Oral Literature - Ruth Finnegan

Oral Literature in Africa
Ruth Finnegan
Publisher: Open Book Publishers

Year of publication: 2012
Published on OpenEdition Books: 7 February 2014
Serie: World Oral Literature Series
Electronic ISBN: 9781906924720
http://books.openedition.org
Printed version
ISBN: 9781906924713
Number of pages: 568
Electronic reference
FINNEGAN, Ruth. Oral Literature in Africa. New edition [online]. Cambridge: Open Book Publishers, 2012
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9781906924720.
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Creative Commons - Attribution 3.0 Unported - CC BY 3.0
ORAL LITERATURE IN AFRICA
The poet DLP Yali-Manisi in traditional garb with staff
(courtesy Jeff Opland).
World Oral Literature Series: Volume 1
ORAL LITERATURE IN
AFRICA
Ruth Finnegan
https://www.openbookpublishers.com
© 2012 Ruth Finnegan. Forward © 2012 Mark Turin.
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To all my teachers
and to all those students
who may find this work of some use in their
study of the oral literatures of Africa
and of the world
Ruth Finnegan is a Visiting Research Professor and Emeritus Professor in the
Faculty of Social Sciences at the Open University. Her particular interests are in
the anthropology/sociology of artistic activity, communication, and performance
debates relating to literacy, orality and multimodality and amateur and other
‘hidden’ activities. She has published widely on aspects of communication
and expression, especially oral performance, literacy, and music-making. Her
publications include Limba Stories and Story-Telling , Oral Poetry
nd edn Information Technology: Social Issues joint ed., Literacy and
Orality: Studies in the Technology of Communication Oral Traditions and the
Verbal Arts Communicating: The Multiple Modes of Human Interconnection
and The Oral and Beyond: Doing Things with Words in Africa . Her most
recent book, Why Do We Quote? The Culture and History of Quotation was published
in , and, to appear around , an edited study of dreaming and telepathy.
Ruth Finnegan was elected a Fellow of the ”ritish “cademy in and an
Honorary Fellow of Somerville College Oxford in she was awarded an O”E
for services to Social Sciences in 2000. Under the pen name of Catherine Farrar she
has also published the first two parts of fantasy-fictional ‘The Self Quartet’, namely
The Little Angel and the Three Wisdoms and Three Ways of Loving; also a collection of
short stories, The Wild Thorn Rose. She can be reached at: [email protected]
Mark Turin is a linguist and anthropologist. ”efore joining the South “sian Studies
Council at Yale, he was a Research Associate at the Museum of Archaeology and
“nthropology at the University of Cambridge. He has also held research appointments
at Cornell and Leipzig universities, and the Namgyal Institute of Tibetology in
Sikkim, India. From 2007 to 2008, he served as Chief of Translation and Interpretation
at the United Nations Mission in Nepal (UNMIN). Mark Turin is now the director
of both the World Oral Literature Project (Cambridge and Yale)—an urgent global
initiative to document and make accessible endangered oral literatures before
they disappear without record and the Digital Himalaya Project, a platform to
make multi-media resources from the Himalayan region widely available online.
He writes and teaches on ethnolinguistics, visual anthropology, digital archives
and fieldwork methodology at the Universities of Cambridge and Yale. His publications
include Nepali–Thami–English Dictionary Grounding Knowledge/Walking Land:
Archaeological Research and Ethno-historical Identity in Central Nepal (joint, 2009) and
A Grammar of Thangmi with an Ethnolinguistic Introduction to the Speakers and their
Culture . He can be reached at [email protected]
Contents
List of illustrations xiii

Foreword by Mark Turin xvii
Preface to the First Edition xxiii
Preface to the Second Edition xxv
Acknowledgments xxxv
Acknowledgments: Addendum 2012 xxxix
Abbreviations xli
Notes on Sources and References xliii
I. INTRODUCTION 1
1. The ‘oral’ nature of African unwritten literature
The significance of performance in actualization, transmission, and
composition. Audience and occasion. Implications for the study of oral
literature. Oral art as literature.
2. The perception of African oral literature 29

Nineteenth-century approaches and collections. Speculations and
neglect in the twentieth century. Recent trends in African studies and
the revival of interest in oral literature.
. The social, linguistic, and literary background

Social and literary background. The linguistic basis—the example of
Bantu. Some literary tools. Presentation of the material. The literary
complexity of African cultures.
II. POETRY 81
4. Poetry and patronage
Variations in the poet’s position. Court poets. Religious patronage.
Free-lance and wandering poets. Part-time poets. A note on ‘epic’.
. Panegyric 111
Introductory: nature and distribution; composers and reciters;
occasions. Southern Bantu praise poetry: form and style; occasions and
delivery; traditional and contemporary significance.
6. Elegiac poetry
General and introductory. Akan funeral dirges: content and themes;
structure, style, and delivery; occasions and functions; the dirge as
literature.
7. Religious poetry
Introductory. Didactic and narrative religious poetry and the Islamic
tradition; the Swahili tenzi. Hymns, prayers, and incantations: general
survey; the Fante Methodist lyric. Mantic poetry: Sotho divining
praises; odu Ifa (Yoruba).
8. Special purpose poetry—war, hunting, and work 201

Military poetry: Nguni; Akan. Hunting poetry: Yoruba ijala; Ambo
hunters’ songs. Work songs.
9. Lyric
Occasions. Subject-matter. Form. Composition.
10. Topical and political songs

Topical and local poetry. Songs of political parties and movements: Mau
Mau hymns; Guinea R.D.A. songs; Northern Rhodesian party songs.
11. Children’s songs and rhymes 291

Lullabies and nursery rhymes. Children’s games and verses; Southern
Sudanese action songs.
III. PROSE
12. Prose narratives I. Problems and theories
Introductory. Evolutionist interpretations. Historical-geographical
school. Classification and typologies. Structural-functional approach.
Conclusion.
. Prose narratives II. Content and form.

What is known to date: content and plot; main characters. Types of tales:
animal stories; stories about people; ‘myths’; ‘legends’ and historical
narratives. What demands further study: occasions; role of narrators;
purpose and function; literary conventions; performance; originality
and authorship. Conclusion.
14. Proverbs
The significance and concept of the proverb. Form and style. Content.
Occasions and functions. Specific examples: Jabo; Zulu; Azande.
Conclusion.
. Riddles
Riddles and related forms. Style and content. Occasions and uses.
Conclusion.
16. Oratory, formal speaking, and other stylized forms

Oratory and rhetoric: Burundi; Limba. Prayers, curses, etc. Word play
and verbal formulas. Names.
IV. SOME SPECIAL FORMS
17. Drum language and literature 467

Introductory—the principle of drum language. Examples of drum
literature: announcements and calls; names; proverbs; poetry.
Conclusion.
18. Drama
Introductory. Some minor examples: Bushman ‘plays’; West African
puppet shows. Mande comedies. West African masquerades: South-
Eastern Nigeria; Kalabari. Conclusion.
Conclusion
Map showing peoples mentioned in the text
”ibliography
Index
Online Resources
This volume is complemented by original recordings of stories and songs

from the Limba country (Sierra Leone) which are freely accessible at: http://
www.oralliterature.org/collections/rfinnegan001.html
Ruth Finnegan’s Limba collection was recorded during her fieldwork
in Limba country in northern Sierra Leone, mainly in the remote villages
of Kakarima and Kamabai. Recorded mostly in 1961, but with some audio
clips from and , the collection consists of stories and occasional
songs on the topics of the beginning of the world, animals and human
adventures, with some work songs and songs to accompany rituals also
included.
Performances were regularly enlivened by the dramatic arts of the
narrator and by active audience participation. Songs in this collection
are accompanied by the split drum (gong) known as Limba nkali ki,
although story songs are unaccompanied. The predominant language of
the recordings is Limba (a west Atlantic language group), with occasional
words in Krio (Creole), which was rapidly becoming the local lingua franca
at the time of the recordings.
Illustrations
Frontispiece: The poet DLP Yali-Manisi in traditional garb with staff

(photo courtesy Jeff Opland).
1 Dancer, West “frica photo Sandra ”ornand . xvi
2 The author on fieldwork in Limba country, northern Sierras xxii

Leone, 1964.
Nongelini Masithathu Zenani, Xhosa story-teller creating a 4
dramatic and subtle story photo Harold Scheub .
4 Mende performer, Sierra Leone, 1982 (photo Donald 8

Cosentino).
Dancers from Oyo, south West Nigeria, 1970 (photo David 20

Murray).
6 ‘Jellemen’ praise singers and drummers, Sierra Leone
(Alexander Gordon Laing Travels in the Timmannee,
Kooranko and Soolima Countries, .
7 ‘Evangelist points the way’ Illustration by C. J. Montague. 48
From the Ndebele edition of ”unyan s Pilgrim s Progress,
1902.
8 Arabic script of a nineteenth-century poem in Somali (from
”. W. “ndrzejewski “rabic influence in Somali poetry , in
Finnegan et al 2011).
9 Reading the ”ible in up-country Sierra Leone, photo
David Murray).
xiv Oral Literature in Africa
10 Tayiru ”anbera, West “frican bard singing his Epic of 94

”amana Segu photo David Conrad .
11 Songs for Acholi long-horned cattle, Uganda, 1960 (photo

David Murray).
12 Funeral songs in the dark in Kamabai, 1961 (photo Ruth 147

Finnegan).
Limba girls initiation, ”iriwa, Sierra Leone, photo Ruth 166
Finnegan).
14 Ceremonial staff of Ogun, Yoruba, probably late eighteenth 206
century.
Limba work party spread out in the upland rice farm,
inspired by Karanke’s drumming, Kakarima, 1961 (photo
Ruth Finnegan).
16 Work company of singing threshers at Sanasi’s farm, 226

Kakarima, 1961 (photo Ruth Finnegan).
17 Limba women pounding rice, 1961 (photo Ruth Finnegan).
18 ‘Funky Freddy’ of The Jungle Leaders playing hip-hop
political songs that were banned from Radio Sierra Leone for
their protest lyrics courtesy Karin ”arber .
19 ‘The Most Wonderful Mende Musician with his Accordion’: 288
Mr Salla Koroma, Sierra Leone.
20 Radio. Topical and political songs, already strong in Africa, 290
receive yet further encouragement by the ubiquitous presence
of local radio (courtesy of Morag Grant).
21 Sites of many Limba fictional narratives. a) entrance to a hill
top Limba village, Kakarima photo Ruth Finnegan b
start of the bush and the bush paths where wild beasts and
the devils of story roam free, 1961 (photo Ruth Finnegan).
22 ‘Great Zimbabwe’, the spectacular ruins in the south of the
modern Zimbabwe, 1964 (photo David Murray).
‘Karanke Dema, master story-teller, drummer, musician and

smith, Kakarima, 1961 (photo Ruth Finnegan).
Illustrations xv
24 Thronged Limba law court, site of oratory, Kamaba, 1961

(photo Ruth Finnegan).
Masked Limba dancer and supporters, Kakarima, 1962 (photo 486
Ruth Finnegan).
26 Dancing in Freetown—continuing site of oral literature and
its practitioners, 1964 (photo David Murray).
At end: Maps of “frica © John Hunt .

Figure . Dancer, West “frica photo Sandra ”ornand .
Foreword
Mark Turin
The study and appreciation of oral literature is more important than ever
for understanding the complexity of human cognition.
For many people around the world—particularly in areas where history
and traditions are still conveyed more through speech than in writing—the
transmission of oral literature from one generation to the next lies at the
heart of culture and memory. Very often, local languages act as vehicles
for the transmission of unique forms of cultural knowledge. Oral traditions
that are encoded in these speech forms can become threatened when elders
die or when livelihoods are disrupted. Such creative works of oral literature
are increasingly endangered as globalisation and rapid socio-economic
change exert ever more complex pressures on smaller communities, often
challenging traditional knowledge practices.
It was in order to nurture such oral creativity that the World Oral
Literature Project was established at the University of Cambridge in 2009.
Affiliated to the University of Cambridge Museum of Archaeology and
Anthropology, the project has been co-located at Yale University since 2011.
As an urgent global initiative to document and disseminate endangered
oral literatures before they disappear without record, the World Oral
Literature Project works with researchers and local communities to
document their own oral narratives, and aspires to become a permanent
centre for the appreciation and preservation of all forms of oral culture.
Through the project, our small team provides modest fieldwork grants
to fund the collecting of oral literature, and we run training workshops
for grant recipients and other scholars to share their experiences and
methodologies. Alongside a series of published occasional papers and
lectures—all available for free from our website—project staff have helped
xviii Oral Literature in Africa
to make over collections of oral literature from five continents and dating
from the 1940s to the present) accessible through new media platforms
online.1 In supporting the documentation of endangered oral literature and
by building an online network for cooperation and collaboration across
the disciplines, the World Oral Literature Project now nurtures a growing
community of committed scholars and indigenous researchers across the
globe.
The beautifully produced and fully revised new edition of Ruth
Finnegan’s classic Oral Literature in Africa is a perfect illustration of the sort
of partnership that the World Oral Literature Project has sought to promote.
In this triangulation between a prominent scholar and her timeless work,
an innovative and responsive publisher and a small but dynamic research
project, we have leveraged digital technologies to offer global access to
scholarly knowledge that had been locked away, out of print for decades,
for want of a distribution platform.
Much has changed in the world since Finnegan handed in her original
typed manuscript to the editors at Clarendon Press in Oxford in 1969.
The most profound transformation is arguably the penetration of, and
access to technology. In the decades that followed the publication of her
instantly celebrated book, computers developed from expensive room-
sized mainframes exclusively located in centres of research in the Western
hemisphere, into cheap, portable, consumer devices—almost disposable
and certainly omnipresent. It seemed paradoxical that with all of the
world’s knowledge just a few keystrokes away, thanks to powerful search
engines and online repositories of digitised learning, a work of such impact
and consequence as Oral Literature in Africa could be said to be ‘out of print’.
The World Oral Literature Project embarked on its collaboration with Open
”ook Publishers in order to address this issue, and to ensure that Finnegan s
monograph be available to a global audience, once and for all.
Finnegan was patient as we sought the relevant permissions for a new
edition, and then painstakingly transformed her original publication,
through a process of scanning and rekeying (assisted and frustrated in
equal measure by the affordance of optical character recognition) into the
digital document that it is today. At this point, thanks are due to Claire
Wheeler and Eleanor Wilkinson, both Research Assistants at the World
Oral Literature Project in Cambridge, whose care and precision is reflected
1 To view our series of occasional papers, lectures and online collections, please visit
http://www.oralliterature.org
Foreword xix
in the edition that you are now reading. In addition, through the online
Collections Portal maintained by our project, we have given new life to
Finnegan’s audio and visual collection in a manner that was unimaginable
when she made the original recordings during her fieldwork in the 1960s.
The digital collection can be explored online at http://www.oralliterature.
org/OLA, and I encourage you to visit the site to experience for yourself the
performative power of African oral literature.2
In the Preface to the first edition, Finnegan writes that she found to
her ‘surprise that there was no easily accessible work’ on oral literature in
general, a realisation which spurred her on to write the monograph that
would become Oral Literature in Africa. This re-edition of her work gives
new meaning to the phrase easily accessible not only does the author
demonstrate her clarity of insight through her engaging writing style, but
this version will be read, consumed and browsed on tablets, smart phones
and laptops, in trains, planes and buses, and through tools that are as yet
unnamed and uninvented.
The impact and effectiveness of digital editions, then, lies in the fact
that they are inherently more democratic, challenging the hegemony of
traditional publishers and breaking down distribution models that had
been erected on regional lines. While the digital divide is a modern reality,
it is not configured on the basis of former coloniser versus former colonised,
or West-versus-the-Rest, but primarily located within individual nations,
both wealthy and poor. Now, for the first time, Oral Literature in Africa
is available to a digitally literate readership across the world, accessible
to an audience whose access to traditional print editions published and
disseminated from Europe remains limited. Digital and mobile access is
particularly relevant for Africa, where smart phone penetration and cell
coverage is encouragingly high.
While it is beyond doubt that technology has transformed access to
scholarly information and the landscape of academic publishing, questions
remain about long-term digital preservation and the endurance of web-
based media. In a world of bits and bytes, what (if anything) can be counted
as permanent? Is there not something to be said for a traditional printed
artefact for the inevitable day when all the servers go down? Our partners,
the Cambridge-based Open ”ook Publishers, have developed an elegant
hybrid approach straddling the worlds of web and print: free, global,
2 For a video interview with Ruth Finnegan conducted by Alan Macfarlane in January
2008, please visit http://www.sms.cam.ac.uk/media/1116447
xx Oral Literature in Africa
online access to complete digital editions of all publications alongside high

quality paperback and hardback editions at reasonable prices, printed
on demand, and sent anywhere that a package can be delivered. This is
academic publishing 2.0: connecting a global readership with premium
knowledge and research of the highest quality, no matter where they are
and how far away the nearest library is.
Orality is often, but not always, open. Orality is also public, both in
its production, display and in its eventual consumption. It is fitting that
the ‘update’ of Ruth Finnegan’s essentially un-updateable text has been
digitally reborn, open to all, as relevant today as it was when it was first
published, and serves as the first volume of our new World Oral Literature
Series.
New Haven, Connecticut, May

Figure 2. The author on fieldwork in Limba country,
northern Sierra Leone, 1964.
Preface
Ruth Finnegan
When I first became interested in research into one particular form

of African oral literature in 1961, I found to my surprise that there was
no easily accessible work to which I could turn to give me some idea of
what was known in this field, the various publications available, or the
controversies and problems that demanded further investigation. In fact,
I gradually discovered, there was an immense amount in print—but most
of it was not easy to find, it was not systematic, and there was relatively
little treatment of contemporary forms. It was true that there was plenty
of work on written African literature (which has received a lot of publicity
in recent years) and, of a rather speculative kind, on ‘primitive mentality’
or mythopoeic imagination . ”ut on the oral side or on the actual literary
products of such minds much less was said. There therefore seemed a place
for a general work on oral literature in Africa, an introductory survey which
could sum up the present knowledge of the field and serve as a guide to
further research. It seemed likely that others too besides myself had felt the
need to consult an introduction of some kind to this subject. It is hoped that
the resulting book will be useful not only to those intending to do specific
research on African oral literature but also to those with a general interest
either in Africa or in literature generally.
The aim in presenting the material has been to strike a balance between
general discussion and actual instances. It has been necessary to include
rather more detailed descriptions and quotations than might be the case
with a book on European literatures, as the majority of African examples
are not readily accessible and too abstract a discussion would give little
idea of the intricacy and artistic conventions of many of the oral forms. It is
also an intrinsic part of the book to consider some of the social background
xxiv Oral Literature in Africa
as well as the more purely aesthetic and stylistic features. With African as
with other literature it is essential to treat both literary and social facets (if
indeed these two are ultimately distinguishable at all) for a full appreciation,
a point too often neglected by writers on this subject. This book is based
only on the more obvious sources and is intended as an introduction, not
as a comprehensive account. Only some examples are given from a huge
field and experts in particular areas will be able to point to exceptions and
omissions. Some of my conclusions too may turn out to be controversial
indeed one of my hopes is to stimulate further publications and study. On
each chapter and each section more research could—and I trust will—take
the subject very much further. ”ut in spite of these limitations, the general
purpose of the book will, I hope, be fulfilled—to show that African oral
literature is, after all, a subject worthy of study and interest, and to provoke
further research in this fascinating but too often neglected field.
Ibadan 1968
Preface to the Second Edition
Ruth Finnegan
Much has changed since the 1970 publication of the first edition of this
work. Despite the best efforts of the post-colonialists, Africa is no longer
automatically thought of as the land of colonies. African scholars take their
place alongside those from other countries, written, oral and broadcast
forms interact—and are at last seen so naturally to do so, And African arts
and culture receive their just and overdue worldwide acclaim. Now too
oral literatures flourish in multi-coloured frames, Oriental, African and
European, produced and performed in multiple new and old and wondrous
forms and in their full diversity of settings, with the same vibrancy as in the
past and their long trajectories into the foreseeable future.
This new edition is necessary. The first was written in the late 1960s—
nearly forty years ago—when the subject dearly needed greater visibility
as a focus for serious scholarly endeavour. Not that little was known of the
topic. Far to the contrary, as I tried to illustrate in the first edition, there
was a massive collected corpus of African narratives and prose forms.
Poetry too, if on a smaller scale appeared in anthologies, learned articles
and both more-or-less exact translations and romanticised approximations,
and in scholarly circles there was broad interdisciplinary interest in the
nature, details and potential of the subject. With newly emerging world
alignments, newly invigorated universities, and the benefits offered to
worldwide scholarship by digitisation and the internet, now seems to be
the time to revisit the work with fresh insights and a modicum of update.
To put it in context, let me first emphasise how immensely fortunate I
turned out to be in the time I—fortuitously—chose to embark on that first
work, mainly carried out between late , the date of my marriage, and
1968–9, when I handed over my final version to the Clarendon Press in
xxvi Oral Literature in Africa
Oxford. They had lost the first typescript—no ‘not lost’, I seem to recall
Peter Sutcliffe, then the front man at the press, as saying in his high Oxford
tones, ‘we don’t lose manuscripts here: it will just have been put on a shelf
with the wrong label . “s far as I know it never did turn up but in those
laborious days of typewriting I had kept and could amend the carbon copy.
As for how it began: after my initial stint of fieldwork I was working
on my Oxford doctoral dissertation in and longing for some kind
of overview to set my detailed Limba notes in some perspective. I still
remember the startling moment, sitting at a wide table in Rhodes House
in Oxford, when I found that yet another promising sounding title was
again just a detailed account with little or no wider perspectives. Could the
long self-motivated course of reading that I had necessarily embarked on
be turned instead to something of use to others? Could the short seminar
papers I delivered on the subject build up into something more useful?
Perhaps when I had completed my reading (as if one could . . .) and
gathered it into a larger volume, it might act in some way as a tool perhaps
even a kind of workbench for the better work of others? That at any rate
began to forge itself into my ambitious aspiration, a gadfly when the going
got tough and incentive to dispute the arrogant knowingness of those who
would yet again circulate their certainties about all African culture. Dare
I hope that something of that original aim might be achieved both in the
first edition and this more recent and more meagre offering?
When I came to read through the original edition again this year I was
surprised how much was based on my own earlier fieldwork. It underlays
my approach and interests throughout, as well as my confidence in
interpreting its miscellaneous and disparate sources. How much I owe to
those Limba story-tellers amidst the fought-over unhappy northern palms
of Sierra Leone! ”ut in addition the direct use I made of Limba findings
in chapters 12 to 16, and in scattered references earlier, certainly adds to
the volume’s authenticity. All the inputs there might well have grown to
full books in themselves (as the narrative section had, in Finnegan 1967)—
especially, perhaps, the discussion of oratory. ”etter, I persuaded myself,
to use them for a volume that would help and incite others (would that the
same, I told myself, had been done with the many specialist ethnographies
destined to languish on the shelves of well-endowed university libraries
rather than adding to the wealth of collaborative human knowledge).
Perhaps more important, that deep experience of personal fieldwork, never
forgotten, was what informed and provoked the emphasis on performance
Preface to the Second Edition xxvii
throughout—in many eyes among one of the volume’s more original

contributions—and now developed in so many eye-opening and startling
contributions across the world.1
The background to the book antedates its overt beginning. ”ut I now
see it goes back further still, drawing its inspiration from that bliss-
laden initiation into the audio and visual—the oral—qualities of ancient
classical literatures, referred to with some justice in the opening chapter of
this book—a key one as far as concerns my own approach and one that still
frames my thinking. And before that too was my Ulster upbringing with its
sensitivity to the artistries of language, my mother’s stories and my father’s
shy Ulster wit.
”ut to return to the context of my more immediate work on the volume
I was, as I have said, greatly fortunate in my timing. In 1964 the invaluable
Doke collection of works on southern African languages and cultures,
especially, with C. M. Doke s specialism, on ”antu, had just been acquired
by the University College of Rhodesia and Nyasaland in Salisbury, where
I was then attached. It was due, I believe, to the good offices of George
Fortune, Shona expert and close friend of Doke’s. The library generously
allowed me unlimited access, even before cataloguing, and some of my
most valuable data and insights came from there (I think especially of
S. M. Mofokeng’s sadly unpublished dissertations and much material
by Doke himself, some also unpublished, the inspiration and basis of the
linguistic account in my Chapter . When my husband and I moved to
the great University of Ibadan in January , complete with unborn
child, we discovered not only a bountiful university library but its then
unparalleled Africana collection on its airy top floor—now alas no more
(such is progress)—with its own unassuming and ever-helpful librarian.
This was a wonderful hunting ground. Looking back, I now feel that with
these resources of southern and western Africa, the book almost wrote
itself. In no other way can I account for its expeditious completion.
I was fortunate too—we all were—in the timing of its publication. This
was the period when many African countries were emerging out of what
was thought of as the colonial yoke and grip of Eurocentric education
Such as ”arber and Farias , ”auman , , , ”auman and Sherzer

