missions and their connected older churches. This is argued to be
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especially true in Africa, where many Independent Churches claim to be founded by
Africans and for Africans to meet African needs (H. Turner 1979: 10).
The Independent Catholic Church in Kejom (whose people are descended
from Oku – see Chapter Two) is one such example. Rejecting some traditional
religious practices while incorporating or reinventing others, the church in Kejom is
renowned in the North-West for its effectiveness in treating illnesses with a
combination of faith healing and indigenous herbs. The priests, who hail from
Nigeria, claim to have the same knowledge of the herbs as the local healers, yet they
refuse to sanction any other traditional practices (sacrifice, divination, sorcery)
associated with traditional healing; i.e. faith healing replaces what they now view as
occult magic. Unlike Father Herman of the Catholic Church in Oku, the Kejom
priests draw a hard line between Christianity and traditional religion, pointing out the
“lack of spiritual understanding among Africans” and the “false prophecy this
misunderstanding encourages” (Kejom Priest, p.c. 2005). The priests pointed to
divination as an example of false prophecy, in a direct rebuttal to Father Herman:
“Diviners are predicting what is already there…so they are playing on the ignorance
of the people, and exploiting the population. God…is not the architect behind what
they are doing” (Kejom priest, p.c. 2005). Another significant feature of traditional
religion that is rejected concerns the degree of 'pastoral care' that is not
characteristically traditional, where the individual goes to the shrine or to the priest of
their own volition. The only ‘occult’ practices that the Independent Catholic Church
in Kejom has incorporated include ecstatic worship and spirit possession, both of
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which are uncommon in the Northwest and were likely introduced by the Priests from
Nigeria.
The most prevalent independent church in Oku today is the Pentecostal
Church. Similar to the other mainline, evangelical Christian denominations,
Pentecostalism tends to adhere to most all of the other fundamental doctrines of the
Christian faith. However, their inconsistency with other fundamentalists groups
(such as Baptists) is in their understanding of the Holy Spirit entering the body of
believers, and the resulting gifts: speaking in tongues, spontaneous healing,
prophesying and ‘casting out the devil’. It is the latter ‘gift’ which makes the
Pentecostal Churches in Oku appealing to some: by conflating witchcraft and ‘the
devil,’ the Church offers an alternative to combating witchcraft and spiritual affliction
(see Chapter Seven). Ironically, by relating all occult phenomena in Oku to the works
of the Devil, the Pentecostals justify the existence of witchcraft at the same time they
attempt to eradicate it.
Harold Turner (1979) argues that these movements reflect a "longing to enter
into the larger world that has opened up to them.....in fact making a contribution to
the development and modernizing of their societies" (12). Yet this perspective is
flawed as it begins from the assumption that modernization and world religions are
working towards the same end, and thus ignores or overlooks the potential hindrances
of western ideology on indigenous life. Nonetheless, it remains true that the majority
of new religious developments in Africa have arisen from encounters with Western
culture and its Christian religion, leading some scholars to suggests reason behind
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Christianity’s appeal. These range from the appeal of Christ as a fellow-suffer to the
argument that Christian teaching is somehow necessary for indigenous peoples to
come to terms with new values and outlook before they can face the Western and
modern world with hope and confidence (H. Turner 1979: 27). These are argued to
be flawed as well in that they either focus too much on economic stress (even in areas
of high standards of living (Ghana) we see a proliferation of NRMs that have
attracted some wealthy and socially prominent members) or they are based on the
assumption that modernization and world religions are working towards the same
end, and thus ignores or overlooks the potential hindrances of Western ideology on
indigenous life. Mircea Eliade (1951) discusses this with clarity: "a religious
phenomenon will only be recognized as such if it is grasped at its own level, that is to
say, if it is studied as something religious. To try to grasp the essence of such a
phenomenon by means of physiology, psychology, sociology, economics, linguistics,
art or any other study is false; it misses the one unique and irreducible element in it -
the element of the sacred."
Some scholars have pointed out that such analysis of pagan or traditional
features reflects the researcher's assumption that independent churches must be a
mixture of traditional African and Christian religious elements, and thus they find
what they set out to discover. Aware of this, Harold Turner proposes a macro view
that emphasizes a radical break from African traditions, especially the reliance on
magic and ancestral spirits: "These radical departures from the traditional religions of
Africa are so fundamental to the independent church movement that they probably
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explain why many of the pagan tendencies which do exist in these churches are not
specifically African...instead they are very often similar to the distortions and
corrosions of genuine Christianity that have occurred throughout Christian history"
(1979: 172).
The significance of NRMs in Africa today is argued to be their effect on the
"divisive influence of tribalism,” and that some NRMs are clearly attempts to "rebuild
a tribal unity shattered by the impact of the Western world" (H. Turner 1969: 300). It
has been suggested that many NRMs have been able to replace the tribe and its
mythology by a new "place in which to feel at home", the independent African church
(H. Turner 1969: 301). Yet the argument that NRMs have transcended tribalism puts
too much stress on tribalism while being overly concerned with cultural differences
that divide rather than unite. Either way, New Religious Movements have had a
significant impact on notions of development throughout sub-Saharan Africa.
Conclusion
From this brief interpretation of Oku cosmology, the following conclusions
can be drawn. The focal point of traditional religious practice is the earth itself,
which is understood to be endowed with extraordinary powers, perceived as both
animate and inanimate, and is often referred to as "the ultimate resolver of issues"
(Banadzem 1996: 133). Chilver summarizes this issue in these words: "in the past,
the earth was viewed, rather, as the place where the ancestors, the important dead,
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were and that they pervade it: they were said to 'sleep' underfoot and could be
awakened" (Chilver 1990:236). Similarly, according to Joseph Bandadzem, who did
fieldwork among the neighboring Nso in 1987-1988, "the earth rendered justice when
human proceedings were deficient; likewise, it dealt severely with defaulters who had
wrongfully sought its intervention or had made false appeals to it. The earth was the
bestower of godly gifts; it was seen as the source of products on which human life
depended. Embedded within it were the ancestors; the apotheosis of some was
desired and made evident in dreams and inner voices, and they intervened both in the
course of natural events and in human life." (Banadzem 1996: 134).
Indeed, such is the cosmological landscape in Oku, where traditional religious
practice retains a strong efficacy in the eyes of the people, and that which is
considered sacred remains highly respected. Thus most elders, who are considered
“closer” to the ancestors - are respected since they transmit wisdom from the
ancestral world. The divine characteristics of the Fon can also be understood from
this perspective, as he represents the embodiment of spiritual wisdom. Very old
persons and the newly born also fall in this sacred category and as such could not be
called by their names; often they were referred to as “persons from another land”
(Aseh 2002: 12). Finally, the case of twins throughout the Grassfields is a special
one: directly referred to as Gods, their names were to be avoided, and they had to be
renamed at a special ceremony.
This practice in Oku of viewing the world through the lens of spirit invariably
encouraged the protection and preservation of the environment, along with reuniting
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the abstract and the physical – as seen in the principle of dualism in nature. This
suggests that Oku cosmology is basically a religion for ‘survival’ or of ‘evolution,’
conceived by people who were conscious of forging a harmonious reunion of the
abstract essence of life with the imperfect physical body. The religion was not
intended for proselytizing purposes, and this had nothing to do with the fact theirs
was a pre-illiterate society. It was a knowledge system that demanded that human
action could be organized and coordinated to achieve self-sustainability and self-
sufficiency for the betterment of mankind, rather than the illusion of a better life after
death. A.N. Aseh (2002) emphasizes this point by comparing it with the Abrahamic
tradition of salvation:
Unlike the !Hebrew people who were confronted by environmental hazards,
such as the over bearing wilderness and the mercantile socio-political hazards
including Asyrian invasions and Babylonian conquest and thus conceived of
Yahweh as a God of vengeance and eventually invented a theology of
messianic salvation, [Feyin] is largely beneficent to the [Oku] people. Though
transcendental, his presence among them was palpable and rendered the
conception of a liturgy that predicts a messianic salvation inconceivable. The
social organization and functioning of society reflected their belief in God’s
immanent intercessory powers in both human form and in nature. [Oku] is a
sample of a typical African society facing the throes of transition from its
"traditional" beliefs and daily living into a fantasized "promised land” of
modernism.
Unlike many African societies, however, Oku has thus far maintained a
functional balance between their traditional belief system and the so-called ‘throes of
modernity’. Oku cosmology remains mostly intact, despite the inroads of Western
belief systems and the oppressive model of globalization, and its perceived influence
is perhaps the reason behind Oku’s continued resiliency. Contributing to the efficacy
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of traditional beliefs in Oku and throughout the Grassfrields is the rise in practice and
in prominence of ‘country medicine’, or traditional healing. From the perspective of
phenomenology, attaining the levels of consciousness that inform their religious
system is best understood by accessing the world of traditional healing, where the
basic cosmological principles outlined here remain in use.
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Chapter 4:
The Sphere of Traditional Medicine
Following the Phenomena
Taking a phenomenological approach to traditional medicine in Oku is like
taking the plunge down the proverbial rabbit hole of Lewis Caroll’s Alice in
Wonderland. Cloaked in secrecy and engaged in what many Cameroonians perceive
as ‘black magic,’ the sphere of traditional medicine represents arguably the most
direct route to experiencing those aspects of consciousness that inform Oku’s
traditional worldview and cosmology. To achieve a more accurate understanding of
the perceived efficacy of healing on the spiritual plane, I had to let go of any doubts
as to the effects of the rituals and medicines to which I was to be subjected. This in
turn brought up another quandary: by participating in their ‘sorcery,’ as both healers
and witches are understood to do, am I legitimizing what many Cameroonians fear as
the cause of most afflictions, i.e. witchcraft? Furthermore, what effect will my
participation in the occult have on me personally; i.e. will I be opening myself up to
witchcraft attacks because of my training in the ‘black arts’?
Fortunately, most of my doubts were allayed by my fortuitous encounter with
David Nchinda (see Introduction). From there, Nchinda introduced me to a network
of traditional healers in Oku, many of whom he encouraged me to consult so that I
could cross-reference my findings. Approaching other healers as ‘Dr. Nchinda’s
assistant’ rather than as a researcher also helped, as they knew I was less likely to
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betray their secrets if I was ‘one of them.’ In return, I promised to obey the rules and
follow the traditions as close as possible, primarily so the medicines would not lose
their ‘spiritual force.’
The covenant in which I entered necessarily precluded me from revealing
everything I witnessed during certain healing rituals. Some actions I was asked not to
film, or at least not show to others. Some doors remained closed to me, although in
many circumstances I could have ‘entered’ and nobody would have said anything. In
this situation I am referring to the morality of fieldwork, and to some extent the limits
of phenomenology. The moment I entered a ‘covenant which must not be broken’, I
knew that I would be unable to reveal all of my findings and yet remain a true
participant and witness to the occult phenomena in Oku. In a system where secrecy
and tradition are considered vital to the efficacy of traditional medicine, releasing the
‘secret’ indeed “betrays the spiritual force” (Nchinda, p.c. 2003). When applied to a
phenomenological study such as this, I argue that the researcher will only succeed in
intuitively exploring occult phenomena if he or she submits to the framework which
has supported and given efficacy to said phenomenon over the years. In other words,
one cannot expect to go against tradition and still achieve the same insights and
results available to the practitioner who retains a clear consciousness, open mind, and
the utmost respect for the tradition.
Also affected by the phenomenologist’s investigation is the local practitioner
who takes a legitimate risk by exposing the secrets of the medicine. The sphere of
traditional medicine is intimately involved with forces that can afflict just as easily as
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heal a person. If the tradition is ‘not performed rightly’, as they say in Oku, the
medicine will not work as it was intended. By the same rationale, if a healer allows
someone to participate in sacred rituals in which they are not qualified, or reveals
information that the researcher in turn reveals to unqualified outsiders, the medicines
and in some cases the healer will lose their potency. As I was often reminded during
my collaboration with healers in Oku, certain anthropologists before me revealed too
much (especially in the case of photographs of medicine rituals), so that the healers
with whom they worked have since fallen ill or died. Although I cannot validate or
deny this claim, it was sufficient a warning for me not to enter any areas in which I
was not qualified.
A phenomenological approach to information gathering is indeed an effective
means to engage the question concerning the reality of the perceived effects of
traditional healing. However, to protect myself, the people with whom I worked in
Oku, and indeed the medicine itself, my descriptive analysis of the medicines and
certain ritual activities is limited that which I am permitted to reveal. As Nchinda
mentioned to me just moments before my first initiation into the medicine (see page
172), “you are free to observe like the others [researchers] before you, or you can
choose to be initiated with the rest of the men here. If you choose to go the route of
initiation, more will be revealed to you, but there will be limits down the road on
what [information] you may take with you” (p.c. 2003).
From the standpoint of phenomenology, my exploration of traditional
medicine resulted in my task shifting from the mere gathering of anthropological data
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to the internalization of the cognitive processes of the healers’ world. Carlos
Castaneda, who explored the cognitive processes of the Yaqui shamans in Mexico,
described it thus: “…a genuine internalization of such rationales entails a
transformation…initially occurring as an intellectual allegiance to something that
appears to be merely a concept, but which has unsuspectedly powerful
undercurrents.” (Castaneda 1998: xiii). The ‘intellectual allegiance’ I entered into
followed the phenomena’s own regulations and configurations: if there were to be any
‘truths’ exacted, those truths would have to be proper to the phenomenon itself. The
more ethnographic chapters that follow are thus positioned to introduce traditional
medicine, healers, secret societies and witchcraft as vital elements in the perceived
continued efficacy of the various occult phenomena occurring in Oku today.
The Significance of Traditional Healing
Demonstrating an unlikely balance with the forces of modernity, Nchinda and
other traditional healers operate more in response to modern contingencies than
according to lingering cultural customs. In Oku, for example, ‘traditional’ healers
work alongside the ‘medical doctor’, each consulting the other when confronted with
a case that may require medical or ‘traditional’ intervention. One example is David
Nchinda, to whom ‘medical’ doctors often refer when western medicine fails to cure a
patient (thereby tacitly acknowledging the continuing power of witchcraft and its
antidote, traditional healing).
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From an anthropologist’s perspective, the unique position occupied by
Nchinda gives him certain credibility in terms of the reality of spiritual healing and
witchcraft in Cameroon. His understanding of both knowledge systems, Western
scientific/materialist base and the indigenous sacred ideological base, has made him
one of the most widely respected and sought after healers in Oku today. My decision
to enter into an apprenticeship with Nchinda in order to access a world normally
closed to outsiders (anthropologists included) was motivated by the fact that
traditional healing is where the ambiguous nature of occult forces is most apparent.
The eldest son of Ba Kenkoh, Nchinda came to the healing arts only upon his
father’s deathbed. According to Oku tradition, every healer passes all of his
knowledge and secrets on to one of his sons, lest this knowledge be lost forever.
Included in this transfer of knowledge is the concept “calling the spirit,” in which the
healer’s spiritual gifts are also transmitted. According to most accounts, this can
occur with or without the receiver’s awareness, in a method likened to sending and
receiving visions (see Chapter Six: Ways of Knowing).
Receiving knowledge and enhancing his spiritual potency in this manner was
especially significant in this case because of Nchinda’s insistence on pursuing a
Western education. Regarded as unnecessary by most families, those that did send
their children to the first primary schools in Oku typically could only afford to send
one. After completing primary school in Oku, Nchinda went on to secondary school
in Yaounde to study accounting. As he explained,
I had no desire to take over my father’s practice. Although he knew this, he
nevertheless would take every opportunity when I came home during holiday
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to send me out in the bush to look for herbs. Not really knowing what I was
looking for, I would wander until I found myself staring directly at a particular
grass that I simply knew was what my father wanted. This was my father
communicating to me from the spirit world, a practice he continues to do
today.
According to Nchinda, it was not until after this transference of spiritual
power that he knew he had no choice but to give up the university and remain in Oku
to take over his father’s practice. Today Nchinda is regarded as powerful as his
father, but with the additional insight of a Western education. This has enabled him
to become Secretary of the Northwest Healers Association, and he is often called
upon to organize traditional healers throughout Anglophone Cameroon.
This resilience of tradition in the face of modernity is hardly exceptional. The
paradox of globalization is that while the world market increases consumer
conformity, idiosyncratic cultural traits are grafted upon the processes of
commodification, resulting in new forms of ‘traditional’ traits that are reproduced on
a wider scale. The centrality of traditional healers and the modernity of witchcraft in
Cameroon today represent a striking example of this paradox. Far from disappearing
with globalization, the influence of the occult permeates all facets of Cameroonian
life, as people continue to turn to traditional medicine for every kind of difficulty,
regardless of social class, religion, and the overall degree of ‘westernization.
Today, the common use of the term ‘traditional’ as regards healing and
medicine can be problematic; for some it conjures up age-old and non-changing
systems, while for others it implies a practice that is diametrically opposed to modern
Western medicine. Kent Maynard, the most recent published researcher to do
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fieldwork on traditional healing in Cameroon, argues “in spite of claims by local
practitioners to be ‘traditional,’ and the common use of this designation by the press
and government, these healers do not represent a long-standing tradition” (2004: 8).
Indeed, western society has no one quite like today’s traditional healer: a doctor in
sickness, a priest in religious matters, a lawyer in legal issues, a policeman in the
detection and prevention of crime, a professor of herbs and an alchemist of magical
powders.
According to Maynard however, this is an indication of the modernity of
healing, which is far removed from pre-colonial healers whose use of medicine was
anchored in social groups and never used outside of the Fondom, as opposed to its
specialized, commoditized, and trans-local use today (2004:4). Indeed, many healers
in Oku today will discuss the dilution of tradition and the corresponding lack of
knowledge amongst the younger healers, pointing out how profit-making has
corrupted the practice. Similarly, Maynard points out that the pre-colonial system of
ritualized gift exchange has largely been replaced by money; prior to colonialism
medicine was neither bought nor sold (2004: 5). While I understand the resistance to
such terms that convey a Levi-Bruhlian split between ‘mystical’ and modern
medicine, I argue that the traditional healers of Cameroon do indeed represent
knowledge associated with long-term occupancy of a certain place, and therefore do
represent a long-standing tradition. In this respect I share the position of George Sefa
Dei, who points out that traditional healers discover new knowledge in the process of
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learning the old ways, thus making traditional medicine dynamic rather than static
(2000: 6).
The extensive use of spiritual practice is also an important feature of
traditional African medicine, underscoring the difficulty in defining such medicines
according to Western concepts. For the people of Oku, and the Northwest in general,
medicine is more than the tools, techniques, and substances concerned with the
maintenance and restoration of human health. Rather, it should be viewed as an area
of knowledge concerning the relationships betwixt and amongst humans (both living
and deceased) and everything on earth, including flora, fauna, and the cosmos, that
impacts individuals and society at large, as well as the applied practice of that
knowledge. Accordingly, a skilled healer can transform virtually anything – a rock, a
leaf, a piece of glass – into a medicinal tool that has a verifiable impact on a person’s
health, based on an intimate knowledge and understanding of the interconnectedness
of everything that exists, animate or inanimate.
Traditional Medicine as Practiced in the Northwest Province of Cameroon
Medicine in Cameroon has always referred to more than the restoration of an
individual’s health, however, encompassing the entire spectrum of public health and
well-being (Maynard 2004: 10). Indeed, medical anthropology risks ignoring the
preventative and more public nature of health in indigenous societies by focusing on
the patient/healer relationship. More so than today, pre-colonial medicine did not
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simply focus on the sick; ill health was but one aspect of a heterogeneous and
dynamic practice in the Grassfields of Cameroon. Even individual cases of illness
and therapy are far more public than one might initially think. In the Grassfields, as
in other non-industrial societies, the twin notions of prevention and protection often
“imply an even more fundamental sense of community involvement” (Maynard 2004:
9). In Oku and other Grassfield fondoms, the societies in and of themselves can
become the subject of medicinal practices promoting general public welfare and
protection. As Kent Maynard astutely points out, one cannot “divorce either
collective measures to prevent or intervene in misfortune, or individual acts of
protection and therapy, from the institutional bases, moral economy and politics of
[Grassfields] life” (2004: 9).
Recent medical anthropology and historical studies have repositioned
medicine along these lines, thanks to the insightful work of the Comaroffs, Janzen,
and Peter Geschierre, among others, who argue against the earlier ethnographic
fiction of static “traditional” systems and an over-emphasis on the relationship
between practitioner and client. Peter Geschierre (2000) in particular argues for the
need to place local conceptions of medicine within the wider political economy,
acknowledging that hegemony and false consciousness do exist, and can serve to
perpetuate structures of power.
A prime example of this is the fact that in Oku and surrounding fondoms,
there exists both good medicine (kefuh kejonghe) and bad medicine (kefuh kebeh).
Yet kefu kebeh is not considered a morally bad thing within Oku society; indeed, bad
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medicine is a necessary ingredient in almost every healers’ repertoire. In the words
of one healer, “This disease [madness] is my specialty, as everyone in Oku can tell
you…and if I can cure it, it follows that I can cause it.” In a culture where it is
understood that secrecy is one of the keys to maintaining the spiritual potency of
medicines, it is accepted that kefuh kebeh is necessary to protect the good medicine
from losing its secrecy, and thus its power and effectiveness.
The distinction between good and bad medicine is critical to understanding
the significance of traditional medicine in everyday life. Everyone in Oku has some
knowledge of kefuh kejonghe (good medicine), and can readily identify certain leaves
and grasses that cure common ailments. Primarily used in treating ‘natural’
afflictions, kefuh kejonghe is also understood to be a supplementary source of
strength, akin to vitamins in the Western sense (even daily meals can be considered
good medicine) (Koloss 2000: 98). The distinction between good and bad medicine
extends to plants in their natural state as well. Grasses, leaves, or herbs that have an
immediate ‘spiritual impact’ on a person are considered kefuh kebeh (bad medicine)
and should only be cut by qualified healers, and usually only after making an offering
to the gods of the land.
The distinguishing feature of kefuh kebeh concerns its spiritual force and the
secrecy surrounding its production. Directed against witches, thieves, criminals, and
other evil-doers, kefuh kebeh can bring affliction to a person without ever coming
into direct contact with them. Traditional healers, particularly in Oku, and the various
secret societies that abound, all have kefuh kebeh attached to them, supposedly to
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protect themselves and their medicine from anyone who might use it for negative
ends. While advantageous to those who are experienced and qualified, it can be
extremely dangerous to those who are ignorant of its power and usage. As a result,
the construction of kefuh kebeh is entrusted only to secret societies and qualified
healers. It is also noteworthy that kefuh kebeh is never constructed alone; it is always
done in the presence of other qualified members of the society, following strict
guidelines established by tradition, and always including the ancestors who must be
expressly informed. To make such medicines alone, or outside of the community of
healers, is not only illegal in Oku, but is considered witchcraft as well (Koloss 2000:
98).
As a whole, the medicine produced by the healers of Oku range from the very
simple (one or two plants mixed with water or palm wine) to the complex (up to one
hundred various grasses, leaves, herbs and animal parts can be combined). For kefuh
kejonghe, combinations of 5 to 20 ingredients seem to be the rule, and are
distinguished accordingly:
- Soaked: fresh herbs are soaked in a calabash with either water or palm
wine; the liquid is either consumed and/or the herbs can be used to wash a
patient.
- Cooked: fresh herbs are boiled in water inside a clay pot; for drinking
only.
- Ash: ingredients are cooked in large cauldron until they become ash; is
consumed (along with palm or castor oil) or inserted directly into the
blood stream via small cuts on the body.
- Paste: fresh herbs are ground into a paste and eaten.
- Powder: ingredients are dried and ground into a fine powder; rarely
consumed, it is often used topically or applied to objects.
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Kefuh kebeh is constructed primarily in powder form, involving upwards of
one hundred various herbs, insects, and animal parts, resulting in a ‘spiritual powder’
that is considered both sacred and dangerous. Used for protection from witchcraft
and hostile forces, it is exceptionally dangerous because it can be ‘activated’ to bring
said forces to bear upon an individual (a phenomenon in Oku known as ‘chiesse’ –
see Chapter Seven). Unlike ash medicine, which can be ingested along with palm or
castor oil, spiritual powders are primarily used indirectly, as their ‘spiritual force’ is
such that bodily contact is not necessary for it to affect someone. It is only directly
applied when someone is already suffering from witchcraft poisoning. In this case
small cuts are made on the body, and the powder is applied to the cut with the aid of a
fruit called the ‘garden egg,’ allowing the powder to access the patients bloodstream.
It is important to note that spiritual powder, even when applied directly, works
indirectly in that it is focused on the forces impacting the patient, as opposed to
working on the patient herself (Krauss 1990: 135).
The elementary importance of this medicinal knowledge throughout
Grassfields cultures is exemplified in the complex hierarchy of secret societies,
beginning with the Kwifon and the palace-based medicinal lodges charged with the
protection of the palace as well as the entire village against witchcraft and other
sources of calamity (Maynard 2004: xiv). Those who owned this medicinal
knowledge were originally the “rulers of the land,” establishing the first houses
(secret societies) in which the medicine was prepared and protected from outsiders
via a hierarchical system wherein only those at the very highest level knew all of the
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ingredients and incantations. According to Oku oral accounts, the original ‘sacred’
medicines were once the possession of women. When the women agreed to share the
secrets with the men, the men established medicinal societies, primarily to keep the
women from ever regaining control over this power. Miriam Goheen (1996)
uncovered a similar explanation while researching gender and power in neighboring
Nso. According to Nso oral accounts, women originally possessed shinduyen, the
most powerful medicine in the land that is now controlled by the Fon. Moved by
curiosity, the women agreed to exchange their shinduyen for the less powerful, men-
owned shiv medicine, thereby losing their more powerful position (Goheen 1996: 31).
Both the Oku and the Nso oral accounts of this loss of power are variants on a
familiar theme in many foundation myths throughout the world, in which women in
the distant past were more powerful than men. However, due to some “negative
attribute” of their own, women lost their superior position (Goheen 1996: 31).
A more functional explanation for the medicinal disenfranchisment of women
in the Grassfields can be traced back to the era of hunting and gathering, when
women were most closely associated with plants while men did the hunting, thus
increasing the likelihood that women were the first to discover the various healing
properties of plants. As groups transformed to sedentary, farming societies, men
began to take more ownership of the fields, which had a corresponding shift in gender
relations (Williams 2005). Moving from ‘patriarchal egalitarianism’ to a more
stratified society, men began assuming greater control over the medicines, primarily
as a means to strengthen their political control. The link between gender, hierarchy of
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land tenure, and control of medicine stems from the common Grassfields belief that
“men own the fields, women own the crops” (Goheen 1996: 108). As land rights
came under the control of men, it follows that they became custodians of the
ancestors and spirits (emyin) that are inherently linked with the landscape.
From these beginnings emerged at least four institutional bases for Oku
medicine, dating to the pre-colonial era. At the most inclusive level there are the
medicines associated with Kwifon and the palace, as well as large clans and lineages,
whose responsibilities include the protection and welfare of the entire fon-dom (most
visible during rites associated with good harvests) (Diduk 1987: 119). A second type
of medicine is used by military societies; they involve primarily protective medicines
and powers associated with warfare, and are considered the property of the people. A
third medicinal institution, the mask societies, consist of secret lodges attached to juju
masquerades that are devoted to the seasonal preparation of a variety of medicines
and spiritual powders; most of these are owned by individual families. Finally, at the
fourth level are the appropriately named medicine societies, concerned primarily with
spiritual powders and herbal remedies for specific illnesses. Remedies often follow
family lines, with one of the more ‘gifted’ males being chosen to inherit the medicinal
knowledge. An exception to this is Ngang, which is considered the property of the
people (see Chapter Five). As the most powerful of all medicine societies, Ngang
prepares spiritual medicine that protects farms, compounds, and the personal welfare
of all members and their families – even non-members who come to “beg” medicine
from them (Maynard 2004: 16).
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Thus pre-colonial Grassfields medicine was practiced primarily by groups for
the benefit of groups, whereas today’s traditional healer operates more according to a
competitive market and individual clients (Maynard 2004: 15). When medicine was
primarily the property of secret medicinal societies, ritual exchanges were the means
by which the medicine was given; to a certain extent this remains true in Oku, largely
due to its isolation. One finds that the closer one gets to urban centers, the more
traditional healers become part of the competitive world of the market. It is argued
that this will result in an increasing divide between preventative, public, and
exchange based principles of the old medicine houses and the more inventive and
privatized version of traditional medicine in the new “health care market place”
(Maynard 2004: 24). Yet far from signaling the end of the old medicinal ways, it has
actually served to solidify Oku’s reputation as the site of the most powerful healers in
Cameroon today, due in no small part to their retention of generations of secret
knowledge and a strict adherence to tradition.
The Healers of Oku
Today there are more than 200 healers in Oku alone, a number that would
suggest traditional healing is a relatively recent phenomenon. According to Maynard,
“the sheer frequency with which Gods today are instructing pupils to set up healing
and divinatory practices as private “country doctors” is new in the Grassfields”
(2004:5). Basing this assumption on numbers alone can be misleading, especially
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considering the fact that popular medicine was historically practiced by the family
head, who as its spiritual leader was concerned with supporting the spiritual needs of
its members by performing intercessory rituals and prayers as well as presiding over
the family religious ceremonies (Aseh 2002). He was therefore part of the link in the
chain of those who connect the human world to the spiritual world, a position
occupied by most “native doctors” in Oku today. (Admittedly, it should also be noted
that pre-colonial Grassfields medicine was categorized into two groups: the popular
medicine under the control of family heads; and highly specialized medicine which
was sacred and esoteric, known only to a select few who could handle specific or
more complicated illnesses such as madness, infertility, epilepsy, etc (Aseh 2002).
(It is the latter group to whom Maynard refers when he argues that today’s traditional
healers are not “traditional” in any simple sense).
Regardless of whether Oku healers represent a continuity with pre-colonial
healing arts, the fact remains that despite the cultural diffusion and market mutations
taking place, the ‘real’ healers of Oku have for the most part retained their traditional
outlook, as witnessed by the many patterns of Oku traditional culture that are remain
strongly intact. Foremost is the belief that native doctors must have the gift, or a
divine calling to the healing practice. While anyone can learn the various skills,
plants, and techniques of traditional healing, if they do not have the gift bestowed by
God to heal, any attempts to attain ‘the gift’ are in vain. A prominent healer in Oku-
Ngashie, Nguan Henry, likens this gift to the concept of talent:
You see, with us, we believe in our vision. Our vision directs us. But to
really know about our visions, well…you cannot teach your visions to
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someone, just as you cannot teach your talent to someone. Talent is
something that God has given to you. You don’t know how you got it, but it
is acting in you. For example, when you are making a race, your capacity to
run faster does not mean you can show somebody, can you?
Other healers point out that the transference of such gifts is not only possible, but
necessary for any assistant or apprentice under the tutelage of a gifted healer: “after
all, you need to be empowered in order to empower the medicine. Who can empower
you? Someone who has been empowered [by God]” (Fai Baibonkong, p.c. 2005).
Those gifted with the healing hand also have the faculties of a diviner, a role
that in pre-colonial times was essentially separate from the healing function (Meneses
2002). Although there exist some diviners who do not engage in the healing
practice, virtually every full-time healer in Oku today practices divination. Those
with the ability to “see with “four eyes” are meant to serve the well-being of society,
and are considered to have witch-like powers, or the “good devil” inside of them.
Nonetheless, it is well-known that some people who possess this talent use it for
destructive purposes, thereby becoming a threat to social harmony (see Chapter
Seven).
In Oku culture there are certain signs that indicate this special calling, often at
an early age. The most important sign is the birth of twins, viewed throughout the
Grassfields as “children of God,” with the potential to become witches. According to
a recent survey by Koloss, most male twins indeed become healers in their
community (2000: 312). Other signs at birth include breech births, children born with
folded hands, and sons born after twins in a family. Outside of birth indicators, the
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most imminent sign of a “chosen healer” concerns the sudden disappearance of a boy
(usually between ages five through twelve). The child may disappear for days at a
time, either returning himself or found wandering in the forest or sleeping under a
tree. When the child reappears or is found, he typically has various plants or herbs on
his possession that indicate he was indeed summoned by God to become a healer.
If not summoned by God, children are largely kept away from handling or
even learning medicine, a restriction obviously connected to the powers such
medicines possess. Related to this injunction is the traditional law in Oku that denies
aspiring healers access to certain medicines, including the upper levels of most
medicine societies, if they themselves do not have children. The implication here is
that one must be of a certain level of maturity, i.e. have children, in order to possess
knowledge of kefu kebe and its potential harmful effects to society if said knowledge
is misapplied.
Since pre-colonial times it has been the accepted practice in the Grassfields
that only men may become healers, despite the acknowledgement concerning the role
of women as original keepers of the medicine. Over time this gender division with
regards to medicine has become so pronounced that it has developed into “a covenant
that is never to be broken,” as I was often reminded throughout my apprenticeship.
The common conviction is that women are incapable of handling such “dangerous
medicines,” and this separation is rigorously maintained on the basis of protection for
the woman herself. Nguan Henry explained it accordingly:
As it is law, if you show a woman medicine that is tied to a secret house, then
you are killing that woman. And if you show them, you are no more sure of
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your life as well. For that is traditional law. We don’t know how it came to
be, but when we were growing up it was always so. Here in Oku, if a woman
is a healer, she knows she cannot heal to the conclusion. She is a semi-healer,
because they cannot show her certain things here – the power is not free to
them. (p.c. 2003)
Yet this double standard, i.e. attributing original ownership of powerful medicine to
women while denying them access to it, suggests another aspect of the gender
equation. It is possible that the spiritual potency of women may resonate at a higher
level than that of men, thus necessitating this control over the medicine if men are to
retain their political dominance over women.
In a related example from Southeast Asia, spiritual potency (defined as a
'divine' energy accumulated thru aesthetic practice) is argued to legitimate male
control over women without having to resort to ‘crude’ means (Brenner 1998).
Simply put, Javanese men ‘hide’ behind the concept of spiritual potency so as to not
to involve themselves in the overall domestic economy. By claiming that women are
too emotional and unbalanced to achieve spiritual potency, Javanese men can have a
monopoly on spiritual affairs, reinforcing their political power in an Islamic state.
Upon researching this practice, Susanne Brenner (1998) points out that it is not
necessarily because of 'spiritual potency,' as commonly argued, but in large part
because both sexes recognize that women are better suited than men to "accumulating
material and spiritual resources that can be invested in the production of the family's
status.”
I propose that the same holds true in terms of male dominance of traditional
medicine as practiced in the Grassfields. The underlying reason behind the secrecy,
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the taboos and sanctions concerning women and medicine in Oku is born out of fear
of a woman’s latent spiritual power that must be kept in check. It is said in Oku that
the most dangerous of medicines has no effect, if a woman is present during its
construction (Koloss 2000: 98). This spiritual power that women have must be
contained, by keeping them away from the medicine houses, and if possible,
eliminated. This is illustrated in the Oku practice of “turning the eyes” or
eliminating the potential power of witchcraft, whenever a newborn female shows any
of the aforementioned signs that would predestine her to be a healer. In a ritual
performed by ngang, a powerful medicine society normally in charge of seeking out
witches and defending Oku from hostile forces (see Chapter Five), the potential
healer or witch has her powers neutralized, for the ‘benefit’ of her, the family, and
society at large. By its very nature then, this ritual implies that women are to be
feared because of their latent spiritual potency.
When pressed to explain the ‘logic’ behind keeping medicine the property of
one sex, David Nchinda replied that is necessary for the medicines to work properly.
“For these medicines to work, harmony is of vital importance. Love, jealousy,
hate….these emotions spring up more frequently between man and woman, and can
affect the medicines, which of course respond to human emotions, especially while
they are being prepared” (p.c. 2004). Along the line of Brenner’s theory, this
statement implies that a level head can be maintained only by removing women from
the equation, suggesting that men are equally, if not more, susceptible to coming ‘un-
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balanced’. It also suggests that spiritual potency, insofar as healing is concerned, is
related to the concept of keyoi, or life-force.
The presence of keyoi in humans, as discussed in the previous chapter, is
contingent in part upon leading a life free of conflict, in harmony with the
community. Dissension and conflict is viewed as an insult to the ancestors, and the
efficacy of the medicines cannot be fully realized without their support. Based on the
knowledge and experience of many generations, traditional medicine is by its nature a
confirmation of the mutual trust and cooperation amongst humans and ancestors
alike: “In medicine, the keyoi of the ancestors unites with that of mankind, and the
magic powers of plants and animals, and thus is manifested in the strength of all
societies” (Koloss 2000: 453). The possession of spiritual potency, like keyoi, is
considered essential for healers defending the community from witchcraft and other
dangerous and hostile forces. By keeping the sphere of medicine to themselves, men
have potentially greater access to the keyoi of their ancestors, and thus claim a higher
spiritual potency.
Despite this strict separation, women healers do exist in Oku, although they
have no official status in the community as such. Denied access to the secret
medicinal societies, they are acknowledged as healers insofar as treating ‘light
illnesses’, specifically those in which common herbs can be used without any
spiritual preparation or ‘charging’ (see Chapter Four). A few women healers,
however, have managed to overcome these barriers and operate today on a level equal
to that of their more ‘spiritually accredited’ male counterpart. Unable to work as
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apprentices and therefore denied most channels available to aspiring male healers,
most of these women cultivated their healing gift in an intensely personal way,
usually via direct communication with the Gods of the land. The following story of
Martha Yatai, one of only three women “native doctors” who are acknowledged in
Oku as such, is illustrative of this process.
When I was a child I ventured off into the forest, accompanied by a dog. I and
the dog entered a certain valley, where I saw someone, a Goddess in human
form, all white. She handed me live plants – nkeyse – and a raffia bag. When
these things were handed to me, only the dog returned home and I remained
there. After a week the Goddess brought me out and kept me under an
avocado tree. As I was in this valley with the Goddess, my people were
looking for me everywhere. It was only the dog that finally directed the
searchers to the tree where I was found.
Now whenever I am to meet the Goddess, I start becoming very ill, having
very high fever that makes me lose my reasoning. That is when I know I am
to meet the Goddess. When I become sane again, it is when I have got what I
needed from her. I see her then handing leaves to me. Thereafter, when I
about to treat a new disease, the leaf which was already shown to me will
come immediately to my mind, and I will be directed to the leaf which I will
then harvest.
The Emyin who appeared to Martha was likely Ndeise of the woods, one of
the few designated female deities (most Emyin are gender-less). Particular details
beyond their place of residence are for the most part unknown; the only information I
could obtain regarding Ndeise is that she is known as the guardian of the woods just
beyond the mountain range of Kilum – the same area that Martha pointed to when she
described her childhood experience to me.
Martha’s account of the origin of her healing wisdom is noteworthy for a
number of reasons. First, it indicates that male healers are not necessarily the most
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effective link to the spiritual world, despite their access to the storehouses of sacred
knowledge. Secondly, it implies that the primary means of learning spiritual
medicines is via personal revelation, as opposed to the ‘traditional’ route involving
initiations, sacrifices, and membership in various medicinal societies. Taken
together, an argument can be made that exclusion from the medicine societies has
resulted in an even greater spiritual awareness, or potency, on Martha’s part because
all of her knowledge stems from the spirit world. The information is thus unfiltered,
so to speak, as it comes to Martha without prior interpretation or restrictions from
elder healers and society members. Finally, Martha’s story points to the centrality of
nature in obtaining such knowledge: the understanding that man is essence as well as
biology, coupled with the belief that in the biotic community, of which man is a part,
there exist beneficent spirits as well as malfeasant ones that can harm the essence of
man (Aseh 2002). It is the awareness and understanding of this very essence that
distinguishes indigenous healers, and Oku healers in particular, from their modern
western counterparts.
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Chapter 5:
Secret Societies & Juju
The fact that knowledge from the spirit world is bestowed only upon a few
individuals underscores the significance of the numerous secret societies in Oku,
which function as storehouses for such knowledge. Guarded by masquerades and
closed to women and outsiders, secret societies remain indispensable to most healers
as repositories of magical medicine, the ingredients of which are known only to a few
elder members in the highest levels of the society. As the designation implies, each
society has its own secret medicine that has been handed down from its founder,
typically an ancestor who created the medicine for the protection and wellbeing of
mankind. Over time the number and influence of secret societies in Oku has
increased, to the point of it becoming a multifaceted system that “dominates the
principal spheres of political, social and religious life” (Koloss 2000: 101).
In keeping with the phenomenological approach to my research in Oku, if I
was truly to ‘get into the native’s head,’ it follows that I would seek admission to the
various secret societies in which their knowledge is grounded and preserved. This
was not as difficult as might be expected, for any man can seek to join a society (with
the exception of Fembien, the only women’s society), provided they are of good
moral character and intelligence. This is usually determined via an oracle that the
newcomers must consult during their initiation. Prior to initiation, however, a would-
be member must literally pay for the knowledge he is about to gain (usually a
combination of fowls, salt, palm wine, and ground corn, or fufu). In addition, most
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societies have their own ‘special medicines’ which an initiate must eat before they
can approach the more dangerous medicines, including the masks, sacred instruments,
and/or medicinal powders and concoctions that are the exclusive property of every
secret society (see “Initiation” below).
The individual societies are not homogenous; instead they have many levels,
or ranks, to which a member can aspire. With each rise in rank, a member achieves
more knowledge concerning the medicinal arts, and thus the right to participate
and/or lead higher grade rituals. Most secret societies in Oku have at least three or
four levels, although some have as many as nine. In most societies it is only upon
attaining the second level that one acquires ‘full membership’ and can take part in the
secret “rituals of the night.” Among other activities, most “rituals of the night”
involve the right to play the sacred instruments, wear the mask, and learn the dances.
The next higher ranks are typically those in which one learns the sacred medicines as
well as the preparations involved in the various medicinal rituals; upon attaining this
level is one considered a medicine man of the society.
Each secret society in Oku has a varying degree of power and rank, measured
by its specific duty and social position. There are five main types of societies (in
order from highest rank to lowest): government (Kwifon), military (manjong),
masquerade (emkum), medicine (ngang), and women’s (Fembien). Each society has
its own house or meeting place, as well as its own juju, or spiritually endowed power.
Juju is typically feared and held in awe by not only outsiders, but members as well.
As the most important property of each and every secret society, juju is crucial
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towards an understanding of Oku traditional medicine. A derivative of the French
word joujou, or toy, it originally referred to the charms and fetishes that the colonial
powers associated with traditional African religions. Today it has been adopted into
the lexicon of Pidgen-English and refers to the entire complex of medicine in Central
and West Africa, with special reference to its magical properties. For example, to
“make juju” implies carrying out a magical act, for good or for bad. Juju also refers
to the particular masquerade associated with a secret society, and is used colloquially
to refer to native doctors, or juju men. Since medicine and its owner are indivisible,
juju can be said to refer to the whole society itself.
In general, juju serves to maintain political and social order in a society in
which medicine, in all its manifestations, occupies a central role. This ability to
control the course of daily life is attributed to the absolute secrecy in which juju
operates: “The secretive and threatening authority of the jujus is the very power
which supports and sanctions all decisions, indeed it enhances the secret society’s
distance to outsiders and thereby strengthens the entire political system itself”
(Koloss 2000: 101). The ability of juju to maintain social order is achieved primarily
through the acknowledgement that the medicine, masks, and moral traditions of the
various secret societies are of a divine nature, originating from Feyin and the
ancestors. Indeed, the organization of Oku society mirrors that of the secret societies,
including the tenant that one should seek community over living alone, the principle
of seniority and respect for the elderly, the duty to honor Gods and ancestors, and the
power of tradition in preparing one for the future.
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Kwifon & the Military Societies
Throughout the Grassfields, the most powerful secret society is the Kwifon,
which as already discussed formed the traditional government of the land in former
times, and continues to wield considerable influence today. A common saying in
Oku is that Kwifon not only represents the people, but together with the Fon it is the
people. This is reflected in its membership, which consists of representatives of all
the extended families in Oku; indeed, as Koloss argues, “membership in Kwifon
signifies the ultimate recognition of independence and appropriate political and social
status for every extended family” (2000: 113). To oppose Kwifon, then, is akin to
opposing ones own father – whereupon offenders will likely encounter illness,
misfortune, or death. Only the princes and close members of the royal family are
denied access and admission to Kwifon, a rule that helps to ensure the separation of
powers and thus acts as an appropriate check on the unlimited authority of the Fon.
In addition to representing traditional government, Kwifon also exercises
considerable control over Oku medicine. The establishment of new secret societies
must first be approved by Kwifon, as well as the introduction of new medicines.
Medicines that are not accepted are considered bad medicine and are banned from the
fondom. As one of its principal duties involves protecting the people against
witchcraft, its juju is therefore greatly feared, possessing the greatest possible power
in order to drive away witches. Kwifon’s juju, including the sacred instruments and
masks, protect and support the people while mercilessly pursuing and punishing
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witches and all those who offend the laws of the land. Everyone in Oku is familiar
with the music of Kwifon, a haunting mirliton pipe (see Chapter 6) which it plays
whenever it exits the palace “in its dangerous form,” i.e. with its juju. When this
occurs, everyone who does not belong to the society is expected to hurry home, hide,
or avoid eye contact with Kwifon, in particular its masquerade Mabu.
Like most juju masquerades, Mabu is frightening to behold. The mask – a
distorted human face – is attached to the top of head, while Mabu’s face is concealed
in a tightly wrapped cotton mesh. A long gown of brown and black feathers covers
the body, leaving only hands and feet exposed. As Mabu approaches, an eerie, flute-
like sound is heard, emanating from a small pipe or whistle that is held in the mouth,
hidden behind the white mesh face covering. His stride is methodical, purposeful,
and deceiving, for at any moment Mabu may sprint after an on-looker or unsuspecting
bystander. His speed is extraordinary; hence Mabu is also known as a ‘running juju.’
In his hands he carries two spears, symbolizing Kwifon’s authority.
In Oku it is understood that Kwifon’s medicine allow it to see “in the
pipeline” if anything bad is coming; it will then send its messengers to announce it in
public. “Kwifon sees ahead of time as it is believed that its eyes are everywhere,” said
one of my informants, echoing a common sentiment in Oku. Endowed with such
authority, it is often said that Kwifon’s greatest weapon is its voice; if there is already
trouble in the land Kwifon needs only to “shout the parties into submission….if
Kwifon cannot even shout, what else will it do?” (Bah 2004).
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Indicative of this authority is Kwifon’s position as the highest body of justice,
a practice that continues in Oku today despite the increasingly prominent role of
western courts, government agencies, and gendarmes. When a person brings a
dispute, Kwifon will first insist that both parties be present and that both speak the
truth; after lengthy and thorough discussion amongst its members, a decision is made.
In the event one party denies the allegation, Kwifon will send for a diviner; what the
oracles reveal is taken as the whole truth. One of the more frequent accusations
brought to Kwifon are those pertaining to witchcraft - for this Kwifon relies entirely
on the diviners. In the past Kwifon inflicted punishment on guilty witches, often in
the form of death by a poison oracle (see Chapter Seven). Today, Kwifon exercise s
its authority primarily in the form of social sanctions against those who violate
tradition, with punishment ranging from restitution and the levying of fines to
banishment from public ceremonies or even Oku itself. When a violation occurs,
Kwifon will send Mabu, the running juju, to the compound of the guilty, who with
great display will stick a spear with a life-plant (kelan) in their courtyard, the official
sign of a sanction. The guilty party must then report to Kwifon.
Second only to Kwifon, in terms of rank and influence in Oku daily life, are
the military societies Manjong and Mfuh, which are also considered the property of
the people. At least one is represented in every village, and unlike other secret
societies, a person cannot join by choice – one must be summoned, and it cannot be
declined (Koloss 2000: 197). Originally charged with defending the kingdom by
guarding against hostile attacks and organizing war parties, today Manjong and Mfuh
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continue to meet regularly (once a week) in order to discuss current issues and
problems in the community, exchange news and information, and above all to
socialize and drink palm wine.
The military societies also differ from other secret societies in that they have
no masquerade attached to them. Furthermore, they are not so secretive and
concealed from view, as is the Kwifon house and all other secret societies in Oku.
Instead they occupy large houses near easily accessible roadways, signaling a more
open and prominent position. Although they lack a juju masquerade, military
societies do harbor powerful medicine – kefuh kebeh, or bad medicine – which is
considered more powerful than that of the mask societies and is used to pursue and
inflict harm on all those who violate the laws of the juju. As both Manjong and Mfuh
are concerned with the general welfare of the populace, it follows that their kefuh
kebeh extends to those who violate the laws of the land as well.
The medicinal power of Manjong and Mfuh is also reflected in their musical
instruments, or “instruments of the night,” which were developed in earlier times for
use in war (Koloss 2000: 199). The sacred instruments of the military societies
consist of bullroarers and membrane pipes, both considered dangerous medicines to
be used in warding off not only witchcraft but also enemies on the battlefield, who
upon hearing the eerie tones were said to have fled in fear. While no longer used in
battle, the instruments can be heard today at important death celebrations and public
ceremonies. Non-members and women are prohibited from seeing, touching, or using
the instruments; indeed most run and hide upon hearing their eerie tones. The
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bullroarer in particular has been the subject of intense study in scholarly circles as it
represents a worldwide phenomenon both in its diffusion and according to the taboos
surrounding its use. In Oku it is said to impersonate the sounds (voices) of the spirit
world, and its use in death celebrations is argued to either drive out or warn
malevolent spirits and witches from interfering with the recently deceased. Unlike
the bullroarer, the musical pipes are not the sole property of the military societies but
are known as the “night juju” of most masquerade societies as well. Constructed
with the membranes of bat wings, the pipe as well is a means to communicate in a
‘spiritual tongue’ and is used by some mask societies to not only ward off malevolent
spirit but also charge, or animate, the particular medicine (see Chapter Six).
Oku has no history of a standing army, no special structures of defense (walls,
moats, etc), nor are there any accounts of large-scale war measures against other
tribes. Even their weaponry has remained ill-suited for serious military endeavors,
consisting only of spears and cutlasses (the use the of the bow and arrow was
unknown in Oku, and firearms only sparingly since they were introduced during the
colonial era) (Nkwi & Warnier 1982:42). Instead, what we find is that spiritual
medicine, specifically kefuh kebeh, was of the utmost significance in military affairs
in Oku. Some medicines were known to turn its user invisible, or transform the
warrior into an animal to avoid detection by the enemy. Other medicines could
increase a person’s strength while confusing and disorienting the enemy. Kefuh
kebeh was either consumed or rubbed onto ones skin, onto the secret music
instruments described above, and onto certain masks that would accompany the
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warriors into battle. While these accounts may not be verifiable according to Western
tradition of positivism, the fact that hostile forces have to this day never dared to
attack Oku is indicative of the effective power of war medicines (Kraus 1990).
Mask Societies
Following Kwifon and the military societies, the mask societies, or emkum,
have the next most influence on Oku daily life and are essential in maintaining the
political and social structure of the fondom. Dominated by men and invested with
powers and facilities deriving from God and the ancestors to ward off dangerous
forces, the emkum in many ways embody the Oku worldview. Although their
medicines are not as powerful as those of the military or medicine societies, the fact
that they serve to protect owners and country alike from negative forces suggests an
underlying function of maintaining balance in a world heavily influenced by occult
phenomena.
There are over one hundred mask societies in Oku alone, each belonging to
individual extended families, although membership extends to all males regardless of
familial relation (Koloss 2000: 223). Unlike Kwifon and the military societies, mask
societies do not meet regularly, but usually only during death celebrations, initiations,
and for secret medicine rituals. Meetings take place in the juju house, usually located
in the compound of the extended family head, but always partially hidden and some
distance from the living quarters. The levels within the various mask societies are to
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a great extent very similar, consisting of a preparatory level, a second level of full
membership, a third level for the right to wear the mask, and an uppermost level of
medicine men. The preparatory level is especially significant in terms of initiating
boys into manhood: it is expected that young boys will gather at the house of the
closest juju, where they will be initiated into the lower levels and begin their
‘training,’ consisting of masquerade dancing, drumming, playing the xylophone and
hunting giant rats. The rats would be presented to the adult members of the house,
including youth who recently “graduated.” After proving his hunting, dancing, and
musical worth to the house, the boy is hereafter regarded as a man.
As with all secret societies in Oku, medicine is the crucial element for their
strength and authority. Most have several kinds of medicine at their disposal, but it is
kefuh kebeh (bad medicine) that stands out as the most distinguishing feature of mask
societies. Kefuh kebeh determines the power of the mask itself, and is directed at all
those who violate or offend not only the laws of the juju house, but of the community
in general. Interestingly, very few mask societies actually make their own kefuh
kebeh, a testament to the complex and highly secretive nature behind the construction
of spiritual powders (see below). Nevertheless every mask society has a level of
qualified “medicine men” responsible for carrying out the rituals involving kefuh
kebeh, for it is a dangerous medicine that once activated, cannot be terminated nor
destroyed. Every secret society therefore has kefuh kejunghe, or ‘good medicine,’
that protects members against the dangers to which they are exposed. Consuming
kefuh kejunhe is mandatory for all initiates, and is also used to treat non-members
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who offended the society in some way and were punished by the juju with an illness.
During the cleansing ritual, which involves washing the afflicted person with herbs
from the society’s ‘blessing calabash,’ the juju stands nearby to provide the “force”
behind the spiritual washing. As David Nchinda explained:
The juju [mask] is always present and carries the spiritual apparatus necessary
to animate the exercise. In exercises involving water, the juju often stands
upstream so the force can be carried through the water to the healer and
patient downstream. The juju is also present during preparations of the
medicine; he will sing while the medicines are being prepared. But the juju
itself does not give the medicine its power; it is only there to animate. God,
the ancestors, and the herbs themselves provide the healing power. The juju
represents one component, along with the bag, the calabash, the spiritual food,
and the [medicinal] pots. (p.c. 2004)
The power behind kefuh kebeh also originates with God and the ancestors,
and communion with said forces is usually required before the medicine can be
activated. Communion is at the heart of the cultic activities of the mask societies, and
as such jujus are argued to occupy a central religious role in the community. Invested
with the power of kefuh kebeh and sanctioned by God and the ancestors, every juju
masquerade can be seen as a manifestation of the Oku worldview in which the
spiritual reality occupies a dominant role in daily life. By no means the sole property
of emkum, juju masks are also found in Kwifon as well as in some medicine societies.
Yet what sets emkum apart from the other secret societies is the centrality of kefuh
kebeh and its close relationship with the particular mask that represents the society.
For the outsider, jujus are obscure beings with supernatural powers,
represented by the famous mask societies and their corresponding “juju dances.”
This is a gross misunderstanding, however, for in actuality there is nothing
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supernatural about the figure or animal represented by the masks. Unlike other
indigenous societies in which shamans control the spirits represented on their masks,
the masquerades of Oku do not represent any particular spirits or Gods – a false
impression which their human or animal-like appearance has aroused in many
Europeans (Koloss 2000: 97). For the Oku person, the mask itself is ‘real’. As such
the mask is not symbolic because it covers up or disguises; rather it is symbolic
because of what it makes present: the spiritual reality (Gill 1982: 73). This reality is
enhanced by the application of kefuh kebeh on the mask and the corresponding
medicinal objects associated with it, including the mask headdress and the musical
instruments belonging to the juju. Depicting the practical illustration of the belief in
the duality of the human nature, i.e. man as essence and matter, whereby the essence,
which is unknown but symbolizes both the past and the future, is represented by the
human force behind the mask. The mask, therefore, is argued to highlight the concept
of the past, present and future as all coexisting in biology (man and nature) (Aseh
2002).
As soon a member dons the mask, he loses his identity as an ‘ordinary person’
and even other members of the society must be wary. Masks must be obeyed without
question, and are usually shown respect, distance, and even awe. My own experience
with the highly feared Kwifon mask Nkock during a death celebration for one of their
members confirms their dangerous reputation. On this particular occasion, Nkock
was hiding in the bushes while Kwifon waited for the appropriate offerings before
‘unleashing’ Nkock. After some time the faint drumming that was coming from the
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bush intensified, followed by a mysterious howl. Although I had experienced
masquerades before in Oku, this one sent a shiver down my spine. Nkock is so wild
and strong that it must accompanied by two to four members of Kwifon who hold
onto him with ropes to limit the damage it usually causes. Sporting an unusually
large mask made of heavy black material and human hair, pieces of iron ore in his
hands, and ‘child’ composed of a dried monkey carcass and leather mounted on its
back, Nkock strikes a particularly fearful image. Suddenly without warning, Nkock
broke loose and ran towards me and the other spectators, dragging the Kwifon
members along. In panic some of us turned and ran into the cornfields, with Nkock in
close pursuit. Not everyone was so fortunate, however, and from my new hiding
place I could see Nkock striking down a terrified young man, bringing the iron ore
crashing down within centimeters of the victim’s skull. By this time Kwifon had
regained control of the mask and with the ropes pulled him away and back towards
the celebration. According to my informants, Nkock often flaunts his strength by
uprooting trees, demolishing houses, and in some cases overturning parked vehicles –
all extraordinary feats that could be explained by a trance-like state induced by a
combination of psychoactive drugs and the donning of a mask prepared with bad
medicines.
According to Hans Koloss (2000), who researched mask societies in Oku in
the 1970s and again in the 1990s, in earlier times the person behind the more frightful
juju masks such as Nkock were given “strong drugs” before their appearances (119).
However, Koloss does not offer any further information, and I could not confirm the
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identity of said drugs at any time during my research in Oku. Across the board, every
healer I interviewed concerning the use of hallucinogenic plants claimed they did not
use them, nor could they ever remember such plants being used for healing purposes.
When I explained the shamanic tradition of other indigenous healers, such as healers
in Mexico and Brazil who use peyote and ayahuasca (respectively) in order to access
the realm of spirits, most healers replied with “we don’t need any such plant to help
us work with spirits.” Indeed, I have come to appreciate their unique ability to access
transcendental knowledge without the aid of classic shamanic tools: hallucinogenic
drugs, drumming and dancing, meditation, etc. (see Chapter Six: Ways of Knowing).
Samba Mask Society
The use of masks demonstrates the authority and power of secret societies.
The general conviction is that the mask itself owes its power to the kefuh kebeh with
which it is treated; as such all masks in the service of a secret society are considered
beings in their own right. Considered as ‘natural’ as plants, animals, mankind and the
gods, masks are of the utmost necessity in the discovery and destruction of witches
(Koloss 2000: 100). Consequently, they continue to be feared by the public while at
the same time their presence is seen as necessary to maintain peace and harmony in
the community. Illustrative of this dichotomy is the Samba society, which boasts one
of the most feared juju masquerades while at the same time is renowned for its
healing and fertility medicines.
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Samba’s kefuh kebeh is considered extremely dangerous, and its mask is
known as kvevli, meaning “to finish easily.” In former times Samba was employed in
military ventures, its power supposedly drawn from the leopard itself (Koloss 2000:
207). This historical connection is illustrated today in the practice of painting red and
white circles on the spear, medicine pots, and arms of its members – signifying their
connection to the leopard. The mask itself is one of the most feared in the
Grasslands, sporting a very ‘wild’ look consisting of a large headdress of feathers and
a gown of raffia grass. Various medicines adorn the gown, and in his hands Samba
wields an imposing machete. The frightful nature of the mask is accentuated by its
dance (pro-longed, exaggerated movements that suggest an intention to do battle),
which it performs at most death celebrations in Oku. Perhaps owing to its role in
military affairs, Samba’s kefuh kebeh is often used in the burial of the dead.
According to Nguan Henry, the leader of a Samba house Oku, its medicines help to
“make it so the souls of the dead find their peace…and do not return to harm the
living.”
Although its medicines are primarily intended for military purposes, its kefuh
kejonghe (good medicine) is renowned for its healing effects as well as for bringing
fertility to women. One of the many medicine and mask societies whose origin can
be traced back to a woman, Samba is the only society in Oku today that allows
women to enter their houses. Furthermore, a woman’s presence at the all-important
ritual of ‘frying the medicine’ is required. Like all medicine and mask societies in
Oku, the frying of the medicine takes place once a year at the beginning of the dry
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season; yet Samba requires special measures that are not practiced in any other
society. The preparation may take place only at night when “there is no moon,” i.e.
during the new moon phase. On this particular night the medicine men of Samba
meet along with a woman and the juju masquerade. With her eyes closed, the woman
places the first medicine plants in the large clay vessel, where they are roasted for
several days until they turn into ash. There the ash medicine sits for a period of seven
weeks before it may be distributed amongst the members, at which point a woman
must be present to receive some of the finished medicine first before it can be passed
on to others. Yet as important as women are to Samba, they are not considered
members, and are not entrusted with any secrets.
The significance of women to Samba medicine can be better understood in
terms of the relationship of Samba with the moon. Although the moon, sun and stars
are not worshipped in any way in Oku religious traditions, the fact that Samba only
meets on the first day of the new moon when undergoing important medicine rituals
is significant. In most sub-Saharan African traditions, the moon is viewed as having
a feminine nature, in particular the changing moon and its regular twenty-eight day
cycle that so closely matches the cycle of menstruation. Studies concerning the
relationship of the lunar cycle and menses indicate that the majority of women who
coordinate their cycle with the moon “have a diminishing likelihood of menses onset
as distance from the full moon increases” (Cutler 1987). The fact that Samba only
meets to construct their medicine on the eve of the new moon, coupled with the fact
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that their medicine is renowned for fertility, suggests that the Samba society is rooted
in reproductive magic, at one time the domain of women.
Women’s Societies
While the sphere of secret societies is exclusively male, women do dispose
over their own secret society, called Fembien. Every village in Oku has a Fembien
society, which represents the interests of women in general. Like the military
societies with respect to men, Fembien is responsible for organizing and mobilizing
the work of women. Like some of the higher ranking mask societies, Fembien make
appearances only at death ceremonies for the Fon, the Kwifon, and members of their
own society. Women are admitted automatically upon reaching adulthood, and
although they don’t have their own juju house, there are certain compounds in every
village in which Fembien meet.
According to Koloss, Fembien is prohibited from disposing over medicine
rituals and therefore they possess no dangerous medicines (kefuh kebeh).
Nevertheless, Fembien remains to this day a greatly feared secret society, and there
exist many accounts of “rituals of the Fembien” that, if encountered, lead to certain
illness or even death. The instruments and songs of Fembien are also greatly
respected if not feared, and are always played out of sight of men. These
characteristics, combined with the fact that Oku medicine was originally in the
possession of women, lead me to believe Ma Kusham when she confided “we have
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our own medicine, but only we consume it for our protection. We have given away all
our secrets, but this one we shall keep. Everyone knows that one does not give away
all their secrets!”
While Fembien is the only official secret society for women, it should be
noted that many ‘women’s social groups’ exist, providing a space for women to
socialize as well as drink, dance, and sing – an opportunity which they do not
necessarily have in the public sphere. (Indeed, it is a rare sight in Oku to find women
in a drinking establishment, which are almost exclusively the domain of men). Not
surprisingly, these social groups tend to attract primarily young women, where they
are temporarily ‘freed’ from their traditional gender role. Nonetheless, the gatherings
are ‘ritualized’ in the sense that libations are poured to honor ancestors, speeches are
made honoring both the living and the dead, and traditional dances and songs are
performed – almost identical to the program that the military society Mfuh follows.
One of the more interesting aspects of this ritualized gathering concerns the
redistribution of wealth. Every week when the group meets, a different woman is
honored and receives a sum of money from the groups’ contribution. As the woman
accepts the money, she is reminded that it is to be used in a “wise” manner for the
wellbeing of her, her family, or her children, followed by songs of praise in honor of
the recipient.
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Medicine Societies
While in principle all secret societies in Oku have medicine in their
possession, there are specific societies whose primary responsibility is the production
of both good and bad medicines. The rituals correspond with those of the other secret
societies, yet their medicines are considered exceptionally strong and dangerous, a
reputation enhanced by the extreme secrecy concerning their production. Some
medicine societies have their own masquerade, and those who don’t typically “attach”
a juju to their society when performing certain rituals, to help with ‘animating’ the
medicines (as explained above), as well as ensure secrecy by scaring off outsiders and
potential witches who may use the medicine for destructive ends.
The distinguishing feature of medicine societies concerns the emphasis on the
preservation of medicinal knowledge and a network of healers who actively
contribute and apply such knowledge to advancing the health and prosperity of the
populace. Primarily concerned with producing medicine, they often supply many of
the mask societies with their kefuh kebeh. Most traditional healers in Oku are
members of the various medicine societies, in order to have a large variety of
medicines available for treating their patients. Many medicine societies meet formally
only once a year in order to produce the medicines, on which occasion they can
initiate new members. Informally, however, it is not uncommon for the owner of the
society to provide members (myself included) with special training, not only
concerning the vast number of herbs and remedies, but also knowledge and training in
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the existential healing arts, or the spiritual nature of medicine (see Chapter Three).
By actively developing this aspect of medicine, Oku is well deserving of its
reputation as the source of the most ‘spiritually potent’ traditional medicines in
Cameroon.
The most renowned medicine society in Oku is Ngang, in which healers and
medicine men from the other medicine, mask, and military societies gather to prepare
medicine for the defense and well-being of the populace (Bah, p.c. 2004). As one of
the three ‘strong arms of Kwifon’ (along with Manjong and Fembien), Ngang is in
charge of defending Oku from witches and other hostile spirits. Indeed, Ngang
supplies Kwifon with its dangerous kefuh kebeh, also known as Kwifon’s ‘death
medicine’ (Koloss 2000). Accordingly, its medicines are considered extremely
dangerous: while other societies follow specific recipes in the preparation of their
medicines, Ngang incorporates medicine from all of its healers. This may include
virtually every medicinal plant in Oku, the kefuh kebeh of the various societies, and
the remains of old medicine and the bags of deceased healers (Koloss 2000: 282).
Ngang’s spiritual potency derives from this union of healers, ancestors, and their
respective medicines; it follows that its potency increases with the addition of each
new member’s contribution of medicine.
It is said that no one in Oku can become a traditional healer without first being
initiated into Ngang, a testament to its continuing role in preserving knowledge and
providing training to its members (Bah, p.c. 2004). An initiate who has been invited
by Ngang has the opportunity to become familiar with the hundreds of medicinal
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plants by assisting in their preparation. Ngang’s medicines are prepared annually, in
the courtyard of Kwifon, at which point they also admit new members. The medicine
of Ngang consists of a bag of spiritual powder, made from fresh herbs and grasses
ground with a grinding stone, and a small calabash of ash medicine. The latter is
roasted, in the same manner as ‘frying the medicine’ described above, but with the
addition of the bags and calabashes of deceased members. The ash is then mixed
with castor oil and the mixture is poured into the small calabash. Throughout the
process God and the ancestors are invoked, calling upon them to aid the medicine in
driving off hostile forces while blessing those with good intentions. At the end of the
ritual, the members of Ngang, many of them healers with associations with other
secret societies, take this medicine – and the knowledge – back with them to protect
their communities.
Ngang also meets informally, when summoned by Kwifon or when there is
danger, at which point the members gather in the Kwifon compound to prepare an
extremely dangerous kefuh kebeh. Each member brings a large bag of leaves and
herbs and places them in a single pile, on top of which they add their own ash
medicines (kefuh kejonghe) along with the spiritual powders (kefuh kebeh) from
prominent societies such as Mfuh and Samba. If any member has died since the last
meeting, his ash medicines along with his medicine bag will be cut up and added to
the pile. Following this, the members stamp the medicine with their feet while the
leader of Ngang addresses the medicine and implores it to “kill those who would
harm, while allowing the ignorant to go” (Nchinda, p.c. 2003). The members of
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Ngang then fill their bags with the mixture and head out in groups to disperse the
dangerous medicine along the boundaries of Oku and in front of various houses and
crossroads. In light of the danger of this medicine, Ngang heads out as a ‘bad juju,’
with one of the medicine men blowing on a juju pipe to warn all outsiders to stay
away.
Unlike Ngang which deals with all things hostile and is considered dangerous,
the Nseh society, established by the Ebjong clan, itself a fon-dom that was stripped of
its rule during Mkong Moteh’s rise to power (see Chapter Two), is seen in a very
positive light because “it works only for peace, for good things.” This is significant
because it contrasts with the underlying belief that there exists in the biotic
community the potential for both good and harm, as is most clearly seen in the dual
nature of traditional healing itself (kefu kejonghe and kefu kebeh). When I brought
this up to the current village head and keeper of Nseh in Oku-Lui, Fai Ndifon
Somjom responded “I agree that all medicines have a good side and bad side, but that
is not the case with Nseh, which only works for peace, especially among the spirits”
(p.c. 2003)
Known also as “medicine of the dead,” Nseh can be likened to a gatekeeper,
enabling the deceased to find everlasting peace in the spirit world; otherwise it is
believed that the deceased may continue to disturb the living. In early times Nseh
was charged with carrying out ritual cleansings for men who had killed an enemy or a
leopard, lest the spirit of the dead man or animal haunt them (Koloss 2000: 303).
These people were treated with the medicine of the dead and given a red feather to
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wear in their cap, a sign of rank and bravery throughout the Grasslands. The last such
ritual was performed in Oku in 1974 – the last time a leopard was killed in Oku.
Today the most important function of Nseh concerns the dedication of memorial
stones at the installation of new heads of familes. When activated by Nseh medicine,
these stones not only ensure safe passage for the deceased, they also firmly bind the
successor to his new position as the family’s link to the ancestors.
As explained to me by Fai Somjon, for one to have a peaceful compound it is
important that the new family head be brought closer to the ancestors. This
connection is made through the stones, pyramid shaped rocks installed by the Nseh
society at the houses of family heads. Historically, when there was a sickness in the
compound, the family head “would take a calabash filled with palm wine and address
the problem to the ancestor, then hang the calabash over the stones. In the morning
he would take the wine and share with everyone in the compound, thereby increasing
the chances that the person would get well” (p.c. 2003).
3
Nseh’s other major function today concerns the coordination of memorial
ceremonies and death celebrations, which may last upwards of one week. Not only is
Nseh entrusted with ensuring harmony throughout; the society must also prevent rain
from disrupting the ceremony. For this ritual, Nseh finds a place under a tree, makes
a small fire and burns their medicines in a clay pot. As signs of rain approach, more