, ”aumgardt and ”ornand a, b, ”en-“mos and Goldstein , Dégh ,
Drewal , Foley , Hanks , Harding , Honko , Hughes-Freeland
, Hymes , Mannheim and Tedlock , Okpewho , Paredes and ”auman
, Schechner , Scheub , Tedlock .
xxviii Oral Literature in Africa
to found their own universities, create departments of African studies,

and forge national cultural identities. ‘Folklore’ and the naïve primitive
offerings of communal tribal tradition, however glamorised, were, at least
in anglophone circles, no longer to be enough. A volume purporting to
offer an account of literature—that dear term so heralded in European
culture—could afford a more trusty route to national esteem. What is
more, it could be deployed as a textbook too, with many estimable courses
and projects following on from it. Perhaps it is no surprise after all that the
book remained in print for over thirty years. Happy was I and I still feel
blessed—to have played some small part in such a cultural explosion.
It must have been hugely time-consuming completing the book in little
more than five years, with all its multiplicity of footnotes and references
(too many, I came to feel, as I ploughed through the OCR version to make it
computer-readable . ”ut I was then under the influence of the Oxford Classics
and ‘Greats’ tradition, with the obligation that even the tiniest point should
have its citation and reference. I was determined then, and still I suppose
am now, that the documentation of African cultural products should be as
thorough and scrupulous as that for the great classical traditions. Nor, even
if no one now reads the footnotes, can I think I was wrong. The Clarendon
Press editors worried over the book’s length. Surely by the end the reader
would know only too well what I wanted to say (typical of that time, we
were later reconciled over an extended lunch in north Oxford: I was in no
way unwilling, I fancy, over the offered whitebait).
Nonetheless, or quite likely because of this deep engagement in my
subject, I recall those years as among the happiest of my life. Hugely busy
preparing first lectures for multiple weekly hours of teaching combing
the libraries for works pertinent to African oral literature, often at first
apparently irrelevant climbing high ladders, pregnant, to top shelves in
the beautiful breezy library to re-check references, usually to the alarm of
library staff (when I remarked in my 1970 Preface that I had seen most of the
works I referred to I was lucky enough to be speaking the truth learning
a little about teaching (though scarcely fully recognised till I reached the
Open University some time later learning from my mature students one
of whose undergraduate essays on Yoruba names is drawn on in this book,
Omijeh and spending much of the summers exploring the further
reaches of the lovely ”odleian library in Oxford, the university s Institute
of Social Anthropology in its memory-filled Keble Road building, and
the University of London’s great School of Oriental and African Studies
Preface to the Second Edition xxix
Library then dispersed throughout London. I think as well of my mother’s

constantly ungrudging welcome to our growing family and perhaps best
of all the birth of our three lovely daughters, two of them in the thriving
thronged Ibadan University Hospital. I remember too leaping with
excitement, morning sickness-stricken as I was, to pace the air-conditioned
coolness of our airy upstairs study as I worked on the chapter on proverbs—
only too obvious now and grounded in others’ insights not my own, but to
me a revelation that has shaped much of my later work.
This edition has been fully revised—in the sense, that is, that I have
checked all through and reflected on each page, corrected a number of minor
errors and infelicities, and re-ordered the references into a more modern
(though not fully contemporary) format. There is no way, however, that the
volume, as a whole, could be ‘updated’. The terminology and outlook are
inescapably those of the late 1960s and, though a few expressions now offend
me enough to demand changing, the vocabulary may well strike a modern
reader as perhaps over-dominated by that agentless passive voice of the
period, generalisation unfounded in evidence and, most of all, contaminated
by gender, age, and even, surprisingly, racial discriminatory expression
(though to tell the truth there was in fact less of that than I had expected: is
there perhaps something in the careful study of African oral literature that
somehow guards us from such blindnesses?). More important, a world—
nearly two generations—of research and thought have intervened between
1969 and 2011. I have tried to sum up some of the main tendencies of this
work, and my reflections on it, in earlier publications (Finnegan 2007, 2010a,
b) and a brief glimpse of the iceberg’s tip is provided here in the footnotes,
further expanded in the Integrated References at the end of the volume. ”ut
the contributions are legion, and true researchers can have the pleasure of
scrutinising through a lifetime’s study.2
2 To mention just some of the more general publications and surveys (the specialised
monographs are legion “brahams , “ndrzejweski et al. , “ppiah and Gates
, ”arber , a, b, , , ”arber and Farias , ”arber et al. ,
, ”aumgardt , ”aumgardt and ”ounfour , ”aumgardt and Derive ,
”elcher , ”elmont and Calame-Griaule , ”en-“mos , ”reitinger ,
”rown , Conteh-Morgan and Olanyan , Coulon and Garnier, , Dauphin-
Tinturier “-M. and Derive , Derive , Diagne , Ezeigbo and Gunner ,
Fardon and Furniss , Fedry, J., , Finnegan c, Furniss and Gunner ,
Gérard , , , Görög-Karady , , , , Gunner , Hale ,
Harding , Haring , Irele and Gikandi , Johnson et al. , Jones et al. ,
Kaschula , Kawada , Kesteloot , , Kesteloot and Dieng , Kubik
, Leguy , Lindfors , Mapanje and White , Mboyo , Mölhlig et
al , Mulokozi , Newell , Ngandu Nkashama , Okpewho , ,
xxx Oral Literature in Africa
Let me, however, indulge myself by some remarks on one characteristic

about the book which has struck me—the way that oral literature and its
study leads rather than follows fresh insights into the nature and study of
the wonderful literatures of humankind. It demands both the humanistic
and the social scientific habit for its full appreciation. I was fortunate
enough to come from a tradition—the Oxford literary discipline—of a
humanistic respect for the beauties, properties and wonderful classical
qualities of great literatures, and then, superimposed on this, of the social
scientific propensity for asking the who, how, why questions, not least
those searching queries about ‘in whose name and to whose interests?’.
”oth perspectives, particularly perhaps the latter, are now commonplace in
literary studies. ”ut, at least in the context in which I was first writing, they
presented something of a fresh perspective, one which could better inform
our understanding of the rich products of the human imagination. It was
not then the convention to ask hard questions about audiences, reception,
settings, genres, historically changing assessments or differentiated
appreciations.
The situation has not so greatly changed as one might have expected.
One of the hopes I expressed in the first edition is that enough evidence
might in due course be gathered to enable detailed histories of particular
literary traditions on the same lines as those of better known cultures. To
my disappointment this has happened only to a limited extent. There is
”. W. “ndrzejewski s long study and appreciation of Somali literature
oral, written and broadcast—a fraction of it gathered in the recent special
issue by myself and Martin Orwin Finnegan and Orwin Graham
Furniss s fine account of Hausa oral, written and popular culture Furniss
a number of works on the South “frican traditions by such scholars
as Jeff Opland, Isobel Hofmeyr, Russell Kaschula and Liz Gunner and the
collective work of that remarkable group of collaborating French scholars
such as Geneviève Calame-Griaule, Jean Derive and Ursula ”aumgardt on
what was once French West “frica. ”ut beyond that very little. We have not
after all progressed so very far beyond the notable compendium on African
literatures by “ndrzejweski, Pilaszewicz and Tyloch .
, , , a, b, Orwin and Topan , Peek and Yankah , Prahlad ,

Ricard , Ricard and Swanapoel , Ricard and Veit-Wild , Riesz and Ricard
, Scheub , , , , Schipper , Seydou et al. , Tarsitani ,
Vail and White 1991, White et al. 2001. See also general references and websites at the
end of this volume
Preface to the Second Edition xxxi
The silver lining is that this surely provides infinite opportunities not
only for further first-hand field research but also for further syntheses—the
topic perhaps for innumerable student projects and doctoral dissertations,
each one of them of value—in Africa and elsewhere. In 1969, I hazarded
a guess for the future. May I claim, with your help, to have been largely
right? And that, we must hope, will be made the more possible through the
widening sphere of open-access publication, the sharing and opening up of
world-wide intellectual and artistic resources online.
Partly for this reason we are now vastly more aware than a generation
ago of both the rich potential and the problematic of genre diversification.
One of the problems with which I had to tussle in the first edition was
of presentation. In the circumstances as they then were I think my final
decision to group the material, very roughly, in terms of subject matter (of
genre some might say was probably unavoidable. ”ut by now the subject
deserves, and must receive, greater critical attention, not least in the light of
changing cultural practices, perceptions and assessments.
One of the most famous passages in my original work was its short two-
page note, extending from pages 108 to 110, on what turned out to be the
uncontrollably emotive subject of epic. This, incredibly, has attracted more
debate, criticism and, dare I say it, misunderstanding than the rest of the
book put together—the more hyped up perhaps to market the book as a
stimulating student text. Many must have been the essays and examination
answers written to test students’ mastery of the debate, with, no doubt,
expected and well-rehearsed answers! I hope the assertions in this new
Preface can form the occasion for others in the future. In the light of what
was then known I do not think I was wrong to express my frank opinion in
the 1960s. In fact I am proud to have had the honesty and clarity to pen it
and to have lived to see the outcomes in the intervening years.
On epic and épopée see further the collections, overviews and/or bibliographies in ”arry
, ”aumgardt and Roulon-Doko , ”elcher , ”en-“mos , ”iebuyck and
Mateene , ”ornand , Derive , Derive and Dumestre , Innes , ,
Kesteloot and Dieng , Johnson, Hale and ”elcher , Martin et al. , Mbondé
Moangué , Okpewho , , , , Seydou , , Towo “tangana and
“bomo-Maurin also to cite only a small fraction of the burgeoning and varied
work “usten , ”aumgardt , ”elcher , ”elinga , ”ird , Clark ,
Conrad , Diabate , Diop , Gayibor , Hale , Haring , Jansen
2001a, b, Johnson , , Keesteloot , b, Kesteloot and Dumestre , Ly
, Meyer , Mulokozi , Ndong Ndoutoume , Okpewho , Pepper
and Wolf 1972, Seydou, C., 2008, 2010a, b, Stone , Thoyer , Traoré .
xxxii Oral Literature in Africa
Much has happened since then. Multiple epics have been collected—or
at least lengthy poetic texts that can be so described—from many places
in Africa, most notably ex-French West Africa. Collections, anthologies,
translations and annotated texts abound. Epic now has its place in the corpus
of recognised African literature, routing the once-predominance of prose
forms, the more firmly established as an unquestioned African form through
film and broadcast representation. The controversy—one I have always
been glad to start off (as I learned in my Oxford days, debate is what gives
a subject life)—has been productive indeed, not least in encouraging greater
critical scrutiny of the term (notably in Derive 2002) and the challenge, led
by Isidore Okpewho (1979), to the once taken-for-granted, but in practice
typographically and culturally constructed, of the apparent distinction
between prose and poetry, a re-assessment which has had such valuable
implications for the study of more obviously ‘written’ literatures.
Other topics where to an extent I risked my neck, deliberately so, have
disappointingly attracted less interest. Few scholars have taken up my
provocative remarks about myth (though I welcome Isidore Okpewho’s
typically well-documented Myth in Africa, and drama see ”reitinger
1994, Conteh-Morgan and Olanyan 1999). Let me offer them up as hostages
to fortune and suggest that these topics too might relay further critical
investigation. There will almost certainly be other possible misconceptions,
as yet unnoticed by myself, which I can only leave the diligent reader to
winkle out.
It will doubtless be clear to any careful reader of the first edition that
I am sceptical about the idea of inevitable progress. I am therefore immensely
glad to see that one of the great changes since I first wrote is our increasing
awareness and, no doubt causally related to this, technological capture,
of the multisensory nature of human artistry. This must surely be noted
as one of the great advances of the last generation of scholars, aided but
not dictated by new technological devices. We can now document sound,
music, dance, movement and colour, and draw on brilliant many-sided
resources to experience them, not least in the webpages the publishers
are so illuminatingly adding to their print texts. ”y now we can gather to
oral literature forms that would once have been ruled out as imported or
‘hybrid’—the bandiri Sokoto group, for instance, in which solo male-voice
performances accompanied by drums and a singing chorus blend standard
Islamic vocabulary with a delivery style reminiscent of both praise singers
and Indian film song, at once local and transnational ”ubu and Furniss
film representations of Sunjata and similar narratives Hale ,
Preface to the Second Edition xxxiii
Jorholt Zulu radio drama Gunner or the CD by the

Xhosa praise poet Zolani Mkiva set to contemporary hip-hop in a mixture
of Xhosa and English Kaschula , . “ll these by now seem
as relevant as those gathered in the first edition of this volume from the
poetry and stories documented by nineteenth and early twentieth-century
scholars.
And alongside this too we must welcome with relief the move towards
the appreciation of performance which has given us so much more rounded
an understanding of the multidimensional arts of African, and not just
African, expression—and not just oral either. I think I can claim to have
anticipated a little of this a generation ago, one reason perhaps for my book
having received such a happy reception and circulated so long in African
circles and student courses (would that these might be resumed, now with
new resources). The rediscovery of performance alongside a reverence for
text is one of the great developments since the 1960s. Long may it continue,
tempered as it must be by the respect for the textual formulations of
humankind which give them presence and resonance.
One of the defects of the original volume, to modern eyes at any rate,
was its lack of illustrations. So on that note can I add that not the least
among the advantages of the forward-looking Cambridge publishers who
are producing this book is their multi-media resources, too small alas in
my case but, I hope, growing as the years develop and scholars around the
world add their materials. Let me at the same time note the lovely cover
image which I hope may have attracted you—including I hope some new
readers—to the book in the first place. I hope that that beautiful image,
found by Jean Derive in a doctoral thesis and ultimately of provenance we
know not what, will go some way to drawing attention to the genre of epic,
making some small amends for its neglect in my first attempt.
May I end on a shamelessly immodest note. I was quite surprised going
through the text of this book to find that even now it is still in some ways
pushing at the boundaries. That is perhaps what the study of African
oral literature, inspiring and challenging as it still is, can do for a scholar.
With its need for the humanistic approach of textual reverence working
alongside a social scientist’s touch of cynicism we are inevitably brought
face-to-face with its changing and elusive nature, the dissolution of those
long-established boundaries of prose and poetry, or of oral against written,
collegial versus individual to rediscover the boundless searching paths of
the human imagination.
xxxiv Oral Literature in Africa
As it has turned out, this has been another supremely happy period in
my life. Still feeling well myself while dubbed ill by doctors, friends and
family, I have spent two blissful months engaged in this work following
my two weeks in hospital earlier in the summer. Guarded lovingly by
a glowingly-content husband and constant care from dear family and
friends, I have felt better than for years, and luxuriated in the small but
time-consuming tasks of finishing this edition—now to be consigned to the
tender inspired care of the team at Open ”ook Publishers. “s the ancients
used to say, ‘Go on your way little book, and may the gods go with you’.
Old ”letchley, UK, “ugust

Acknowledgements
I have many thanks to express. All the editors of the ‘Oxford Library of
African Literature’, E. E. Evans-Pritchard, R. G. Lienhardt and Wilfred
Whiteley, have helped me in many ways in particular Wilfred Whiteley
has worked through the whole book and made many helpful suggestions
and criticisms his serial letters on the subject over several months were
a highlight of 1967–78 and I am more grateful to him than I can say. The
following have also read and commented on parts of the book: Dr. G. Innes,
Mr. D. K. Rycroft and Mrs. Agnes Finnegan. I have greatly appreciated and
profited from their advice (even where I have not taken all of it). I have
also had a number of most helpful discussions with Mr. Robin Horton and
with my husband, Dr. David Murray. I have obviously used the writings
of a great number of people, but would like to mention in particular the
stimulus I have received from work by ”ascom, ”erry, ”owra, ”abalola,
and, above all, Nketia I have not always agreed with them or even referred
much directly to their work, but have constantly found them illuminating.
Finally, the dedication is a serious one. Anything that is of interest in this
book is ultimately due to the many people over many years who have
taught me—and I do not mean only those who have taught me about Africa
or about anthropology.
I would also like to thank the staff of libraries where I have collected the
material used here: especially the library of the (then) University College
of Rhodesia and Nyasaland (in particular for allowing me access to the
Doke Collection of works on ”antu studies the library of the University
of Ibadan especially the “fricana and reference librarians and the library
of the Institute of Social Anthropology, Oxford. I am also most grateful
to the Institute of African Studies, Ibadan, for a grant towards the cost of
obtaining photocopies of articles not locally available.
xxxvi Oral Literature in Africa
I would like to thank the following authors and publishers for permission
to quote from the published works mentioned:
Mr. Wande Abimbola (The Odu of Ifa, African Notes , , .
Oba Adetoyese Laoye I, The Timi of Ede (The orikis of 13 of the Timis of Ede,
1965).
Dr. Ethel M. Albert and the American Anthropological Association

Rhetoric , logic , and poetics in ”urundi, reproduced by permission of the
American Anthropological Association from the American Anthropologist,
vol. , no. , Pt. , pp. .
Professor R. G. “rmstrong Talking drums in the ”enue-Cross River region

of Nigeria, Phylon , .
Professor William ”ascom The sanctions of Ifa divination, JRAI ,

The forms of folklore: prose narratives, JAF , .
Professor Robin Horton and the International “frican Institute The

Kalahari Ekine society: a borderland of religion and art, Africa , .
“bbé “lexis Kagame La poésie dynastique au Rwanda, Institut royal colonial

beige, Mem. , , .
Professor E. J. Krige and Shuter and Shooter (Pty.) Ltd. (The social system of
the Zulus, .
Mr. L. S. ”. Leakey and Methuen & Company Ltd. Defeating Mau Mau, .
Mbari publications ”. Gbadamosi and U. ”eier, Yoruba poetry,

H. Owuor, Luo songs, Black Orpheus 19, 1961).
Professor J. H. Nketia Funeral dirges of the Akan people, Akan poetry,

Black Orpheus , Drum proverbs, Voices of Ghana, Accra, Ministry of
Information and ”roadcasting, African music in Ghana, Drumming
in Akan communities of Ghana, .
Professor Willard Rhodes (Music as an agent of political expression, African

studies bulletin , , .
Professor M. G. Smith and the International African Institute (The social

functions and meaning of Hausa praise-singing, Africa , .
Acknowledgements xxxvii
Father F. Theuws (Textes Luba, ”ulletin du centre d étude des problèmes

sociaux indigenes C.E.P.S.I. , .
Dr. Hugh Tracey ‘Lalela Zulu’, 100 Zulu lyrics, 1948).
Professor A. N. Tucker (Children’s games and songs in the Southern Sudan,

JRAI , .
M. Pierre Verger (Notes sur le culte des Orisa, Mem. IFAN , .
Witwatersrand University Press (extracts from the following articles in

Bantu studies and African studies on the pages mentioned: E. W. Grant,
The Izibongo of the Zulu chiefs, Bantu studies , , pp. ,
S. K. Lekgothoane, Praises of animals in Northern Sotho, Bantu studies 12,
, pp. P. “. W. Cook, History and Izibongo of the Swazi chiefs,
Bantu studies , , p. F. Laydevant, The praises of the divining bones
among the ”asotho, Bantu studies , , pp. , , , M.
Read, Songs of the Ngoni people, Bantu studies , , pp. , , 25,
”. Stefaniszyn, The hunting songs of the “mbo, African studies , , pp. ,
, , , C. Cagnolo, Kikuyu tales, African studies , , pp. ,
, pp. .
West “frica , Orbit House, London, E.C. R. Schachter, French Guinea s

R.D.A. folk songs, West African review , .
I am also indebted to the Delegates of the Oxford University Press to

quote from works published in the ‘Oxford Library of African Literature’,
and from L. Harries, Swahili poetry, R. S. Rattray, Ashanti,
R. S. Fletcher, Hausa sayings and folk-lore, N. Njururi, Agikuyu folk tales,
H. Tracey, Chopi musicians, 1948.
I am also most grateful to the following for permission to quote from

various unpublished sources:
The Library, University College of Rhodesia (manuscripts in the Doke

Collection).
Mr. David Rycroft personal communication quoted in Chapter .
University of the Witwatersrand (S. M. Mofokeng, ‘Notes and annotations

of the praise-poems of certain chiefs and the structure of the praise-poems
in Southern Sotho , unpub. honours thesis, .
Acknowledgements:
Addendum 2011
A slightly abridged version of Chapter 1 appeared in Finnegan 2007. As

before, Ibadan Library’s Africana collection, the Doke collection in southern
Africa and the blessedly summer-opening libraries of the great universities
of southern England have played their indispensable part. So too have
national and international conferences, and the innumerable students
and scholars in between who have followed up this work. I am also much
indebted to the scholars who have commented on the new Preface and
added their suggestions of references and website or supplemented the
additional resources for this volume (http://www.oralliterature.org/OLA),
among them Jeff Opland, Russell Kaschula, ”ob Cancel, Ursula ”aumgardt
and Jean Derive (the last two the more welcome as the first edition was
coloured more by English than French scholarship and Harold Scheub.
Unlike the first edition, when I do not think the Clarendon Press would
have welcomed suggestions of images, this edition contains illustrations.
They are of variable quality, location and date (though some date back to
the period when the first edition was being written, or reflect the fieldwork
that so influenced my approach . Some are from earlier still. ”ut they
should at least serve to remind us of the multi-sensory nature of African
oral literatures—realised not just in text but in performance and individual
artisty.
Old ”letchley, UK,

Abbreviations
”esides the normal abbreviations conventional in scholarly discourse the

following abbreviations have been used:
AA African Abstracts. London.

Afr. (in journal title) African/africain(e)(s) [etc].
Aft. u. Übersee Afrika und Übersee. ”erlin.
Am. Anthrop. American Anthropologist. Menasha, Wisconsin.
AMR AC Musée royal de I’Afrique centrale. Annales
(sciences humaines). Tervuren.
AMRCB Musée royal du Congo beige. Annales (sciences
humaines). Tervuren.
AMRCB-L Musée royal du Congo beige. Annales (sciences
de I’homme, linguistique). Tervuren.
Ann. et mém. Com ét. AOF Annuaire et memoires du Comite d’études
historiques et scientifiques de I’AOF. Gorée.
Anth. Ling. Anthropological Linguistics. Indiana.
Anth. Quart. Anthropological Quarterly. Washington.
ARSC Académie royale des sciences coloniales (sciences
morales). Mémoires.
ARSOM Brussels. Académie royale des sciences d’outre-mer.
Mémoires. ”russels.
ARSOM Bull. Académie royale des sciences d’outre-mer.
Bulletin des séances. ”russels.
BSO(A)S Bulletin of the School of Oriental (and African)
Studies. London.
Bull. Com. et. AOF Bulletin du Comité d’études historiques et
scientifiques de l’AOF. Paris.
xlii Oral Literature in Africa
Bull. IF AN (B) Institut français d’Afrique noire.

Bulletin (serie B). Dakar, Paris.
Cah. étud. afr. Cahiers d’études africaines. Paris.
CEPSI Bulletin trimestriel du Centre d’étude des
problèmes sociaux indigènes. Élisabethville.
IAI International African Institute. London.
IFAN Institut français d’Afrique noire. Dakar.
IRCB Bull. Institut royal colonial beige. Bulletin des séances.
”russels.
IRCB Mem. Institut royal colonial beige. Mémoires. ”russels.
JAF Journal of American Folklore. Richmond,
Virginia.
JRAI Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute.
London.
J. Soc. africanistes Mem. Journal de la Société des africanistes. Paris.
IFAN Institut français d’Afrique noire. Mémoires.
Dakar.
Mitt. Inst. Orientforsch. Mitteilungen des Instituts für Orientforschung.
”erlin.
MSOS Mitteilungen des Seminars für orientalische
Sprachen zu Berlin.
OLAL Oxford Library of African Literature. Oxford.
Rass. studi etiop. Rassegna di studi etiopici. Roma.
SOAS School of Oriental and African Studies.
University of London.
SWJA Southwestern Journal of Anthropology.
Albuquerque.
TMIE Travaux et mémoires de l’Institut d’ethnologie.
Paris.
Trans. Hist. Soc. Ghana Transactions of the Historical Society of Ghana.
Legon.
ZA(O)S Zeitschrift für afrikanische (und oceanische)
Sprachen. ”erlin.
ZES Zeitschrift für Eingeborenen-Sprachen. ”erlin.
ZKS Zeitschrift für Kolonial-Sprachen. ”erlin.
Note on Sources and References
Only the more obvious sources have been used. Where I have come
across unpublished material I have taken account of it but have not made
a systematic search. The sources are all documentary with the exception
of some comments arising from fieldwork among the Limba of Sierra
Leone and a few points from personal observation in Western Nigeria
gramophone recordings have also occasionally been used. In general, I have
tried not to take my main examples from books that are already very easily
accessible to the general reader. I have, for instance, given references to,
but not lengthy quotations from, the ‘Oxford Library of African Literature’
series or the French ‘Classiques africains’.
In time, I have not tried to cover work appearing after the end of 1967
(though references to a few 1968 publications that I happen to have seen
are included). This means that the book will already be dated by the time it
appears, but obviously I had to break off at some point.
References are given in two forms: (1) the general bibliography at the
end, covering works I have made particular use of or consider of particular
importance referred to in the text merely by author and date and more
specialized works not included in the general bibliography (full references
given ad loc.). This is to avoid burdening the bibliography at the end
with too many references of only detailed or secondary relevance. With
a handful of exceptions I have seen the works I cite. Where this is not so,
I have indicated it either directly or by giving the source of the reference
in brackets. Where I have seen an abstract but not the article itself, this
is shown by giving the volume and number of African Abstracts (AA) in
brackets after the reference.
The bibliography and references are only selective. It would have been
out of the question to have attempted a comprehensive bibliography.
I. INTRODUCTION
1. The ‘Oral’ Nature of African
Unwritten Literature
The significance of performance in actualization, transmission, and

composition. Audience and occasion. Implications for the study of oral
literature. Oral art as literature.
Africa possesses both written and unwritten traditions. The former

are relatively well known—at any rate the recent writings in European
languages (much work remains to be publicized on earlier Arabic and
local written literatures in Africa). The unwritten forms, however, are
far less widely known and appreciated. Such forms do not fit neatly into
the familiar categories of literate cultures, they are harder to record and
present, and, for a superficial observer at least, they are easier to overlook
than the corresponding written material.
The concept of an oral literature is an unfamiliar one to most people
brought up in cultures which, like those of contemporary Europe, lay stress
on the idea of literacy and written tradition. In the popular view it seems to
convey on the one hand the idea of mystery, on the other that of crude and
artistically undeveloped formulations. In fact, neither of these assumptions
is generally valid. Nevertheless, there are certain definite characteristics of
this form of art which arise from its oral nature, and it is important at the
outset to point to the implications of these. They need to be understood
before we can appreciate the status and qualities of many of these African
literary forms.
It is only necessary here to speak of the relatively simple oral and
literary characteristics of this literature. I am not attempting to contribute
to any more ambitious generalized theory of oral literature in terms of
its suggested stylistic or structural characteristics1 or of the particular
On which see e.g. Jousse Lord Propp cf. Olrik s epic laws , .
4 Oral Literature in Africa
type of mentality alleged to go with reliance on oral rather than written

communication.2 These larger questions I leave on one side to concentrate
on the more obvious properties of unwritten literature.
Figure . Nongelini Masithathu Zenani, Xhosa story-teller creating a dramatic and

subtle story photo Harold Scheub .
I
There is no mystery about the first and most basic characteristic of oral
literature—even though it is constantly overlooked in collections and
analyses. This is the significance of the actual performance. Oral literature
is by definition dependent on a performer who formulates it in words on
a specific occasion—there is no other way in which it can be realized as
a literary product. In the case of written literature a literary work can be
E.g. Lévi-Strauss cf. also the discussion and references in Goody and Watt .
For the general discussion in this chapter see particularly the valuable brief article by
”ascom in JAF , also Chadwicks especially vol. iii and Chadwick .
Some of the more detailed theories which have affected the study of African oral
literature are discussed in Ch. 2.
1. The ‘Oral’ Nature of African Unwritten Literature 5
said to have an independent and tangible existence in even one copy, so

that questions about, say, the format, number, and publicizing of other
written copies can, though not irrelevant, be treated to some extent as
secondary there is, that is, a distinction between the actual creation of a
written literary form and its further transmission. The case of oral literature
is different. There the connection between transmission and very existence
is a much more intimate one, and questions about the means of actual
communication are of the first importance—without its oral realization and
direct rendition by singer or speaker, an unwritten literary piece cannot
easily be said to have any continued or independent existence at all. In this
respect the parallel is less to written literature than to music and dance
for these too are art forms which in the last analysis are actualized in and
through their performance and, furthermore, in a sense depend on repeated
performances for their continued existence.
The significance of performance in oral literature goes beyond a mere
matter of definition: for the nature of the performance itself can make an
important contribution to the impact of the particular literary form being
exhibited. This point is obvious if we consider literary forms designed to
be delivered to an audience even in more familiar literate cultures. If we
take forms like a play, a sermon, ‘jazz poetry’, even something as trivial as
an after-dinner witty anecdote—in all these cases the actual delivery is a
significant aspect of the whole. Even though it is true that these instances
may also exist in written form, they only attain their true fulfilment when
actually performed.
The same clearly applies to African oral literature. In, for example, the
brief Akan dirge
Amaago, won’t you look?

Won’t you look at my face?
When you are absent, we ask of you.
You have been away long your children are waiting for you Nketia
the printed words alone represent only a shadow of the full actualization of
the poem as an aesthetic experience for poet and audience. For, quite apart
from the separate question of the overtones and symbolic associations of
words and phrases, the actual enactment of the poem also involves the
emotional situation of a funeral, the singer’s beauty of voice, her sobs,
facial expression, vocal expressiveness and movements (all indicating the
sincerity of her grief), and, not least, the musical setting of the poem. In fact,
all the variegated aspects we think of as contributing to the effectiveness
of performance in the case of more familiar literary forms may also play
their part in the delivery of unwritten pieces—expressiveness of tone,
gesture, facial expression, dramatic use of pause and rhythm, the interplay
of passion, dignity, or humour, receptivity to the reactions of the audience,
etc., etc. Such devices are not mere embellishments superadded to the
already existent literary work—as we think of them in regard to written
literature—but an integral as well as flexible part of its full realization as a
work of art.
Unfortunately it is precisely this aspect which is most often overlooked
in recording and interpreting instances of oral literature. This is partly
due, no doubt, to practical difficulties but even more to the unconscious
reference constantly made by both recorders and readers to more familiar
written forms. This model leads us to think of the written element as the
primary and thus somehow the most fundamental material in every kind
of literature—a concentration on the words to the exclusion of the vital and
essential aspect of performance. It cannot be too often emphasized that this
insidious model is a profoundly misleading one in the case of oral literature.
This point comes across the more forcibly when one considers the various
resources available to the performer of African literary works to exploit
the oral potentialities of his medium. The linguistic basis of much African
literature is treated in Chapter but we must at least note in passing the
striking consequences of the highly tonal nature of many African languages.
Tone is sometimes used as a structural element in literary expression and
can be exploited by the oral artist in ways somewhat analogous to the use
of rhyme or rhythm in written European poetry. Many instances of this can
be cited from African poetry, proverbs, and above all drum literature. This
stylistic aspect is almost completely unrepresented in written versions or
studies of oral literature, and yet is clearly one which can be manipulated in
a subtle and effective way in the actual process of delivery see Ch. . The
exploitation of musical resources can also play an important part, varying
of course according to the artistic conventions of the particular genre in
question. Most stories and proverbs tend to be delivered as spoken prose.
”ut the Southern ”antu praise poems, for instance, and the Yoruba hunters
ijala poetry are chanted in various kinds of recitative, employing a semi-
musical framework. Other forms draw fully on musical resources and
make use of singing by soloist or soloists, not infrequently accompanied or
supplemented by a chorus or in some cases instruments. Indeed, much of
what is normally classed as poetry in African oral literature is designed to
be performed in a musical setting, and the musical and verbal elements are
thus interdependent. An appreciation, therefore, of these sung forms (and
to some extent the chanted ones also) depends on at least some awareness
of the musical material on which the artist draws, and we cannot hope fully
to understand their impact or subtlety if we consider only the bare words
on a printed page.
In addition the performer has various visual resources at his disposal.
The artist is typically face to face with his public and can take advantage of
this to enhance the impact and even sometimes the content of his words.
In many stories, for example, the characterization of both leading and
secondary figures may appear slight but what in literate cultures must be
written, explicitly or implicitly, into the text can in orally delivered forms
be conveyed by more visible means—by the speaker’s gestures, expression,
and mimicry. A particular atmosphere—whether of dignity for a king’s
official poet, light-hearted enjoyment for an evening story-teller, grief for
a woman dirge singer—can be conveyed not only by a verbal evocation
of mood but also by the dress, accoutrements, or observed bearing of the
performer. This visual aspect is sometimes taken even further than gesture
and dramatic bodily movement and is expressed in the form of a dance,
often joined by members of the audience (or chorus). In these cases the
verbal content now represents only one element in a complete opera-
like performance which combines words, music, and dance. Though this
extreme type is not characteristic of most forms of oral literature discussed
in this volume, it is nevertheless not uncommon and even in cases where
the verbal element seems to predominate (sometimes in co-ordination with
music), the actual delivery and movement of the performer may partake of
something of the element of dancing in a way which to both performer and
audience enhances the aesthetic effectiveness of the occasion.
Much more could be said about the many other means which the oral
performer can employ to project his literary products—his use, for instance,
of vivid ideophones or of dramatized dialogue, or his manipulation of the
audience’s sense of humour or susceptibility (when played on by a skilled
performer) to be amazed, or shocked, or moved, or enthralled at appropriate
moments. ”ut it should be clear that oral literature has somewhat different
potentialities from written literature, and additional resources which the
oral artist can develop for his own purposes and that this aspect is of
primary significance for its appreciation as a mode of aesthetic expression.
Figure . Mende performer, Sierra Leone, . Note the performer s

gestures and the clapping audience/chorus, essential for the performance
(photo Donald Cosentino).
The detailed way in which the performer enacts the literary product of
his art naturally varies both from culture to culture and also among the
different literary genres of one language. Not all types of performance
involve the extremes of dramatization. Sometimes indeed the artistic
conventions demand the exact opposite—a dignified aloof bearing, and
emphasis on continuity of delivery rather than on studied and receptive
style in the exact choice of words. This is so, for instance, of the professional
reciter of historical Rwanda poetry, an official conscious of his intellectual
superiority over amateurs and audience alike:
Contrairement à l amateur, qui gesticule du corps et de la voix, le récitant

professionnel adopte une attitude impassible, un débit rapide et monotone.
Si auditoire réagit en riant ou en exprimant son admiration pour un passage
particulièrement brillant, il suspend la voix avec détachement jusqu à ce que
le silence soit rétabli. Coupez and Kamanzi
This might seem the antithesis of a reliance on the arts of performance for
the projection of the poem. In fact it is part of this particular convention
and, for the audience, an essential part. To this kind of austere style of
delivery we can contrast the highly emotional atmosphere in which the
southern Sotho praise poet is expected to pour out his panegyric. Out of the
background of song by solo and chorus, working up to a pitch of excitement
and highly charged emotion,
the chorus increases in its loudness to be brought to a sudden stop with

shrills of whistles and a voice (of the praise poet) is heard: ‘Ka-mo-hopola
mor’a-Nyeo!’ (I remember the son of so-and-so!)
”ehind that sentence lurks all the stored up emotions and without
pausing, the name . . . is followed by an outburst of uninterrupted praises,
save perhaps by a shout from one of the listeners: ‘Ke-ne ke-le teng’ (I was
present) as if to lend authenticity to the narration. The praiser continues his
recitation working himself to a pitch, till he jumps this way and that way
while his mates cheer him . . . and finally when his emotion has subsided he
looks at his mates and shouts Ntjeng, ”anna lit. Eat me, you men . “fter
this he may burst again into another ecstasy to be stopped by a shout from
him or from his friends Ha e nye bolokoe kaofela! or Ha e nye lesolanka!
a sign that he should stop. Mofokeng
Different again are the styles adopted by story-tellers where there tends
to be little of this sort of emotional intensity, but where the vividness and,
often, humour of the delivery add drama and meaning to the relatively
simple and straightforward wording. The Lamba narrator has been
particularly well described:
It would need a combination of phonograph and kinematograph to

reproduce a tale as it is told . . . Every muscle of face and body spoke, a
swift gesture often supplying the place of a whole sentence . . . The animals
spoke each in its own tone: the deep rumbling voice of Momba, the ground
hornbill, for example, contrasting vividly with the piping accents of Sulwe,
the hare . . . Smith and Dale ii,
Even within the same culture there may be many set styles of performance
designed to suit the different literary genres recognized in the culture.
Indeed these genres are sometimes primarily distinguished from each other
in terms of their media of performance rather than their content or purpose.
In Yoruba poetry, for instance, the native classification is not according to
subject-matter or structure but by the group to which the reciter belongs
and, in particular, by the technique of recitation and voice production.
Thus there is ijala (chanted by hunters in a high-pitched voice), rara (a slow,
wailing type of chant), and ewi (using a falsetto voice), and even though
the content of various types may often be interchangeable, a master in one
genre will not feel competent to perform a different type: he may know the
words but cannot manage the necessary subtleties of tone and style and
the required type of voice production Gbadamosi and ”eier
”abalọla vi, . Many other cases could also be cited where the mode
of performance is as significant for the native critic as actual content or
structure.
So far we have been speaking of the importance of performance in all
types of oral literature and of the way in which techniques of delivery can be
variously exploited and evaluated by performer or audience. ”ut there is a
further, related, characteristic of oral literature to which we must now turn.
This is the question of improvisation and original composition in general.
In other words, something more may be involved in the delivery of an oral
piece than the fact of its actualization and re-creation in and through the
performance, aided by a technique of delivery that heightens its artistic
effectiveness. There are also the cases when the performer introduces
variations on older pieces or even totally new forms in terms of the detailed
wording, the structure, or the content.
The extent of this kind of innovation, of course, varies with both genre
and individual performer, and the question of original composition is a
difficult one. It is clear that the process is by no means the same in all non-
literate cultures or all types of oral literature,4 and between the extremes
of totally new creation and memorized reproduction of set pieces there is
scope for many different theories and practices of composition. There are,
for instance, the long-considered and rehearsed compositions of Chopi
singers, the more facile improvisation of a leader in a boat- or dance-
song, the combination and recombination of known motifs into a single
unique performance among Limba story-tellers. There are also occasional
cases, like the Rwanda poet just mentioned, where there is interest in the
accuracy and authenticity of the wording (at least in outline) and where
memorization rather than creation is the expected role of the performer.
In spite of the very real significance of these variations, one of the
striking characteristics of oral as distinct from written literature is its verbal
variability. What might be called the ‘same’ poem or prose piece tends to
be variable to such an extent that one has to take some account at least of
the original contribution of the artist who is actualizing it—and not simply
in terms of the technique of delivery. Take for instance the case of Ankole
praise poems. Since the ideas expressed in these poems are stereotyped and
4 On some of the many variations in the forms of composition (including musical

composition among different peoples see Nettl b and esp. pp. ff.
repetitive, the omwevugi (poet/reciter) must change the wording to obtain

variety.
[He] has to rely to a great extent upon the manner in which he expresses
these ideas in order to give beauty and interest to his poem. Herein lies
the art of the accomplished omwevugi who, by the ingenious choice of his
vocabulary, can repeat identical themes time and time again, always with a
different and startling turn of phrase. Morris
Again, there is the production of stories among the Thonga. It is worth

quoting Junod s excellent description of this at some length. Having
postulated the ‘antiquity’ of Thonga tales, he goes on:
This antiquity is only relative: that is to say they are constantly transformed
by the narrators and their transformations go much further than is generally
supposed, further even than the Natives themselves are aware of. After
having heard the same stories told by different story-tellers, I must confess
that I never met with exactly the same version. First of all words differ. Each
narrator has his own style, speaks freely and does not feel in any way bound
by the expressions used by the person who taught him the tale. It would be a
great error to think that, writing a story at the dictation of a Native, we possess
the recognized standard form of the tale. There is no standard at all! . . .
The same can be said with regard to the sequence of the episodes although
these often form definite cycles, it is rare to hear two narrators follow exactly
the same order. They arrange their material as they like, sometimes in a very
awkward way . . .
I go further: New elements are also introduced, owing to the tendency
of Native story-tellers always to apply circumstances of their environment
to the narration. This is one of the charms of Native tales. They are living,
viz., they are not told as if they were past and remote events, in an abstract
pattern, but considered as happening amongst the hearers themselves . . .
So all the new objects brought by civilisation are, without the slightest
difficulty, made use of by the narrator . . .
Lastly, my experience leads me to think that, in certain cases, the contents
of the stories themselves are changed by oral transmission, this giving birth
to numerous versions of a tale, often very different from each other and
sometimes hardly recognizable. Junod , ii . The whole of this
passage is worth consulting)
The scope of the artist to improvise or create may vary, but there is almost
always some opportunity for ‘composition’. It comes out in the exact choice
of word and phrase, the stylistic devices like the use of ideophones, asides,
or repetitions, the ordering of episodes or verses, new twists to familiar plots
or the introduction of completely new ones, improvisation or variation of
solo lines even while the chorus remains the same—as well, of course, as all
the elaborations and modifications to which the musical aspect is subject.