3
That the stones represent a more direct link to the ancestors than human agency
alone is indicative of the significance of the biotic community in spiritual affairs.
This belief is further illustrated in the Hierarchy of Consciousness (Chapter 3) in
which the earth (soil, water, rocks, flora) is believed to have a higher spiritual
resonance than both animals and humans, and can thus operate more effectively in the
spirit world.
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medicinal leaves are added to the pot; it is believed to shift the rain from that
particular area to another nearby. The pot must be never be left unattended –
throughout the ceremony an Nseh member must occupy the area and make sure the
fire is not extinguished. Failures to stop the rain do indeed occur, but according to
my informants this happens infrequently, as evidenced by the fact that Nseh is
consistently invited to perform its ritual at every major death celebration, even during
the peak of the rainy season (Bah, p.c. 2004).
Both Nseh and Ngang are fundamentally different from the other medicine
societies in one respect: they do not have a house where they regularly meet. Their
medicinal rituals fulfill important duties for the populace, and the few objects they
need for their rituals are usually kept in the houses of their respective owners (Koloss
2000: 302). By contrast, the other medicine societies have houses in which members
can meet in order to conduct more personal medicine rituals for individuals. Some
possess masks and other objects that are considered exceptionally strong and
dangerous. Outside of the community of healers, little is known about these societies,
their secrecy enhanced by the fact that as a rule their members do not attend the
memorial ceremonies for their own deceased members (Koloss 2000: 279).
The healers in Oku often credit the medicine society itself with curing an
illness. For example, divination may show that “Lum is likely to solve her problem
immediately;” following this, the healer will either use Lum medicine if he is a
member, or he will direct the patient to a healer from the Lum house. Every house
has more or less the same ‘format’ for healing and/or washing, but what makes one
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house more effective than another? “That’s not the issue, as sorcery is what directs a
person to a particular house,” says David Nchinda, “two societies can use the same
techniques, even the same herbs in their spiritual powders…but one society may more
effectively treat an illness than another because sorcery directs you to that one” (p.c.
2004). Depending on the affliction, the healer will either treat the patient with said
medicine in private, or will involve other members of the society from whence the
medicine came. Typically, afflictions that require a cleansing, or ‘spiritual wash’,
will involve multiple society members, which serve to strengthen the medicine while
producing a therapeutic milieu for the patient. A requirement when treating unnatural
illnesses, the spiritual wash is intended to free the person from unseen forces
responsible for the affliction in order for “the illness to become natural, so I can begin
applying the herbs” (David Nchinda, p.c. 2004).
4
The essence of the medicine societies, spiritual powders are essential for
driving away hostile forces, protecting the populace from said forces, and healing
afflictions attributed to spirit or human forces. The powders themselves are