Such additions and changes naturally take place within the current literary
and cultural conventions—but what is involved, nevertheless, is some
degree of individual creativity. With only a few exceptions, this process
is likely to enter into the actualization of any piece of oral literature, which
thus becomes in one sense a unique literary work—the work rendered on
one particular occasion.
The variability typical of oral literary forms has tended to be overlooked
by many writers. This is largely because of certain theoretical assumptions
held in the past about the verbatim handing down of oral tradition
supposedly typical of non-literate societies. The model of written literature
has also been misleading in this context, with its concept of exact transmission
through manuscripts or printing press. It must therefore be stressed yet
again that many of the characteristics we now associate with a written
literary tradition do not always apply to oral art. There is not necessarily
any concept of an ‘authentic version’, and when a particular literary piece
is being transmitted to an audience the concepts of extemporization or
elaboration are often more likely to be to the fore than that of memorization.
There is likely to be little of the split, familiar from written forms, between
composition and performance or between creation and transmission. A
failure to realize this has led to many misconceptions—in particular the
presentation of one version as the correct and authentic one—and to only
a partial understanding of the crucial contribution made by the performer
himself.
A further essential factor is the audience, which, as is not the case with
written forms, is often directly involved in the actualization and creation of
a piece of oral literature. According to convention, genre, and personality,
the artist may be more or less receptive to his listeners’ reactions—but,
with few exceptions,6 an audience of some kind is normally an essential
part of the whole literary situation. There is no escape for the oral artist
from a face-to-face confrontation with his audience, and this is something
which he can exploit as well as be influenced by. Sometimes he chooses
to involve his listeners directly, as in story-telling situations where it is
common for the narrator to open with a formula which explicitly arouses
his audience s attention he also often expects them to participate actively
For instances of this see the various examples in Parts II and III and in particular the
discussion in Ch. 9, pp. 266ff.
6 E.g. the solitary working songs, some herding songs, sometimes individual rehearsals
for later performance, and perhaps some of the lullabies.
in the narration and, in particular, to join in the choruses of songs which

he introduces into the narrative.7 The audience can be exploited in similar
ways in the performance of poetry, particularly in sung lyrics where it is
common practice for the poet to act as leader, singing and improvising the
verse line, while the audience performs as a chorus keeping up the burden
of the song, sometimes to the accompaniment of dancing or instrumental
music. In such cases the close connection between artist and audience can
almost turn into an identity, the chorus directly participating in at least
certain parts of the performance.
Even in less formalized relationships the actual literary expression can
be greatly affected by the presence and reactions of the audience. For one
thing, the type of audience involved can affect the presentation of an oral
piece—the artist may tend, for instance, to omit obscenities, certain types
of jokes, or complex forms in the presence of, say, children or missionaries
(or even foreign students) which he would include in other contexts. And
direct references to the characteristics, behaviour, or fortunes of particular
listeners can also be brought in with great effectiveness in a subtle and
flexible way not usually open to written literature. Members of the audience
too need not confine their participation to silent listening or a mere
acceptance of the chief performer’s invitation to participate—they may also
in some circumstances break into the performance with additions, queries,
or even criticisms. This is common not only in the typical and expected
case of story-telling but even in such formalized situations as that of the
complex Yoruba ijala chants. A performance by one ijala artist is critically
listened to by other experts present, and if one thinks the performer has
made a mistake he cuts in with such words as
I beg to differ that is not correct.

You have deviated from the path of accuracy . . .
Ire was not Ogun’s home town.
Ogun only called there to drink palm-wine . . .
to which the performer may try to defend himself by pleading his own
knowledge or suggesting that others should respect his integrity:
Let not the civet-cat trespass on the cane rat’s track.

Let the cane rat avoid trespassing on the civet-cat’s path.
Let each animal follow the smooth path of its own road.
”abalola ,
For further details on audience participation in stories see Ch. , pp. ff.
This possibility of both clarification and challenge from members of the

audience and their effect on the performance is indeed one of the main
distinctions between oral and written literary pieces. As Plato put it long
ago: ‘It is the same with written words [as with painting]. You would think
they were speaking as if they were intelligent, but if you ask them about
what they are saying and want to learn [more], they just go on saying one
and the same thing for ever’ (Phaedrus, d). This leads on to a further
important characteristic of oral literature: the significance of the actual
occasion, which can directly affect the detailed content and form of the
piece being performed. Oral pieces are not composed in the study and later
transmitted through the impersonal and detached medium of print, but
tend to be directly involved in the occasions of their actual utterance. Some
of the poetry to be discussed in this volume is specifically ‘occasional’, in
that it is designed for and arises from particular situations like funerals,
weddings, celebrations of victory, soothing a baby, accompanying work,
and so on again, with certain prose forms like, for instance, proverbs ,
appropriateness to the occasion may be more highly valued by local critics
than the verbal content itself. ”ut even when there is not this specific
connection, a piece of oral literature tends to be affected by such factors
as the general purpose and atmosphere of the gathering at which it is
rendered, recent episodes in the minds of performer and audience, or even
the time of year and propinquity of the harvest. Many oral recitations arise
in response to various social obligations which, in turn, are exploited by
poet and narrator for his own purposes. The performer of oral pieces could
thus be said to be more involved in actual social situations than the writer
in more familiar literate traditions.
II
These characteristic qualities of oral literary forms have several implications
for the study of oral literature. It is always essential to raise points which
would seem only secondary in the case of written literature—questions
about the details of performance, audience, and occasion. To ignore
these in an oral work is to risk missing much of the subtlety, flexibility,
and individual originality of its creator and, furthermore, to fail to give
consideration to the aesthetic canons of those intimately concerned in the
production and the reception of this form of literature.
This is easy enough to state—but such implications are exceedingly
difficult to pursue. Not only is there the seductive model of written literature
which constantly tempts one to set aside such questions for the more
familiar textual analysis there are also practical difficulties to surmount.
The words themselves are relatively easy to record (even though this is
often not done with much scholarly rigour): one can use dictation, texts
written by assistants, or recordings on tape. ”ut for the all-important aspect
of the actual performance—how is one to record this? Even more difficult,
how is one to convey it to readers not themselves acquainted with this art
form? In the days before the availability of the portable tape-recorder this
problem was practically insuperable.8 The general tendency was thus for
the early scholars to rely only on written records of the oral literature they
collected. In many cases, furthermore, they were using quite inadequate
sources, perhaps second-hand (so that they themselves had not direct
experience of the actual performance involved), or in synopsis only with
the artistic elaborations or repetitions omitted. This in itself goes a long
way to account for the very simplified impression of African oral literature
we often receive from these collections (particularly when it is remembered
that they emphasized prose narrative rather than the more elaborate and
difficult poetic forms). This was all the more unfortunate because the
common practice of concentrating on the texts only encouraged others to
follow the same pattern even when it became open to them to use new
media for recording.
”y now there is an increasing, though by no means universal, reliance on
the tape-recorder by serious students of African oral literature. This medium
has helped immensely in solving some of the problems of recording details
of the performance. ”ut the visual effects produced by the artist still tend
to elude record. Furthermore, the problem of communicating the style of
performance to a wider audience is still a real one: few if any publishers are
prepared to include recordings with their collections of published texts. Thus
the public is still given the impression of African oral literature as a kind
of written literature manqué—apparently lacking the elaboration of wording
and recognizability of associations known from familiar forms, and without
the particular stylistic devices peculiar to oral forms being made clear.
Even when the importance of performance is stressed in general terms,
more needs to be said to convey the particular style and flavour of any given
genre. A full appreciation must depend on an analysis not only of the verbal
interplay and overtones in the piece, its stylistic structure and content, but
8 A few early observers speak of recording certain of their texts on ‘the phonograph’. See
e.g. Torrend Northern Rhodesian stories, including songs Thomas ii Edo
Lindblom iii, Kamba songs, recorded about .
also of the various detailed devices which the performer has at his disposal
to convey his product to the audience, and the varying ways these are used
by different individuals. Something also needs to be said of the role and
status of the composer/performer who is the one to communicate this oral
art directly to his public, the variant forms that arise according to audience
and occasion, the reactions and participation likely to be forthcoming from
his listeners and spectators, the respective contributions, if any, of musical
or balletic elements, and finally the social contexts in which this creation
and re-creation takes place.
All these factors are far more difficult to discover and describe than
a mere transcription of the texts themselves, followed by their leisured
analysis. It is not surprising that most editions of oral art concentrate on the
textual aspect and say little or nothing about the other factors. ”ut, difficult
or not, without the inclusion of some consideration of such questions we
have scarcely started to understand its aesthetic development as a product
of literary artistry.
Various questionable assumptions about the nature of oral tradition
and so-called ‘folk art’ among non-literate people have not made matters
any easier. Several of these theories are discussed in some detail in
later chapters, but briefly they include such ideas as that ‘oral tradition’
(including what we should now call oral literature) is passed down word
for word from generation to generation and thus reproduced verbatim from
memory throughout the centuries or, alternatively, that oral literature is
something that arises communally, from the people or the ‘folk’ as a whole,
so that there can be no question of individual authorship or originality.
It can be seen how both these assumptions have inevitably discouraged
interest in the actual contemporaneous performance, variations, and the
role of the individual poet or narrator in the final literary product. A
related assumption was that oral literature (often in this context called
folklore was relatively undeveloped and primitive and this derogatory
interpretation was applied to oral literature both in completely non-literate
societies and when it coexisted with written literary forms in ‘civilized’
cultures. This opinion received apparent confirmation from the appearance
of bare prose texts in translation or synopsis, and people felt no need to
enter into more profound analysis about, say, the overtones and artistic
conventions underlying these texts, far less the individual contribution of
performer and composer. There was thus no need for further elucidation,
for it was assumed in advance that little of real interest could emerge from
this ‘inherently crude’ oral medium.
There are also various other special difficulties about the presentation of
African oral literature—how, for instance, to delimit literary from everyday
speech forms or convey the subtleties or overtones which only emerge
fully to one familiar with the cultural and literary traditions of the society.
”ut these do not arise directly from the oral nature of African literature
and will thus be more suitably discussed later. The main point I want to
reiterate here, the more emphatically because of the way it has so often
been overlooked in the past, is that in the case of oral literature, far more
extremely than with written forms, the bare words can not be left to speak
for themselves, for the simple reason that in the actual literary work so
much else is necessarily and intimately involved. With this type of literature
a knowledge of the whole literary and social background, covering these
various points of performance, audience, and context, is, however difficult,
of the first importance. Even if some of the practical problems of recording
and presenting these points sometimes appear insoluble, it is at least
necessary to be aware of these problems from the outset, rather than, as so
commonly happens, substituting for an awareness of the shallowness of
our own understanding an imaginary picture of the shallowness in literary
appreciation and development of the peoples we are attempting to study.
III
So far we have been concentrating on the oral aspect of African unwritten
literature—the implications of this for the nature of such literature and the
difficulties of presentation and analysis to which it gives rise. Little has
yet been said about the literary status of these oral products, and we have
indeed been begging the question of how far these can in fact be regarded
as a type of literature at all.
Various positions have been taken up on this question. A number of the
scholars who have carried out extensive studies of the oral art of non-literate
peoples are quite dogmatic about the suitability of the term ‘literature’. N.
K. Chadwick, for one, is explicit on this point:
In civilised countries we are inclined to associate literature with writing

but such an association is accidental . . . Millions of people throughout Asia,
Polynesia, Africa and even Europe who practise the art of literature have no
knowledge of letters. Writing is unessential to either the composition or the
preservation of literature. The two arts are wholly distinct.
Chadwick
This general view is supported, by implication at least, by the many

writers who have referred to their collections or descriptions of oral forms
by such terms as ‘oral literature’, ‘unwritten literature’, or sometimes
‘popular’ or ‘traditional literature’.9 The opposite viewpoint, however,
also seems to carry weight. There is, for one thing, the association, both
popular and etymological, between ‘literature’ and letters or writing. The
fact, furthermore, that oral art depends for its creation on the actual (and
thus ephemeral) performance of it seems to some to disqualify it from true
literary status, so that other terms like ‘folk art’, ‘folklore’, or ‘verbal art’
appear more accurate designations. Added to this is the alleged practicality
so often supposed to be the root of ‘primitive art forms’. According to
this view, even if some primitive formulation, say a story, might seem in
outward form, style, or content to present a superficial resemblance to a
written work of fiction, in essentials, being fundamentally pragmatic
rather than aesthetic, it is something wholly different. Finally, individual
authorship is often presumed not to be in question in the case of oral forms,
being replaced, according to current fashions, by such supposed entities
as ‘the group mind’, ‘the folk’, ‘social structure’, or simply ‘tradition’, all
of which equally result in a finished product with a totally different basis
and orientation from that of written literature. This kind of view, then,
would draw a basic distinction between, on the one hand, the products of
a written literary tradition and, on the other, most if not all of the instances
of verbal art included in this and similar volumes.
In this controversy, my own position is clearly implied in both my title
and the discussion so far. It is that, despite difficulties of exact delimitation
and presentation, the main body of the material I discuss and illustrate in
this volume falls within the domain of literature (the class of literature I call
oral literature and that it is misleading as well as unfruitful to attempt
to draw a strict line between the verbal art of literate and of non-literate
cultural traditions.
In part this approach is an arbitrary one. It is, after all, open to anyone
to produce a wide enough definition of ‘literature’ for all the examples
produced here to fit within its limits—or a narrower one to exclude them.
”ut it is also adopted because it has been found that to approach instances
of oral art as literary forms and thus proceed to ask about them the same
kind of questions we might raise in the case of written literature, has in
fact been a productive approach leading to both further appreciation of
9 For early approaches of this kind see Ch. 2.

the oral forms and a deeper understanding of their role in society. Such an
approach then is in principle its own justification—how justifiable it in fact
turns out to be in leading to greater insight can be left to the readers of this
book to judge.10 ”ut there is also more to this view than whether or not it
is a fruitful one. It seems to me to bear more relation to the empirical facts
than its opposite in that many of the apparent reasons for the supposed
cleavage between oral and written forms have in fact rested on mistaken
assumptions. So, even though I am not attempting to put forward any
new definition or theory of literature—an attempt likely to raise as many
difficulties as it solves—some of these misleading points should be clarified
at this stage.11
The first point can be easily disposed of. The etymological connections
between literature and writing may seem at first a clear validation for
limiting the term to literate cultures. ”ut even if we are prepared to be
coerced by etymologies (and why should we, unless to rationalize already
held assumptions?), we must admit that this association by no means exists
in all languages—we need only mention the German Wortkunst or Russian
slovesnost (as pointed out in Wellek and Warren 1949: 11)—so it can hardly
be said to have universal validity.
The fact of a positive and strongly held popular association between
writing and literature is more difficult to deal with. Current prejudices may
be false, but they go deep. And this is especially so when they are securely
rooted in particular historical and cultural experiences, so that the familiar
and traditional forms of a given culture come to be regarded as the natural
and universal ones, expected to hold good for all times and places. This kind
of ethnocentric preconception has had to be revised by scholars in other
spheres such as, for instance, the study of modes of political organization
or religious practices, as they are viewed in the light of wider research and
thus greater comparative perspective. This, it seems now, may also be the
case with the study of literature. In spite of the natural reluctance to regard
very different verbal forms as of ultimately the same nature as our own
familiar types, we have at least to consider the possibility that the literary
models of (in effect) a few centuries in the Western world, which happen
to be based on writing and more especially on printing, may not in fact
exhaust all the possibilities of literature.
10 Or, better, to the readers of such original and detailed studies as e.g. Nketia etc.,
”abalọla , Kagame b.
11 Several of them are more fully elaborated in later chapters, particularly Ch. 2.
Figure . Dancers from Oyo, south West Nigeria, photo David Murray .
This possibility can be rendered more intelligible by considering further

the relationship between oral and written literature. It becomes clear that
this is a difference of degree and not of kind: there are many different
gradations between what one could take as the oral and the printed ideal
types of literature. It is perhaps enough to allude to the literature of the
classical world which, as is well known, laid far more stress on the oral
aspect than does more recent literature. Even laying aside the famous and
controversial question of the possible oral composition of Homer s great
epics (universally passed as ‘literature’), we can see that the presence of
writing can coexist with an emphasis on the significance of performance
as one of the main means of the effective transmission of a literary work.
For the Greeks there was a close association between words, music, and
dance—one which seems much less obvious to a modern European—and
Aristotle, still accepted as one of the great literary critics, can give as his
first reason for considering tragedy superior to epic the fact that it makes
an additional impact through music and visual effects (Poetics, 1462a).
Throughout much of antiquity even written works were normally read
aloud rather than silently, and one means of transmitting and, as it were,
‘publishing’ a literary composition was to deliver it aloud to a group of
friends. In such cases the relationship of the performance and transmission
of literary works to the content is not totally dissimilar from that in African
oral literature.
What is true of classical literature is also true of many cultures in
which writing is practised as a specialist rather than a universal art and, in
particular, in societies without the printing-press to make the multiplication
of copies feasible. We are so accustomed, at our present stage of history,
to associate the written word with print that we tend to forget that the
mere fact of writing does not necessarily involve the type of detachment
and relatively impersonal mode of transmission that we connect with
printing. Transmission by reading aloud or by performing from memory
(sometimes accompanied by improvisation) is not at all incompatible with
some reliance on writing—a situation we find not only in earlier European
societies12 but also in a few of the “frican instances described later Ch. ,
Ch. . Here again the contrast between fully oral forms on the one hand
and the impersonal medium of print on the other is clearly only a relative
one: we would hardly suggest that works written and, in part, orally
transmitted before the advent of printing were therefore not literature, any
more than we would be prepared to state dogmatically that the Homeric
epics—or an African poem—only became literature on the day they were
first written down.
Even in a society apparently dominated by the printed word the oral
aspect is not entirely lost. Perhaps because of the common idea that written
literature is somehow the highest form of the arts, the current significance of
oral elements often tends to be played down, if not overlooked completely.
”ut we can point to the importance of performance and production in a
play, the idea held by some at least that much poetry can only attain its full
flavour when spoken aloud, or the increasing but often underestimated
12 See for instance H. J. Chaytor s pertinent comment on medieval vernacular literature

‘In short, the history of the progress from script to print is a history of the gradual
substitution of visual for auditory methods of communicating and receiving ideas . . .
To disregard the matter and to criticise medieval literature as though it had just been
issued by the nearest circulating library is a sure and certain road to a misconception
of the medieval spirit . The oral aspects of manuscript culture are further
discussed in McLuhan 1962.
significance of the oral reproduction and dissemination of classic literary

forms (as well as wholly new compositions) through radio and television.
Add to this the interplay between the oral and the written—the constant
interaction in any tradition between the written word and, at the least,
the common diction of everyday speech (an interaction which may well
be heightened by the spreading reliance on radio and television channels
of transmission), as well as the largely oral forms like speeches, sermons,
children’s rhymes, satires depending in part on improvisation, or many
current pop songs, all of which have both literary and oral elements—in
view of all this it becomes clear that even in a fully literate culture oral
formulations can play a real part, however unrecognized, in the literary
scene as a whole.
Even so brief an account suggests that our current preoccupation with
written, particularly printed, media may give only a limited view and
that the distinction between oral and written forms may not be so rigid
and so profound as is often implied. It is already widely accepted that
these two media can each draw on the products of the other, for orally
transmitted forms have frequently been adopted or adapted in written
literature, and oral literature too is prepared to draw on any source,
including the written word. To this interplay we can now add the fact that
when looked at comparatively, the two forms, oral and written, are not
so mutually exclusive as is sometimes imagined. Even if we picture them
as two independent extremes we can see that in practice there are many
possibilities and many different stages between the two poles and that the
facile assumption of a profound and unbridgeable chasm between oral and
written forms is a misleading one.
Some further misconceptions about the nature of oral forms must be
mentioned briefly here they will be taken up further in the main body of the
book. First, the idea that all primitive (and thus also all oral) art is severely
functional, and thus basically different from art in ‘civilized’ cultures.
To this it must be replied that this whole argument partly arises from a
particular and temporary fashion in the interpretation of art (the rather
unclear idea of art for art s sake that since there is little detailed empirical
evidence on the various purposes of particular genres of oral literature—
it was much easier to write down texts and presume functions than to
make detailed inquiries about the local canons of literary criticism—this
assertion rests as much on presupposition as on observed fact and, finally,
that the whole argument is partly just a matter of words. How far and in
what sense and for whom a given piece of literature is ‘functional’ and just
how one assesses this is as difficult a question in non-literate as in literate
cultures. Certainly we can say that even when we can find a clear social
purpose (and the ‘occasional’ aspect in oral literature varies according to
genre, composer, and situation just as it does in written literature), this by
no means necessarily excludes an interest in aesthetic as well as functional
considerations.
The question of authorship in oral literature has already been mentioned
in the context of performance and of the composition that arises from this.
”y now, few people probably take very seriously the concept of the group
mind’ or the ‘folk mind’ as an empirical entity to which the authorship
of particular literary pieces could be assigned. ”ut in the case of the oral
literature of basically unfamiliar cultures this idea acquires an apparent
validity mainly from ignorance of the actual circumstances involved. Again,
this is a large question that cannot be pursued in detail here. ”ut it can be
said categorically that while oral literature—like all literature—in a sense
arises from society and, being oral, has the extra facet of often involving
more direct interplay between composer and audience, nevertheless it is
totally misleading to suggest that individual originality and imagination
play no part. The exact form this takes and the exact degree of the familiar
balance between tradition and creativity naturally vary with the culture,
the genre, and the personalities involved. ”ut it will be clear from the
instances in this volume that the myth attributing all oral literature either
to the ‘community’ alone or, alternatively, to one particular portion of it
the folk is not true to the facts and that the whole picture is much more
complex than such simplified and speculative assumptions would suggest.
A final point which has, I think, wrongly deterred people from the
recognition of oral forms as a type of literature has been the idea that they
have only resulted in trivial formulations without any depth of meaning or
association. This impression has, it is true, been given by the selection and
presentation of much of the African verbal art that reaches the public—the
emphasis on animal tales and other light-hearted stories (relatively easy
to record rather than the more elaborate creations of the specialist poets
and the common publication of unannotated texts which give the reader
no idea whatsoever of the social and literary background which lies behind
them, let alone the arts of the performer. Quite apart from mere problems
of translation, the difficulties of appreciating the art forms of unfamiliar
cultures without help are well known. We need only consider—to take just
one example—how much our appreciation of
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end . . .
depends, among other things, on our knowledge of the particular art form
used, its whole literary setting, the rhythm, phrasing, and music of the line,
and, not least, on the emotive overtones of such familiar words as ‘waves’,
‘minutes’, ‘end’ which bring us a whole realm of associations, sounds, and
pictures, all of which can be said to form an essential part of the meaning
of the line. This is obvious—but it is often forgotten that exactly the same
thing applies in oral literature:
Grandsire Gyima with a slim but generous arm

Nana Gyima abasateaa a adoes wo mu . Nketia ,
is the first line of an Akan dirge, and seems of itself to have little poetic
force or meaning. ”ut its significance appears very different when we know
the overtones of the concept of generosity, metaphorically expressed here
through the familiar concept of the dead man s arm the particular style
and structure, so pleasing and acceptable to the audience the rhythm and
quasi-musical setting of the line the familiarity and associations of the
phrasing the known fact that this is a mother singing for her dead son whom
she is calling her grandsire in the verse and the grief-laden and emotional
atmosphere in which these dirges are performed and received—all this
makes such a line, and the poem that follows and builds on it, something
far from trivial to its Akan listeners. Akan dirges are among the few African
literary genres that have as yet been subject to any full treatment along
these lines Nketia see also Ch. below but there is reason to suppose
that similar discussions of other genres would also reveal ample evidence
that the charge of triviality in oral literature as a whole rests far more on
ignorance and unfamiliarity than on any close acquaintance with the facts.
There is one further problem that should be mentioned here. This is
the difficult question of how to distinguish in wholly oral communication
between what is to count as literature and what is not. Are we to include,
say, speeches by court elders summing up cases, an impromptu prayer,
non-innovatory genres like some formulaic hunting-songs, formal words
of welcome, or the dramatic reporting of an item of news?
This is a real problem to which there is no easy solution. However, it
has to be said at once that despite first impressions there is no difference
in principle here between written and unwritten literature. In written forms

too there are problems in delimiting what is truly ‘literature’. It is largely
a matter of opinion, for example, as to whether we should include science
fiction, certain newspaper articles, or the words of popular songs. Opinions
differ, furthermore, not only between different individuals and different
age and social groups, but at different periods of history. The problem,
clearly, is not unique to oral literature.
In considering this question, the criteria used in relation to oral literature
are much the same as in the case of written literature. First, some cases
are clear-cut. These are instances when the accepted characteristics of
‘literature’ are clearly applicable, or where the African examples are clearly
comparable with literary genres recognized in familiar European cultures.
In other words, once the concept of an oral literature is allowed, there will
be no dispute over such cases as panegyric poetry, lyrics for songs, fictional
narratives, or funeral elegies. Other cases are not so clear. Here at least one
criterion must be the evaluation of the particular societies involved—we
cannot assume a priori that their definitions of ‘literary’ will necessarily
coincide with those of English culture. Since the evaluation of some form
as literature is, as we have seen, a matter of opinion, it seems reasonable
at least to take seriously the local opinions on this. Thus when we are told
that among the Ibo ‘oratory . . . calls for an original and individual talent
and . . . belongs to a higher order [than folk-tales]’, this ought to incline us
to consider including at least some rhetorical speeches as a part of Ibo oral
literature (although among other societies with less interest in oratory this
may not be the case). Again, proverbs are sometimes locally thought to be
as serious and ‘literary’ as more lengthy forms—and in some cases are even
expanded into long proverb-poems, as with the ‘drum proverbs’ of the
Akan. Finally we have verbal forms that are clearly marginal: obviously not
‘literature’ in their own right, and yet not irrelevant to literary formulation
and composition. We could instance metaphorical names, elaborate
greeting forms, the serious art of conversation, and, in some cases, proverbs
or rhetoric. As described in Chapter 16, these show an appreciation of the
artistic aspect of language and a rich background from which more purely
literary forms arise—a relationship perhaps particularly obvious in the
case of oral literature, but not unknown to literate cultures. The plan of the
central portion of this book14 is to proceed from the clearly ‘literary’ forms
See below
14 In particular Parts II and III.
through more questionable cases like proverbs or riddles to the marginally

relevant forms like names or wordplay. There is no one point at which I
would draw a definite dividing line, even though one extreme is clearly
literary, the other not.
Earlier I made the negative point that many of the assumptions that seem
to set oral forms totally apart from written literature are in fact questionable
or false. The same point can be put more positively. Oral literary forms fall
within most definitions of ‘literature’ (save only for the point about writing
as a medium, not always included in such definitions), and the problems
arising from most of these apply to oral as well as to written literary
forms. In other words, though I am not putting forward any one particular
definition of ‘literature’, it seems clear that the elements out of which such
definitions tend, variously, to be constructed are also recognizable in oral
forms, often with exactly the same range of ambiguities. The basic medium
is words—though in both cases this verbal element may be supplemented
by visual or musical elements. ”eyond this, literature, we are often told, is
expressive rather than instrumental, is aesthetic and characterized by a lack
of practical purpose—a description equally applicable to much oral art.
The exploitation of form, heightening of style, and interest in the medium
for its own sake as well as for its descriptive function can clearly be found
in oral literary forms. So too can the idea of accepted literary conventions
of style, structure, and genre laid down by tradition, which are followed by
the second-rate and exploited by the original author. The sense in which
literature is set at one remove from reality is another familiar element: this
too is recognizable in oral literature, not merely in such obvious ways as in
the use of fiction, satire, or parable, but also through the very conventionality
of the literary forms allied to the imaginative formulation in actual words.
If we prefer to rely on an ostensive type of definition and list the kind of
genres we would include under the heading of ‘literature’, this procedure
gives us many analogies in oral literature (though we may find that we have
to add a few not familiar in recent European literature). Among African
oral genres, for instance, we can find forms analogous to European elegies,
panegyric poetry, lyric, religious poetry, fictional prose, rhetoric, topical
epigram, and perhaps drama. Whichever approach we adopt we shall run
into some difficulties and unclear cases—in the case of oral literature the
problem of delimiting literary from everyday spoken forms is a peculiarly
difficult one which I do not think I have solved successfully here—but the
point I want to stress is that these difficulties are fundamentally the same
as those that arise in the study of any kind of literature.
This argument tends to the conclusion that there is no good reason to
deny the title of ‘literature’ to corresponding African forms just because they
happen to be oral. If we do treat them as fundamentally of a different kind,
we deny ourselves both a fruitful analytic approach and, furthermore, a
wider perspective on the general subject of comparative literature. We need
of course to remember that oral literature is only one type of literature,
a type characterized by particular features to do with performance,
transmission, and social context with the various implications these have
for its study. ”ut for all these differences, the view that there is no essential
chasm between this type of literature and the more familiar written forms
is a basic assumption throughout this book.
For some further discussion of the question of African oral forms as ‘literature’ see
Whiteley 1964: 4ff. and references given there.
2. The Perception of African
Oral Literature
Nineteenth-century approaches and collections. Speculations and neglect in

the twentieth century. Recent trends in African studies and the revival of
interest in oral literature.
A considerable amount of work has been published on the subject of

“frican oral literature in the last century or so. ”ut the facts are scattered
and uneven, often buried in inaccessible journals, and their significance
has not been widely appreciated. The popular image of Africa as a land
without indigenous literary traditions retains its hold even now, it is still
sometimes expressed in a form as crude as that criticized by ”urton a
century ago:
The savage custom of going naked’, we are told, ‘has denuded the mind, and
destroyed all decorum in the language. Poetry there is none . . . There is no
metre, no rhyme, nothing that interests or soothes the feelings, or arrests the
passions . . . ”urton xii
Even those who would immediately reject so extreme a view are still often
unconsciously influenced by fashionable but questionable assumptions
about the nature of literary activity among non-literate peoples, which
determine their attitude to the study of African oral literature. We still hear,
for instance, of the ‘savage’ reliance on the ‘magical power of the word’,
of the communal creation of ‘folktales’ with no part left for the individual
artist, or of the deep ‘mythic’ consciousness imagined to be characteristic
of non-literate society. All in all, there is still the popular myth of Africa as
a continent either devoid of literature until contact with civilized nations
led to written works in European languages, or possessing only crude and
uninteresting forms not worthy of systematic study by the serious literary
or sociological student.
In fact, there is a strong indigenous tradition of both unwritten and, in

some areas, written literature in Africa.1 The oral literature in particular
possesses vastly more aesthetic, social, and personal significance than
would be gathered from most general publications on Africa. Far more,
too, has been published on this subject than is usually realized even by
many of the students who have recently taken some interest in the subject.
”ut because much of the detailed research this century has been carried
out by individuals working in isolation or, at best, by various schools of
researchers out of touch with the work of other groups, the subject as a
whole has made little progress over the last generation or so, whether in
consolidating what is already known, in criticizing some of the earlier
limiting preconceptions, or in publicizing the results to date.
This introductory chapter traces briefly the history of the study of
African oral literature over the last century. The purpose of the chapter
is twofold. First, there have been so many assumptions and speculations
about both Africa and oral literature that it is necessary to expose these
to clear the way for a valid appreciation of our present knowledge of the
subject.2 Second, the various sources we have for the study of African
oral literature need to be assessed and put in historical perspective. For
though there are far more collections of African oral art than is usually
realized, they are of very uneven quality and their usefulness depends on a
knowledge of the theoretical preconceptions of the collector.
I
The European study of oral literature in Africa begins about the middle of
the last century. There had been a few isolated efforts before then, notably
Roger’s retelling of Wolof fables from Senegal (1828) and an increasing
awareness of the written “rabic tradition. ”ut until the mid-century there
was no available evidence to refute the popular European image of Africa
as totally without literary pretensions. ”y about the s the position
changed. African linguistic studies were emerging as a specialist and
scholarly field, and this in turn led to a fuller appreciation of the interest
and subtleties of African languages. The main motive of many of these
Written literature, mainly on “rabic models, is further mentioned in Ch. cf. also Ch.
7.
2 For more detailed accounts of the study of oral literature in general (usually under the
name of folklore see Thompson Jacobs Krappe Dorson, i, and
the more general essays in von Sydow 1948.
2. The Perception of African Oral Literature 31
linguistic studies was to aid the evangelization of Africa, and grammars,

vocabularies, and collections of texts appeared by and for missionaries.
There was close collaboration between linguists and missionaries, and
many of the great collections of texts in the nineteenth century were a
result of professional or amateur linguists working in full sympathy with
the missionary movement and published under its auspices. A further
stimulus was the general interest in comparative studies. This was revealed
not only in linguistic work and in the comparative analysis of social and
political institutions, but also in the field of literature: in the school of
comparative mythology and in the impetus to collection arising from the
publications of the Grimm brothers in Germany.
The result of these various influences was the publication of many
lengthy collections of African texts and translations in the second half of the
nineteenth century.4 These contain narratives of various kinds (including
stories about both animals and humans), historical texts, proverbs, riddles,
vernacular texts describing local customs, sometimes additional vernacular
compositions by the collector, and very occasionally songs or poems. There
is of course some variation in size and quality, but by and large these
editions compare favourably with many more recent publications. Most
include complete texts in the vernacular with a facing translation usually
into English or German, and occasionally a commentary (most often
linguistic).
The main emphasis in these collections was, it is true, linguistic (or,
in some cases, religio-educational, preoccupied with what it was thought
fitting for children to know). There was little attempt to relate the texts to their
social context, elucidate their literary significance, or describe the normal
circumstances of their recitation. There are many questions, therefore,
which these texts cannot answer. Nevertheless, the very size of many of
these collections, presenting a corpus of literature from a single people,
often throws more light on the current literary conventions among a given
people than all the odd bits and pieces which it became so fashionable to
On this period see Curtin ff. Greenburg ff.

E.g. Casalis Sotho , Koelle Kanuri , Schlenker Temne , ”urton
a re-publication of the collections of others , ”leek Hottentot , Callaway
Zulu , Steere Swahili , Christaller Twi , ”érenger-Féraud
Senegambia , Schon Hausa , Theal Xhosa , Jacottet , Sotho ,
Taylor Swahili , ”(ttner vols., Swahili , Chatelain Kimbundu ,
Junod 1897 (Ronga), Dennett 1898 (Fjort), Velten 1907 (Swahili). For further references
to works currently considered relevant, see introductions to Chatelain 1894, Jacottet
also Seidel , ”asset .
publish later. And the linguistic and missionary motive was not always so
narrow as to exclude all interest in the wider relevance of these collections.
A number of scholars noted the connections between their work and the
progress in comparative studies in Europe. ”leek, for instance, significantly
entitles his collection of Hottentot stories Reynard the Fox in South Africa, to
bring out the parallelism between African and European tales. Although
at first some people refused to believe that tales of such striking similarity
to European folk-stories and fairy-tales could really be indigenous to
“frica, this similarity of content gradually became accepted. ”y the end
of the century, Chatelain could assert with confidence in his authoritative
survey that many myths, characters, and incidents known elsewhere also
occur in African narratives, and that African folklore is thus a ‘branch of
one universal tree’. The cultural implications of these collections were not
lost on their editors. There was a general recognition, often accompanied
by some slight air of surprise, that the negro too was capable of producing
works which manifested depth of feeling and artistry and showed him to
be human in the fullest sense of the word. ”oth the climate of opinion to
which he felt he had to address himself and his own conclusions on the
basis of his study of the language come out clearly in the preface to the
early work by Koelle, African Native Literature, or Proverbs, Tales, Fables and
Historical Fragments in the Kanuri or Bornu Language, published in . It
is illuminating to quote this eloquent and early statement at some length:
It is hoped that the publication of these first specimens of a Kanuri literature

will prove useful in more than one way. Independently of the advantages it
offers for a practical acquaintance with the language, it also introduces the
reader, to some extent, into the inward world of Negro mind and Negro
thoughts, and this is a circumstance of paramount importance, so long as
there are any who either flatly negative the question, or, at least, consider
it still open, ‘whether the Negroes are a genuine portion of mankind or
not’. It is vain to speculate on this question from mere anatomical facts,
from peculiarities of the hair, or the colour of the skin: if it is mind that
distinguishes man from animals, the question cannot be decided without
consulting the languages of the Negroes for language gives the expression and
manifestation of the mind. Now as the Grammar proves that Negro languages
are capable of expressing human thoughts,—some of them, through their
rich formal development, even with an astonishing precision—so specimens
like the following ‘Native Literature’ show that the Negroes actually have
thoughts to express, that they reflect and reason about things just as other
Chatelain , p. .
men. Considered in such a point of view, these specimens may go a long

way towards refuting the old-fashioned doctrine of an essential inequality
of the Negroes with the rest of mankind, which now and then still shows
itself not only in America but also in Europe (Chatelain 1894: 20. Chatelain’s
introduction gives an excellent summary of the publications and conclusions
on African oral literature to that date).
”y the end of the century the same point could be stated more dogmatically
and succinctly as Seidel has it in his description of the impact of “frican oral
literature, Und alle sahen mit Erstaunen, dass der Neger denkt und f(lt,
wie wir selbst.denken und f(hlen Seidel but the point has been
made—and often with a similar air of discovery—at intervals ever since.6
The appreciation of the cultural relevance of the collected texts was taken
further by the emerging tradition that a general study of any African people
could suitably include a section on their unwritten literature. Even in the
nineteenth century some general volumes appeared in which the literary
creations of African peoples were set in the context of their life in general.7
One of the striking contributions of these early collectors—missionaries,
linguists, ethnographers—is the frequent recognition that the texts they
recorded could be truly regarded as a type of literature, fundamentally
analogous to the written fiction, history, and poetry of European nations.
This point is worth making. Recent scholars of the subject too often give
the impression that they are the first to recognize the true nature of these
texts as literature (although it must indeed be admitted that not only has it
been difficult for this approach to gain popular acceptance, but for much
of this century it has for various reasons been overlooked by professional
students of Africa). Many of those working in this field in the nineteenth
century, however, were quite clear on the point. The term ‘literature’
appears in the titles of books or sections,8 and Chatelain expressed a fairly
common attitude among collectors when he stressed the importance of
studying ‘their unwritten, oral literature’ (1894: 16).9 One of the earliest
clear statements is that of ”leek in the preface to his famous collection of
Namaqa Hottentot tales. These fables, he writes, form
See e.g. McLaren how human the ”antu peoples are! Smith and Dale ii,
man s common human-heartedness is in these tales . . . across the abysses we
can clasp hands in a common humanity Junod proof that the Umuntu has a
soul, and that under his black skin beats a genuine human heart . . . , cf. p. etc.
7 E.g. Macdonald 1882 (Yao), Ellis, 1890 (Ewe) 1894 (Yoruba).
E.g. Koelle Macdonald , i, Ch. and pp. .
Cf. also ”urton , pp. xiiff M. Kingsley in introduction to Dennett , p. ix Seidel
introduction Cronise and Ward , p. .
[an] extensive . . . mass of traditionary Native literature amongst the

Namaqa . . . The fact of such a literary capacity existing among a nation whose
mental qualifications it has been usual to estimate at the lowest standard,
is of the greatest importance and that their literary activity . . . has been
employed almost in the same direction as that which had been taken by our
own earliest literature, is in itself of great significance ”leek xii xiii .
”y the end of the century, then, the subject was fairly well recognized by
a limited group of scholars. A certain amount had been both recorded and
published—in special collections, in general surveys of particular peoples,
and as appendices and illustrations in grammatical works. Though few
were working in this field, they tended to be in touch and to be aware of
each other’s research, so that by the 1890s serious comparative and general
accounts could be produced, drawing on the published works of others.10
It is true that a certain air of condescension was at times discernible but
this attitude in fact often seems less noticeable in these nineteenth-century
sources than in many produced later. There was a general appreciation
of the cultural implications of the studies: the fact that Africa could no
longer be treated as an area totally without its own cultural traditions,
that these could be looked at comparatively in the context of European as
well as of African studies, and, finally, that the texts recorded by linguists,
missionaries, and others could be treated as at least analogous to parallel
written forms. Needless to say, this more liberal approach met with little
popular recognition. The works were obscurely published and intended
for specialist reading, and—perhaps even more important—the common
myth that saw the African as uncultivated and un-literary was too firmly
established to allow for easy demolition.11 ”ut at least among a small group
of scholars, in particular the German and English linguists, there was a
sense that the subject had been established as one worthy of study and one
which had even made a certain amount of progress.
This serious interest was consolidated by the group of German scholars
working together towards the end of the nineteenth and during the
first decades of the twentieth century—and also, to a lesser extent, later.
Linguistic studies were considered to include African languages, and a
series of specialist journals were published, some short-lived, others still
continuing today, in which systematic work on various aspects of African
10 E.g. Chatelain’s introductory sections in 1894 and Seidel’s general survey in 1896. Cf.
also Jacottet 1908 (introduction).
11 See Curtin .
languages, including oral literature, appeared.12 University chairs were

established in ”antu or “frican languages at Hamburg and ”erlin before
any similar appointments in the English-speaking academic world. The
linguistic interests of these scholars were by no means strictly limited to
grammatical or syntactical analysis, but included both the recording of
literary texts and a general appreciation of African literature as a suitable
object of scholarship. Comparative surveys appeared which, though in
some respects dated, are still among the best available.14 Drawing on the
various published sources for African texts (both large and small), the
authors called attention to the literary status of many of them, and pointed
not only to the obvious prose forms recorded from Africa but also—a far
less common recognition even now—to the various categories of poetry.
Seidel, for instance, lists love songs, satirical songs, war songs, epic, dirges,
religious songs, and didactic poems as among African literary forms, and
even makes some attempt to discuss their formal structure (1896: 8ff.). To
this general recognition of the subject was added a tradition of systematic
empirical research. The extension of the German empire further stimulated
the interest in African studies, and many texts were recorded and analysed
by scholars publishing in German, above all in the areas under German
rule—South-West Africa, German East Africa (covering Tanganyika and
Ruanda-Urundi), Kamerun, and Togo. ”etween them these collectors
recorded or discussed such forms as prose narratives, proverbs, riddles,
names, drum literature, and, more unusually in the subject as a whole,
different kinds of poems and songs, sometimes accompanied by the
12 Zeitschrift für afrikanische Sprachen ”erlin, , edited by C. G. ”(ttner Zeitschrift

für afrikanische und oceanische Sprachen ”erlin, , edited by “. Seidel Zeitschrift
für Kolonial-Sprachen ”erlin , founded in and, under its present title of Afrika
und Übersee, still in continuation (at some periods entitled Zeitschrift für Eingeborenen-
Sprachen). Material on African literature is also included in Mitteilungen des Seminars
für orientalische Sprachen zu Berlin (1989-), Zeitschrift für Ethnologic ”erlin, - , and
Anthropos Salzburg, Vienna, and Fribourg, - cf. also Mitteilungen des Instituts für
Orientforschung ”erlin, -.
Pointed out by McLaren . Especially Seidel , Meinhof .
14 Especially Seidel 1896, Meinhof 1911.
See, among many others, ”(ttner Gutmann , , also and , etc. a.
Seidel, Sprichwörter der Wa-”ondei in Deutsch-Ostafrika , ZAOS 4, , , etc.
von Hornbostel Fuchs E. ”ufe Hecklinger / Ebding not
seen and, with Ittmann , ”ender not seen Witte , etc. Ewe Spiess
a, b, Härtter . German scholars also worked on Hausa and Kanuri in
Northern Nigeria, e.g. Prietze , a, b, , , . Hausa ,
Kanuri , also , Lukas , Kanuri . See also some of the collections
mentioned above.
recording and analysis of the music, in keeping with the early German
interest in ethnomusicology.16
Figure 6. ‘Jellemen’ praise singers and drummers, Sierra Leone (Alexander Gordon
Laing Travels in the Timmannee, Kooranko and Soolima Countries, .
As far as the sheer provision of basic sources goes, these German collections
are among the most valuable, and their number and quality seem
surprisingly underestimated by recent English-speaking writers. Even
though their interests were primarily linguistic, and more purely literary
or social aspects were little pursued, they established the subject as one
worthy of serious study (thus demanding systematic empirical research)
and recognized that the texts they recorded were a form of literature.
In the first couple of decades of the twentieth century the study of African
oral literature could in some ways be said to have reached its peak as a
recognized and closely studied academic subject. Then German interest in
“frica waned with the loss of their imperial interests a number of valuable
studies continued to be made by German writers and to appear in scholarly
German journals,17 but there was no longer the same stimulus to research
16 See discussion of this school in Nettl , Ch. .