4
Natural illnesses are understood as occurring from natural causes (cold air, rain,
mosquitoes, impurities in the air and food, etc), whereas unnatural illnesses refer to
afflictions caused or initiated by another human being, either living or dead, usually
via witchcraft and other spiritual means (see chiesse, Chapter 7). Natural afflictions
are often treated in the household, as most Oku natives recognize the common plants
for headache, diarrhea, upset stomach, etc. If it is a more serious natural illness, most
Cameroonians will not hesitate to see the modern “medical doctor.” Surprisingly,
some members of the modern medical establishment in Bamenda also support the
distinction between natural and unnatural illnesses. While observing healers and
diviners I was privy to two occasions when medical doctors brought patients to them
in order to determine whether the cause of a particular affliction was, in their words,
“natural or unnatural.”
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complex, ritually charged substances in the form of ground powders made from roots,
barks, leaves, and occasionally the remains of various animals and insects.
5
The
powder from Lum, for instance, contains 97 various herbs and grasses, along with
approximately 10-15 diverse insect and animal parts. The preparation of the powders
involves all the ranking members of the particular society. The various ingredients
are dried and ground into a fine powder with the aid of grinding stones. The powders
themselves are stored in vessels, also ritually charged, which signify both the
medicine and the society from whence it came. The vessels can be made from animal
skins, calabashes, horns and occasionally conch shells. The vessels correspond to
different levels within the medicine society; for example, the level of the small
calabash is the second level of the Lum society, in which the initiate is considered
‘qualified’ to carry the small calabash and administer the medicine therein..
The medicine societies of Oku thus each own a particular kefuh kebeh (bad
medicine) to fight unnatural afflictions and ward off witchcraft, in addition to their
own kefuh kejonghe (good medicine) for treatment of natural afflictions. Each
society’s kefuh kejonghe is based on a unique combination of plants and leaves that
target certain afflictions in which they specialize; the kefuh kejonge of Lum, for
example, specializes in epilepsy and madness, although variations of it are used to
treat cerebral malaria, stomach ulcers, hiccups and skin rashes. This specificity is
directly related to the society’s kefuh kebeh: a person who runs afoul of Lum will

5
The ability of witches to transform into animals is given as the primary reason for
including parts of animals in the construction of kefuh kebeh. The understanding is
that if the witch attempts an attack while in animal form, he or she will not be
successful if the kefuh kebeh includes the same animal parts.
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likely be stricken with madness, seizures, or may develop hiccups and skin rashes,
and must be treated with Lum’s kefuh kejonghe. Thus, although kefuh kejonghe is
not viewed as a dangerous medicine, it nevertheless offers protection from the kefuh
kebeh of the same society. This is illustrated in the practice of freely providing kefuh
kejeonghe to non-members, patients, and family members who are associated with
the medicine house for any reason. It is customary for traditional healers to offer
kefuh kejonghe to anyone who visits; importantly, the healer always consumes the
medicine first, evidently to ensure that it is not kefuh kebeh.
Most kefuh kejonghe is in the form of ash medicine. The “frying of the
medicine,” in the same manner as described above, takes place only once a year and
is necessary for both the medicine and the healer to remain strong and effective. Each
healer is expected to contribute a portion of the herbs, barks, and grasses that are
placed inside a large cauldron and slowly cooked over a period of two to three days.
As with the spiritual powder, the ash medicine is also stored in ritually charged bags,
calabashes, horns, or shells, which increase their potency as well as aid in their
identification. Traditionally, an Oku healer could be identified by what he was
carrying: two bags each containing an ash medicine and a spiritual powder, along
with a pair of calabashes that contain kefuh kejonghe. For David Nchinda, kefuh
kebeh must be present “in order to make the illness natural, so then I can begin
applying my herbs (kefuh kejonghe)” (p.c. 2003).
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Lum
Lum is the secret society founded by David Nchinda’s forefathers when they
settled in Oku five generations ago. Originally established for protection of the
family, Lum like all other medicine societies is literally built upon dangerous
medicines that are buried underneath a corner of the house. The kefuh kebeh protects
the house and its curative medicines from witchcraft as well as non-initiates who may
misuse the powerful medicine: “It is necessary in order to keep it from the hands of
those who might want to discover our ways in order to do harm or to defeat us. After
all, if the enemy knows where you keep your powers, they will take them, and you
will not be effective against their witchcraft” (Nchinda, p.c. 2003). An irony not lost
on the people, medicine houses are feared because of this dual nature: protective
medicine that can kill. Even the ‘good medicine,’ kefuh kejonghe, is harmful and
potentially deadly to the un-initiated because it is protected by kefuh kebeh.
The medicine itself represents a direct link to the ancestors, whose support is
necessary for the medicine to be effective. Most medicine societies in Oku were
established for the protection of the family, and the importance of the ancestors in this
regard is evident in the practice of announcing both births and deaths in the juju
house. When a child is born to a family under the protection of a juju house, the
leader of the juju house “must come in and inform the ancestors, and ask for them to
protect the child;” when someone dies, “we take the news to the juju house and ask
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that they [ancestors] take him to a better place, to live with the ancestors” (Nchinda,
p.c. 2004).
The power behind the medicine, or that which gives it the ability to affect
humans and unseen forces alike, thus comes from three sources: the spiritual nature of
the components itself, the power vested in the medicine by the ancestors, and the
spiritual potency of the healer.
The inter-workings of this Oku ‘holy trinity’ can be seen in the preparation of
one of Lum’s medicines, ngang nkafale. Consisting of large calabash, a small
calabash, and a bag of spiritual powder connected to a small calabash, ngang nkafale
is more than just the spiritual powder – part of its medicine are the vessels
themselves. During the process of constructing the vessels, a great deal of spiritual
potency is supposedly transferred to the objects. While apprenticing do David
Nchinda, I witnessed the amount of time that he spent with each bag – days – and the
considerable amount of energy that flowed from David into the vessel, which itself is
composed of considerable energy from the natural world. The vessel that holds the
powder of ngang nkafale is composed of goat’s skin, into which seven different types
of “spiritual grasses” are woven, along with the feathers of the Kingfisher bird and
the rare red Turacao. Two medicine bundles are also carefully prepared and
attached to the bag. The contents of the bundles include a water bug, lion ant, hair
from a horse’s tail, a human metacarpal bone, various feathers, and numerous
‘spiritually-active’ herbs. The ingredients that go into the attached gourd are equally
numerous and diverse, consisting of 23 different herbs and grasses and 7 rock, shell,
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seed, and bone fragments. These items are so potent that no one is allowed to see
them all together, and even the healer must place them into the calabash from behind
his back while praying to the ancestors. Only when all of this is complete, are the bag
and the gourd ready to accept the spiritual powder.
The spiritual powder is completed when the numerous herbs, grasses, roots
and bark have been gathered, dried, ground, and then combined with the ground
powders of various animals and insects. Some of the ingredients of Lum’s powder
consist of a horned lizard, a snake, and blind mole, all of which David Nchinda points
out as necessary to give the medicine “the force stop witchcraft.” Because of its high
potency, spiritual powders are rarely ingested; instead applied topically or directly
into the blood stream via cuts in the skin. It is also used to protect compounds,
belongings, and in some cases (as in Ngang) entire villages. For this reason more
than any other, Lum and any other medicine house in Oku is to be avoided at all cost
unless one has been initiated into said house. Many illnesses and even deaths in Oku
are attributed to someone running afoul of a medicine man or juju house, the person
unknowingly trespassing or witnessing “something in the night” when they were not
qualified to do so. When divination determines such is the case, he or she is usually
directed to said society to get healed, and in some cases, initiated.
Not only is the house of Lum itself thus dangerous (a non-initiate would not
dare enter a medicine house for fear of running afoul of the powerful magic of the
kefuh kebeh), but the healers and in particular the masquerade as well. Lum, like
most medicine societies in private ownership, has a masquerade ‘attached’ to it.
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David Nchinda’s forefathers, with permission from the Ndongtuh mask society,
established the Ndongtuh juju masquerade that ‘protects’ Lum. The juju wears a
mesh fiber mask with a cap composed of long, thick dreadlocks, while a gown of
human hair covers the shoulders down to the knees. In his left hand he holds kelem,
the life plant; in his right a machete. Around the neck he wears a medicine ring
containing dangerous medicines that “supply the juju with additional spiritual force”
(Nchinda, p.c. 2005). On the surface, the Ndongtuh juju “protects’ the medicine of
Lum, but in actuality it is Lum that provides the juju with its force: “people fear the
jujus in most cases because of the very strong medicine it is attached to, and they fear
to be hurt.” But would the juju use the medicine he carries to hurt someone? “No, the
medicines are constructed in such a way that if you come with harm, or if you are a
witch, you will get hurt by the medicines… it is not the man in the juju who
commands you to be hurt, but the medicines already installed on the juju. When we
come out with such hard medicines, you should not mix yourself up with the society
unless you have been initiated into the medicine” (p.c. 2003).
Initiation
In most indigenous societies, initiations in the context of rites of passage
contain the idea of a new birth as a part of the process of assuming full status in
the group. The theme of rebirth is often accompanied by the theme of death, as in
‘the new life cannot start until the old has died.’ Initiation into secret societies follow
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a similar pattern, but with a more elaborate and distinctive indoctrination of the
individual. Each medicine society has between three and seven levels (with the
exception of Ngang, which has nine), and initiations into each level follow a
prescribed pattern that has remained unchanged, according to my informants, since
the medicine houses were first established.
Upon admission to a society, the initiate has the lowest rank, and his
involvement in the medicines is limited to the right to enter the house and participate
in the various ceremonies. Only upon attaining the next higher level does a person
typically acquire full membership, which includes the right to take part in the ‘night
juju,’ or secret medicinal rituals that take place at night and usually involve the
masquerade. At this level, the member may wear the mask and learn the dances, as
well as view the sacred instruments and learn to play them (see Chapter Six). The
next higher rank is usually that of medicine men, itself often composed of many tiers.
They are knowledgeable in the secrets of the medicine, know how to prepare the
medicines in special rituals, and are qualified to wear the dangerous masks during
healing rituals, memorials, and death celebrations. Each level corresponds with an
increase in knowledge as well as potency on the part of the initiate, effectively
indoctrinating him into the mysteries of the juju by connecting him to the forces that
empower it. With a rise in the hierarchy of a society, the individual member has right
to participate in higher grade rituals. For the initiate, these experiences are bound up
with a complex of fear, awe and respect in the face of the mystery and danger
surrounding the medicine itself.
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In terms of phenomenology, initiation rituals occupy a central importance
insofar as they bridge the worlds of non-ordinary and ordinary reality. Especially as
regards the healing arts, it is argued that the internalization process of a different
cognitive system begins by drawing the initiates’ attention to the non-ordinary reality.
In exchange, the initiate voluntarily acquiesces to the acceptance of this non-ordinary
reality, in the process strengthening the initiate’s perception of it. The significance of
carrying out the ritual in the same way that has been done for every initiate since time
immemorial, also aids in the perception of this new reality.
My introduction to the ‘secrets in the night’ made this abundantly clear to me.
I ‘entered’ the initiation ritual intent to maintain a keen eye on every detail, so I could
make sense of it better afterwards. While I did achieve this, it had the unintended
effect of making the unfamiliar very familiar, so much so that the initiation had a
profound effect on me afterwards. I entered the anthropologist – an outsider - and I
emerged on the inside, open to the myriad possibilities that a properly formed
initiation ritual can offer. From the perspective of phenomenology, the initiation
functioned as a paradigm shift, allowing me to enter an otherwise alien world. In
other words, going through a ritual weighted with the influence of ancestors, spirits,
and powerful healers aided my psyche in embracing a broader spectrum of reality.
The following account, taken from my initiation experience into the first of four
levels of Lum and grounded in the generations before me that participated in this
arguably unchanged process, illustrates this process, as well as the role of secret
societies in bringing the initiate closer to the spiritual reality.
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Initiation: A Personal Account
At sunset a man came for myself and the other four initiates. We followed
him through a small patch of forest until we came to the juju house, where we were
told to remove our shirts and wait outside. One by one we were summoned inside the
house, to kneel before the Ba-Lum (leader of Lum) and submit ourselves to the
oracle. Five cowrie shells were placed into each of my palms, while Ba-Lum invoked
the ancestors to determine if I was of good moral character and qualified to become a
member of Lum. After tossing the cowries on the ground, their positions indicated a
positive response, and the initiation was allowed to proceed, which can be broken
down into four phases.
The first phase consisted of consuming medicine and special food (njemte), in
order to protect the initiate from the kefuh kebeh of the society, as well as witchcraft
in general. Ba-Lum dipped the wings of a live rooster into a calabash of palm wine,
then places it in the initiates mouth. This was repeated for the feet, beak and tail of a
live fowl. “You cannot eat the fowl, if you have not drank with the fowl,” explains
David Nchinda, “that is why you drank from the feet, so if they come by foot, you are
already there. If they come by air, you are already there. If they come by voice, you
are already there.” Here Nchinda is referring to the prominent role of the fowl in
witchcraft; communing with the fowl in this manner ensures that its power cannot be
used against you. Following this, we were fed a paste consisting of three plants that
form the backbone of Lum’s kefuh kejonghe. A third elder in the society then fed us
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‘special food’ (njemte). By consuming the medicine and the njemte, the initiate
protects himself from its inherent dangers, while creating a connection with the
members of the house and the ancestral world that gives the medicine its power.
Finally, we were made to kneel down and inhale kefuh kejonghe in liquid form, via a
bamboo pipe inserted into a series of connected gourds. In addition to bringing one
closer to the medicine, and therefore the ancestors, the sounds that emanate from the
pipe during this process are significant: all five of us made different sounds, while
Ba-Lum and the other medicine men took note. Following this, we were told to wait
outside the house.
The second phase commenced a short time later following a discussion
amongst the senior members of Lum, after which we were summoned back inside the
house. One by one, Ba-Lum revealed the findings of the oracle (cowrie shells and
water pipe), which for myself contained a warning: “You have been well received by
the society. But there is something you must know. You will be faced with
encounters in which you be compelled to argue – walk away, although it is not in you
nature to do so. This is especially true in your research into spiritism. Follow this
advice, and you will be successful.” Following the readings, Ba-Lum sliced the throat
of the rooster, and instructed us to pull feathers from the rooster and cast them in the
fresh blood. Ba-Lum then took the feathers and pressed them upon the initiate’s right
wrist while invoking the ancestors: “As you have come with truth, so let all the
ancestors join together and give power to this medicine. Let these men also be
blessed with the power of this medicine, which comes from you our ancestors. We
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wish that this medicine will work for you in the same manner that it works in this
house.”
The third phase of the initiation ritual included the act of ‘crossing the river.’
The bags of the initiates were hung from a large piece of bamboo, which we then
carried over our left shoulders as David Nchinda led us out of the house and into the
forest. Approaching a small wooden bridge, Nchinda turned and asked: “will you
cross?” to which we replied “no,” before crossing anyway. This was repeated four
times, after which we were immediately cleansed with the body of a live fowl. As is
the rule with all kefuh kebeh in Oku, it is particularly dangerous to cross over water
while carrying dangerous medicines. Without this ritual, the kefuh kebeh of Lum
could afflict the carrier, as well as anyone else in his vicinity, should he cross a river.
Even with this ritual, caution is still maintained whenever a juju or medicine man
approaches a river: bathers leave immediately, and no one must be on the bridge as
long as the healer or juju sets foot on it. In our case, two unsuspecting men came
upon us and saw something they obviously were not supposed to see - one froze and
hid his face, while the other fled in terror. David Nchinda walked up to the man who
remained and offered him medicines from his gourd, thereby releasing him from any
potential affliction that could have resulted from simply witnessing the ritual.
The final phase of the initiation involved the dedication of the medicine bags,
followed by a ritual feast of the sacrificial fowls. A second fowl was sacrificed over
the medicine bags as the ancestors were invoked again: “Oh, fathers of this medicine.
You come by this fowl. Bless this fowl so that the medicine will be strong enough to
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cure anybody who comes to Lum.” The blood of the fowl was then dripped over the
medicine bags of the members as well as those that were laid out for the initiates.
Feathers from the fowl were also pasted with blood to the bags. Following this, both
the rooster and the fowl were roasted and shared amongst the members, including the
initiates. After all members had eaten, five pieces of fowl were laid out on a palm
leaf. We were then told to take the meat in the mouth without using our hands. As a
final sacrament, Ba-Lum deposited a small amount of Lum’s spiritual powder (kefuh
kebeh) onto the palm leaf and mixed it with palm oil, which we also consumed.
Finally, we were presented with our medicine bags and welcomed as new members of
the house of Lum.
All told, the initiation ritual lasted approximately six hours, during which time
the initiates developed an important social bond with each other, the members of
Lum, as well as the ancestors. Sacrifice and the ritual consumption of medicine and
ancestral food stand out as central features of this and other initiation rituals, which
serve to connect the initiate with the mystical powers of the society. In Oku, as in
most cultures where traditional religion is lived on a daily basis, spirituality fully
involves people's material bodies, not just their minds or spirits. The physical act of
eating allows the body to interact with the spiritually charged material world to effect
transformations within themselves as well as the ancestral world. The spiritual
continuity in this regard allows for a union between the initiate and the ancestors
through the ritual consumption of food and the blood of the fowl (see Chapter Six).
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This continuity is also applicable to other aspects of embodiment, such as the
initiate’s union with the medicine as well as his fellow man.
Formal learning and preparation for the new role in the medicine society is
only part of the initiation experience. The common experience of fear and awe in the
face of such dangerous medicine and power provides an important social bond among
the initiates, who are subsequently incorporated into a group distinguished sharply
from outsiders who have not shared in the experience. By having passed through the
sacred experience they have attained a new status prescribed by tradition. At each
subsequent initiation, the fear and awe may subside, yet the initiate becomes fully
educated in the central belief system, moral codes and normative standards of the
secret society, in addition to becoming intellectually as well as emotionally prepared
for his new status in the community.
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Chapter 6:
Ways of Knowing
Anthropology and the Question of Reality
There is a common tendency for the modern western thinker to view
indigenous healing in a metaphorical manner, or at best psychosomatic, wherein the
'real' reason is primarily the result of a measurable medical condition (Horton 1993:
204). Horton argues that both scientific theory and traditional thinking are theoretical
schemes, and thus both 'diagnoses' deserve equal credence: "like atoms, molecules,
and waves, the gods serve to introduce unity into diversity, simplicity into
complexity, order into disorder, regularity into anomaly" (1993: 199). Thus
traditional thinking should not be viewed as a jump from common sense to mystical
thinking, but rather a jump from common sense to theory. Similarly, Gerhard
Oosthuizen (1991) suggests that the African worldview is akin to Western
postmodernism, which accepts that the physical world cannot be fully explained, and
must include intuition and feeling with regard to the investigation of reality (37). He
points out that the traditional African worldview retained this holistic outlook without
the scientific and technological expertise. Mystical thinking, or the awareness of the
supernatural, is also echoed in postmodern thinking that there exist other dimensions
of 'knowing' and experiencing; not just the "cold rationalist approach of modern
science" (Oosthuizen 1991: 39).
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The foundation of modern science, subject-object dualism, is based on the
notion that reality can be measured (reality as an object that can be verified through
vigorous testing, mapping, symbolizing, etc.). In this system, every phenomenon in
the universe could be broken down into small lumps of matter, which in turn were
rigidly defined by Newtonian mechanics. The quantum revolution challenged this
belief, when it was discovered that it was impossible to isolate and measure particles
such as electrons (supposedly the ultimate and irreducible building blocks of
nature/reality) without causing the electron to move, or transform itself, in the very
act of measuring (see Bohm, Shroedinger, Peskin, Zohar). Quantum physics has
shown that objective measurement and verification could no longer be the mark of
absolute reality, because the measured object could never be completely separated
from the measuring object. In other words, the observer is not separate from the
event, and one cannot tinker with the universe without affecting it.
The implications of this discovery in terms of anthropological research are
profound. Where there is no separation between subject and object, observer and
observed, it follows that limited insight will be gained by simply observing and
recording ‘ethnographic details’ of a particular culture. Subject-object dualism has
run its course, and the dualistic mode of knowing, so pronounced in the social
sciences, is therefore not going to provide us with any consensus concerning matters
of consciousness and the nature of reality. Instead we need a comparable, ‘non-dual’
mode of knowing, whose nature it is to be undivided from what it knows. This non-
dual mode of knowing is not ‘composed’ of ideas or symbols, but rather reality itself:
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it reveals the universe as it absolutely is, and not as it is conventionally divided and
symbolized (Wilber 1993:40). The lesson to be learned here is that when researching
matters of consciousness, it is wise to privilege intimate knowledge, or knowledge
revealed experientially, over symbolic modes of knowing. To quote Ken Wilber,
author of the groundbreaking work Spectrum of Consciousness (1977): “If the only
knowledge that is academically respectable is symbolic map knowledge, we will very
shortly have nothing but maps about maps about maps, and we will have long
forgotten the territory that was the original object of our investigation” (30).
Figuring into the subject-object framework is the ontological dualism of
matter versus spirit. Anthropologists who cannot abandon dualism tend to ally
themselves with materialists, who insist that lumps of matter can be measured and
verified. This tendency has led many anthropologists to question the ‘reality’ of
spirits, ancestors, and other spiritual phenomena, often explaining them away as mere
reflections of the social order. Situated opposite materialists are anthropologists who
ally themselves with idealists. Most anthropological studies with an idealist emphasis
approach spiritual phenomena from an etic perspective, often presupposing universal
laws that govern consciousness. Yet just as materialists, idealists too operate under
the framework of subject-object dualism, analyzing spiritual phenomena according to
a culture’s ‘innate logic’ and symbolic map knowledge. Whether materialist or
idealist, an anthropology that is predicated on recording or measuring cultural
phenomenon always stumbles around the issue of spirituality, usually because no one
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has yet come up with a device capable of recording spirituality – hence no empirical
proof.
Phenomenology and the Senses
Despite the preference in the social sciences for dualistic and symbolic
knowledge, there is a rather long-standing albeit marginalized interest within
anthropology concerning consciousness that draws from the intellectual tradition of
phenomenology. Long excluded from mainstream scientific discourse because it
advocates the study of conscious (and unconscious) experience from a subjective
point of view, phenomenology as a movement has impacted anthropology by showing
how subject and object, self and other, psyche and culture, etc. make each other up.
For example, Merleau-Ponty’s assertion that “perception begins in the body and ends
in objects” (as opposed to the other way around) has been adopted by the likes of
Marcel Mauss (1935) and later Pierre Bourdieu (1977) in the form of habitus and
embodiment (Geurts 2002:15). For Bourdieu, habitus refers to a system of “acquired
behavior functioning on the practical level as categories of perception.” In other
words, the symbolic mediation of ones experience becomes so deeply inscribed that it
becomes habitual, unconscious, and literally embodied in the individual. More
recently, anthropologists have used the concept of embodiment as a way of treating
the body as “the existential ground of culture and self” (Csordas 1990:5). According
to this theoretical point of view, Katherine Geurts (2002) points out that a culture’s
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sensory order, or sensorium, is also embodied. The sensorium is in part constituted
by historical and cultural processes, i.e. our senses our shaped by our culture. Senses
should not be treated as “passive recording devices or receivers,” but rather as “active
constructors of experience” (Shore 1997: 44).
While there exist many philosophical works concerning the world of the
senses, the list of particular ethnographies that focus on sensory models other than
audiovisual perception remains rather short. From Boas’s (1940) study of Eskimo
color perception,! which led him to conclude that perception was conditioned by “the
tradition in which its possessor has been reared,” to Sapir and Whorf’s classic study
on the influence of language on perception (1958), conclusions are drawn that the
basic process of perception is the same for all humans, while suggesting that
differences are due to experience rather than inherent biological distinctions. Often,
when scholars such as Michael Harner and Marlene Dobkin de Rios have tackled the
issue of perception outside the realms of the classic five senses, their research has
been marginalized and neglected by the discipline of anthropology. The most
significant work to date attempting to fill this void is Kaythryn Geurts’ Culture and
the Senses (2002), which looks at other modes of sens !!ory input while attempting to
tackle the lack of theorizing about the processes by which sensing contributes to
cultural difference.
The significance of this argument when applied to an analysis of spiritual
healing, witchcraft, and other so-called occult phenomena in Oku is that sensoriums
may differ from one culture to the next, and thus phenomena that an outsider might
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dismiss as ‘psychological’ or ‘not real’ is directly related to an inability on the part of
the outsider to access and experience the sensory order of the Oku community. For
most Euro-Americans, the five-senses model is a scientific fact - so much so that
when confronted with phenomena that they cannot see, hear, taste, smell or touch,
they simply do not exist. Katherine Geurts and others in the field of ‘sensorial
anthropology’ have pointed out that this is simply ‘folk ideology’; indeed, the five-
senses model is based on an out-dated theory that we have bodily structures (organs)
“that receive stimulus from objects outside our bodies, and these organs then send
messages to the brain that are registered and finally interpreted by the mind” (Geurts
2002:228). In addition to the false premise of this theory (subject-object dualism), it
also fails to take into account other sensory systems in our body, including those that
correlate to organs. In Culture and the Senses, Geurts makes a convincing argument
that kinesthetic knowledge is also a sense, as it represents a significant means of
knowing (sensing) things in some cultures (particularly throughout sub-Saharan
African). In her study of the Anlo-Ewe in Ghana, she shows how balance is one such
kinesthetic function that not only correlates to an organ (in this case the inner ear), but
is itself an essential component of what it means to be human within that particular
culture. As such, balance represents one of the primary means of sensory input for
the Anlo-Ewe, and could account for the Western ‘sixth sense’ notion of intuition.
From Aristotle to Descartes, the idea that sensing was a physical and natural
function by which information about the external world was conveyed to the mind
has supported the five-sense folk model to the extent that it has become embodied in
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most Euro-Americans, while solidifying the notion of sensing as a physical function
void of cultural determinants (Geurts 2002:229). Yet as recent studies of culture and
perception have indicated (Wilber 1977, Stoller 1989, Laughlin 1995), not only are
the senses shaped by culture, they also contribute to the experience of different
realities across cultures. The basis of ones worldview, senses as such represent the
relationship between consciousness and what one experiences as reality. This
relationship is the key to understanding the efficacy of the occult phenomena reported
in Oku. Furthermore, I propose that a phenomenological focus on the native
sensorium will reveal the processes by which occult phenomena become reality
within a particular culture.
The Oku Sensorium
The people of Oku utilize multiple sensory fields, beyond the ‘classic five’
sense model, to discern that which is beyond the visible realm. Furthermore, they
maintain a clear relationship between the exterior and interior milieus: the external
world is manipulated through ritual and spiritual practices to affect the internal world,
and the inner world of thoughts, emotions, and the psyche can likewise be
manipulated to affect the external environment. In looking beyond the five senses,
we find that the Oku sensorium includes knowledge and information gained through
the body, through visions and dreams, via harmonic vibrations (sound), and via
ancestral revelations (divination). By approaching their traditional belief system
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through the lens off the local sensorium, we find that the senses are deployed in
culturally patterned ways to provide a means to know and engage the ancestors,
nature spirits, and ultimately Feyin.
For most Westerners, kinesthetic knowledge, or feelings from within the body,
bones, or skin, are often ignored, and are thus rarely identified as a sense. Yet almost
everyone has surely had an "I feel it in my bones" type of experience that is often
linked to foreknowledge or premonition. In Oku, however, not only are people
conscious of bodily knowing, it is so culturally embedded that it is a trusted source of
information. From the big toe to the hair on the nape of the neck, everything on the
body is a potential medium of communication from the spirit world. In other words,
sensations caused by a stimulus from external objects, i.e. hitting one’s right foot, are
epistemologically related to sensations that stem from inside. For example, stubbing
ones toe on a rock often triggers an internal feeling, or intuition, that people in Oku
have come to understand relates to an upcoming encounter with a person (if the right
foot, it’s a male; the left, female). Most messages of this variety (originating with an
external stimulus) are fixed binaries, usually gender specific and often prognostic.
Nevertheless it shows that the sense of touch, which most Westerners limit to
information about temperature and texture, is a far more complex sense than the
Western five-sense model suggests, especially when it is related to the interior milieu.
Sensations, emotions, and intuitions that originate within the body are perhaps
the most significant, if not the most trusted, sources of information for most Oku
people. With no relation to an external stimulus, Oku people routinely pay attention
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to what their blood tells them. In fact, ones blood is viewed as one of the primary,
and most trusted, ‘senses’ in this regard:
My blood shakes to indicate something will happen. It may shake on my
eyebrow or arm. When it happens like that, one waits to see what happens
and when it comes up, the act is noted as a real medium of communication.
Now I know that whenever my right hand shakes, I expect to hear something
bad has befallen a man; when it’s my left, I hear about a woman. It is God
revealing to the people. (Fai Tokembong, member of Kwifon, p.c. 2004).
My ears also indicate to me what will happen when they ring (pulsate). When
the right ear rings, I wait for news concerning a man; when it’s the left, it will
be news concerning a female. (Fai Laah, family head, p.c. 2004).
When something is about to happen to me or a close relative, blood will run
down my right arm and tickle three times. (Nditoh Francis, healer, p.c. 2004).
I get information through blood. It indicates what concerns women on the left
arm, and what concerns men on the right arm. (Fai Mankoh, member of
Kwifon, p.c. 2004).
That ones blood should be a reliable source of information is not surprising
considering the universal significance of blood relationships in terms of kinship
organization. Within the patrilineal, centralized kinship structure that characterizes
Oku, the male ancestors take a central role in the affairs of humans, and this
relationship is traced through the blood-line. “In Oku, a person is part of a line of
ancestors, and what these ancestors have given to him is in his blood; as a direct link
to the ancestors, ones blood should always be listened to” (Nchinda, p.c. 2004). Here
David Nchinda is asserting that more than genetic material is passed down through
the blood: everything, of which he and his ancestors have been the recipient as the
result of sense experience, lives and is active in his blood. Already embodied in the
individual through a common blood-line, it follows that the ancestors would reveal
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themselves through the same medium. This also relates to the importance of having
children (see Chapter One), and the ‘personal immortality’ that goes along with that
honor: without children, the blood-line is cut off, along with the influence of the
ancestors.
Receiving foreknowledge of events “through the blood” is one way of
understanding and expressing the significance of ‘feeling’ as a sensory phenomenon.
In many Western epistemological traditions, a distinction is made between feeling
(sentiments or emotions from within) and sensation (physical stimulus from an extra-
somatic object), with only the latter connected to the five sense folk model (Geurts
2002). Yet in many West African contexts, and Oku in particular, sensations
(external) and feelings (internal) represent a continuum, the result of many people
attending to and reading their own bodies while at the same time orienting themselves
to objects, the environment, and to the bodies of those around them. As such, bodily
feeling is attended to as a source of vital information, which may come in the form of
sensations, perceptions, intuitions, emotions, and even imaginations.
The information contained in these messages is usually limited to general
concerns about the welfare of kinfolk, which is to be expected considering the
medium (blood). For the same reason it is not uncommon for people to send
messages to others in this same manner. In my research I have found that this
primarily occurs amongst close kin folk, fellow healers, and healers and their
apprentices. The experience is typically described as “my blood is indicating that so-
and-so is calling me.” Whether ancestors or living kin folk, within the blood is
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gathered together, as it were, all that the material past has constructed in man; and in
the blood is also being formed all that is being prepared for the future. As such,
‘listening’ to ones blood can be likened to intuition, and this foreknowledge is often
attributed to the ancestors who are active within the body.
Vision, Dreams, and Sacrifice
Amongst West African and other cultures where ancestors help guide human
action, knowledge received in the form of visions and dreams are distinguished from
kinesthetic sensory phenomenon in that they are very personal, having no general
shape or form. Yet like other intuitive ways of knowing, visions are described in a
sensory context, as something felt, seen, or even heard. In Oku it is understood that
everyone has visions, but it is with healers that this phenomenon is most pronounced.
An essential part of a healer’s repertoire, visions are used as diagnostic tool or when
searching for herbs:
If you are my patient, first of all I will look at you, and listen for my vision. If
it is an illness that I cannot treat, my vision will be telling me…and I will send
you to another healer. – Nguan Henry, p.c. 2003.
Sometimes I can have a vision of particular herbs, and then later have a vision
again of the illness that is treated by those same herbs. In that case I will go
out in the morning in search of those herbs. If I am able to see them, as I saw
in my visions, then I know I have been given something important, and I will
definitely use it. – David Nchinda, p.c. 2003.
In this context, visions are simultaneously described as a flash of information,
as well as an overall way of being in the world. In the latter capacity, visions serve as
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one’s conscience, letting one know right or wrong; i.e. if your vision is not with you,
you must try something else. Adding to the complexity of visions is their close
relationship to dreams, indeed it can be said that they approach each other. Visions
can be likened to day-dreaming, or dreaming while awake, which in Oku is very
different from dreaming in ones sleep. A vision is a direct message; when it happens,
one receives “feedback” as David Nchinda explains:
With visions there is direct feedback…but dreams, because they suggest, you
are left expecting a feedback. Therefore with visions, it is very different
from dreaming, because you can dream, and those things may not happen.
The distinguishing feature of visions concerns their intense personal nature
and clarity, as opposed to dreams, which often need the assistance of an interpreter
(diviner). By contrast, visions act as guides, assisting one in taking proper action by
supplying direct information. Although the ability to receive visions can happen to
anyone, the ability to actively cultivate ones vision for purposes of communicating to
others remains the domain of those with the ‘good devil’ inside (the gift of second
sight). Most gifted healers in Oku will attest to being able to give and receive
visions; working with David Nchinda, I personally experienced this phenomenon on a
number of occasions.
The first time came after David Nchinda left me to walk alone through the
thick forest in pitch-black darkness, with only the occasional light of the full
moon breaking through the forest canopy to illuminate my path. As part of
my ‘learning,’ David had suggested that I spend some time alone in the forest
at night, as he had done on many full moons. It was only a matter of time
before I got lost; approaching a fork in the path, I stopped and contemplated
my options: left, right, or retreat? As if David were right beside me, his voice
replied: “follow your navel.” It was immediate, it was direct, it was
reassuring…and it worked. By focusing within and being centered (as I
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interpreted his words at the time), I found my way out of the forest safely.
The next day I thanked David for his help, and he merely smiled and said that
he told me he would be with me. I then asked him if he could tell me how he
helped me. He replied: “I simply told you to follow your navel.”
From the point of view of phenomenology, both visions and dreams are
distinguished from other intuitive ways of knowing in that they are argued to be
psychic sensory perception as opposed to somatic sensory phenomena. Indeed, the
technical means of brain imaging reveal that ones visual field is not recorded whole
by the eyes, but constructed in the occipital lobe of the brain. Furthermore, the
occipital lobe is active whether “really” seeing something or just imagining it
(Winkelman and Peek, 2004). As a sensory organ, then, the occipital lobe acts as a
conduit for information that is bound by neither space nor time. As such, both visions
and dreams are acknowledged throughout Oku and the Northwest as links to the spirit
world, allowing people to gain valuable information that they use in their daily lives.
Dreams have an added significance in Oku in that they are often viewed as
revelations, passed down through the ancestors from Feyin (God). Everyone is thus a
potential conduit, showing that access to the spirits that influence the living is not
totally dependent on the diviners and healers. Nonetheless, healers and diviners,
more so than any other group of people, depend on dreams as a source of spiritual
knowledge. Dreams take on an increased importance because of their oracular
tendencies; many healers will literally ‘sleep on it’ when they encounter a new or
difficult affliction. Using not only information obtained from the dreams but also the
power that is invested in them is an important part of the healing process.
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For the healers of Oku, dreams are a common form in which diagnostic
information comes through. This may or may not include an interpretation of the
patient’s dreams; often the patient will have his or her dreams interpreted elsewhere
(see Divination below). When looking to dreams for diagnosis, the healer
consciously creates conditions for oracular dreams by organizing and centering ones
thoughts on the matter prior to engaging in sleep, thus ensuring “one will dream in
that area.” In part because of the importance of diagnostic dreaming, it is typical for
patients to stay a night or two at the healer’s compound, allowing the healer to draw
on any dreams he or she had during the night to corroborate their vision and
divination diagnoses.
More than diagnostic tools, however, dreams are also a potential source of
spiritual endowment or potency. It is said in Oku that there are three ways to become
empowered as a healer: naturally at birth, handed down from another healer, or
through dreams. Dreams in this respect represent an area in which the ancestors
exercise considerable influence; for example, in their capacity to guide human
behavior. It is not unusual for healers to receive their calling in dreams, and be
guided by their dreams as they continue with the healing arts. For the Oku person,
dreams are not something “we have or make, but a part of our existence that we live”
(Nchinda, p.c. 2005). Because the sleeping and the waking selves but two parts of the
same self, a person can be affected by occasions in the dream world.
The potential for dreams to affect a person’s wellbeing constitutes the major
difference between visions and dreams in Oku. Affliction cannot be caused by
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visions, whereas dreams may affect a person’s health. For this reason, certain dreams
are brought before diviners for interpretation. Oftentimes a potential affliction can be
averted with the assistance of a diviner’s interpretation. For example, most afflictions
stemming from the dream world have their origins in witchcraft; as such, appropriate
protection rituals would be made available to eliminate the threat acting in the dream.
Intervening in the spheres of spirit and human forces, rituals of protection (see
Chapter Seven) present an opportunity to bring the forces in the dream world under
control.
As custodians of tradition and intermediaries between God and humanity, the
ancestors are intimately involved with the welfare of their kin group. Providing
guidance in the form of visions and dreams, ones relationship with the ancestors must
be cultivated, trusted, and maintained, especially if one is to be an effective healer:
I see my father by vision…he comes by vision. He would send visions to
guide me….and the way they guide me, these visions, is in the form of
sacrifices, that I do for him. He showed me how to do this correctly, so that
his actions towards me are frequent. And if I miss the sacrifices, therefore I
cannot get him. And I try not to miss them, because if I miss them, I cannot
go rightly. Because all I am doing with healing, I got from him. And I trust in
that, I cannot forget….to make the sacrifices. – Nguan Henry, p.c. 2003.
Here the relationship between visions and sacrifice is made clear. Visions
represent messages from the ancestral/spirit world, whereas sacrifice represents not
only a means to communicate messages to the spirit world, but more importantly to
maintain and revitalize the influence of the ancestors in daily life. This is the crux of
the matter of animal sacrifice: unlike other ancestral offerings (ntangle) involving
‘spirit food,’ libations, and prayer, the animal (usually a fowl) must be put to death in
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order to affect the invisible forces so that life may be perpetuated. More than an
offering or mere gift (as most classical views of sacrifice suggest), animal sacrifice is
predicated on the transference of life from man to spirit. The spirits, or ancestors, are
not consuming the flesh of the sacrifice, but instead receive the life (one could also
say ‘energy’) that was given to them. In receiving this life, the spirits are restoring
harmony to the social order, helping to maintain the balance in a society where well-
being is contingent upon the healthy relationships between humanity and the spirit
world.
In this aspect, sacrifice in Oku resembles Evans-Pritchard contention that
sacrifice separates God and Man as opposed to uniting them. Man eats the meat;
Spirit receives the life that is given. At the moment of sacrifice, humans and spirits
are distinct entities, each in control of their own domain. This is evident in the
practice of transferring energy ‘back’ to the spirit world, especially if it is understood
to have originated there. Most spiritual washings or cleansings, a common precursor
for treating any ‘unnatural’ affliction, incorporate animal sacrifice for this purpose.
As David Nchinda explained, “the fowl takes all the bad things and transfers them
back to the spirit world; obviously, the fowl cannot go to the spirit world alive” (p.c.
2003).
As messages from spirit world, the frequency and clarity of dreams and
visions is dependant upon regular offerings to the ancestors. In fact it is a common
belief among healers in Oku that visions and dreams are ‘strengthened’ by making
regular sacrifices. Sacrificial ritual represents the only guarantee that ones request or
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prayer will be ensured safe passage to the spirit realm. Unlike other traditions of
sacrifice, such as those that occur with the neighboring Yoruba in Nigeria, where the
type of animal sacrifice appropriate for enlisting spiritual aid is related to the nature
of the problem and the personality of the spiritual agent, animal sacrifice in Oku is
largely limited to fowls and goats, and almost always directed to the ancestors. There
is no direct connection, as is popularly believed, between the type of animal and the
‘rank’ of the spiritual agent; i.e. a ‘higher’ animal for a ‘higher’ god. Quite to the
contrary, animal sacrifice is limited to the ancestors and intercessory spirits, whereas
no animal sacrifices are carried out for the Gods (Emyin).
The practice of providing offerings of food and palm wine to the Emyin, while
sacrificing animals to the ancestors, speaks to the efficacy of the ancestors in daily
life while simultaneously downplaying the role of the Emyin in human affairs. As
kin, the ancestors are active within the blood, and so it is through blood that the
ancestors can most effectively be reached. This suggests that the type of animal is
secondary to the blood of the animal; the fact that fowls are used most often is more
likely an economical, ‘common-sense’ decision more so than any mystical qualities
the creature may possess. The necessity of blood as a precursor to activating
(charging) many types of medicine is further evidence that blood, as opposed to the
animal itself, is the key to this type of sacrifice. Offerings to the Emyin, on the other
hand, consist of specially prepared food (njemte) and palm wine. In Oku this ritual is
referred to as “giving the Gods a good sleep,” which is in line with their role in terms
of human affairs (Koloss 2000: 403). Generally favorable to mankind, the Emyin are
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less involved in the day-to-day affairs of the people, and are generally associated with
unusual or extraordinary events. It is interesting to note that amongst healers in Oku,
the use of other animals as sacrifice (excluding their use for medicine) is discussed in
only in the context of witchcraft (see Chapter Seven).
Music and Sound
Sound, in general, is arguably the most dynamic sensory field in many
indigenous societies, and Oku is no exception. In most, if not all, indigenous
societies music, trance, and healing form a continuum that is often functionally
irreducible into constituent parts. Nevertheless it is often treated as an
epiphenomenon, accompanying other, more important ritual activities, or it is
separated along aesthetic, religious, and medicinal lines (Friedson, xii-xiii). Such
analyses run contrary to the indigenous worldview and its holistic vision of reality in
which the universe is seen as a complex web of interdependent relationships, rather
than composed of elementary building blocks. Given the profound role of sound in
the cultural experiences of many African cultures, one could argue for a conceptual
shift from structure to rhythm, suggesting, perhaps, that the nature of reality closely
resembles that of music (Agawu 1995).
Joachim Berendt, in his monumental work Nada Brahma - The World is Sound,
develops a theory of living systems that argues that we do not perceive an
independently existing world, but rather we create a harmonic world in the processes
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of perception. These processes differ in various living organisms that have different
organs of perception and thereby create different worlds. In short, Berendt implies
that the universal dynamic pattern is not just vibration, but sound itself, meaning that
the universe actually vibrates in harmonic proportions. Similarly, what one
‘observes’ are only harmonic vibrations in the universe (Berendt 1987: xii). While
describing the entire soundscape of the Oku people is beyond the scope of this study,
it is important to acknowledge the role of sound in terms of the agency of the spirit
world on human affairs, and vice versa.
The concept of juju and the role of music therein are crucial towards
manifesting the reality of so-called occult phenomena in Oku. Essential for every
secret society, ‘juju music’ refers to the sounds and instruments that aid in
manifesting the reality of the juju masquerade. Considered sacred, the musical
instruments belonging to the various secret societies are sanctified with kefuh kebeh,
thus embodying medicine itself. At every important medicine ritual, juju music can
be heard, animating the medicines while warning non-members to stay away. As the
most significant and at the same time the most secret and dangerous ritual tools of
every juju, the musical instruments belonging to secret societies usually fall under the
authority of the medicine men and typically can only be played when one has been
initiated deep into the society.
The various manifestations of so-called juju music occur within a framework
that has been defined by Victor Turner as rituals of affliction, or the more colloquial
term - drums of affliction, reflecting the significance of drumming and rhythmic
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singing and dancing. However, the performative nature of healing in the manner
described by Turner is not practiced by healers in Oku, whose sessions are typically
private affairs involving at the most a few patients, the healer, and the medicine men
from the society. Instead, the only occurrence of music in the individual healing
context occurs during spiritual washes, when the soft and eerie sounds of the juju’s
pipe can be heard. The primary musical instrument of mask societies, the juju’s pipe
belongs to the class of mirliton pipes, or reed instruments containing a vibrating
membrane inside. Unlike other musical instruments that may be heard outside the
context of medicine rituals, the mirliton pipe is exclusive to all but those secret
society men who have been initiated into the ‘level of the juju.’ Otherwise it is
strictly forbidden to see, touch, play or construct a mirliton pipe.
In the context of healing, the mirliton pipes are viewed as the voice of the juju,
and not as the voices of ancestors or other spirits as propounded by other African
peoples (Koloss 2000: 99). Its primary functions, according to every situation in
which I’ve been exposed to the voice of the juju, include: to scare away onlookers
from coming too close to the dangerous medicines, to seek out and destroy witches,
and to animate the medicine during its preparation as well as during spiritual washes.
The first two functions are personified in Mabu juju, described in Chapter Five, who
‘communicates’ via a short mirliton pipe in his mouth. The voice of the juju is eerily
similar to that of bird calls, and as such is often associated with witchcraft and the
powers of transformation. Mabu uses its voice to not only scare away onlookers from
coming too close to the dangerous medicines, but to also seek out and identify
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witches by speaking to them through the mirliton pipe (Bah, p.c. 2004). The third
function of the juju’s pipe concerns animating the medicine, which reinforces
Agawu’s theory that the nature of reality in many African cultures is closely related to
music. In a cleansing ritual in which I took part as a member of Lum, the Ndongtuh
juju hid in the bushes a few meters upstream from where we were administering the
wash, playing the mirliton pipe throughout. It was explained to me that the music
from the juju is carried downstream towards the patient, where it combines with the
medicine to “give it more spiritual force.” The interaction of music with nature
(water) in the cleansing of unwanted influences on the body (in this case witchcraft)
suggests that juju music plays a key role in uniting a person with the spiritual reality
that surrounds her.
Another musical instrument that functions in this manner is the bullroarer. A
remarkably simple instrument, bullroarers are crafted by attaching length of cord
(three to five feet in length) through a hole at the end of a ruler-shaped object (one to
five feet long) carved from wood or bone. Despite the relative ease of construction,
bullroarers remain heavily shrouded in secrecy and mystery, especially in Oku.
Originally used by military societies to terrorize and defeat the enemy, today they are
used exclusively by the Mfuh society during burial ceremonies of its deceased
members. Swinging their bullroarers and waving their machetes, members of Mfuh
rush upon the burial site in a menacing manner, at which point all non-members must
hide or look away, or risk immediate affliction by the kefuh kebeh of Mfuh.
Producing a deep vibratory sound containing low frequency sound waves that are
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below the human auditory threshold, the bullroarer effectively aids in clearing the
burial ground of non-members and unwanted spiritual influences just prior to the
deceased’s internment.
The remarkably uniform worldwide tradition of bullroarers have led some
researchers to focus on the subtleties employed in generating the ‘voice’ of the
bullroarer and their role in the creation of human belief systems—especially the
spectrum of physical, emotional and hallucinogenic responses to beneficial (15 Hz.
and above) and potentially “toxic” (below 10 Hz.) infrasonics:
Thunder, earthquakes, waterfalls and waves, whales and sharks, cassowaries,
deep drums and gongs, chanting, jet planes, and bass-boosters all generate
infrasonics. These waves are picked up by the cochlea (labyrinth) of the ear
and influence the vestibular, circadian systems of the brain. Infrasonics
stimulate a wide array of euphoric, eerie, and/or deeply traumatic trance-like
and hallucinogenic states, and serotonin nerves may be central to this
process….the different parts of the brain simultaneously generate different
waves, and researchers have only begun to imagine how environmental
infrasonic mixes might actually shape or even have given birth to human
consciousness. (Hagens 2004).
Support for the influence of the bullroarer on human belief systems can be
found in various indigenous sacred narratives, or myths, which hold that the
bullroarer actually preceded the divinities (Hagens 2004, Hall 1983). The idea here is
that when the bullroarer was swung, the divinities made their presence known – an
idea implicit in the practice of using the bullroarer during burial ceremonies in Oku
today.
Although the mirliton pipe and bullroarer stand out as two of the most sacred
musical instruments in Oku and play a significant role in the expression of the
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people’s spirituality and worldview, they are by no means the only musical
instruments used in the context of performance and healing. A variety of instruments
including drums, rattles, bells and woodwinds make up the ‘juju music’ at burial
rituals and death ceremonies, contributing to a cathartic healing process for the
ailment of mourning. The music and dance that accompany burial rituals and death
celebrations throughout the Grasslands bring together individuals, whether novices or
qualified healers, who present themselves in characteristic African call and response,
creating a framework of reality within which the affliction (mourning) is defined and
the remedy formulated: "The moving, pulsating context of ritual celebration is
conducive to cognitive dissociation and restructuring, lending affliction cults a
psycho-therapeutic quality" (Janzen 1994: 170).
The distinction between therapy and entertainment must also be considered; the
sacrality and healing aspects of the death celebration depends on its function or use,
and not the music or dance as such. Thus juju music and performances as
entertainment will not necessarily differ in their form from therapeutic rituals
performed during burials and death celebrations. Janzen (1994) describes the
"career" of such rituals: initially there exists a crisis, then would emerge the response
with visions, dreams, insights and divination. The ritual form would develop and
mature, ultimately becoming a routinized ceremonial held within a community "to
which therapeutic initiation" is the mode of entry. If successful, it becomes a
recognized ritual with characteristic songs, dances, and performances widely
represented in society. Finally, long after crisis has passed, it may become an action
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that is picked up by a dance troupe (174). This accurately describes the evolution of
masquerade dances and musical rhythms in the context of death celebrations in Oku.
When a new mask society is established in Oku, it must first be presented to the Fon
for approval. Following this, it may appear with its juju at the burial ceremonies of
its deceased members. As the society grows and becomes more known, it may be
invited to perform at death celebrations of non-members as well. Finally, as is the
case with rising popularity of juju performances in the urban centers of Cameroon, it
may lead to the creation of a separate dance troupe, often with the same name but
with no affiliation to medicine.
The soundscape of Oku, whether in terms of individual healing rituals involving
the mirliton pipe, or in the context of communal therapeutic death celebrations
involving a wide range of music, dance and song, is significant in terms of what is
missing from the ethnographic sketch: trance. The various manifestations of the
occult in Sub-Saharan Africa have been described by Victor Turner and others as
rituals of affliction, reflecting the significance of drumming and rhythmic dancing
that give voice or influence to the spirits, which in turn leads to trance or possession
of the afflicted in the process of healing. However in Oku and throughout the
Grasslands there is no trance involved. This absence of trance or any other
technology that leads to it carries over into the sphere of divination.
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Divination
Anthropologists are like Diviners...both seek meaningful patterns in
the apparently random and contradictory element !!s of social
interaction.
In Oku, where ancestors help guide human action, it can be said that
communication between a person and his ancestors occurs constantly. The primary
institutional means of articulating and validating such experiences is the system of
divination – arguably the foundation of the African worldview. Nevertheless,
academic approaches to explaining divination tend to reflect the broader theoretical
and ideological contexts of Western science, while failing to take seriously the emic
perspective. The tradition of explaining divination in the context of latent social
functions (Turner 1975, Schofeleer 1994, Janzen 1994) has offered some insight into
its effects, but it does not account for the classic emic perspective on divination:
information from the spirit world.
Most anthropological perspectives on the efficacy of divination compare it
with Western scientific techniques as well. Emile Durkheim and Marcel Mauss, for
example, argued that the science of divination was a system of classification, while
Marlene Dobkin del Rios labeled divination the non-Western equivalent of various
psychological tests including TATs and Rorschachs (Durkheim and Mauss 1963: 77,
Dobkin 1969: 140). Yet divination is not merely an epistemological system reflecting
a different set of assumptions about the nature of reality. The driving force behind
divination is the need to re-establish harmony and equilibrium in life by diagnosing
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the causes of affliction. As such it is also a social practice and therapeutic endeavor
with very real effects and implications. The bottom line is, divination works, and as a
human universal it persists. This is reflected in what Koen Stroeken calls ‘concern
with the real’: “Academic perspectives on divination often ignore the highly
skeptical behavior of those who use divination. Concern for the real is reflected in a
search for divinatory revelations that are repeatedly verifiable” (2004: 5).
The tremendous variety of divination forms defies any easy categorization.
Western-based typologies involve separating states of consciousness and
human/spiritual worlds. African based typologies reflect a similar pattern: possession
(mediumistic), diviner interviewing client (psychological), and chance cast of objects
(causal). Most analyses try to distinguish between normal states of consciousness and
those involving ecstatic states, but the only real difference is that in ecstatic states the
occult powers “speak” through the diviner rather than through the divinatory
apparatus (Peek 1991). I propose that it is more useful to focus on the total process
than individual methods of divinatory diagnosis, because all are similar means to the
same end. A better approach may be: which form of divination correlates to which
problem?
In Oku, the process of divination is a private affair between the patient and the
healer/diviner. Despite the large variety of forms, the basic process remains the same.
The first stage involves accessing the spirit realm through elements embodied in ritual
objects, speech, and actions, as well as through the sensory experiences on the part of
the diviner. Once the vehicle for cross-world communication has been established,
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the information is usually interpreted within the framework of re-establishing the
patient’s relationship with his or her social environment, including the ancestors.
Finally, an appropriate course of action, or response to the information, is explored
between the patient and the diviner, and then presented to the spirit world for
confirmation and clarification.
The approaches to divination in Oku and throughout the Grassfields are
almost as varied as the individual healers themselves, but all are oracular in nature.
That is to say, the knowledge or information is transmitted through objects, plants, or
animals before interpretation by the diviner. The oracles, in turn, can be broken down
into two groups: open-ended analogical schemes and fixed-response binary systems.
Analogical schemes refer to oracles that produce multi-referential symbols and secret
meanings that only the diviner is capable of decoding and disclosing, whereas fixed
response systems produce a static, fixed mode of narrative based on binary symbols
(Peek 1991).
The most common forms of fixed response divination in Oku involve the
chance casting of objects. In what has been described as representational symbolism
(Hunt 1995), the medium of expression is relatively automatic, although the overall
divination process as outlined above remains the same. The ritual objects most
frequently used in casting are cola nut skins and cowry shells. Each shell or skin has
a distinct front and back side, which are related to good/bad, yes/no, hope/despair,
full/empty and other binaries depending on the situation at hand. Cola nut divination
is significant because it is the only system in which the ritual objects, speech, and
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actions do not come from the diviner. The client must provide his or her own cola nut
and carefully tear five triangular pieces from its shell. The diviner sits opposite and
instructs the client to gather the pieces in one hand and speak to them; i.e. what it is
he or she wants to know. The pieces are then tossed on the ground in front of the
diviner, who assists the visitor in interpreting the signs based on their individual
positions (front, back, and direction) and relation to each other (grouped together,
spread out, evenly split, etc). Oftentimes the same question will be repeated for
confirmation, and the position of the objects usually raises other possibilities and
leads to further enquiries.
This relatively simple form of divination, which people in Oku practice on a
daily basis with or without a diviner, is significant because its very simplicity opens a
window into the basic mechanisms at work during the divinatory process. To begin
with, the ritual object itself, the cola nut, plays a significant social role throughout
West Africa. A mild stimulant, it is closely associated with the economy and with
religious practices, social relationships, and the sphere of health and sexuality.
Moreover, the cola nut is part and parcel of daily life and is associated with almost all
social events. Throughout Oku and the Grassfields, cola nuts have to be offered to the
guests, in large numbers if possible. “He who brings cola, brings life” is a typical
expression in the Grassfields, reflecting its importance as a symbol for hospitality,
friendship, sharing, mutual understanding, respect, solidarity and sociability.
The dimension of sharing and conviviality is significant in terms of the cola
nut’s role in divination. First of all, the cola nut is a piece of food that requires to be
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eaten in partnership. In all societies eating together is a highly social activity, an
exchange, a social contract, a language of hospitality and sharing. Throughout
Africa, people have shared the cola nut both within daily life and at important events
in order to socialize and to gain benefit from its stimulating properties. The bonding
aspect of sharing cola nuts, combined with its stimulating properties, make it an ideal
medium with which to communicate not only with each other, but with the ancestors
as well. As a religious object it fulfills an essential function as a mediator between
the living and the spirits, as evidenced by its use in similar contexts throughout West
Africa: “In the Ewe society of South Togo, speaking while masticating cola nuts
together with another vegetable substance is supposed to convey a magic force to the
spoken words. The Nso and the Bakaka in Cameroon use the same procedure within
certain divinatory rituals. In Benin, an incantation would not be successful until,
while being pronounced, a bit of Nudida (kola nut soaked in animal blood) is eaten as
a prerequisite” (Tshiala 2004: 4).
In addition to the cola nut’s transcendental powers as part of the biotic
community, cola divination illustrates another vital element of divination: the power
of the word. “Our incantations are what you might call prayers. The Oku man
believes in the power of prayers. First you invite God the creator, then the gods of
the land, including the founder of the community, or ancestors, and finally you call
the person who initiated you into the medicines, followed by prayers asking for what
you want to achieve” (Nguan Henry, p.c. 2003). In the same manner that sound and
music, as described above, have a force that operates not only at the site of the ear but
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throughout the entire body, speech as well has this dynamic power to penetrate and
transform reality. The idea of the ‘power of words’ has been well documented for
numerous African cultures (Peek 1994, Ray 1973, Stoller 1984), based on the ability
to project, direct, and wield considerable positive or negative force with the intention
of ‘hitting the mark.’ But ritual speech in the context of divination indicates another
dimension of speaking: the breath and vibrations of air, shaped by the body and
motives of the speaker, give speech “an energy that is independent of its referential
quality” (Geurts 2002: 60). Both the speaker and the addressee, including the
ancestors, are argued to be affected by this energy, creating a direct link and a circular
flow of energy that unites the participants in the divination session.
In its simplicity and frequency of use, cola nut divination illustrates two key
components of divination: the role of the biotic community, in the form of ritual
objects, and the significance of prayer in penetrating the spirit world and uniting the
practitioner with the ancestors who in turn communicate through the medium of the
cola nut. As a binary fixed response system, the cola nut oracle is used most often as
an indicator of potentialities, opportunities, and expectations, and as such illustrates
the role of divination in the larger context of decision making in daily life. In
comparison, the more open-ended analogical forms of divination are used for more
‘serious’ situations, involve more sensory orientations on the part of the practitioner,
offer more reliable and detailed information, and tend to be consulted for more
serious situations such as patient diagnosis. The best example of this is the complex
ritual of basket divination.
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“Anyone can be taught to read the kola nut or the cowries, but with the basket,
and the items inside it…unless one is born and gifted they cannot master it.” This
statement by Nchinda Mathias, a native doctor and president of the Oku Association
of Traditional Healers, shows an important distinction between the fixed response
systems and the open-ended analogical variety. It also reflects a pattern of seeking
different systems of divination according to the nature of the problem. Most, if not
all concerns pertaining to health and affliction are diagnosed using open-ended
oracles, and as such have a significant reliance on the spiritual potency, or keyoi, of
the healer. In the context of the basket oracle, the healer depends on receiving
information not only from the oracular objects in the basket, but from direct
communication with the ancestral and spirit powers that inform the oracle as well.
The capacity to receive visions via the basket oracle is directly related to the
ritual objects that contribute to the process. Although every healer has a unique array
of paraphernalia that help him get in touch with the spirit world, their basic functions
are the same. The first step is to prepare a space by laying down a mat, usually an
animal skin that has been handed down through the generations, thus forming an
important link with the diviner’s ancestors. Along the edges of the mat are placed
three or four objects that Nchinda Mathias calls ‘bases,’ or personal items that aid the
healer in their visions: “I use these items as bases…whenever I touch them, I am able
to know something by it.” Next, the healer removes his divining equipment: two
pieces of carved wood called emkan, a handful of cowry shells, a shaker made from a
horn, and the divining basket.
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The diviner’s basket is filled with an array of objects, easily numbering into
the hundreds, and includes such seemingly random items as bottle caps, beads, shells,
pieces of glass, miniature wood carvings, rocks, teeth, and bone. Upon closer
analysis, however, the objects are only as random as the universe in which the healer
lives. For example, a piece of glass was picked up at the site of a car accident
involving the death of a young girl. A bottle cap was taken from the bar in nearby
Kom where the diviner first had an encounter with a European. A particular wood
chip was found at a construction site where trees were being chopped down to make
way for a road. In other words, their association with the spirit world stems from
their significance as objects taken from specific instances of life-impacting
experiences, so that eventually a more or less complete spectrum of all possible
happenings are there in the basket. The healer’s universe thus grows in relation to the
bowl.
This did not occur to me until I took my leave from Nchinda Mathias at the
end of my fieldwork in 2003. Mathias requested that I bring a piece of the World
Trade Center with me when I return, so he could add it to his divination basket. It
suddenly dawned on me that it was a perfectly sensible request: the bombing of the
World Trade Center in 2001 was an extraordinary event that had and continues to
have repercussions all over the world. Even in Oku, seemingly worlds away from
New York, the event impacts people’s consciousness and becomes a part of their
worldview, manifested in conversations and interpersonal relations. In the context of
his divining basket, a piece of the Trade Center would allow Mathias to connect with
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a larger reality and increase the reach of his vision: “the basket is never complete…
everything in here represents a happening, and so it will continue to grow, as there are
other happenings yet to occur.”
Before a diviner questions the basket oracle, he may ‘activate’ his senses by
burning incense (resin from a plum tree), chewing cola nut, or chewing on the
‘alligator pepper’ – also a stimulant in the same capacity as the cola nut. He will then
make various entreaties to God for help in ‘seeing the problem.’ The ritual action of
basket divination consists of the diviner speaking directly into the basket while
shaking up its contents. When he has finished his enquiry, he stops and examines the
arrangement of objects. Each object is mnemonically multi-referential, or, as Turner
(1970) would say, "polyvalent" - able to "hook up" conceptually to other objects. The
ensuing juxtaposition of objects, Turner argues, bridges general precepts and past
precedents, on the one hand, and present-day woes on the other. In this way, sense
and order can be perceived and created from the “indecipherable simultaneity” of
lived experience (1975: 239). Here Turner touches on an aspect of divination that I
propose is one of the keys to its understanding. Divination takes place in ritual time,
which reconciles past, present, and future by penetrating the spiritual world, which
like consciousness is considered timeless. Past precedents, like memories, exist only
in the present, just as the ‘future’ is really only a never-fading instance of the present.
The gift of the diviner lies in his ability to reconcile past, present, and future, allowing
him to focus on fields of events and forces that are in the process of becoming.
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According to David Nchinda, the objects in the basket function primarily as
indicators: “read them exactly as they are, but always refer to your conscience for
confirmation.” Here ‘conscience’ is analogous to spirituality, for such confirmation
is achieved by posing a true/false or yes/no question to the spirit world through the
use of another oracular device. The two most common ‘truthsayer’ devices are the
emkan wood oracle and the rattle. The rattle functions more along the lines of a fixed
response system, indicating the veracity of the reading by the noise it makes: if the
diagnosis is correct, the seeds inside the rattle cease to move and make noise. Most
diviners throughout the Grassfields use similar ‘confirmation devices;’ in nearby
Kejom, for example, ‘divining brooms’ are sometimes used. Two bunches of sticks,
bound together with ‘medicine,’ are joined end-to-end and then pulled apart. If the
sticks remain together, the diviner has made a correct diagnosis. By contrast, emkan
functions as both a fixed response system, and as a means of invoking the ancestors.
Functioning in a way analogous to Catholic rosary beads during prayer or Buddhist
malas when reciting mantras, the healer methodically shaves the emkan wood with a
knife while invoking the ancestors. In the context of divination, the diviner will
direct his question to the ancestors, blow on the emkan and drop it on the ground,
elucidating a response based on the position of the two pieces of wood.
A distinguishing feature of open-ended analogical schemes such as basket
divination is the practice of maintaining anonymity and holding back information on
the part of the client or patient. “Academic perspectives on divination often ignore
the highly skeptical behavior of those who use divination” (Stroeken 2002:5).
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According to Stroeken, this skepticism is reflected in clients seeking out diviners
from outside the village, refusing to sit down with a diviner until something has been
revealed about them, and consulting several diviners and comparing their revelations
before taking steps to resolve the problem or affliction (2004: 5). While observing
basket divination in Oku I found that this skeptical attitude applies to the diviner as
well. Most diviners will consult oracles such as the rattle or emkan before attempting
any diagnosis, testing their equipment with a question such as “am I alive?” Healers
such as David Nchinda will also test the waters, so to speak, to determine if the
ancestral spirits are in the right mood or alignment before proceeding. This is argued
to further validate the diviner as well as provide security in the process.
In their role as diviners, the traditional healers of Oku have an equally
responsible and important obligation to society. In general it is advisable to consult a
diviner more or less regularly in order to avoid mistakes or misfortune. In addition to
recognizing causes and backgrounds of various afflictions, diviners also point out
ways to resolve them. For example, a patient may be informed of what rituals must
be carried out for reconciliation or appeasement. Diviners also play an important role
in all cases of death; in Oku it is mandatory to see a diviner in order to determine the
cause, and he is encouraged to interrogate anyone associated with it (Koloss 2000:
314). Because of their gift, diviners are also responsible for exposing criminals and
witches. When the matter of offended rights and claims come before Kwifon, a
diviner is always called in for support. Despite all of this power, however, very few
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diviners are in political office, and most remain marginal in terms of the their status in
the community – a point Turner made thirty years ago (1975: 24).
I propose this also has to do with an unspoken ‘diviner’s code’ concerning the
source of their knowledge. It is a known fact in Oku that diviners never err, for they
have no influence over the oracle. The answer comes from God, and it is the
diviner’s gift that allows him to interpret the signs of God. To betray God by lying
about the oracle would render one immediately blind, according to my informants. In
other words, they would lose the confidence, and thus the source, of their vision.
When a diviner feels incapable or is ‘having a bad day,’ he simply advises the client
to visit another diviner or to come again. If a diviner has problems or enquiries
himself, he must consult another diviner. According to David Nchinda, it is
impossible to question the oracle oneself: “you cannot see your own back now, can
you?”
Everywhere it occurs, divination involves constructing usable knowledge
from oracular messages. To do so, diviners must move from a boundless to a
bounded realm of existence in their practice (Tedlock 2001). Through a highly
interactive and sensory performance, diviners create a space in which their cognitive
structures are transformed and new relations are generated in and between the senses
and the cosmos. Divination is thus a creative process, or autopoiesis, developed from
within (de Boeck & Devisch 1994). As can be seen in basket divination, individual
creativity operates as ideas, metaphors and symbols extracted from the oracle suggest
various possibilities, which in turn give way to an ordered sequencing and to more
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limited interpretations. Meaning finally emerges as a result of an experiential
immersion in the expressive patterns of the oracular objects in the basket, which the
diviner grasps intuitively (Hunt 1995: 41-2). Finally, through dialogue between the
diviner and the client, these interpretations are superseded by an unambiguous
classification of the causes of the situation, and the material needed to respond to and
change it.
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Chapter 7:
Witchcraft, Healers, & Morality
Witchcraft is alive and well in Africa today, despite the promises of countless
Western academics and theorists who argue that such occult beliefs would certainly
die with the coming of modernity. Yet even with Western influences and
development, and in spite of the long arm of globalization, the general sentiment on
the continent is that witchcraft is on the rise. Indeed, everywhere in sub-Saharan
Africa witchcraft is not only considered the cause of all evil, peril and anti-social
relations, but also the force behind peculiar and mysterious events and phenomena.
Furthermore, witchcraft has seamlessly adapted to modern contingencies, from the
influx of capitalism in village arenas to politics at the national level, showing that it is
more than just a lingering cultural custom (Geschiere 1997).
Contributing to the ambiguity in the study of witchcraft are anthropologists who
have long tended to view the phenomenon within a strictly local context, arguing that
it maintains the status quo and "defends the local order against the undermining
impact of new external influences" (Geschiere 1997: 12). In effect they produce a
highly moralizing and conservative view of witchcraft, often reducing it to a
discourse on oppositions (such as good versus evil), despite local terminology that
indicates otherwise. For example, in Oku witchcraft has both disturbing and
constructive effects, depending on its use. The traditional healers of Oku are said to
be ‘good devils,’ and people regularly resort to witchcraft in the context of protecting
oneself, reinforcing authority, or to simply succeed in life. The use of witchcraft in
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this context is evidence that witchcraft is not, as commonly proposed by
anthropologists, necessarily a conservative force.
The other major obstacle in the way of exploring the phenomenon of witchcraft
concerns the thorny issue of reality. I argue that it is not enough to simply reduce the
question of the reality of witchcraft to a discourse on ‘belief,’ especially when belief
in occult forces is often taken as an indication of a society’s lack of ‘progress’ from
traditional to modern living. Quite the contrary, the strong presence of witchcraft in
the more modern sectors of Cameroon society shows that it is more than just an
“exotic curiosity” (Geschiere 1997: 24). Nevertheless, the idea that these forces do
not really exist marks many anthropological studies (Evans-Pritchard 1937, Muir
1969, Thomas 1971, Bond 2000), which tend to extract the phenomena from lived
experience by focusing on symbols and latent functions in terms of social order, as in:
“the imagined world of witches is essential to maintaining the moral and ethical order
of the real world of everyday experiences” (Bond 2000). M.P. Hebga, a priest in
Cameroon, gives the following explanation on the tendency of scientific researchers
to deny the reality of witchcraft: “A first approach to magic and sorcery would be to
suppose that this is a symbolic language. A man who flies into the air and transforms
himself into an animal…and other weird manifestations would then be only a coded
language for which the scientist has to find the key to crack the code. Then we would
be reassured: everything would happen in the real world according to nature’s order;
and elaborate systems of symbols would tend to protect the group’s interest” (1979:
219).
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Acknowledging the existence of witchcraft in society is one thing, however, but
accounting for the effects of actions that are very hard to discern presents a different
challenge. The academic attitude that witchcraft “is real to the people who use it” is
difficult to maintain in a society where almost everything is referred to as being
influenced by occult forces. Furthermore, witchcraft represents an expanded notion
of agency in which all sorts of events are attributed to human acts, especially those
that Westerners might call ‘natural’ disasters. In other words, witchcraft heavily
emphasizes human action, yet witches and their actions are always hidden from view.
People brought up in a Western society may talk of chance or ‘Gods will,’ whereas in
African tradition the question of ‘why’ is usually answered in terms of witchcraft.
The emphasis on human action is one of the foundations of the African
worldview, which contrasts with the West’s tendency to look for explanations in
terms of impersonal causes. In this respect witchcraft in Oku is just one element in a
shifting hierarchy of human-spiritual relations that include the ancestors, gods of the
land, and Feyin. Although it is generally accepted that witchcraft is tied to dark
forces, in Oku it is understood that one can use witchcraft for evil or for good.
According to Geschiere (1997), this ambiguity arises out of the intimate relation
between witchcraft and kinship, and thus represents the “dark side of kinship,” or the
acknowledgement that there exists mistrust and aggression within the family, where
there should be only trust and solidarity (11). While it is true that witchcraft and
kinship are certainly connected throughout Central and West Africa, witchcraft as it is
understood in the Northwest of Cameroon arises not only out of kinship and
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community relations, but also extends to animals, plants, inanimate objects and other
natural phenomena including wind, sun and rain. In Oku, this widespread
pervasiveness of witchcraft arguably impacts daily life more than the ancestors and
gods that predominate over their fate.
Locating Witchcraft in Oku
Unlike other arenas wherein witchcraft in general associated with all things
anti-social, harmful, and generally evil, in Oku and throughout the Grassfields there is
a real effort to distinguish good from bad witchcraft. In Oku, this ambiguity is
directly related to the association of witchcraft with specific ‘devilish’ powers
connected to keyoi, the life-force of all living creatures (Koloss 2000: 321). Drawing
from the same powers that give efficacy to traditional healing, sorcery, and
divination, what has come to be labeled as witchcraft is thus a highly textured,
multifaceted, and often ambiguous expression of the African worldview.
The relationship between keyoi and witchcraft implies that the potential for
witchcraft is inherent in every living thing. As a power bestowed by God (Feyin),
those who are ‘gifted’ have substantially more keyoi than others and typically become
healers, but they can also become witches. Thus witchcraft in Oku, unlike in other
areas including eastern Cameroon, cannot be neatly compartmentalized as an evil
power unto itself. I therefore argue that it is important to maintain a distinction
between witchcraft, which as a power all healers possess (and is present in various
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plants, animals, and other living things), and witches, or those people who use
witchcraft for destructive ends. This distinction is crucial to understanding what at
first appears to be a blatant contradiction in terms of witchcraft and affliction. If the
majority of illnesses and deaths in Oku are attributed to witchcraft, one would expect
to find witches operating on a daily basis, no matter how secretive their actions may
be. Yet not only are witches near impossible to locate, in Oku it is said that no
witches can exist within its borders due to the anti-witchcraft medicines of Ngang and
Kwifon. Nonetheless, people are routinely diagnosed as having been afflicted or
killed by witchcraft, oftentimes by ones own family members. It is this contradiction
that has prevented many researchers and academics from acknowledging the reality
of witchcraft, for the simple reason that nowhere are witches to be found. However,
by making a distinction between witchcraft as a power that can be exploited for
negative ends, and witches as real people, the efficacy of witchcraft remains a viable
phenomenon for study.
This distinction also underscores the aforementioned link between witchcraft
and kinship, where it is argued by some scholars (Gescheirre 1997, Vansina 1990) to
arise, primarily, from the intimacy of the family and the home. Although in many
cases the suspect in a case of witchcraft poisoning does come from within the
victim’s family, it is rare that the person responsible is ever identified as a witch.
Again, what appears to be contradictory can be more easily understood when viewed
in terms of witchcraft as an unseen force that exists independent of witches. In this
respect, the dark side of kinship is not witchcraft per se, but rather the pressure and
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anxieties (usually related to the emergence of new inequalities) that ruptures the
social security that kinship provides. It is within these ruptures that witchcraft is
argued to ‘come alive.’ The notion of agency that links witchcraft with human
involvement remains an important feature, but should be viewed in terms of jealousy,
aggression, and other stresses on kinship that provide the impetus for witchcraft to
afflict family members. The following example illustrates the play of these concepts
in everyday life:
On my way to Oku in 2002, I passed through Babanki where I met Paul
Monju, a young man who was suffering from debilitating chest pains for the
last four months. Raised in Bamenda and educated the Western tradition,
Paul’s first recourse was the modern hospital in Bamenda; not surprisingly,
the doctors could not find anything wrong. He finally decided to visit a
traditional healer in Babanki, who ascertained that Paul was a victim of
witchcraft poisoning. Through the use of the basket oracle, Mani informed
Paul that he was targeted by one of his uncles now living in Bamenda.
Furthermore, Mani found that the same uncle is responsible for the sudden
death of Paul’s older brother five years ago. (Later Paul told me that his uncle
had a strained relationship with the family that was connected to a land
dispute).
Mani explained to Paul that the only recourse was to send the poison “back to
the sender,” or else the uncle will continue to claim the lives of his brother’s
children. After administering protective medicine to Paul to prevent any
further infectation, Mani turned her attention to the uncle. She wrote the
name of the uncle on a piece of paper (which Paul never told her), combined it
with her own kefuh kebeh (bad medicine), and with a ritual invocation to the
ancestors, proceeded to burn the bundle.
Within days, Paul improved dramatically. I located his uncle the following
week, and to my surprise I found a sickly old man with similar symptoms that
Paul had, as if the poison had indeed been transferred back to him. He had
been sick for about a week, and claimed to have no knowledge of Paul’s
illness.
Paul’s experience illustrates key points concerning witchcraft as a ubiquitous
force. First, it underscores the close relationship between kinship and witchcraft
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poisoning. Paul’s uncle, estranged from the family and the social security it provides,
may have knowingly or unknowingly set the forces of witchcraft in motion by his
negative feelings towards Paul’s father. Second, it points to the omnipresence of
witchcraft and the vicious circles that are almost impossible to break. Paul had no ill
will towards his uncle per se, nevertheless he becomes complicit in his uncle’s fate
after participating in the ritual to return the poison to its sender. Given its
omnipresence, one has to participate in it one way or another. Paul’s uncle, if we are
to believe him, had no knowledge of Paul’s illness, suggesting that even if he
knowingly set witchcraft in motion against his family, he could not control when, nor
whom, it struck.
Finally, it points to the precarious equilibrium that traditional healers maintain
with respect to witchcraft. The main protector against witchcraft, the traditional
healer, is profoundly implicated in it. As indicated by their reputation as ‘good
devils,’ traditional healers have developed the ‘witch within’ to purportedly protect
from and fight against witchcraft poisoning. Every healer will insist that they only
use their powers for healing, but as Mani’s actions indicate, the morality of witchcraft
is rather ambiguous when it comes to protecting their clients.
Although a clear distinction is not always made between traditional healing
and witchcraft, there is considerably less ambiguity when it comes to defining what
witches do. The ability to transform is the most commonly cited characteristic of
witches in Oku. Witches are said to use their power to make themselves invisible,
often transforming into animals in order to commit their atrocities against humankind.
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These animals typically include those that exhibit ‘devilish’ or ‘witch-like’ qualities
such as unusual behavior and special sensory faculties, including the leopard,
chimpanzee, snake, chameleon, spider, bat and owl (Koloss 2000: 321). The close
association between animals and witches means that humans should be cautious when
encountering devilish creatures; if they should be killed, the respective person can be
absolved of potential affliction only through a ritual cleansing, usually by the
medicine society Nseh (see Chapter Five). According to my informants, this is to
safeguard against the possibility that the slain animal was a witch in disguise, whose
soul (keyus) would attempt to inflict harm upon its executioner.
The practice of transformation is believed to occur while the supposed witch
is sleeping. The keyus leaves the body of the sleeping witch at night and either
remains invisible, or transforms into a specific animal selected by the witch. For this
to occur, the skin of the animal into which it changes should be present, or else an
appropriate substitute should be found (usually a banana leaf). If the animal into
which the witch has transformed is killed, the human from whom the keyus originated
is said to immediately die as well, although his or her keyus may remain to torment
the living. Transformation does not only occur at night, however. It also suggests the
ability to be in multiple places at one time; indeed, a sure ‘sign’ of a witch is someone
who is seen in one village while reportedly going about his or her business in a
different village. One such man who was rumored to have this ability was pointed
out to me during my stay in Oku in 2004. A mysterious healer by the name of
Fidelis, ‘proof’ of his ability to transform was based on his uncanny ability to show
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up at Oku-Elak at moments notice, even though he lived in Oku-Mbam, 15 km away.
Naturally, I decided to visit Fidelis at his home in Mbam, and I offer the following
personal account to add to the innumerable local testimonies of the powers of
transformation:
Throughout my interview with Fidelis, I resisted the temptation to question
him directly concerning the rumors of his witch-like abilities… although I
suspect that the rumors only served to enhance his reputation as a feared
healer, and gave him added respect from his peers in the healing community.
Nevertheless, to openly admit to being a witch in Oku is inviting disgrace and
possible banishment, and I was not about to ruffle any feathers during our first
meeting. To my surprise, however, Fidelis asked me if I would like to have
proof of my suspicions (which I never voiced). He then left the room and
came back carrying a large banana leaf, a piece of elephant grass, and two
herbs which I vowed not to reveal. He said that with these simple tools, he
can transform and visit anyone, anywhere, during the middle of the night.
With a smile, Fidelis asked if I believed him. I hesitated, not wanting to
disrespect him, but Fidelis noted my doubts and reassured me that he “would
show me one night.”
A week later I was sleeping in my quarters in Oku-Elak when I was suddenly
awakened by a presence near the foot of my bed. In the darkness I could
make out the faint outline of something standing there, so I immediately
grabbed my flashlight and turned it on. To my astonishment I saw what I can
only describe as a giant rat, sitting at the foot of my bed and staring directly at
me. This was no ordinary rat; it was truly gigantic, standing a full three feet
tall and looking at me with what appeared to be a faint curl to the lips – the
same curl that Fidelis makes when he smiles knowingly at somebody. At that
moment I calmly closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said: “Fidelis, if this
is you, I will count to three and I want you to leave.” At the count of three I
opened my eyes and the giant rat, or Fidelis, was gone.
The very next morning was market day, and I knew I would see Fidelis in
Elak. When he arrived, I immediately pulled him aside and asked him what
happened. He smiled (in that same manner I just described) and asked, “why
do you ask questions about things you already know?” Careful not to reveal
too much information, I told him only that I had a visitor in the middle of the
night, and in order to affirm my suspicions that it was him, could he please tell
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me in what form he appeared? To which Fidelis replied, “as a giant rat, of
course!”
6
-personal journal, July 2004
Although I was definitely awake (i.e. not dreaming) at the time of Fidelis’
visit, the ability of a witch to assault sleeping victims is especially feared. Witches
are believed to have the ability to ‘suppress’ their victims while they are sleeping, an
action interpreted by sufferers of such attacks as occurring through dreams.
Nightmares, restless sleep, and other symptoms of sleeplessness are often attributed
to the activity of witches, who are said to be after the souls (keyus) of their victims.
The significance of dreams in Oku society is thus of paramount importance, and are
not to be treated lightly. Each dream is a potential potpourri of witchcraft incursions,
ancestral revelations, and messages from God. Distinguishing amongst them
occasionally requires the services of a diviner, who will use his divining equipment to
probe for deeper meanings. For many people, however, the difference between
ancestral revelation and witchcraft incursions lie in the clarity of the former; as one
woman put it, “revelations and visions are clear and direct, whereas messages from
the devil (witch) leave one confused and restless.”
Witches and Healers
In Oku there are believed to be two types of witches: eyfiim and kevung. Also
known ‘cannibal witches,’ kevung make up the central motif of witchcraft in terms of