17 E.g. the work by Ittmann and Ebding on Duala and other Cameroons languages, or
Dammann on Swahili cf. also the rather different series of publications by Frobenius
1921–8.
and the solid foundations laid earlier were hardly built upon. To some
extent the place of the Germans was taken by the South African linguistic
school, where there is a strong tradition of informed research in a wide
sense 18 and Werner’s work in England also resulted in some contact being
kept between the German linguistic tradition and the very much weaker
English school.19 ”ut in general German linguists became isolated from the
French and English professional scholars who were now coming to the fore
in African studies, concentrating more on aspects of social institutions than
on linguistic matters. Much of the earlier ground was therefore lost, and
until very recently the study of African oral literature has been relatively
neglected as a subject of research in its own right.
II
Various factors have contributed to the relative lack of interest in oral
literature in this century. To understand these, it is necessary to include
some account of the history of anthropology, for during much of the
first half of the twentieth century it was anthropologists who tended to
monopolize the professional study of African institutions and culture.
The various assumptions of anthropology in this period both directed
research into particular fields and also dictated the selection of texts and
the particular form in which they were to be recorded.
A number of the theories that held sway at this time were almost fatal
to the serious study of oral literature. This so far had fortunately been free
from over-speculative theorizing, for in spite of the dominance in some
circles of Muller’s particular theories of ‘comparative mythology’, they
seem to have had little effect on studies in the field the general interest in
18 Cf. The early university recognition of “frican languages ad ”antu studies generally,
and in particular the influence of C. M. Doke, famous both a linguist and as collector
and analyst of oral literature. The south Afircan journal Bantu Studies, later entitled
African Studies (Johannesburg 1921-) is one of the best sources for scholarly and well-
informed articles in English on oral literature (mainly but exclusively that of southern
Africa). On the contribution of south African Universitie to linguistic studies see Doke
in ”antu Studies , , pp. .
19 Till recently, not very developed in England, especially as concerns the oral literature
aspect. The School of Oriental Studies (later Oriental and African Studies) of the
University of London, founded in 1916, was the main centre of what African linguistic
studies there were, but in the early years the African side was little stressed. Some of
the better of the articles on African oral literature produced in English on oral literature
(mainly but not exclusively that of southern Africa). On the contribution of South
African universities to linguistic studies see Doke in Bantu Studies , , pp. .
comparison had thus acted more as a stimulus than as a strait jacket. ”ut the
rise first of the evolutionist and diffusionist schools and later of the ”ritish
structural-functional approach resulted in certain definite limitations being
placed on the study of oral art.20
The evolutionist approach to the study of society, so influential in the
later nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, was a complex movement
that took many different forms. Its central tenets, however, were clear.
They included the belief in the concept of unilinear and parallel stages
of social and cultural evolution through which all societies must pass
a concentration on the origins of any institution as being of the first
importance and, finally, the implicit and evaluative assumption that the
direction of evolution was upwards—a progress from the crude communal
stage of primitive life towards the civilized and differentiated culture of
contemporary Europe. Speculative pseudo-history and totally unverified
assumption were asserted as proven fact. Many generalizations too were
authoritatively pronounced about how ‘primitive man must have felt’ or
‘probably imagined’, which drew on little more evidence than the writer’s
own introspection or his belief that what he most valued in his own,
civilized, society were just those elements surely lacking in primitive life.
‘Primitive’, furthermore, was interpreted to mean both early in history (or
prehistory) and low and undeveloped generally in the scale of evolution.
The stage of development attained by non-literate peoples could thus be
equated and evaluated as the same as that once traversed by the prehistoric
ancestors of European nations.
This approach clearly has implications for the study of oral literature
and in the early twentieth century these were increasingly explored,
mainly by scholars writing in England.21 The concentration was on the
idea of origins and evolution: questions asked (and confidently answered)
concerned which type of literature came first in the prehistory of man, the
survivals into the present of more primitive stages of life and culture in the
20 For a fuller discussion of the effect of these theories on the interpretation of prose
narratives, see Ch. 12.
21 E.g. such general works as J. A. MacCulloch The Childhood of Fiction: a Study of Folk Tales
and Primitive Thought , G. L. Gomme Folklore as an Historical Science (1908), A.
S. MacKenzie The Evolution of Literature (1911—quite a perceptive account, in spite of
its evolutionist framework, including some treatment of African oral literature), E. S.
Hartland The Science of Fairy Tales (1891), J. G. Frazer Folklore in the Old Testament (1918),
and in some respects a later survival of evolutionist assumptions ”owra . Though
the detailed theories differ considerably, all share the same basically evolutionist
approach.
form of ‘folk literature’ or ‘folk-lore’, and the supposed nature of the early
primitive stage, still allegedly that of present-day ‘savages’.
Current preconceptions about the nature both of oral literature and
of primitive society could be fitted into this conceptual framework.
Such literature was, for instance, supposed to be the work of communal
consciousness and group authorship rather than, as in civilized
communities, of an individual inspired artist it was handed down word
for word ‘from the dim before-time’ or ‘far back ages’, for no individual
creativity or imagination could be expected of primitive peoples it was
basically similar among all peoples at the same stage of evolution, so that
one could generalize about, say, ‘the primitive’ or ‘the African’ without
having to consider the particular history or culture of a given area, much
less the individual composer and finally, although it might ultimately
evolve into something higher, at the moment such oral literature was
radically different from that of higher civilizations with their emphasis on
originality, innovation, and the written word. The exact stage assigned to
various non-literate peoples varied, but there was general agreement that
most African peoples belonged to an early and low stage, and that their art,
if any, would be correspondingly primitive. They were variously described
as dominated by the idea of magic, by totemism, or by their failure to
distinguish between themselves and the animal world round them. And
all these ideas could be presumed to come out in their oral literature or
‘folk-lore’.
These theories were not in fact often applied in detail to African oral
literature. Nevertheless, they had a direct effect on its study. First, the
evolutionist movement gave an apparently ‘scientific’ validation to certain
current prejudices about the nature of oral art which naturally affected the
attitude of those working in the field (and has to some extent continued
to do so, particularly among those with little first-hand knowledge of
unwritten literature).22 It has also dictated the selection of oral literature
recorded or the kind of interpretation thought suitable. ”ecause such oral
literature was ‘communal’, for instance, variant forms were not recorded
or looked for and no questions were raised about individual authorship,
which was presumed not to exist. ”ecause items of oral literature could
also be regarded as ‘survivals’ of yet more primitive stages, an acceptable
22 And not just those. See, for example, the contradictions Cope runs into in his otherwise
excellent treatment of Zulu praise poetry because of his assumption (undiscussed) that
traditional literature must be due to communal activity compare pp. and , also
pp. , in Cope .
interpretation would be in terms of hypothetical earlier customs, such as

‘primitive matriarchy’ or ‘totemism’, rather than of its literary effectiveness
or acceptability. ”ecause primitive tribes were supposed to be preoccupied
with tradition rather than innovation, ‘traditional’ tales were sought and
new ones ignored or explained away. ”ecause interest was focused on
broad evolutionary stages, few questions were asked about the idiosyncratic
history, culture, or literary conventions of a particular people. Finally
because origins and early history assumed such importance in people’s
minds, there was little emphasis on the contemporary relevance of a piece of
literature, so there seemed every excuse for collecting and publishing bits
and pieces without attempting to relate them to their particular social and
literary context. The interest of anthropologists was turned away from the
systematic collection or analysis of detailed literary texts and concentrated
on generalized theory.
The main outlines and many of the details of this approach are now
rejected by the majority of professional anthropologists as either false or
unproven. ”ut as it was not just a matter of esoteric academic interest but a
reflection and apparent validation of many popular views, its rejection by
professionals by no means implies the end of its influence. Many of these
assumptions can still be found in the writings of non-anthropologists, in
particular among some of the self-styled English ‘folklorists’. They have
also been lent apparent support by the actual selection and treatment of
societies presented to the public.
”y the s anthropologists were turning to more empirical and first-
hand studies of African societies, with the consequent promise of more
systematic collection of oral literature. The so-called structural-functional
school of ”ritish anthropology, associated in its most rigid form with
the name of Radcliffe-”rown, concentrated on function, in particular
on the function of stabilizing or validating the current order of things.
This approach was naturally applied to literature as to other social data.
The idea that certain types of oral literature could have a utilitarian role
was, of course, not new e.g. Van Gennep nor was the related but
more extreme hypothesis that, in contrast to the idea of ‘art for art’s sake’
supposedly characteristic of civilized nations, the oral literatures of Africa
had a severely practical rather than aesthetic aim. ”ut, while chiming in with
these notions, structural-functional anthropology took a particular form of
its own. Its central theoretical interest was, at root, the functional integration
and maintenance of society: and items of oral literature were regarded as
relevant only in so far as they could be fitted into this framework.
The fact that this approach has till recently held sway among ”ritish
anthropologists—those who in other spheres have made the greatest
contribution to the empirical study of African institutions—has several
implications for the study of oral literature. Most important is the implicit
assumption that oral literature is not worthy of study as a subject in its own
right and that it can be ignored except for passing references which fit in
with a particular interpretation of society. The result is that over the last
generation or so practically no collections or analyses of oral literature have
been made by ”ritish scholars. When oral literature was mentioned, the
fashion was to play down the aesthetic aspect in favour of the functional
and to stress ‘traditional’ material even to the extent of sometimes refusing
to record anything that seemed to smack of innovation. Prose narrative
was more often referred to than sung poetry, since it was easier to make a
quick record of it and since it was more suitable, particularly in the form
of ‘myths’, for use in functional analysis. Altogether the emphasis was on
brief synopsis or paraphrase rather than a detailed recording of literary
forms as actually delivered. The well-known ”ritish tradition of empirical
and painstaking field work in Africa has therefore borne little fruit in the
field of oral literature. And the dominance of this functional approach,
following on the more speculative evolutionist framework of earlier years,
helps to explain why the study of oral literature has made so little progress
in this century.
The interest in diffusion—the geographical spread of items of material
and non-material culture—has also had its repercussions. In both the
nineteenth and the twentieth centuries, curiosity about the geographical
origin and subsequent history of particular stories encountered in different
parts of the world has been considerable. This has been most specifically
expressed in the Scandinavian or ‘historical-geographical’ school of
folklore, which for much of this century has been trying to discover the ‘life
history’ of stories of various kinds, by means of systematic classification
and an elaborate indexing of comparative references. This approach is
also prevalent in America, where it has to some extent blended with the
less ambitious and more liberal diffusionist approaches pioneered by ”oas
E.g. Thompson for the best-known general reference work and, for “frican
material, Klipple and Clarke . Detailed comparative analyses of particular
motifs or plots from African materials, mainly published in Uppsala (Studia
ethnographica Upsaliensia , include “brahamsson Tegnaeus Dammann
. Cf. also the South “frican branch of this school, e.g. Hattingh AA .
Mofokeng .
and his followers.24 It has had relatively few adherents in ”ritain, largely
because of the dominance of the theories just described, but it has had
some wider influence through its association with the international folklore
movement.
The main consequence of these diffusionist approaches was the focusing
of interest on the subject-matter of oral literature—for it is this that must
be considered when attempting to trace its historical and geographical
diffusion.26 Detailed investigations of the actual social and literary role
of forms of oral literature in particular cultures were thus not called
for. Similarly there was no onus on collectors to provide laborious and
detailed transcriptions when all that was needed was a synopsis of the
content: unskilled assistants could be employed to write down ‘texts’ and
summaries. The emphasis was naturally on prose tales whose motifs could
be traced, and once again attention was focused away from poetry.
As a result of these varied theories there was a turning away from the
more systematic and empirical foundations laid earlier in the century
towards a more limited approach to the subject. Different as the theories are
in other respects, they all share the characteristics of playing down interest
in the detailed study of particular oral literatures and, where such forms
are not ignored altogether, emphasize the bare outline of content without
reference to the more subtle literary and personal qualities. In many cases,
the main stress is on the ‘traditional’ and supposed static forms, above
all on prose rather than poetry. The detailed and systematic study of oral
literature in its social and literary context has thus languished for much of
this century.
This is not to say that there were no worthwhile studies made during
this period. A number of gifted writers have produced valuable studies,
often the fruit of long contacts with a particular culture and area,27 and
many short reports have appeared in various local journals. ”ut with the
exception of a handful of American scholars and of the well-founded South
24 Cf. ”oas s early works on mainly “merican-Indian oral literature, and more recent
work relevant to “frica by Herskovits and and ”ascom , etc. . Some of
the best collections of African literature have been published by the American Folk-lore
Society (Chatelain 1894, Doke 1927).
Cf. Thompson , pp. ff.
26 Cf. the excellent critical accounts of this approach in von Sydow 1948, M. Jacobs 1966.
27 E.g. Equilbecq , Junod , Smith and Dale , Rattray , etc., Green
1948, Carrington 1949b, etc., Verger . Cf. also the mammoth general survey by the
Chadwicks .
African school,28 most of these writers tended to work in isolation, their

work not fully appreciated by scholars.
Another apparent exception to this general lack of concern with oral
literature was the French interest associated with the négritude movement
and the journal (and later publishing house) Présence africaine.29 ”ut this,
though profoundly important in influencing general attitudes to African
art, was primarily a literary and quasi-political movement rather than a
stimulus to exact recording or analysis. It rests on a mystique of ‘black
culture’, and a rather glamorized and general view is put forward of the
moral value or literary and psychological depth of both African traditional
literature and its contemporary counterparts in written form. Thus, though
a few excellent accounts have been elicited under the auspices of this
movement, mainly by local African scholars, many of its publications
are somewhat undependable as detailed contributions to the study of oral
literature. Its romanticizing attitudes apart, however, this school has had the
excellent effect of drawing interest back to the literary significance of these
forms including, this time, poetry . ”ut it cannot be said that this interest
did very much to reverse the general trend away from the recognition of
African oral literature as a serious field of scholarship.
”y the late s and s, however, the situation started to change.
There was a rapidly increasing interest in African studies as a whole,
expressed both in the recognition of Africa as a worthwhile field of
academic study and in a marked proliferation of professional scholars
concerned with different aspects of African life. Work became increasingly
specialist. With the new boom in African studies, those who before were
working in an isolated and limited way, or in only a local or amateur
context, found their work gradually recognized. Some of the earlier work
was taken up again, and the interests of certain professional students of
“frica widened not least those of ”ritish anthropologists, who for long
had held a near monopoly in African studies but who were now turning to
28 See particularly the many publications of Doke, and a series of valuable articles in
Bantu Studies (later African Studies there are also a number of as yet unpublished
theses especially Mofokeng .
29 Paris, - cf. also many articles in Black Orpheus and some in the various IFAN
journals Senghor , etc. and generalized descriptions such as that in Jahn , Ch.
.
E.g. “. Hampaté ”a ”ambara and Fulani , G. “dali-Mortti Ewe , Lasebikan Yoruba ,
perhaps “. Kagame Ruanda cf. also the more general accounts by Colin , Traoré
.
Notably the Chadwicks’ great comparative study of oral literature which had
previously had surprisingly little impact on African studies.
previously neglected fields. The result has been some renewal of interest in
African oral literature, though—unlike most branches of African studies—
it can hardly yet be said to have become consolidated as a systematic field
of research.
To mention all the contributory streams in the present increasing interest
in “frican verbal art would be tedious and nearly impossible. ”ut certain
of the main movements are worth mentioning, not least because each tends
to have its own preconceptions and methods of research, and because in
several cases groups are out of touch with others working on the same
basic subject from a different viewpoint.
The musicologists represent a very different approach from all those
mentioned previously. Though their primary interest is, of course, musical,
this involves the recording and study of innumerable songs—that is, from
another point of view, of poetry. It is true that the words of songs are not
always recorded or published with the same meticulous care as the music
itself. ”ut in a number of cases the words do appear, and this approach
has had the invaluable effect of drawing attention to the significance of
poetic forms so neglected in most other approaches. The musicologists
furthermore have provided a much needed corrective to earlier emphases
on the traditional rather than the new and topical, by giving some idea of
the great number of ephemeral and popular songs on themes of current
interest. The African Music Society in particular, centred in Johannesburg,
has built up a systematic and scholarly body of knowledge of African music,
mainly that of southern and central Africa but with interests throughout the
continent. Its main stimulus has come from Hugh Tracey, who has taken
an interest in oral art as well as music for many years (e.g. Tracey 1929,
, b), but its activities are now finding a wider audience not least
through its issue of large numbers of records in the Music of Africa series.
Altogether it can be said that the musicologists, and above all the African
Music Society, have done more both to co-ordinate scientific study and to
publicize the results in the field of sung oral literature than any other group
in this century.
Another significant contribution is that made by a small group of
American anthropologists working closely together, and publishing much
See its journal, African Music - , and the earlier Newsletter - a library of
“frican music has been built up in Johannesburg cf. also the work of such scholars
as Rhodes and Merriam, and various publications in the journal Ethnomusicology.
Other musicologists less closely associated with this school but carrying out similar
studies include “. M. Jones, Rouget, Nketia, ”lacking, ”elinga, Carrington, Rycroft,
Wachsmann, and Zemp.
of their work in the Journal of American Folklore, an academic publication

which has taken an increasing interest in Africa in recent years. There has
always been a tradition of serious interest in oral literature among American
anthropologists, unlike the ”ritish, but this has recently gained further
momentum and there are now a number of American scholars engaged
in the serious study of African oral art. Their main field of interest is the
southerly part of West Africa and they seem to have less acquaintance with
the work, say, of the South “frican school but their general aspiration
is to establish the study of oral literature over the continent as a whole.
This group has to some extent been influenced by the contributions of the
historical-geographical school, but takes a wider approach and, consonant
with its anthropological interests, is concerned not only to record oral art
(including poetry) but also to relate it to its social context rather than just
analyse and classify the types and motifs of narrative. They point out the
importance of considering individual inspiration and originality as well
as the ‘traditional’ ‘tribal’ conventions, the role of poet and audience as
well as subject matter. Though they have not always managed to pursue
these topics very far in practice, the points they make about the direction
of further research are so valid and, at the same time, so unusual in the
study of African oral literature that this group assumes an importance in
the subject out of all proportion to its size.
Some of the most original work has come from the growing numbers
of Africans carrying out scholarly analyses of oral literature in their own
languages. These writers have been able to draw attention to many aspects
which earlier students tended to overlook either because of their theoretical
preconceptions or because they were, after all, strangers to the culture
they studied. Writers like Kagame on Rwanda poetry, ”abalola on Yoruba
hunters’ songs, or, outstanding in the field, Nketia on many branches of
Akan music and literature, have been able to explore the overtones and
imagery that play so significant a part in their literature and to add depth
through their descriptions of the social and literary context. They have
Some of their work also appears in the main anthropological journals in America.
E.g. the well-known work of anthropologists like ”oas, ”enedict, or Reichard mainly
on “merican Indian peoples , and more recently Herskovits on “frica and elsewhere.
See also the general discussion in Greenway 1964.
See especially the bibliographic and other survey articles by ”ascom, who is probably
doing more than any other single scholar at the present to consolidate the subject as a
recognized branch of scholarship, e.g. ”ascom , a, b cf. also Herskovits
, , etc. Messenger , , Simmons , a, etc. ”erry s useful
survey of West African spoken art (1961) draws largely on the findings of this group.
been among the few scholars to pay serious and detailed attention to the
role of the poet, singer, or narrator himself. Not all such writers, it is true,
have been saved even by their close intimacy with language and culture
from some of the less happy assumptions of earlier generalizing theorists.
”ut with the general recognition in many circles of “frican studies as a
worthwhile field of research, an increasing number of local scholars are
both turning to detailed and serious analysis of their own oral literature
and beginning to find some measure of encouragement for publication of
their results. And it is from this direction above all that we can expect the
more profound and detailed analyses of particular oral forms to come.
Other groups or individuals need only be mentioned briefly many of
them have mainly localized or idiosyncratic interests. The strong South
African school has already been mentioned and continues to take an interest
in oral literature both prose and intoned praise poetry in ”antu “frica
as a whole. In the Congo a number of scholars have for some years been
working closely together, though relatively little in touch with the work
of other groups. They tend to concentrate on the provision and analysis
of texts, some on a large scale, but with perhaps rather less concern for
social background and imaginative qualities there have, however, been
a few striking studies on style, particularly on the significance of tone
e.g. Van “vermaet . Swahili studies too continue to expand, mainly
focused, however, on traditional written forms, with less interest in oral
literature. Traditional written literature in African languages generally is
gaining more recognition as a field of academic research strictly, this topic
is outside the scope of this book, but is none the less relevant for its impact
on attitudes to indigenous African literature as a whole.
Oral literature, like any other, has been and is subject to all the rising
and falling fashions in the criticism and interpretation of literature and the
human mind. Thus with African literature too we have those who interpret
it in terms of, for instance, its relevance for psychological expression,
‘structural characteristics’ beyond the obvious face value of the literature
That this has not yet gone as far as it might is shown by the very limited recognition of
the material of so original a scholar as Nketia, much of whose work has appeared only
in local publications.
These local scholars include, to mention only a selection, Lasebikan (Yoruba), Abimbola
(Yoruba), Owuor (alias Anyumba) (Luo), Mofokeng (Sotho), Nyembezi (Zulu),
Hampaté ”a Fulani , “dali-Mortti Ewe , Okot “choli and Lango .
E.g. the somewhat Freudian approaches in Rattray and Herskovits , or
Radin s more Jungian turn , etc. .
(sometimes of the type that could be fed into computers), its social
functions, or, finally and most generalized of all, its ‘mythopoeic’ and
profoundly meaningful nature.40 All these multifarious approaches, to oral
as to written literature, can only be a healthy sign, even though at present
there are the grave drawbacks of both lack of reliable material and lack of
contact between the various schools.
All this has had its effect on the older established disciplines within
African studies. The linguists, for instance, who have in any case been
taking an increasingly systematic interest in Africa recently, have been
widening their field to include a greater appreciation of the literary
aspect of their studies.41 The ”ritish social anthropologists, influenced
by increasing contacts with colleagues in France and America and by
co-operation with linguists, are also beginning to take a wider view of
their subject,42 and French scholars too have recently produced a number
of detailed and imaginative studies. ”esides these direct studies, there is
a growing awareness by other groups of the significance of oral literature
as an ancillary discipline: historians discuss its reliability as a historical
source, creative writers turn to it for inspiration, governments recognize its
relevance for propaganda or as a source in education.44 Much of this does
not, perhaps, amount to systematic study of the literature as such—but it at
least reflects an increasing recognition of its existence.
An extension both of the functionalist school mentioned earlier and of the ‘structuralist’
approach see e.g. ”eidelman , and a number of other articles on the same
lines).
40 See the influential and controversial article by C. Lévi-Strauss, The Structural Study of
Myth’, JAF , not directly concerned with “frican oral literature but intended to
cover it among others also Dundes Hamnett . For a useful critique of this
approach see Jacobs 1966.
41 Cf. e.g. “rnott , ”erry , “ndrzejewski , etc., Whiteley , and other work
under the auspices of the School of Oriental and African Studies in the university of
London.
42 The Oxford Library of African Literature, for instance, (mainly devoted two oral
literature) is edited by two anthropologists and a linguist.
Notably de Dampierre, Lacroix, and others in the new Classiques africains series cf. also
a number of excellent studies in the journal Cahiers d’études africaines (Paris, 1960-) and
the Unesco series of African texts which has involved the collaboration of a number
of scholars, many of them French. As this type of approach interacts with the already
established tradition of Islamic and Arabic scholarship in parts of Africa, we may expect
further interesting studies in these areas. This has already happened to some extent for
indigenous written literature see e.g. Lacroix , Sow on Fulani poetry .
44 See especially Vansina , and the general interest in recording texts for primarily
historical purposes, e.g. the series of Central ”antu Historical Texts Rhodes-Livingstone
Institute, Lusaka).
Figure . Evangelist points the way . Illustration by C. J. Montague of Christian