6
A year later I came across the following passage by Koloss concerning
transformation: “Witches frequently change into an owl, after having left their
dwelling in the form of a rat.”
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its association with evil. Kevung witches are reputed to change their victims into an
animal, usually a goat or a sheep, which they will then slaughter and eat, thereby
killing or seriously afflicting their victims. According to Koloss, this is one of the
reasons why animals are rarely slaughtered in Oku without a public ceremony –
suspicion is quickly aroused when an animal is slaughtered in private (2000: 323).
It is assumed that kevung witches rarely act in private, but in concert with other
witches in the form of a secret society. According to most accounts, the witches
gather in the forest at night where they offer their respective kinsmen as payment for
their membership in the society. When a victim has been targeted, his or her soul
may be taken immediately, or it is transferred to that of an animal, which is then
slaughtered and eaten at a later time. Each victim ‘consumed’ in this manner is said
to increase the witches’ collective power. Meanwhile, the victim whose soul (keyus)
is sacrificed either dies immediately or becomes seriously ill.
The philosophy of the ‘soul’ is one of the oldest, most enduring, and most
widespread philosophical beliefs of human existence. Across many cultures, the soul
is believed to separate from the body not only at death, but during sleep as well. In
this respect, the soul is believed to wander about (as experienced in dreams) and
return to the body without causing death. In Oku, some of the illnesses associated
with kevung witchcraft involve soul loss, which can occur for a number of reasons.
The soul may be outright kidnapped by a witch in the manner described above, the
soul may wander off on its own accord, or it may be lured away by the forces of
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witchcraft. The following account illustrates the play of these concepts during the
healing process:
The patient, a young woman of about 20 years, was brought in complaining of
shortness of breath and overall body pain. Supported by her brother, she was
weak and could hardly stand. She was brought to the healer, Joe Mgah, after
successive stints in the Bamenda hospital had failed to do improve her
condition. Without questioning her, Joe handed her a leaf from the kelem
plant and asked her to clench it tight in her fist, before throwing it on the
ground in front of him. Joe then picked up the leaf and ‘read’ her diagnosis:
“Your shadow has gone far away. The signal began in your dreams, as you
were sleeping they took you. They came many times, moving you here and
there…as they have done to others in your family. The person who may have
done this is in your very family. Your mother, she died in this way. And you
are taking the same route.”
After the diagnosis, Joe prepared to retrieve the girl’s ‘shadow,’ or soul. First
he ‘grounded’ the patient by having her hold a spear inserted into the ground.
Next, he took a rooster, dipped its beak in medicine, and spoke to it: “Eh, you
fowl, you have the ability to see what man cannot. You always take the place
of the people. Oh gods of the medicine, you come by this fowl. Bless this
fowl and tell it to take away the poison that is affecting this girl and her
family. Oh fowl, when the shadow is near, leave this place, so we can treat
the girl and give her a healthy body.” Joe then placed the rooster on top of the
patient’s head, where it sat, for a full three hours, before finally jumping to the
ground. –personal journal, June 2003
Following the exercise with the rooster, Joe proceeded with a series of herbal
remedies intended to strengthen the body and fortify the girl against future attacks by
the witch. As the exercise with the rooster demonstrates, the healer’s treatment for
such afflictions concentrates on finding the source of the witchcraft, typically a
family member, followed by a healing ritual aimed at returning the lost soul to the
victim. As with all witchcraft related afflictions, such rituals are meant to render the
illness ‘natural’ so that the symptoms can be effectively treated with herbal remedies.
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According to Joe Mgah, the practice of kevung witchcraft emerged from
within the cult of secret societies that dominate the medicinal and spiritual landscape
today: “The old societies could turn somebody into meat to eat. We would kill a goat
here, and somebody dies there. That was common practice in those days. A father
may go out in search of food for his family, there is none, so he must ‘kill’ someone
so that he can find the meat (a goat, for example) that he will bring home.
Meanwhile, as they eat the goat meat, another family is mourning the death of one of
their own.”
This seemingly simple account evokes a few themes associated with
witchcraft and healing. First of all it suggests that cannibal witchcraft emerged out of
necessity; a way to keep ones own kin alive by sacrificing someone from outside the
group. It also suggests that cannibal witchcraft might have originated from the sphere
of powerful medicine men and the secret societies they established; a practice
reflected today in the use of kefuh kebeh (bad medicine that kills) to promote health
and well-being of the community. Finally, it raises the theme of morality and
witchcraft and the connection to kinship. It is only when members of the society
began sacrificing their own kin that they became a threat to the community, and
kevung witches became associated with evil and the inversion of the moral order.
Peter Geschiere (1997) makes a similar point with his reference to cannibalism and
social order: “The cannibalistic practices of witches constitute an inversion of the
social order…the idea of cannibalism in itself is not scandalous; old histories are full
of it. But witches eat their own kin, and this practice is strictly forbidden” (40).
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In contrast to the kevung, eyfiim witches are understood not to eat their
victims. Nevertheless, the eyfiim possess diverse means of bringing destruction upon
mankind, especially by transforming into dangerous animals and subsequently
destroying settlements, crops, and bringing injury to other persons. They are also
known to possess the power to direct storms, most notably lightening, against their
opponents (Koloss 2000: 323). Notwithstanding their destructive effects, eyfim
witches and their powers more closely relate to traditional healers than their kevung
counterparts, who cross the moral divide with regards to eating their own kin. If we
are to agree with Geschiere that cannibal witchcraft (kevung) represents the dark side
of kinship, then we might add that eyfiim represents the dark side of traditional
healing.
Indicative of the dark side of traditional healing is the idea of eyfiim kejonghe,
or the ‘good witch’ that resides in the belly of the healer. Many healers refer to the
‘witch in their belly’ when describing the source of their talent to heal, see, and
animate medicines. The bodily reference to witchcraft, however, does correlate with
any physical ‘signs’ of being a witch; i.e. there are no post-mortem examinations,
such as in the neighboring Yamba (Gufler 1995) and Tiv (Bohannan 1957) cultures.
The reference here concerns the inborn traits of witchcraft that distinguish gifted
healers from herbalists, while blurring the line between healers and witches. The
same ‘power in the belly’ that gives healers the ability to ‘see’ witches is also the
same power that gives rise to eyfiim and kevung. In other words, it takes a witch to
know a witch, something that has not escaped the attention of the local Pentecostals.
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According to leaders of the Pentecostal Church in Oku, witchcraft remains a very real
problem that will never end as long as there are traditional healers who specialize in
eradicating witchcraft: “you cannot chase darkness if you yourself come from
darkness… the Ngang society are witch doctors, and that is why you see witchcraft
continue to occur; obviously Ngang is not effective, because they too are witches.”
The Modernity of Witchcraft
In Cameroon, as throughout the continent of Africa, ruptures in the social
fabric emerged as the result of colonization and its follow-up, globalization – itself
nothing more than neo-colonization in terms of its disastrous economic effects. It is
not surprising, then, that novel forms of witchcraft have emerged in the face of new
inequalities and distrust brought about by the influx of capitalism and modern goods.
In pre-colonial times, wealth was measured by large, healthy families and goods that
were administered by the elders. The new forms of wealth had more individualistic
implications, however. “By its very nature, money eroded the familial
organization…it was associated with new forms of sorcery that alarmed the people"
(Geschiere 1997: 160).
In Cameroon, this concern over the inequalities tied to money and status
found expression in a new form of witchcraft most commonly known as nyongo (also
referred to as kupe and famla). Nyongo societies appear to be an extension of
cannibal witchcraft in terms of gaining power at the expense of their victims’ souls,
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but with a key difference: nyongo witches do not ‘eat’ their victims, but instead
transform them into a form of zombie and send them to ‘work’ for the society’s
profit. The victim becomes noticeably weaker and eventually dies as their soul, or
double, remains outside of the body and in the employ of the nyongo cult.
Meanwhile, members of the nyongo cult supposedly become quite wealthy and
successful in their endeavors. Nevertheless the nyongo member is always in danger,
for he or she is obligated to provide a continuous supply of victims for the society in
order to maintain their success. Failure to do so would result in said member’s death
and subsequent enslavement to the ‘zombie labor camp.’
The nyongo cult is said to have originated among the Bakweri people in the
Southwest Province of Cameroon. Prior to colonialism, the Bakweri practiced an
egalitarian ideology that included large potlatch-type ceremonies in which family
heads would redistribute and destroy their wealth, thereby not only reinforcing family
prestige but also protecting the family from witchcraft that was (and still is)
motivated by jealousy (Geschiere 1997: 146). Colonial exploitation and the historical
forces of slavery and capitalism drastically upset this balance, and the Bakweri began
to increasingly associate the wealth and power of the Europeans and their African
associates with witchcraft. According to interviews with the Bakweri, this new form
of witchcraft was introduced by the Douala, the first traders who came in contact with
the Europeans. The Douala, in turn, showed the Bakweri witches how to turn their
victims into zombies and profit by their labor (Geschiere 1997: 148). The idea of a
labor camp is argued to be a direct link to the plantation system developed by the
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Germans and later the British (Ardener 1970). By refusing to work for the
plantations, the Bakweri became marginalized in their own land, watching helplessly
as foreign workers began displacing them in their own villages. Those Bakweri that
were complicit with the foreigners and became rich were viewed with suspicion as
nyongo witches, who supposedly transported their victims’ souls to work on invisible
plantations on top of nearby Mt. Kupe.
As colonialism and exploitation spread throughout Cameroon, so too did the
belief in nyongo-related cults. Economic changes reinforced tensions in the
community, as anyone associated with a sudden increase in wealth or modern
conveniences became suspect of involvement with nyongo. After independence,
nyongo acquired particularly strong capitalist overtones, specifically in the
Northwest, where it is referred to primarily as kupe (Geschiere 1997: 158). A
distinguishing feature of kupe, as conceived in the Northwest, concerns the
association of witchcraft with outsiders (as opposed to it kin):
These societies that sacrifice people today are usually imported; they are not
from here. They come from outside the community, looking for people to
work for them. You may be working somewhere, but you are also working
for the society, which you do not see…only the members of the society can
see you. For example, if you work in the daylight, you go back to your house
and sleep. Then I, as a man of the society, will use my witchcraft to get you
to work in my fields at night, and I will see things growing in the morning.
(Joe Mgah, p.c. 2004).
The emphasis on outside involvement with regards to kupe in the Northwest
Province is argued to relate directly to the strong hierarchical system in Grassfields
cultures. Unlike in the egalitarian societies that gave rise to nyongo, the powers
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attributed to the Fon and Kwifon give them authority over acceptable and
unacceptable medicines, juju masquerades, and other expressions of occult forces that
arise under their control. This potentially provides more opportunities to bring the
forces of kupe under control. Yet the introduction of new riches in the form of
money has gradually eroded the moral authority of the Fon. As Jean-Pierre Warnier
(1982) points out in his study of the institution of Grassfields chiefdoms, the Fon
historically exercised strict control over the wealth and economic success of his
subjects. Today’s Fon, however, is increasingly assimilated with the new wealthy
elite, thus casting doubt over the Fon’s occult powers to prevent kupe from making
inroads. In Oku, for example, Fon Ngum’s proclivity for handing out titles to
businessmen and wealthy elites has many people questioning his moral authority to
stop kupe. The impression amongst locals that kupe members can “whitewash” their
newfound wealth by donating a portion of it to the Fon is further testimony to the
modernization of witchcraft and its relationship to capitalism. According to David
Nchinda, money remains the key means by which kupe witchcraft infects the
populace:
Nyongo, kupe…nobody goes to these societies alone. Either you are taken by
a friend, or you are sold by a family member. He takes you to the society to
work for him. Formerly, this was only possible with blood relatives. Now
one can ‘buy’ somebody off the street by getting him involved with societal
money. This did not work in former times, for if you offered someone money
in the past, they would not take. But today, people will accept money without
knowing where it came from. When one accepts society money, one enters the
society.
7

7
In addition to money, other commodities can also suffice to recruit members
unknowingly into a society. A fertile recruiting ground is rumored to be drinking
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The existence of nyongo and kupe clearly show that witchcraft is not
necessarily a traditional obstacle to development, as many analyses of witchcraft have
suggested. As the preceding examples indicate, the continued prominence of
witchcraft-related afflictions in Oku indicate a determined struggle to cope with new
circumstances brought about by capitalism. Far from protecting traditional
institutions, the role of the occult appears to corrupt many such institutions by
adapting to modern contingencies. As I will discuss below, traditional healers have
become increasingly suspect in their practice of providing kefuh kebeh to anyone,
who in turn may use it to achieve greater status and wealth at the expense of harming
others. Traditional institutions such as the njangi, a form of social security in which
each member, in a rotating fashion, receives a sum of money and/or staples once a
year, have come under attack due to capitalist overtones of debt and rotating credit
that resemble nyongo societies. And perhaps most importantly is the question
Miriam Goheen (1996) asks regarding the Fon’s alliance with the newly wealthy: will
the new ‘civil servants’ prove to be the new ‘leopards’ of the Fon with whom he will
prowl the countryside and protect the inhabitants against evil, or will they themselves
turn out to be the new “sorcerers of the night?” Indeed, the burning question in Oku
today seems to be, how long will the Fon’s moral authority last?