being given directions by a white missionary (with clothes to match), a favourite motif
in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century perceptions. From the Ndebele edition
of ”unyan s Pilgrim’s Progress, 1902.
There are, then, growing signs of a fuller appreciation of the extent

and nature of “frican oral literature. ”ut even now it is only beginning
to be established as a systematic and serious field of study which could
co-ordinate the efforts of all those now working in relative isolation. The
desultory and uneven nature of the subject still reflects many of the old
prejudices, and even recent studies have failed to redress the inherited
over-emphasis on bare prose texts at the expense of poetry, or provide
any close investigation of the role of composer/poet and the social and
literary background. The idea is still all too prevalent—even in some of
the better publications—that even if such literature is after all worthy of
study, this can only be so in a ‘traditional’ framework. The motive, then,

for the study is partly antiquarian, and haste is urged to collect these
items before they vanish or are ‘contaminated’ by new forms. These ‘new’
forms, it is frequently accepted without question, are either not significant
enough in themselves to deserve record or, if they are too obvious to evade
notice, are hybrid and somehow untypical. How misleading a picture
this is obvious when one considers the many topical songs recorded by,
for instance, the African Music Society, the modern forms of praise poems
or prose narratives, oral versions embroidered on Christian hymns, or the
striking proliferation of political songs in contemporary Africa—but the
old assumptions are still tenacious and time after time dictate the selection
and presentation of African oral literature with all the bias towards the
‘traditional’. In keeping with this approach too is the still common idea that
African literature consists mainly of rather childish stories, an impression
strengthened by the many popular editions of African tales reflecting (and
designed to take advantage of) this common idea. Even now, therefore,
such literature is often presented and received with an air of condescension
and slightly surprised approval for these supposedly naive and quaint
efforts. Most prevalent of all, perhaps, and most fundamental for the study
of African oral literature is the hidden feeling that this is not really literature
at all: that these oral forms may, perhaps, fulfil certain practical or ritual
functions in that supposedly odd context called ‘tribal life’, but that they
have no aesthetic claims, for either local people or the visiting scholar,
to be considered as analogous to proper written literature, let alone on a
par with it. The idea continues to hold ground that it is radically different
from real (i.e. written) literature and should even have its own distinctive
name (‘folklore’ perhaps) to make this clear. The fact, however, that oral
literature can also be considered on its own terms, and, as pointed out in
the last chapter, may have its own artistic characteristics, analogous to but
not always identical with more familiar literary forms, is neglected in both
popular conceptions and detailed studies.
The poetic, the topical, and the literary—all these, then, are aspects
which still tend to be overlooked. It is indeed hard for those steeped in
some of the earlier theories to take full account of them. ”ut what the
subject now demands is further investigation of these aspects of African
oral art, as well as the whole range of hitherto neglected questions which
could come under the general heading of the sociology of literature and a
turning away from the generalized assumptions of earlier theoretical and
romanticizing speculators and of past (or even present) public opinion.
3. The Social, Linguistic, and
Literary Background
Social and literary background. The linguistic basis—the example of Bantu.

Some literary tools. Presentation of the material. The literary complexity of
African cultures.
I
In Africa, as elsewhere, literature is practised in a society. It is obvious that
any analysis of African literature must take account of the social and historical
context—and never more so than in the case of oral literature. Some aspects
of this are discussed in the following chapter on poetry and patronage and
in examples in later sections. Clearly a full examination of any one African
literature would have to include a detailed discussion of the particularities
of that single literature and historical period, and the same in turn for each
other instance—a task which cannot be attempted here. Nevertheless, in view
of the many prevalent myths about Africa it is worth making some general
points in introduction and thus anticipating some of the more glaring over-
simplifications about African society.
A common nineteenth-century notion that still has currency today is the
idea of Africa as the same in culture in all parts of the continent (or at least
that part south of the Sahara as non-literate, primitive, and pagan and
as unchanging in time throughout the centuries. Thus ‘traditional’ Africa
is seen as both uniform and static, and this view still colours much of the
writing about Africa.
Such a notion is, however, no longer tenable. In the late nineteenth or
earlier twentieth centuries (the period from which a number of the instances
here are drawn) the culture and social forms of African societies were far from
uniform. They ranged—and to some extent still do—from the small hunting
bands of the ”ushmen of the Kalahari desert, to the proud and independent
pastoral peoples of parts of the Southern Sudan and East Africa, or the
elaborate and varied kingdoms found in many parts of the continent, above
all in western Africa and round the Great Lakes in the east. Such kingdoms
provided a context in which court poetry and court poets could nourish, and
also in some cases a well-established familiarity with Arabic literacy. Again,
in the economic field, almost every gradation can be found from the near self-
sufficient life of some of the hunting or pastoral peoples to the engagement
in far-reaching external trade based on specialization, elaborate markets,
and a type of international currency, typical of much of West Africa and
the Arab coast of East Africa. The degree of specialization corresponding to
these various forms has direct relevance to the position of native composers
and performers of oral literature—in some cases leading to the possibility
of expert and even professional poets, and of a relatively leisured and
sometimes urban class to patronize them. In religion again, there are many
different ‘traditional’ forms: the older naive pictures of Africa as uniformly
given up to idol-worshipping, fetishes, or totemism are now recognized as
totally inadequate. We find areas (like the northerly parts of the Sudan region
and the East Coast where Islam has a centuries-long history the elaborate
pantheons of West “frican deities with specialized cults and priests to match
the interest in ‘Spirit’ issuing in a special form of monotheism among some
of the Nilotic peoples the blend between belief in the remote position of a
far off High God and the close power of the dead ancestors in many ”antu
areas—and so on. This too may influence the practice of oral art, sometimes
providing the context and occasion for particular forms, sometimes the need
for expert religious performers.
In some areas we also find a long tradition of Arabic literacy and learning.
The east coast and the Sudanic areas of West Africa have seen many centuries
of Koranic scholarship and of specialist Arabic scribes and writers using the
written word as a tool for correspondence, religion, and literature. To an
extent only now being fully realized, these men were responsible for huge
numbers of Arabic manuscripts in the form of religious treatises, historical
chronicles, and poetry.1 In fact, even for earlier centuries a nineteenth-
century writer on Arabic literature in the Sudan region as a whole can sum
up his work:
On peut conclure que, pendant les XIVe, XVe et XVIe siècles, la civilisation
et les sciences florissaient au même degré sur presque tous les points du
continent que nous étudions qu il n existe peut-être pas une ville, pas une
oasis, qu elles n aient marquée de leur empreinte ineffaçable, et surtout, que
1 A great number of these Arabic manuscripts have been collected and catalogued in
recent years. See e.g. Monteil Hunwick ”ivar and Hiskett Whitting
Kensdale , Hodgkin in Lewis Vajda .
3. The Social, Linguistic, and Literary Background 53
la race noire n est pas fatalement réleguée au dernier échelon de l espèce

humaine Cherbonneau
Not only was Arabic itself a vehicle of communication and literature, but
many African languages in these areas came to adopt a written form using
the Arabic script. Thus in the east we have a long tradition of literacy in
Swahili and in the west in Hausa, Fulani, Mandingo, Kanuri, and Songhai.
With the exception of Swahili,2 the native written literature in these
languages has not been very much studied, but it seems to be extensive
and to include historical and political writings in prose, theological
treatises, and long religious and sometimes historical poems. The literary
models tend to be those of Arabic literature, and at times paraphrase or
even translation seem to have been involved. In other cases local literary
traditions have been built up, like the well-established Swahili literature,
less directly indebted to Arabic originals but still generally influenced by
them in the form and subject-matter of their writings.
In stressing the long literate tradition in certain parts of Africa, we must
also remember that this was the preserve of the specialist few and that the
vast majority even of those peoples whose languages adopted the Arabic
script had no direct access to the written word. In so far as the writings
of the scholars reached them at all, it could only be by oral transmission.
Swahili religious poems were publicly intoned for the enlightenment of the
masses Harries , Fulani poems declaimed aloud Lacroix i,
, and Hausa compositions like the song of ”agaudu Hiskett
memorised in oral form. The situation was totally unlike the kind of mass
literacy accompanied by the printing press with which we are more familiar.
Figure . “rabic script of a nineteenth-century poem in Somali from ”. W.

Andrzejewski ‘Arabic influence in Somali poetry’ in Finnegan et al 2011).
See the work of e.g. Werner, Dammann, “llen, Harries and Knappert.
Though see recent work by Hiskett and Paden on Hausa poetry and the production of
various texts in Fulani (e.g. by Lacroix and Sow).
”esides “rabic forms, there are a few other instances of literate traditions in
Africa. These include the now obsolete tifinagh script of the ”erber peoples
of North “frica, among them the Tuareg of the Sahara. Here the written
form was probably little used for literary composition, but its existence
gave rise to a small lettered class and the interplay between written and
oral traditions. Most often it was the women, staying at home while the
men travelled, who composed the outstanding panegyric, hortatory, and
love poetry of this area.4 More important is the long written tradition of
Ethiopia. This is the literature of a complex and ancient civilization whose
association with Christianity probably dates back to about the fourth
century. Though probably never in general use, writing was used from
an early period. It occurs particularly in a Christian context, so that the
history of Ethiopic written literature coincides pretty closely with Christian
literature, much of it based on translation. There are chronicles (generally
taking the Creation of the World as their starting-point), lives of the saints,
and liturgical verse. In addition there are royal chronicles which narrate the
great deeds of various kings. The few other minor instances of indigenous
scripts for local languages, such as Vai, are of little or no significance for
literature and need not be considered here.
The common picture, then, which envisages all sub-Saharan Africa as
totally without letters until the coming of the ‘white man’ is misleading.
Above all it ignores the vast spread of Islamic and thus Arabic influences
over many areas of Africa, profoundly affecting the culture, religion, and
literature. It must be repeated, however, that these written traditions
were specialist ones unaccompanied by anything approaching mass
literacy. The resulting picture is sometimes of a split between learned (or
written and popular or oral literature. ”ut in many other cases we find a
peculiarly close interaction between oral and written forms. A poem first
composed and written down, for instance, may pass into the oral tradition
4 The Tuareg are marginally outside the area covered in this work and are only touched
on in passing. For an account of their written and oral literature see Chadwicks iii,
ff,and references to date given there. “mong more recent works on Tuareg
see Nicolas Lhote ““. . also de Foucauld . The North “frican
”erbers are excluded here.
Cf. the English translation of the fourteenth-century chronicle The Glorious Victories of
‘Amda Seyon, King of Ethiopia Huntingford . On Ethiopian literature in general
particularly oral see Chadwicks iii, ff., and bibliography to date there also
mainly on written literature Cerulli Lifchitz b Ullendorf , Ch. Conti
Rossini , Klingenheben and various articles in J. Ethiopian Studies and Rass.
studi etiop.
and be transmitted by word of mouth, parallel to the written form oral

compositions, on the other hand, are sometimes preserved by being written
down. In short, the border-line between oral and written in these areas is
often by no means clear-cut.
Figure . Reading the ”ible in up-country Sierra Leone, photo David Murray .
The earlier belief that Africa had no history was due to ignorance. Africa
is no exception to the crowded sequence of historical events, even though
it is only recently that professional historians have turned their attention
to this field. The early impact and continuing spread of Islam, the rise
and fall of empires and kingdoms throughout the centuries, diplomatic
or economic contacts and contracts within and outside Africa, movement
and communication between different peoples, economic and social
changes, wars, rebellions, conquests, these are all the stuff of history. No
doubt too there have been in the past, as in the present, rising and falling
literary fashions, some short-lived, others long-lasting some drawing their
inspiration from foreign sources, others developing from existing local
forms. Examples in this volume may give a rather static impression, as if
certain traditional forms have always been the same throughout the ages
but such an impression is misleading and arises more from lack of evidence
than from any necessary immobility in African oral art. Unfortunately
there are few if any African societies whose oral literature has been
thoroughly studied and recorded even at one period of time, let alone at
several periods.6 ”ut with increasing interest in oral art it may be hoped
that enough research will be undertaken to make it feasible, one day, to
write detailed literary and intellectual histories of particular cultures.
A further consequence of the facile assumptions about lack of change
in Africa until very recently is to lead one to exaggerate the importance of
these more recent changes. To one who thinks African society has remained
static for, perhaps, thousands of years, recently induced changes must
appear revolutionary and upsetting in the extreme. In fact, recent events,
important as they are, can be better seen in perspective as merely one phase
in a whole series of historical developments. As far as oral literature and
communication are concerned, the changes over the last fifty or hundred
years are not so radical as they sometimes appear. It is true that these
years have seen the imposition and then withdrawal of colonial rule, of
new forms of administration and industry, new groups of men in power,
and the introduction and spread of Western education accompanied by
increasing reliance written forms of communication. ”ut the impact of all
this on literature can be over-emphasized. For one thing, neither schools
nor industrial development have been evenly spread over the area and
many regions have little of either. There is nowhere anything approaching
mass literacy. Indeed it has been estimated that some like eight out of ten
adults still cannot read or write7 and where mass primary education is
6 An exception is the interesting but controversial discussion of different periods in Zulu

praise poetry in Kunene s unpublished thesis , summarized in Cope ff.
7 The World Year Book of Education London possibly an exaggeration but it is
clear the number is still very high).
the rule it will still take years to eradicate adult illiteracy. ”are literacy,
furthermore, in what is often a foreign language (e.g. English or French)
may not at all mean that school leavers will turn readily to writing as a
form of communication, far less as a vehicle of literary expression. Literacy,
a paid job, even an urban setting need not necessarily involve repudiation
of oral forms for descriptive or aesthetic communication.
There is a tendency to think of two distinct and incompatible types
of society (traditional’ and ‘modern’, for instance), and assume that the
individual must pass from one to the other by a sort of revolutionary leap.
”ut individuals do not necessarily feel torn between two separate worlds
they exploit the situations in which they find themselves as best they can.
There is indeed nothing to be surprised at in a continuing reliance on oral
forms. Similarly there is nothing incongruous in a story being orally narrated
about, say, struggling for political office or winning the football pools, or
in candidates in a modern election campaign using songs to stir up and
inform mass audiences which have no easy access to written propaganda.
Again, a traditional migration legend can perfectly well be seized upon
and effectively exploited by nationalist elements for their own purposes
to bring a sense of political unity among a disorganized population, as
in Gabon in the late s.8 University lecturers seek to further their own
standing by hiring praise singers and drummers to attend the parties given
for their colleagues to panegyricize orally the virtues of hosts and guests.
Such activities may appear odd to certain outside observers—as if
having ‘modern’ competence in one sphere must necessarily involve an
approximation to Western cultural modes in others. ”ut the complexity of
the facts contradicts this view, which in part still derives from nineteenth-
century ideas about evolutionary stages. In fact, many different forms of
literature are possible and exist, and if most of the examples in this volume
appear to deserve the term ‘traditional’, this is perhaps more a function
of the outlook and interests of previous collectors than an indication that
certain forms of oral art cannot coexist with some degree of literacy.9
One of the main points of this section is to emphasize that the African
world is not totally different from that of better-known cultures. It is true that
much remains to be studied, that the special significance of the oral aspect
must be grasped, and that one of the difficulties of appreciating African
8 See the description in Fernandez 1962.

9 See for instance the political songs, Christian lyrics, work songs, topical songs, and
children’s singing games described later, as well as the increasing use of radio.
literature arises from the unfamiliarity of much of its content or context.

”ut and this is the crucial point the unfamiliarities are on the whole
those of detail, not of principle. Far from being something totally mysterious
or blindly subject to some strange force of ‘tradition’, oral literature in fact
bears the same kind of relation to its social background as does written
literature. In each case it is necessary to study in detail the variations bound
up with differing cultures or historical periods, and to see the significance
of these for the full appreciation of their related literary forms. In neither
case are these studies necessarily easy. ”ut it is a disservice to the analysis of
comparative literature to suggest that questions about African oral literature
are either totally simple (answered merely by some such term as ‘tribal
mentality’ or ‘tradition’) or so unfamiliar and mysterious that the normal
problems in the sociology of literature cannot be pursued.
II
African literature, like any other, rests on the basis of language. Something
must now therefore be said about this. Though a full account could only be
given by a linguist and this description only tries to convey a few points
and illustrations, the topic is so important for the appreciation of African
oral literature that some treatment must be attempted here.
Linguistically Africa is one of the complex areas in the world. The exact
number of languages to be found is a matter of dispute, but the most often
cited figure is , if anything an underestimate Greenberg , .
These, let it be stressed, are languages in the full sense of the term and
not mere ‘dialects’. They can, however, be grouped together into larger
language families. The exact composition and relationships of these are,
again, a matter of controversy, but the overall picture is clear. The best-
known group is that made up of the ”antu languages these include such
languages as Zulu, Swahili, and Luba), which extend over a vast area,
practically all of south and central Africa. In the opinion of some recent
scholars, even this large ”antu group is only one sub-division within a
much larger family, the ‘Niger-Congo’ group, which also includes most of
the languages of West Africa.10 Another vast family is the Afro-Asiatic (also
called Hamito-Semitic , a huge language group which not only includes
Arabic but also, in the form of one language or another, covers most of
10 Including the sub-families of West Atlantic, Mandingo, Gur, Kwa, Ijaw, Central, and
“damawa-Eastern Greenberg ,
North “frica, the Horn of East “frica including Ethiopia , and an extensive
area near Lake Chad (where it includes the well-known and widely spoken
example of Hausa . The Central Saharan and Macrosudanic families are
two further groupings, the former covering a large but mostly sparsely
inhabited region north and east of Lake Chad (including Kanuri), the latter
various Sudanic languages around the Nile-Congo divide and eastwards in
the Nilotic and Great Lakes region of East Africa.11 Finally there is the Click
or Khoisan family covering the ”ushman and Hottentot languages which,
in the south-west of Africa, form a separate island in an area otherwise
dominated by ”antu.12 ”esides these indigenous languages we should also
mention the more recently arrived language of Arabic and, more recently
still, European languages like English, French, or Afrikaans.
In spite of the differentiation into separate language families, there are
nevertheless certain distinctive features which the indigenous languages
tend to have in common. These, Greenberg writes,
result from later contacts among the languages of the continent, on a vast
scale and over a long period. Practically none of the peculiarities listed . . . as
typical are shared by all African languages, and almost every one is found
somewhere outside of Africa, but the combination of these features gives a
definite enough characterization that a language, not labelled as such for an
observer, would probably be recognized as African (Greenberg 1962: 22)
Some of the detailed characteristics in the realm of phonetics or semantics

are not worth lingering over in the present context, but the significance of
tone must be mentioned. Outside the Afro-Asiatic family, tone (pitch) as
an element in the structure of the language is almost universal in Africa
and is particularly striking in several of the West African languages. Even
some of the Afro-Asiatic languages (in the Chad sub-group) seem to have
developed tonal systems through the influence of neighbouring languages.
Complex noun-classifications are also widespread though not universal.
The best-known instance of this is the system of classes, characterized
by prefixes, into which all nouns are divided in the ”antu languages
but similar morphological forms are also to be found elsewhere. Series
of derivations built up on the verb are also common and express such
11 It includes among others the Nilotic and Nilo-Hamitic languages.