establishments. An oft-recited warning in Oku concerns the ‘society man’ who enters
a bar and buys beer for others; by accepting the drink they risk being taken by the
society.
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Mossock and the Ambiguity of Traditional Healing
There are some very good healers who do not know how to operate witchcraft.
They can only heal and do not know how they can take something like this
(holds up mossock) and keep it in ones compound so that it will send away all
its occupants. This can only take place when I am challenged or disrespected.
It is not every healer that can do that. Because I know how to do this, I can
destroy things anywhere and anytime as long as I have been provoked. –
Nditoh Francis, p.c. 2005.
The connection between healing and witchcraft is most clearly defined through
the use of diverse objects of medicine (fetishes) that are ritually sanctified and
activated against the ‘enemy,’ usually witches, thieves, and other offenders. Once
activated, the fetishes emit a force that mercilessly pursues and punishes the offender
with illness or even death. The only treatment is to have the ‘curse’ lifted by the
healer or society from which the bad medicine originated. Thereafter the fetish must
be ‘pacified,’ or it will continue to not only attack the offender, but members of his
family as well. With the increase in crime and paranoia associated with new riches
and the breakdown of traditional institutions, the use of fetishes such as mossock and
chiesse are on the rise, despite the public’s concern over the potential for abuse.
Mossock refers to the original medicine society that bears its name, as well as
the small anthropomorphic fetish figures that are the foundation of every medicine
society and ‘dangerous’ masquerade in Oku. The mossock society itself was one of
the first medicine societies established in Oku, whose founders brought the medicine
with them when they split from the Tikari. The society originally created the
mossock fetish, carved out of special wood in the form of a male and a female figure,
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to enhance their healing treatments. The power of the mossock fetish was
subsequently extended to protect the society and punish all those who offended its
laws. Its effectiveness in this regard became so renowned that today every juju house
in Oku has mossock buried in its ‘medicine corner,’ providing Oku with its distinctive
reputation as the source of the most powerful kefuh kebeh in the Northwest.
Today there are no longer any mossock societies; instead there exist individual
healers who ‘own’ mossock and who gather only to initiate new owners into the
medicine.
8
Just like any juju, mossock may be sold, according to traditional law that
mandates that one may never ask a price for the medicine more than that which he
himself paid. Those who seek to own mossock must pay relatively high price: five
goats, five roosters, and five calabashes of palm wine (Koloss 2000: 309). The
person selling the fetish then acquaints the buyer with the secret ingredients of the
medicinal plants that give the figures their ‘spiritual force,’ including the wood that is
used to carve mossock. Only the wood of the garden egg tree, arguably the most
significant plant in Oku due to its use in virtually every medicinal healing ritual, can
be used. Each new owner of mossock receives newly carved figures, a male and a
female with holes in their heads filled with medicine, along with instructions
regarding the proper procedure of the mossock rituals. Because of its power,

8
This contradicts the conclusion by Koloss that “there exist over twenty mossock
societies in Oku” (308). My conclusion is based on interviews with owners of
mossock, including the direct descendant of the original founder of the first mossock
society, Fai Bainkong of Mboh-Oku. I believe that Koloss mistakenly associated the
infrequent gatherings of individual mossock owners as constituting a society, when in
actuality there are no mossock houses, levels, or juju masquerades associated with
mossock.
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ownership of mossock comes with a responsibility to “take care of them just as you
would your family” (Nchinda, p.c. 2004). Failure to maintain ones mossock, for
example by letting them accumulate mildew, be eaten by termites, or simply allowing
them to fall over, would invite affliction to its owner and his family. This inherent
danger keeps mossock primarily in the hands of qualified medicine men; most non-
healers consider mossock ‘too dangerous’ to own themselves. Nditoh Francis, the
healer from whom I acquired my mossock, warned me of the dangers: “If you have it,
you must make sure your home is not noisy, or else it will encourage it. When you
have it on you, and you come across a fight, you will become very anxious to
participate in the fight.”
In addition to mossock’s ability to give added ‘power’ to existing medicines, it
is primarily used today in efforts to prevent theft, collect debts, and retrieve stolen
property (including runaway wives). In this aspect, the mossock is directed to track
down the offender and torment him or her until they either confess to the crime or
return the stolen goods. This is accomplished in one of two ways: the healer himself
may direct his own mossock to go after the perpetrator, or the healer will provide the
client with two new mossock with which to do the job. Because of its inherent
danger, the healer himself is most often the one who ‘activates’ the fetish on behalf of
the client. To ensure that the client is being truthful in his or her request for mossock
(i.e. to ensure that the fetish is targeting legitimate offenders), most healers will not
consent to using mossock without confirmation of the alleged crime through
divination.
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To apprehend a suspect using mossock, the figures must first be ‘fed:’ the holes
in their heads are filled with medicine, and incense is lit at their feet. The owner then
presents his case to the mossock: “Since ‘so-and-so’ has been owing me for such a
long time and is not willing to pay me back, I want to present the matter to my
messengers. I have tried all other means to collect the debt to no avail. Only you
people can collect it for me.” As he is saying this, the healer repeatedly mentions the
debtor’s name.
Following this, the mossock are either kept in a safe place inside the owner’s
house, or placed inside a small ‘fetish house’ that hides the figures but clearly
indicates what is inside. In the latter case, the fetish house is usually placed at a
crossroads so that the offender can see what has been set against him. The mossock
are checked daily to see if any has fallen; it is believed that as soon as the mossock
falls, it is also afflicting the offender. According to the healers who use mossock, the
fetish functions in the same manner as witches in its ability to disturb victims in their
sleep. The figures appear in the person’s dreams, tormenting him or her with guilt.
Victims of mossock often describe seeing a line of mossock passing before them,
especially while daydreaming. If the afflicted does not make amends, the mossock
are believed to eventually drive the person mad.
The only ‘cure’ for mossock poisoning is to return the stolen property or pay
back the debt, followed by a visit to a mossock medicine man for a ritual cleansing.
Before the wrongdoer can be released from the affliction, however, he or she must
make a substantial payment to the healer. Only after receiving full payment (usually
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a number of goats, fowls, as well as palm oil and salt) does the healer destroy and do
away with the medicine: the medicine that was originally activated is removed, the
mossock figures are ritually cleaned with camwood, and a sacrifice is offered to the
ancestors of mossock.
The use of mossock in the manner described above has become an increasingly
controversial practice in Oku. Traditionally, healers and diviners would disclose the
witches and evil-doers, and it was Kwifon’s role to punish them. As discussed
earlier, all bad medicines and fetishes had to be cleared first by Kwifon, and those
that were not accepted were destroyed and subsequently forbidden in Oku. Yet with
the proliferation of mossock and similar functioning fetishes, the fear in Oku is that
people are perhaps too eager to take matters in their own hands. Nevertheless,
Kwifon seems unable or unwilling to enforce traditional law concerning kefuh kebeh,
as most such medicines continue to be administered in secrecy and are rarely
submitted to kwifon for inspection. The traditional healers are thus rarely targeted by
Kwifon, as it is understood that such medicines contribute to the greater security of
Oku. “It is only a traditional doctor who can make sure he stays on the right path,”
said senior Kwifon member Tantoh Makeji, “for only by doing things rightly will his
medicine continue to be effective.”
Tantoh’s point touches on the central motif concerning the ambiguity of healing
and witchcraft – that there is a moral order to the universe. This is supported by
African religious scholar Laurenti Magesa’s (1997) argument that morality is at the
heart of African traditional religion, suggesting that occult phenomena exist as “moral
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agents” in terms of the capacity to impact human life (see chapter one). That Kwifon
is tolerant of mossock, despite its danger, can be seen in this light: by ‘activating’ the
fetish, the healers are leaving it up to the ‘moral agents’ (i.e. spirits and ancestors) to
punish the wrongdoer. However, the potential to interfere with the moral order
through the reckless or irresponsible use of mossock always exists. Thus the healer
who uses mossock is situated at the very heart of the moral dilemma in Africa
concerning the role of witchcraft in society: although a healer can use witchcraft in a
positive way, does the potential for it to go wrong outweigh its usefulness? And by
engaging in such practice, is the healer indeed the witch that causes so many
afflictions?
It is right to conclude that all those who own mossock are witches. If you
prepare and send it after somebody who is owing you or for any other
acceptable reason, you are still regarded as a witch. You are therefore a witch
while mossock serves as the wings with which you fly from one place to
another. Although nobody ever publicly accused me of being a witch, I know
that I am one because I can send my mossock after anybody who is owing me,
or has taken something from me. – Nditoh Francis, p.c. 2005
The Morality of Chiesse
Despite its association with witchcraft, mossock is largely tolerated due to its
role in enhancing the overall healing process as well as in treating specific illnesses
(primarily mental disorders). The fact that mossock has an ‘owner’ is also helpful in
keeping it under control; i.e. its owner can always kill the power of the mossock after
it has been activated. Chiesse, on the other hand, presents a different challenge. A
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type of fetish in the form of medicine bundles, chiesse works less in pursuing
particular offenders and more in the hindrance of hostile forces from approaching a
would-be victim. Once activated, chiesse never stops working, targeting not only
particular offenders, but also weak persons who venture into its proximity.
There are almost as many forms of chiesse as there are traditional healers in
Oku. This is because the power of chiesse is largely dependant on the particular
combination of medicinal herbs and leaves that go into its construction. The same
plants that form the basic ingredients of a healer’s cure for a particular affliction are
gathered together and combined into a bundle or placed inside a container. Following
this, ritual invocations are made according to the intended effect of the chiesse; i.e.
protect the property and pursue the thief. A fowl is then sacrificed, and its blood
spilled onto the leaves. Thus activated, it is said that God empowers the leaves to
such an extent that “the effect can go by air to any part of the world and find the
thief.” The effect, however, causes the affliction it is intended to cure.
The chiesse is kept in a small carton, or house, constructed to protect the fetish
from the elements while clearly signaling what is inside. The medicine is either
deposited at the place of theft or strategically placed on the side of the road, as a
warning to any would-be thief. If the article was already stolen, the first intention of
chiesse is to recover it. Out of fear of the medicine set against him, the thief is
expected to return the stolen goods and apologize. Should they not be recovered, the
chiesse then begins to affect the thief by afflicting him with an illness that correlates
to the herbs used in its treatment. David Nchinda’s Lum medicine, for example,
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contains a combination of leaves that form the basis of its treatment for epilepsy.
When used in the construction of chiesse, however, is said to cause epileptic seizures
in its victims.
The threat of chiesse is that once activated, it does not expire until its power is
‘killed’ by either Kwifon, or the medicine man who constructed it. Nor does it
‘focus’ solely on the perpetrator, as does mossock. If a stolen good circulates, the
chiesse is said to affect everyone who comes in contact with it. If the stolen article is
kept in the thief’s house, for example, it can affect the entire family. Opponents of
chiesse often refer to this, citing a common example: “if a man steals corn to feed his
family, everyone suffers.” Indeed, chiesse does not stop at the death of the thief
either - it will continue to affect his or her family members until the paternal kin make
peace with it.
The extensive damage chiesse can cause in this regard, as well as the potential
for abuse, is illustrated in the following case from Oku-Jikijem. In 2002, a
schoolteacher was suspected of stealing property from the local Government School.
The headmaster and the other teachers got together and obtained chiesse from Fai
Bainkong, placing it on the school grounds in the hope that it would cause the suspect
to come forward. The thief refused, however, and within a short time the suspected
schoolteacher died. Since then, two of his brothers also passed away, yet the father
refuses to appease the chiesse. To this day the chiesse remains at the school, and it is
said to be affecting the deceased’s wife and children. According to Fai Bainkong,
occasionally referred to as “the witch from Mboh,” unless the father comes forward
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and pays for the stolen goods, the chiesse will continue to bring affliction and death to
the family.
In this climate of uncertainty, compounded by a perceived increase in crime,
‘putting chiesse’ has become a commonplace practice in Grassfield cultures. Its
widespread use, however, has apparently come at great cost: consensus in the village
is that chiesse is second only to AIDS as leading killers of young men and women.
As a result, Kwifon has made various ‘attempts’ through the years to regulate the use
of chiesse, but apparently has had little success:
Do you remember when they tried to ban chiesse? I was invited to Kwifon
and asked not to prepare chiesse again. I told Kwifon to advise thieves and
parents of thieves to stop stealing. I also asked, ‘is it not Kwifon that has
always said it had chiesse under its wing? Then why is it today that it is the
‘Fai from Mboh’ who has brought chiesse to Oku?’ I argued for long and told
Kwifon that as long as thieves continue to steal, I will continue to prepare
chiesse for the victims of theft. I do not go asking for them to come for my
chiesse, but they do it willfully because they have been deprived of their
rights. – Fai Bainkong, p.c. 2005
This account by Fai Bainkong, reputed to have the most effective (and
dangerous) chiesse in all of Oku, illustrates both the threat and the moral quandary it
poses. According to the elders in Oku, in the past there was very little need for
chiesse, as there were few thieves. They point to the marginalization of traditional
authority, associated with modernity and its malcontents, as a reason for the
widespread use of chiesse today. Kwifon, traditionally empowered to not only settle
disputes amongst villagers but also destroy chiesse, has seen its authority gradually
give way to the new political framework with its network of police, local area
councils, and divisional officers. In Oku and other Fondoms, the Fon is criticized for
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failing to uphold tradition. According to Kwifon senior member Tantoh Makeji,
“some of the things that occur today would have never been allowed in the past,
because the Fon has been deciding in place of the Kwifon. During the time of Fon
Sentie, people were sanctioned for their wrongs, but today I do not know if people are
sanctioned for wrongs or for hatred?”
Despite the breakdown of the moral authority of traditional institutions such
as Kwifon, the moral perspectives of traditional African thought remain strong. At
risk of resorting to what Geschiere calls a “moralizing terminology” with regards to
witchcraft, there exists a view of justice in Oku wherein the guilty are ultimately
punished by spiritual agents. God, spirits and ancestors, or ‘moral agents’ as argued
by Magesa, are never wrong in this regard. Thus chiesse is both tolerated and
condemned by society. Practically every person I interviewed in Oku said they did
not have a problem with chiesse – as long as it affected only the thief. They were
also firm in their conviction that someone guilty of thievery deserved to be punished,
even if it resulted in the thief’s death. Because chiesse has no owner other than the
spiritual agents that give it efficacy, its continued use is tolerated, a position
summarized by Fai Bainkong’s warning: “once in place, the only thing that protects a
person from it is the truth.”
Conclusion
The close but contradictory relationship between healers and witches is argued
to be one of the driving forces behind the continued efficacy of the witchcraft
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phenomenon occurring in Oku and throughout the Grassfields today. This
relationship stems from the sources of power, or keyoi, that is inherent in every living
thing, including objects and phenomena that Westerners view as inanimate, such as
iron ore, man-made tools, and meteorological events. Traditional healers possess the
knowledge and means to work with this unifying force, and it is in this context that
the ambiguity of healing and witchcraft becomes apparent. Witches, it seems, are in
fact traditional healers who manipulate this vital force for negative ends, directing the
‘bad keyoi’ that is inherent in nature against others. The practice of healers
constructing chiesse, despite its documented negative effects in the community,
remains the most glaring example of this.
The forces of capitalism and modernity have impacted Oku’s traditional
worldview in such a way that clearly reveals witchcraft as much more than a
‘traditional obstacle’ to development. The existence of new forms of witchcraft such
as nyongo and kupe provide evidence of how traditional occult practices incorporate
modern changes. When viewed against the background of the morality that is at the
heart of African religion, capitalism, politics, and the corruption and inequality that
accompany so-called modern developments are argued to not only reinforce notions
of witchcraft, but also justify its existence.
At the very least, the frequency and impact of witchcraft in modern day
Cameroon indicates that one should take issues of the occult seriously, as these are
often the terms people use in dialogues on development and the new inequalities it
engenders. From modern state politics and legal systems to traditional village life,
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the belief and efficacy of the occult in everyday life remains paramount, challenging
Western notions of science and rationality and rebuking academia’s attempts to write
off such behavior as mere remnants of traditional belief systems. Indeed, one does
not have to look far to notice the parallels between witchcraft in Oku, and feelings of
power and powerlessness that mark popular conceptions of politics in Western
democracies - the idea that one should have a grip on power and the realization that
one rarely can (Geschiere 1997: 9). Finally, modern techniques and commodities
considered by many in the West to be outside the world of witchcraft are included in
dialogue on the occult, and are viewed by many in Oku as a form of ‘white man’s
witchcraft:’
You see, your technology is like our witchcraft and secret societies. Not
everyone can manufacture a plane…the secret in manufacturing those things
lie with those companies who have power from their technologies. That
power is not given freely to everybody, you see. They may teach you how to
operate it, to repair it, and to a certain extent even assemble it, but not to
actually create it. – David Nchinda, p.c. 2003
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Chapter 8: Conclusions
Indigenous Knowledges and the Legacy of African Traditional Values
The point of departure of this dissertation was to take seriously the impact of
African traditional belief systems, which continue to influence and mediate the
experiences of contemporary Africans. Various theoretical frameworks from the
fields of anthropology, theology, and philosophy used throughout the centuries to
study religious phenomena associated with this belief system were examined, leading
me to conclude that any attempt to classify my field data into terms other than the
phenomena’s own would yield less than satisfactory results. As a result I have
positioned this dissertation within the framework of Indigenous thought systems and
the African worldview.
An awareness of the similarities and differences between Western and
Indigenous thought systems and ways-of-knowing is crucial for the western
anthropologist to avoid the trap which makes one feel they are "keeping up with the
scientists when in fact one is no nearer to them than the African peasant" (Horton
1993:258). Both types of thought enter the human social life by portraying the
phenomena of the everyday world as manifestations of an underlying hidden reality,
and both build up their schemas of this hidden reality by drawing analogies with
various aspects of everyday life. The indigenous worldview was devalued, however,
as the epistemological foundations of Western knowledge -guided by the priorities of
ego-consciousness - were imposed upon it through the forces of colonialism.
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The transformation of the plurality of knowledge systems into a hierarchy of
knowledge systems, which began under the colonial influence and continues to this
day, is argued to have converted the horizontal ordering of diverse but equally valid
systems into a vertical ordering of unequal systems (Shiva 2000:vii). Western
systems of knowledge were defined as the only scientific systems, whereas
indigenous systems of knowledge were invalidated and seen as ‘unscientific’ and
inferior. This has resulted in the widespread conviction among Western-educated
persons that as modern science broadens its scope, room for the belief in gods and
spirits is progressively reduced. Yet from modern state politics and legal systems to
traditional village life, the belief and efficacy of the occult in everyday life remains
paramount, challenging Western notions of science and rationality and rebuking any
attempts to write off such behavior as mere remnants of traditional belief systems.
Indeed, we might equally pose the question: when will Western faith in the
teleologies of rationality, modernity and progress be reduced, given the fact that they
bear no resemblance to the world we live in? Similarly, Henrietta Moore (2001)
rebukes the notion that belief and efficacy of the occult should ever vanish: “Are
Western teleological beliefs about progress, development, rationality and modernity –
those ready-made explanations for social change that provide answers to the Big
Questions in life – really so different from the idea that occult forces move the world?
What, after all, is the driving force behind ‘progress’ or ‘development’? Could it be
‘the market’ and Adam Smith’s invisible hand, or some other similarly enigmatic
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notion? When, in short, will our own occult beliefs about the motor of our
contemporary world be given up?”
The myth of globalization as a homogenizing influence has been exposed; on
the contrary, the world is marked by increased cultural heterogeneity. As such,
‘traditional’ notions turn up everywhere in modern contexts, making this not
particular only to Africa or the third world. This provides an opportunity to re-
evaluate indigenous knowledges and to move away from the false hierarchy of
knowledge systems back towards a plurality. A pluralistic approach requires that we
respect different systems and epistemological foundations, and that diverse systems
need not be reduced to the language and logic of Western knowledge. Although this
dissertation is not intended to create a false dichotomy of Western knowledge as
‘bad’ and indigenous knowledge as ‘good,’ it is suggested that the indigenous
worldview is at the heart of the global issues of our times, and as such underscores
the importance to anthropology of developing a more substantial and enduring
approach to phenomena associated with it.
The relative poverty of attempts to enter alternative states of consciousness
recorded in the ethnographic literature, and the seemingly paradoxical current interest
in our own society about such states, illustrates the significance of this approach. An
underlying thread in this dissertation concerns a 'paradigm shift' towards indigenous
wholeness; i.e. a profound change in thoughts, perceptions, and values away from
those associated with the different streams of patriarchal Western culture (scientific
revolution, enlightenment, industrial revolution, etc). As we see with respect to
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traditional healing, most forms of indigenous knowledge are based on holism, in
contrast to modern biomedical and technological models grounded in Cartesian
thought where there is a separation of mind and body. The latter perceives of the
universe as a mechanical system, and social life as a competitive struggle, while
embracing notions of unlimited material progress through economic and
technological growth and competition. This paradigm (i.e. the Western worldview) is
argued to be dualistic, dependent on rationality, and perhaps most importantly,
predicated on the false principle of a single reality that can be defined, measured, and
ultimately mastered.
By contrast, the process of exploring experiences of multiple realities,
combined with social appropriation of the meaning of these experiences, is at the
heart of the African worldview, wherein members are encouraged to explore multiple
levels of consciousness (through dreams, visions, and various rituals) and interpret
experiences that arise according to culturally recognized systems of meaning. The
experiences encountered during these procedures in turn reify the society's multiple
reality cosmology. The role of traditional healers in both initiating practitioners into
experiences and interpreting those experiences for the practitioner and the society at
large is frequently important. The unity of being so pronounced in traditional
societies, exemplified in the practice of viewing matter through the lens of spirit, aids
in transcending certain aspects of dualistic awareness. Historically and culturally
equipped with a heightened awareness, the healers of Oku are particularly adept at
working with these ‘invisible’ forces and bringing them to bear upon the individual –
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for better or worse - as we see in the reciprocal relationship between witchcraft and
healing.
The propensity for witchcraft in such a system demands that we take issues of
the occult seriously, as those are often the terms people use in dialogues on
development and "the new inequalities it engenders' (Geschierre 1997: 227). As
Peter Geschiere and others have recently shown, the stereotype that witchcraft or
sorcery is something "traditional" that will disappear with modernization is certainly
not the case in Africa today. Recent studies have illustrated the capacity of
witchcraft for incorporating the images and objects of the modern world, wherein it is
argued that witchcraft discourses "offer an idiom of choice for trying to understand
and control the modern changes" (Fisy & Geschiere 1996:194). Here witchcraft is
argued to not only serve as a 'traditional' obstacle or reaction to change, but to also
intertwine easily with new developments (the emergence of wage labor, the spread of
new consumer goods, and new forms of individualism), illustrating "surprising
convergences between discourses on the occult and a capitalist world-view” (Fisy &
Geschiere 1996:194).
The speed of Western expansion into the Third World means that Western
cultures are being encountered, assimilated, and understood only in a selective
fashion. They are received not as integral wholes, but only through selections from
their political, judicial, commercial, educational, and religious systems.
9
In Oku and

9
Because these selected aspects do not bring about a full understanding of ‘white’
culture to the indigenous peoples, this could explain the mystery that whites possess a
hidden power, that they are withholding something. Harold Turner argues this is
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other traditional societies facing this expansion, the result has been the "secularization
of the ancestors and the stripping away from the lineage head of his role as mediator
with the supernatural, resulting in a loss of respect for both elders and ancestors and a
denigration of the validity of their sanctions" (Aseh 2002). As a result, the call to
develop new loyalties and focus for the new secular nation state under a secular
administration have led to a situation where the ‘desacralized’ traditional authority
has lost control of its subjects, who now act ‘anonymously’ within a vast secular
political terrain.
10
For those people to whom Africa has become synonymous with poverty and
underdevelopment, it will make sense that Africa channel all her resources primarily
into solving her economic, political and development problems. Unfortunately, most
development models leave the issue of search for meaning in the African traditional
worldview by the side in the bid to solve those problems (Udeani 1999:1). Even if all

reflected in the new religious movements, where the focus is on the spiritual
dimensions of white culture, where it is only “through full access to the white man’s
religion that the local people can both explain and share in the power of white” (1979:
272). Turner bases this on the traditional view that the ultimate sources of power are
magical and ritual, mystical or spiritual. Another indigenous cultural factor is the
common belief that power is related to secret knowledge possessed only by a
medicine or priest. Thus it would be expected that the source of this power would be
closely guarded or known only to a few.
10
This can be seen in the present (2006) situation in Oku concerning the late Fon
Ngum III and his relationship with the ruling political party in Cameroon, the CPDM
(Cameroon People’s Democratic Movement). Since the Northwest is traditionally an
SDF (Southern Democratic Front) stronghold that supports independence from the
state of Cameroon. Fon Ngum’s alliance with the CPDM and his active involvement
in ‘politics’ alienated him from many traditionalists, including the Kwifon. Indeed,
the recent death of Fon Ngum III (April 1, 2006) has led to rumors and accusations
that traditionalists were responsible; i.e. he may have been ‘poisoned’ with bad
medicines.
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these problems were to be vigorously addressed, unless we relate African traditional
knowledge to development issues, we would soon realize that a very significant
aspect of the ‘African problem’ remains unresolved (for more on development
paradigms, see Appendix A).
For example, George Sefa Dei (2000) argues for an approach to African
development that is anchored in retrieving, revitalizing, and restoring the indigenous
African sense of shared social values. At the same time, conventional development
must strive to incorporate indigenous knowledges of African peoples. Debates about
'development' must be situated in appropriate social contexts wherein the local
communities own and control the solutions to their own problems, which is possible
only if the development agenda seeks to center indigenous knowledge systems in the
search for solutions to human problems: “This means articulating a conception and
praxis of development that does not reproduce the existing total local dependency on
external advice, knowledge, and resources. Local input must be from the grassroots,
should fully respect women’s knowledge, should be ecologically sound, and should
tap the diverse views, opinions, resources, and interests manifested in the cultural
values and norms of local communities” (Sefa Dei 2000: 73).
Despite the inherent ‘logic’ of such an approach, the African worldview is
increasingly looked upon by the international community and the new African leaders
as a backward impediment that stands in the way of modernization. Whether of
capitalist or socialist variety, it regards comfort, material, and capital acquisition as
central goals of life. Poverty was perceived as the central enemy, development its
257
antidote, and democracy was supposed to provide the enabling environment
(Wangoola 2000:269). In all of this, spirituality, respect for tradition, and living in
harmony with the environment was relegated to a secondary role. Only Western
knowledge counted; thus African medicine became witchcraft, religion became
animism, and agricultural science became subsistence agriculture.
The deconstruction of hegemonic social science paradigms demands that
Western-educated academics and researchers recognize the validity of other
knowledge systems, for it is in these terms that indigenous peoples relate to and
understand events around them in ways that are consistent with their worldview. As
we have seen in Oku, the traditional African worldview is governed by the common
ontological principle that life consists of the interaction between the world of the
living, the ancestors and the yet unborn. The role of tradition in maintaining the
balance among animate and inanimate things and between all of these and the gods is
frequently important. Nevertheless, in light of the drastic changes brought by the
modernization and development paradigm, some would argue that traditional thought
systems cannot provide guidelines for the new situation as it is asking too much.
According to Theo Sundermeir (1998), choice practically did not exist in traditional
societies; what had to be done, was done, and laid down in principle - in contrast to
the mobility of the individual in new societies which offer and demand choices and
decisions: “individuality, never esteemed before, is now a burden.” As a result, the
‘traditionalist’ often searches for a new group identity, as offered by the major
258
religions, parties, and the increasing number of secret societies as well as witchcraft
affiliated cults, i.e. nyongo and kupe.
In Oku, however, tradition represents far more the legacy of the ancestors,
which everyone is expected to follow. By maintaining their traditional laws and
values, the ancestors remain alive and omnipresent; in return, the life of mankind
takes on purpose and meaning (Koloss 2000: 451). As the present study shows, the
influence of ancestors and other occult phenomena in Oku can be linked with sensory
apparatuses as well as cultural conditioning that may inhibit or enhance specific ways
of knowing. Witchcraft, still viewed by many academics and researchers as a
conservative force and traditional relic, is argued to be anything but conservative in
terms of its relationship to modernization and development. Furthermore, witchcraft
and other occult-related phenomena can be understood without necessarily opposing
reality and fantasy, by studying the links among witchcraft, spirituality, and healing,
and their combined effects on consciousness. Finally, the perceived efficacy of the
occult in Oku, including the healers’ remarkable insight into the nature of reality,
implies that the West can no longer approach African traditional practices as pre-
scientific, and therefore ‘un-explainable’ according to modern scientific thought.
Quite to the contrary, I have suggested that much of the occult phenomena too often
described as superstition, can instead be taken out of the mystical-religious domain
and into an explainable one.
259
Towards an Interpretation of Occult Phenomena
Understanding the way different cultures account for hidden realities is one
thing; coming to terms with the manifestation, or influence, of said realities within
particular cultures presents a different challenge. For example, what accounts for the
perception that healing on the spiritual plane has efficacy and success in Cameroon,
when such healing practices and beliefs have a lack of influence in other parts of the
world, both East and West? Furthermore, how does one reconcile different ways of
knowing that seemingly contradict each other, yet have equal validity? In dealing
with such questions I have found it useful to acknowledge the role of transpersonal
theory.
"Transpersonalism" is a movement in science toward the recognition of
extraordinary experiences as legitimate and useful data and sources of knowledge.
What makes these experiences extraordinary is that they in some sense go beyond the
boundaries of ordinary ego-consciousness. Transpersonal experiences include such
phenomena as out of body experiences, visions, possession states, near death
experiences, and meditative, ecstatic, unifying, and mystical experiences (Laughlin
1995). Transpersonal anthropology, then, is simply the cross-cultural study of the
psychological and socio-cultural aspects of transpersonal experiences. Transpersonal
anthropological research is the investigation of the relationship between
consciousness and culture, altered states of mind research, and the inquiry into the
integration of mind, culture, and personality” (Laughlin 1995: 28). In other words,
260
transpersonal anthropology embraces nothing short of what William James (1912)
called a "radical empiricism." To be radical, empiricism must neither admit into its
constructions any element that is not directly experienced, nor exclude from them any
element that is directly experienced. For such a philosophy, the relations that connect
experiences must themselves be experienced relations, and any kind of relation
experienced must be accounted as "real" as anything else in the system (Laughlin
1995).
Although transpersonal anthropology is only two decades old as an organized
discipline, interest in the full range of the native's experiences dates back to the
nineteenth century and the work of both Edward Tylor, often considered the "father
of anthropology" and who was very interested in dreaming and the origins of religion.
Nonetheless, few fieldworkers have actually made a serious effort to produce
alternative states of consciousness in themselves; this despite evidence that people in
many, if not most, human cultures believe in cosmic realms, the reality of which is
commonly verified via experiences in alternative states of consciousness. Charles
Laughlin, a pioneer in the field of transpersonal anthropology, argues that this reflects
a Euro-American bias born of enculturation to ‘monophasic consciousness.’ This is in
sharp contrast to the majority of cultures in which access to multiple phases of
consciousness is positively sanctioned and enculturated, which he terms polyphasic
cultures. In these cultures, experiences had in dreams, in visions, under the influence
of various psychotropic substances, and under various ritual circumstances are valued
and inform the society's system of knowledge. “The important thing to remember
261
here is that the brains of people living in all societies, whether they are born into
monophasic or polyphasic cultures, are neurognostically prepared to experience a
stream of consciousness that flows, as it were, through multiple phases, and not
merely in the discrete waking states valued and emphasized by materialist cultures
such as our own” (Hameroff 1997: 29).
The Reality of Consciousness
Over the last two hundred years, physicists have ascertained that
electromagnetic radiation consists of a spectrum of energy waves of various
wavelengths, frequencies, and energies. What were previously thought to be separate
events are now understood as variations of one basic phenomenon. “Early scientists,
because they were using different instruments, were simply ‘plugging in’ at various
frequencies of the spectrum, unaware of the fact that they were all studying the same
process” (Wilber 1997:4). Wilber uses the analogy of a rainbow; for example, x-rays,
visible light, radio waves and infrared beams are now understood as being different
bands of one spectrum, in the same way the different color bands of a rainbow form
one visible spectrum. If we apply this model to human consciousness, and accept that
consciousness is a single, universal field with a multiplicity of aspects to it, then we
can study different ways of knowing as corresponding to different bands, or levels, of
consciousness. In other words, different cultures, worldviews, and philosophical
orientations each ‘plug in,’ or focus on one or two levels of consciousness.
262
To understand how we can be universal entities, it is necessary to think of an
experiment undertaken by J.S. Bell (1964) that shows all quantum material to be one
unit, universe wide. This experiment found that paired electrons as well as paired
photons, if they are separated to any distance, continue to react as one unit. Part of its
phase, or particle trail, remains in harmony with the other so that they are always in
immediate contact. Space separation isn’t important; it can be inches or light years,
but the contact is still instantaneous. The implications of this ‘discovery’ are
enormous: physical reality is either not subject to the principle of local causation, or it
does not objectively exist independent of the observers who participate in its creation
(Mishlove 1997). In terms of consciousness, the classical assumption that there is an
objective reality ‘out there’ that is totally independent of what happens ‘inside’ one’s
mind is no longer valid.
11
In other words, the observer creates that which he or she
perceives; a point Durkheim made over a century ago when he argued that the
phenomenal world is "structured by mind-contrived conceptual underpinnings," or
that the ‘real’ world is created by ideas (Gell 1992: 10).
Thus it can be said that man has available to him two basic modes of
knowing: the symbolic, or dualistic, and the intuitive, or non-dual mode. As
discussed in Chapter Six, representational and symbolic-map knowledge presupposes

11
According to this understanding, ‘ordinary reality’ is but a substructure within a
hyper-dimensional reality – an idea implicit in Plato’s Cave allegory: a man raised in
a cave saw only the shadows of his captors, reflected on the wall above him. This
became his ordinary reality, as he had not been exposed to anything else. In sum,
Plato argued that what we see with our eyes is a reflection of reality, i.e. the surface,
which is transitory, ephemeral, and often disguises deeper realities (Williams, p.c.
2006).
263
an objective reality ‘out there,’ and as such is a false premise that will offer little
insight into occult phenomena and its relationship to consciousness and reality. The
non-dual mode, however, does not take as its ‘information’ any ideas or symbols,
which differ from culture to culture and from person to person, but reality itself,
which is everywhere and every-when identical. Dualistic knowledge divides the
universe into a ‘seer’ and a ‘seen,’ thus creating two worlds from one, whereas the
non-dual mode of knowing takes the universe as a whole, revealing the underlying
reality upon which all of our maps are based (Wilber 1993: 39).
These different modes of knowing are argued to correspond to different levels
of consciousness. Patterns of human experience appear to be distributed across the
spectrum of consciousness, from those principally oriented toward adaptation to the
outer world to those expressing relations internal to the organism (Laughlin in
Hameroff, ed: 1997). A key factor pertaining to the difference in sensoriums and
worldviews concerns the cross-cultural variance in access to and conditioning of
alternative levels of consciousness. The most common difference is between what we
call waking and sleeping/dreaming states. In modern Euro-American cultures,
children are taught to disassociate from their dream states and focus on adaptational
interactions with the world. Thus Euro-American awareness is primarily concerned
with tracking, cognizing, and responding to external events in the so-called waking
state. This contrasts sharply with the majority of cultures in which access to multiple
bands of consciousness are positively sanctioned and enculturated (Laughlin in
264
Hameroff, ed: 1997). In said cultures, experiences had in dreams, in visions, and in
various ritual conditions inform the society’s general system of knowledge.
As we have seen with respect to ways of knowing in Oku, the origin and
influence of spiritual knowledge and its relation to the self suggests a group
consciousness leaning more towards what can be termed an existential level of
consciousness, as compared to an ego-level consciousness characteristic of many
Western traditions. The ego level is defined here as a more-or-less accurate mental
and symbolic representation of reality, and thus aligns itself closely with the dualistic
mode of knowing. This level of consciousness underlies the Western traditions of
scientific materialism, positivism, linear time, etc., that are significant elements in the
Western worldview. In contrast, people and cultures that ‘plug in’ to the more
existential bands of consciousness experience a more-or-less total, felt identity with
the entire organism (mind, body, psyche) as it exists in time and space. At this level
of consciousness there are no boundaries to awareness; i.e. what one senses
‘internally’ is not necessarily separated from external phenomena. It is important to
note that all humans are wired, or “neurognostically prepared,” to experience a stream
of consciousness that flows through multiple phases. The degree to which cultural
and historical processes shape the senses largely determines the phase of
consciousness that functions within a particular society.
It seems, then, that there is a vast gulf between what we ‘see’ in terms of our
relationship to the unified field of consciousness, and what our dualistic, symbolic
processes think we see (Wilber 1993: 134). In Oku and many other indigenous
265
societies that embrace the reality of such phenomena, the cultural shaping of sensory
experience and perception is argued to bring one closer to non-dual awareness. I
suggest that it is at this level where the so-called ‘invisible forces’ operate that give
efficacy to spiritual and occult phenomena. The practice of cultivating spiritual
potency, as understood in the context of traditional healing, is argued to take place by
transcending into this level of consciousness.
By using the spectrum of consciousness as a model, the healer’s intuitive
understanding of the universe can be examined, and a semblance of order in the vast
complexity of occult phenomena may in fact be demonstrated. Using this framework,
it becomes apparent that witchcraft and the occult in Africa are far from being a set of
irrational beliefs. On the contrary, the epistemological order of traditional African
thought is argued to build bridges between the so-called natural and unnatural,
spiritual and material, visible and invisible, and reality and fantasy. In this
epistemology, emphasis is on the whole, and truth is something consensual - not the
result of artificial disqualification according to many Western scientific paradigms
(Nyamnjoh 2001).
The legacy of African spiritual values and traditional religious practice cannot
be disposed of without reason, and many Western scientific, development and
modernization paradigms have proven to be poor substitutes for this legacy. This
dissertation suggests a different paradigm: a phenomenological approach predicated
on indigenous thought processes and sensory orders. By “viewing matter through the
lens of spirit,” as David Nchinda likes to say, we can facilitate a better understanding
266
of that which is beyond the visible realm as well as the ambiguous nature of occult
practice in contemporary society. To that end it is my hope that the present study not
only advance the understanding of traditional healing and occult knowledge under the
current model of globalization, but also challenges the continuing absence, erasure,
and subordination of indigenous knowledges from academic texts, discourses, and
social and political practices. Perhaps most importantly, the traditional African
worldview, with its holistic emphasis, is an effective framework for investigating
matters of consciousness, has much to offer the West’s focus on rationality, and could
be at the forefront of mankind’s true humanity.
267
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Appendices
Appendix A: Flawed Approaches to African Development
Various attempts have been made to explain the lack of homogenous political
culture in African states. A frequent argument concerns historical discontinuity,
which states that discontinuities brought by European political culture slowed the
"evolution of an Afrocentric shared political values” (Kofele-Kale 2000: 11).
Another favorite is the ethnic/tribalism argument, which sees ethnic loyalties
competing with national loyalties. A third approach is the "socialization discontinuity
argument" which examines patterns of socialization and concludes that people are
socialized for participating in the local ethnic system as opposed to the larger national
community (Kofele-Kale 2000:14). All three are argued to be flawed.
The historical discontinuity argument presupposes that traditional cultures are
so rigid they cannot resist the impact of colonialism, when in contrast it has been
shown that many African cultures did resist and adapt to the new experience. In
addition, most colonial 'overlords' did not intend to promote a sense of national
community within the nations that were colonized (Kofele-Kale 2000:18). The
tribalism argument suffers from the West's re-creation of African reality to reflect
colonial restructuring. Tribalism was elevated to a scientific paradigm, at the expense
of other societal divisions such as class, generational tensions, and rural-urban
differences to the point of a generally accepted view of Africa as a class-less society.
281
This suggests that Europeans formulated the ideology of tribalism, although they are
not necessarily the only ones guilty of promoting it. African leaders have taken the
approach of suppressing "tribal loyalties" while at the same time ensuring that the
various ethnic groups are represented in government. Not surprisingly, this policy
has been subjected to widespread abuse to the point of fueling inter-ethnic hostilities
(Kofele-Kale 2000:20-22).
The ‘patterns of socialization’ argument is not too far removed from the
tribalism argument, but rather than lay blame on primordial ethnic loyalties, it
examines the processes of socialization within the different types of ethnic systems in
a plural society. It argues that people react differently to the nation-state depending
on the type of traditional political system into which they were socialized; i.e. a
person from a state-less society would transfer certain political values learned from
the family to the new group, which may be in conflict with the new nation-state. A
shortcoming to this approach is that it doesn't take into account the impact of the
social environment, especially rural-urban differences in political values (Kofele-Kale
2000:37-38). Because economic growth and political modernization are clearly far
more advanced in Cameroon's urban centers than in the rural areas, it is suggested
that more residents in the urban areas are more favorably disposed to the national
regime than rural folks. In addition, the multiethnic character of urban centers makes
them better positioned to participate across ethic lines, as opposed to ethnically
homogenous rural areas (Kofele-Kale 2000:50).
282
All of these approaches are argued to have undermined indigenous
knowledges, modes of production, and social organizations because they were based
on Eurocentric biases that upheld capitalist values and supported only certain forms
of knowledge and productions.
Appendix B: Consciousness as a Unified Field
Consciousness itself, properly speaking, is not a spectrum, but rather a
nonmaterial, transcendental and unified field that underlies and forms the basis of the
natural world. The great Bengali scientist Jagadi Chundra Bose, conducting
experiments with plants nearly 100 years ago, said it best: “it by no means follows
that a brain is indispensable to consciousness…if then, at the top of the scale of living
beings, consciousness is attached to very complicated nervous centers, must we not
suppose that it accompanies the nervous system down its whole descent, and that
when at last the nerve stuff is merged in the yet undifferentiated living matter,
consciousness is still there, diffused, confused, but not reduced to nothing?
Theoretically, then, everything living might be conscious” (Caroll 1998). Today’s
physicists term this phenomenon the unified field theory, which is based on the
premise that everything in the universe is one unit and that what we sense as physical
is in reality constructed from non-material waves. Portions of these waves are made
to seem material by one’s consciousness.
283
A central concept among transpersonal theorists concerns not only the
awareness of deeper realities, but also the manifestation of said realities upon
reaching critical mass. A related idea in quantum physics suggests that all matter is
composed of frequencies, or wave function, which describe the possible and probable
states of an electron. These possibilities and probabilities coexist within a certain
potential of becoming actualities (becoming real); by collapsing the wave function
(via observing or measuring it) our “world” is constantly materialized out of potential
states (Marti 2000). In the field of quantum physics, these ideas resonate as
frequencies known as morphic fields. Learning is argued to take place not just by
formative causation, but also by tuning in to morphic fields once a critical number of
ones own species learns a certain behavior (Sheldrake 1989). The same concept is
argued to apply to consciousness and the manifestation of the occult: an embodied
sensory order predicated on the existential sphere of consciousness, combined with
the role of the senses as active constructors of experience, could explain the ‘reality’
of certain phenomena in Oku such as keyoi, ancestral revelations, divination, spiritual
healing and witchcraft. By the same rationale, the lack of influence said phenomena
have in other parts of the world (namely the West) is related to the dominance of the
ego sphere of consciousness, along with the lack of people ‘tuning in’ to the
existential ‘frequency’ or sphere of consciousness.
284
Appendix C: Consciousness and the Manifestation of Occult Phenomena
The subtle manipulation of energy can be used to explain a great many occult
happenings in Oku and other societies wherein the spiritual dimension plays a
significant role in daily life. A case of bi-location, a common feature of witchcraft,
can be understood in similar terms: a very strong consciousness that is maintaining a
physical body at one location can be responsible for another with the same phase at
another location. The influence of ancestors in human affairs could likewise be
‘explained’ because of this connection. In the quantum world of information, linear
time is not a factor (a central characteristic of the indigenous worldview). If a person
who is no longer living a material life left a very strong memory in the “quantum
information dimension,” that memory could possibly still influence particles in our
world to assemble a visible albeit non-material body (Hagelin 2001). Receiving
information through divination concerning ‘future’ events works in a similar manner:
a diviner can move through the information of the quantum world and collect
information that shows a trend towards a certain outcome, or a view of the ‘future.’
But can this be manipulated? If looking within, to use the generic description
of meditation techniques that allow one to momentarily transcend into pure
consciousness, allows one to radiate “energy” that has a noticeable, measurable effect
(according to recent experiments in quantum physics), then it follows that it can be
manipulated in a manner consistent with the reported effects of witchcraft on
consciousness. An experiment undertaken by Dr. Fred Travis, director of the Center
285
for the Brain, Consciousness and Cognition, revealed that brain waves can be
synchronized in a matter of seconds via transcendental meditation. When not in sync,
the brain is in a “state of bondage that controls the person’s entire reality at that
moment.” Another well-known theory concerning the right brain/left brain
dichotomy proposes that the right brain is comparably more active in the area of
visualization and intuition. It is hypothesized that the emphasis on tradition and ritual
in the indigenous worldview accounts for more right-brain activity in comparison
with the more left-brain dominant West.

Asset Metadata

Creator Bartelt, Brian Arturo (author)

Core Title Healers and witches in Oku: an occult system of knowledge in northwest Cameroon

School College of Letters, Arts and Sciences

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Anthropology

Degree Conferral Date 2006-12

Publication Date 12/07/2006

Defense Date 04/26/2006

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag African religion,Cameroon,consciousness,OAI-PMH Harvest,secret societies,traditional healing,witchcraft

Language English

Advisor Hoskins, Janet (committee chair), Fusi, Martin (committee member), Kalman, Gabor (committee member), Moore, G. Alexander (committee member), Simic, Andrei (committee member)

Creator Email deserteyeq@gmail.com

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-m220

Unique identifier UC151261

Identifier etd-Bartelt-20061207 (filename),usctheses-m40 (legacy collection record id),usctheses-c127-171208 (legacy record id),usctheses-m220 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier etd-Bartelt-20061207.pdf

Dmrecord 171208

Document Type Dissertation

Rights Bartelt, Brian Arturo

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Repository Name Libraries, University of Southern California

Repository Location Los Angeles, California

Repository Email uscdl@usc.edu

Abstract (if available)

Abstract Many sub-Saharan African cultures share a worldview in which access to multiple levels of consciousness are positively sanctioned and enculturated. In these cultures, experiences had in dreams, visions, and under various ritual conditions contribute to the society's general system of knowledge. Using a phenomenological approach, this dissertation examines traditional healing and ways of knowing in the community of Oku, Cameroon, where the intervention of occult forces permeates all aspects of society. From sorcery and divination to dream diagnostics, the healers' senses are directed towards discovering the reasons for disharmony and how to restore the balance. Analyzing the role of sensory orders in the manifestation of occult phenomena reveals a complex relationship between consciousness, perception, and spirituality that is at the heart of traditional medicine in Cameroon. The very embodiment of occult religious practice in Oku, traditional healers operate in various spheres of the occult collectively known as ju-ju. This secrecy and the potential to use ju-ju to afflict rather than heal represent in particular the 'dark side' of traditional healing, wherein various fetishes are understood to have agency over human affairs.