12 The once-accepted view that certain languages outside the Afro-Asiatic family (as now
recognized are wholly or partly Hamitic e.g. Fulani, ”ushman, Masai and that the
history of these and other areas in Africa could therefore he explained by successive
incursions of Hamites racially white is now rejected by professional scholars of
Africa.
concepts as causative, reciprocal, reflexive, passive, or applicative. As will

be seen later, all these features have direct relevance for the student of oral
literature Lestrade .
Contrary to earlier views based on either ignorance or speculation
about the supposed primitive nature of non-literate language, it is now
clear that African languages are neither simple in structure nor deficient in
vocabulary. They can, indeed, be exceedingly complex. Some, for instance,
make complicated and subtle use of varying tones to express different
lexical and grammatical forms. Others have a system of affixes which have
been compared in scope to those of Russian, Hungarian, or ancient Greek
“ndrzejewski . In these and many other ways each language has
its own genius, its own individual resources of structure and vocabulary on
which the native speaker can draw for both everyday communication and
literary expression.
A full appreciation of these points can naturally only be gained through
a detailed study and knowledge of a particular language and its various
forms of expression. ”ut a general discussion of the single example of the
”antu group of languages may serve to illustrate better than mere assertion
the kinds of factors that can be involved in the constant interplay in any
African language between its linguistic and literary features.
The literary resources of the ”antu languages have been vividly
described by Doke. He writes
Great literary languages have a heritage of oral tradition which has influenced
the form of the earliest literary efforts: in many cases this early heritage has
had to a great extent to be deduced but we are in the fortunate position of
being able to observe the ”antu languages at a stage in which their literature
is still, in the vast majority of cases, entirely oral . . . (Doke 1948: 284)
The linguistic basis from which ”antu oral literature has developed and
on which further written forms may be built emerges clearly from his
description.
In the first place, the literary potentialities of these languages include
their large and ‘remarkably rich’ vocabularies. Languages like Zulu or
Xhosa, for instance, are known to have a vocabulary of over , words
(excluding all automatic derivatives), the standard Southern Sotho dictionary
(20,000 words) is definitely not exhaustive, and Laman’s great Kongo
dictionary gives , , entries. “ large percentage of this vocabulary,
The account here is largely based on this classic article, also Lestrade .
furthermore, is employed in daily use by the ‘common people’ (Doke 1948:

. While they naturally did not include traditional terms for objects and
ideas outside indigenous cultural forms, ”antu languages have, both earlier
and more recently, shown themselves peculiarly adaptable, in assimilating
foreign terms and in the range of the fields of experience with which ”antu
thought is familiar, the extent of ”antu vocabulary tends to be rather larger
than that of the average European language Lestrade .
Vocabulary, however, is not just a matter of the number of words. It also
concerns the way in which they are used. In this respect, the picturesque and
imaginative forms of expression of many ”antu languages are particularly
noticeable. These are often applied to even the commonest actions, objects,
and descriptions. The highly figurative quality of ”antu speech comes out
in some of these terms—molalatladi, the rainbow, is literally ‘the sleeping-
place of the lightning mojalefa, the son and heir of a household, is ‘the
eater of the inheritance bohlaba-tsatsi, the east, is ‘where the sun pierces’
Lestrade . This also comes out in compound nouns. In Kongo,
for instance, we have kikolwa-malavu, a drunken person (lit. ‘being stiff with
wine’), or kilangula-nsangu, a slanderer (lit. ‘uprooting reputations’), and
in ”emba icikata-nsoka, a courageous person (lit. ‘handling a snake’), and
umuleka-ciwa, ricochet lit. the devil aims it Knappert , .
”esides the praise forms mentioned later, figurative expression is also
commonly used to convey abstract ideas in a vivid and imaginative way.
The idea of ‘conservatism’, for instance, is expressed in Zulu by a phrase
meaning literally ‘to eat with an old-fashioned spoon’, ‘dissimulation’ by
‘he spoke with two mouths’, while in Southern Sotho idiom, the idea of
bribery is conveyed by the hand in the cloak Lestrade
The flexible way in which this vocabulary can be deployed can only be
explained with some reference to the characteristics of ”antu morphology.
One of the most striking features of its structure is the wealth of derivative
forms which it is possible to build up on a few roots through the use of
affixes, agglutination, and at times internal vowel changes. ”y means of
these derivatives it is feasible to express the finest distinctions and most
delicate shades of meaning.
The verb system in particular is extraordinarily elaborate. There are
of course the normal forms of conjugation of the type we might expect—
though these forms are complex enough and exhibit a great variety of
moods, implications, aspects, and tenses. Zulu, for instance, has, apart
from imperative and infinitive forms, five moods, three implications
(simple, progressive, and exclusive), three aspects, and a large number

of tenses built up both on verbal roots and through a system of deficient
verbs forming compound tenses Doke . ”ut in addition there
is also a wealth of derivative verbal forms which provide an even more
fertile source on which the speaker can draw. There is an almost endless
variety of possibilities in this respect, with full scope for ad hoc formation
according to the speaker’s need or mood, so that stereotyped monotony is
easily avoided.
The extent of these derivative verbal forms can be illustrated from the
case of Lamba, a ”antu language from Central “frica. For this one language,
Doke lists seventeen different formations of the verb, each expressing a
different aspect. These comprise:
1. Passive (suffix -wa).
2. Neuter (intransitive state or condition, suffix -ika or -eka).
. Applied (action applied on behalf of, towards, or with regard to
some object, suffix -ila, -ina, et al.), e.g. ima (rise) > imina (rise up
against).
4. Causative (various suffixes), e.g. lala (lie down) > lalika (lay down).
. Intensive (intensity or quickness of action, suffix -isya or -esya),
e.g. pama (beat) > pamisya (beat hard).
6. Reciprocal (indicating action done to one another, suffix -ana or
(complex form) -ansyanya), e.g. ipaya (kill) > ipayansyanya (indulge
in mutual slaughter).
7. Associative (indicating action in association, suffix -akana or
-ankana), e.g. sika (bury) > sikakana (be buried together).
8. Reversive (indicating reversal of the action, various suffixes
with different meanings), e.g. longa (pack) > longoloka (come
unpacked), longolọla (unpack), and longolosya (cause to be in an
unpacked state).
9. Extensive (indicating an action extended in time or space, various
suffixes), e.g. pama (strike) > pamala (beat).
10. Perfective (of action carried to completion or perfection, various
suffixes), e.g. leka (leave) > lekelela (leave quite alone).
11. Stative (state, condition, or posture, in -ama).
12. Contactive (indicating contact, touch, in -ata).
. Frequentative (by reduplicating the stem), e.g. -ya (go) > -yayaya
(go on and on and on).
A few other forms occur sporadically:

1. Excessive (in -asika), e.g. pema (breathe) > pemasika (pant).
2. Contrary (in -ngana), e.g. selengana (be in confusion).
. Reference to displacement, violent movement (-muka and various
other suffixes), e.g. cilimuka (rush off).
4. Reference to extension, spreading out (suffix -alala), e.g. andalala
(spread out at work) (Doke 1948: 290–2).
Lamba is perhaps particularly rich in these verbal derivatives, but similar

formations could be cited for each of the ”antu languages. In the rather
different case of Mongo, for instance, Hulstaert lists eighty different forms
of the verb in his table of verbal ‘conjugation’, each with its characteristic
format and meaning Hulstaert table at end of vol., also chs .
Madan sums up the extraordinary richness of the ”antu verb when he
writes:
Any verb stem . . . can as a rule be made the base of some twenty or thirty
others, all reflecting the root idea in various lights, sometimes curiously
limited by usage to a particular aspect and limited significance, mostly quite
free and unrestrained in growth, and each again bearing the whole luxuriant
super-growth of voices, moods, tenses, and person-forms, to the utmost
limits of its powers of logical extension. Madan
In this way, then, a constant and fertile resource was at hand on which
composers could draw according to their wishes and skill.
A second subtle linguistic instrument is provided by the system of
nouns and noun-formation. The basic structure is built up on a kind of
grammatical class-gender, with concordial agreement. In ”antu languages,
that is, there are a number of different classes, varying from twelve or
thirteen to as many as twenty-two (in Luganda), into one or other of which
all nouns fall. Each class has a typical prefix which, in one or another form,
is repeated throughout the sentence in which the noun occurs (concordial
agreement). A simple example will make this clear. The Zulu term for
horses, amahhashi, is characterized by the prefix ama- which must reappear
in various fixed forms (a-, ama-) in the relevant phrase. Thus ‘his big
horses ran away’ must be expressed as ‘horses they-his they-big they-ran-
away’ (amahhashi akhe amakhulu abalekile (Doke 1948: 289). The precision of
reference achieved through this grammatical form dispels the vagueness
and ambiguity sometimes inherent in equivalent English forms, and at the
same time provides possibilities—which are exploited—for alliteration and
balance in literary formulations.
Each of these noun classes tends to cover one main type of referent,
though there are variations between different languages. In general terms
we can say that names of people tend to predominate in classes 1 and 2,
names of trees in classes and , names of animals in classes and
abstract terms in class , verb infinitives in class , and locatives in classes
16, 17, and 18 (Doke 1948: 289) There are effective ways of using this system.
Sometimes by changing the prefix (and thus class) of a particular word it is
possible to put it into a new class and so change its meaning or connotation.
In Tswana, for instance, mo/nna, man (class 1) takes on new meaning when
transferred to other classes, as se/nna, manliness, bojnna, manhood while
in Venda we have tshi/thu, thing, ku/thu, tiny thing, and di/thu, huge thing
Doke ”esides such straightforward and accepted instances,
the transference of noun class is sometimes exploited in a vivid and less
predictable way in the actual delivery of an oral piece. We can cite the
instance of a Nilyamba story about the hare’s wicked exploits which ends
up with the narrator vividly and economically drawing his conclusion by
putting the hare no longer in his own noun class but, by a mere change of
prefix, into that normally used for monsters! Johnson
”esides the basic noun class system, there is the further possibility of
building up a whole series of different noun formations to express exact
shades of meaning—humour, appraisement, relationships, and so on. This
system is far too complex to be treated briefly, but a few instances may
serve to show the kind of rich flexibility available to the speaker.
There are special forms which by the use of suffixes or prefixes transform
the root noun into a diminutive, into a masculine or feminine form, or into a
term meaning the in-law, the father, the mother, the daughter, and so on of
the referent. Personification is particularly popular. It can be economically
effected by transferring an ordinary noun from its usual class to that of
persons. Thus in Zulu, for instance, we have the personified form uNtaba
(Mountain) from the common noun for mountain, intaba and uSikhotha,
from the ordinary isikhotha, long grass Doke . This is a type of
personification sometimes found in stories where the name of an animal is
transferred to the personal class and thus, as it were, invested with human
character. A further way of achieving personification is by a series of special
formations based, among other things, on special prefixes, derivations from
verbs or ideophones, reduplication, or the rich resources of compounding.
Several of these bases are also used to form special impersonal nouns.
Such nouns built up on verbal roots include instances like, say, a verb stem
modified by a class 4 prefix to indicate ‘method of action’ (e.g. the Kikuyu
muthiire, manner of walking, from thii, walk), or by a class 7 prefix suggesting

an action done carelessly or badly (e.g. Lamba icendeende, aimless walking
about, from enda, walk or Lulua tshiakulakula, gibberish, from akula, talk),
and many others (Doke 1948: 296). Reduplication is also often used in noun
formation. In Zulu we have the ordinary form izinhlobo, kinds, becoming
izinhlobonhlobo, variety of species, and imimoya, winds, reduplicated to give
imimoyamoya with the meaning of ‘constantly changing winds’.
Compound nouns above all exhibit the great variety of expression
open to the speaker of a ”antu language. These are usually built up on
various combinations of verbs (compounded with e.g. subject, object, or
descriptive) or nouns (compounded with other nouns, with a qualitative,
or with an ideophone). Thus we get the Lamba umwenda-nandu, a deep ford
(lit. ‘where the crocodile travels’), icikoka-mabwe, the klipspringer antelope
lit. rock-blunter the Xhosa indlulamthi, giraffe (lit. ‘surpasser of trees’),
or amabona-ndenzile, attempts lit. see what I have done or, finally, the Ila
name for the Deity, Ipaokubozha, with the literal meaning He that gives and
rots’ (Doke 1948: 297–8). To these must be added the special ‘praise names’
described later which add yet a further figurative aspect to those already
mentioned.
In these various formations and derivatives of noun and verb, ”antu
languages thus have a subtle and variable means of expression on which
the eloquent speaker and composer can draw at will. In addition there is
the different question of style and syntax as well as the actual collocation
of the vocabulary used, all of which vary with the particular literary genre
chosen by the speaker. In general, apart from the rhetorical praise poems
of the southern areas, ”antu syntax gives the impression of being relatively
simple and direct. This impression can however be a little misleading: the
syntactical relationships of sentences are more complex than they appear at
first sight. What seems like co-ordination of simple sentences in narrative
in fact often conceals subtle forms of subordination through the use of
subjunctive, sequences of historic tenses, or conditionals. In this way the
fluent speaker can avoid the monotony of a lengthy series of parallel and
conjunctive sentences—though this is the form in which such passages tend
to appear in English translations. Furthermore, ”antu expression generally
is not limited, as is English, by a more or less rigid word-order: because of
its structure there are many possible ways in which, by changes in word-
order or terminology, delicate shades of meaning can be precisely expressed
which in English would have to depend on the sometimes ambiguous form
of emphatic stress. “ll in all, Doke concludes, ”antu languages are capable
of remarkable fluency . . . They provide a vehicle for wonderful handling

by the expert speaker or writer Doke
”esides the basic structure of ”antu languages in vocabulary and
morphology, there are some further linguistic features which add to its
resources as a literary instrument. Perhaps most important among these is
the form usually called the ideophone (sometimes also called ‘mimic noun’,
‘intensive noun’, ‘descriptive’, ‘indeclinable verbal particle’, etc.). This is
a special word which conveys a kind of idea-in-sound and is commonly
used in ”antu languages to add emotion or vividness to a description or
recitation. Ideophones are sometimes onomatopoeic, but the acoustic
impression often conveys aspects which, in English culture at least, are
not normally associated with sound at all—such as manner, colour, taste,
smell, silence, action, condition, texture, gait, posture, or intensity. To some
extent they resemble adverbs in function, but in actual use and grammatical
form they seem more like interjections. They are specifically introduced
to heighten the narrative or add an element of drama. They also come in
continually where there is a need for a particularly lively style or vivid
description and are used with considerable rhetorical effect to express
emotion or excitement. An account, say, of a rescue from a crocodile or a
burning house, of the complicated and excited interaction at a communal
hunt or a football match—these are the kinds of contexts made vivid,
almost brought directly before the listener’s eyes, by the plentiful use of
ideophones:
They are used by accomplished speakers with an artistic sense for the right
word for the complete situation, or its important aspects, at the right pitch
of vividness. To be used skilfully, I have been told, they must correspond
to one’s inner feeling. Their use indicates a high degree of sensitive
impressionability (Fortune 1962: 6, on Shona ideophones)
The graphic effect of these ideophones is not easy to describe in writing, but
it is worth illustrating some of the kinds of terms involved. The Rhodesian
Shona have a wide range of ideophones whose use and syntax have been
systematically-analysed by Fortune (1962). Among them are such terms as
k’we—sound of striking a match.

gwengwendere—sound of dropping enamel plates.
nyiri nyiri nyiri nyiri—flickering of light on a cinema screen.
dhdbhu dhdbhu dhdbhu—of an eagle flying slowly.
tsvukururu—of finger millet turning quite red.
go, go, go, ngondo ngondo ngondo, pxaka pxaka pxaka pxaka pxaka—the chopping
down of a tree, its fall, and the splintering of the branches.
Again we could cite the following Zulu instances:
khwi—turning around suddenly.

dwi—dawning, coming consciousness, returning sobriety, easing of pain,
relief.
ntrr birds flying high with upward sweep aeroplane or missile flying.
bekebe—flickering faintly and disappearing. khwibishi—sudden recoil,
forceful springing back.
fafalazi—doing a thing, carelessly or superficially.
ya perfection, completion Fivaz
Ideophones often appear in reduplicated form. This is common with many

of its uses in Thonga to give a vivid impression of gait and manner of
movement:
A tortoise is moving laboriously—khwanya-khwanya-khwanya!

A butterfly in the air—pha-pha-pha-pha.
A frog jumps into a pond, after three little jumps on the
ground—noni-noni-noni-djamaaa.
A man runs very slowly—wahle-wahle-wahle.
A man runs with little hurried steps—nyakwi-nyakwi-nyakwi.
A man runs at full speed—nyu-nyu-nyu-nyu-nyuuu.
He walks like a drunkard—tlikwi-tlikwi.
A tired dog—fambifa-fambifa-fambifa.
A lady with high-heeled shoes—peswa-peswa Junod
Using this form, a Thonga writer can describe vividly and economically
how a man was seized, thrown on the thatched roof of a hut, came down
violently and fell on the ground:
Vo nwi! tshuku-tshuku! 0 tlhela a ku: shulululuuu! a wa hi matimba a ku: pyakavakaa

Junod
In Thonga as in other ”antu languages ideophones are constantly being

invented anew, demonstrating the richness and elasticity of the language.
For the Thonga, this form
expresses in a little word, a movement, a sound, an impression of fear, joy

or amazement. Sensation is immediate and is immediately translated into a
word or a sound, a sound which is so appropriate, so fitting, that one sees
the animal moving, hears the sound produced, or feels oneself the very
sensation expressed Junod
In the ideophone, therefore, speakers of ”antu languages have a rhetorical

and emotive tool whose effectiveness cannot be overemphasized. In vivid
and dramatic passages to use it is to be graphic to omit it is to be prosaic
Doke , and, as ”urbridge wrote of it earlier
In descriptive narration in which emotions are highly wrought upon . . . the

vivid descriptive power of kuti [ideophone] is seen, and the-human appeal is
made, and the depths of pathos are stirred by this medium of expression
of intensely-wrought emotion without parallel in any other language. The
ideophone is the key to Native descriptive oratory. I can’t imagine a Native
speaking in public with intense feeling without using it ”urbridge ,
quoted Doke . For some other discussions of ideophones in ”antu
languages see Jaques Kunene Hulstaert on ideophones in
non-”antu languages see below .
“lso very striking are the praise names of ”antu languages. These are terms
which pick out some striking quality of an object and are used for inanimate
objects, birds, animals, and finally, in their fullest form, as names for people.
We meet compound names that could be translated as, for instance, ‘Forest-
treader’, ‘Little animal of the veld’, ‘Crumple-up-a-person-with-a-hardwood-
stick , or Father of the people . Other examples are the “nkole He Who Is Not
Startled , I Who Do Not Tremble , He Who Is Of Iron , He Who Compels
The Foe To Surrender , or He Who Is Not Delirious In The Fingers i.e. who
grasps his weapons firmly Morris ff , and the Zulu He who hunted
the forests until they murmured’, ‘With his shields on his knees’ (i.e. always
ready for a fight), or ‘Even on branches he can hold tight’ (i.e. able to master
any situation) (Cope 1968: 72). Sometimes the reference is to more recent
conditions and formulations, a type which occurs in Kamba praise names
for girls in popular songs. These include Mbitili (from English ‘battery’): car-
batteries are said to provide heat just as the girl’s attractiveness heats up her
admirers Singano needle , praising the sharpness of the girl s breasts and
Mbyuki from English ”uick as ”uicks are famous for their high-gloss black
finish, this is effective praise of the beauty of the girl s skin Whiteley
Praise names, it is clear, provide a figurative element in the literature in
which they appear and, like the Homeric epithet in Greek epic, add colour
and solemnity. In panegyric poetry the use of praise names is one of the
primary characteristics see Ch. , but in all contexts the use of praise names
can add an extra dimension to speech or literature and continue to flourish
amidst new conditions (further comments on praise names in Ch. 16).
A few additional features should be mentioned briefly. One is the sound
system. There is the dominantly vocalic quality of the ”antu sound-system,
the absence of neutral and indeterminate vowels, and the general avoidance
of consonant-combinations Lestrade ”antu languages differ in

the use they make of this system. Shona, for instance, is definitely staccato,
Swahili to some extent so, and the tonal systems also vary. Some use a
regular long syllable, as in the Nguni languages of the south (including
Zulu and Xhosa
Strongly-marked dynamic stresses, occurring in more or less regular positions

in all words of the same language, and the fairly regular incidence of long
syllables also usually in the same positions, give to ”antu utterance a rhythmic
quality and a measured and balanced flow not met with in languages with
irregular stresses and more staccato delivery. Lestrade
The particular genius of each language gives rise to various possibilities

in the structure of verse. The type of ‘prosody’ often used exploits the
grammatical and syntactical possibilities of the language, which is not, as
in English, bound by a fixed word order. Alliterative parallelism is easily
achieved. Thus in the Zulu proverb
Kuhlwile / phambili // kusile / emuva

It is dark / in front // it is light / behind (‘it is easy to be wise after the event’).14
quoted Lestrade
there is perfect parallelism, idea contrasting to idea in corresponding

position, identical parts of speech paralleling each other (verb for verb,
and adverb for adverb), and, finally, number of syllables and dynamic
stress exactly matching each other. Similar effects are produced by ‘cross-
parallelism’ (chiasmus) where the correspondence is to be found crosswise
and not directly, and by ‘linking’, the repetition of a prominent word or
phrase in a previous line in the first half of the next one. The kind of balance
may even extend to correspondence in intonation and, though very different
from more familiar ‘metrical’ forms, is felt to provide perfect balance and
rhythm by native speakers of the language Lestrade .
To these linguistic resources on which the ”antu speaker can draw
we must also add the whole literary tradition that lies behind his speech.
There is, for one thing, the interest in oratory and in the potentialities of
the language which is typical of many ”antu peoples. They have the germ
of literary criticism in their very blood’, writes Doke, and discussions
of words and idioms, and plays on tone, word, and syllable length ‘all
provide hours of entertainment around the hearth or camp fire in Central
Africa’ (Doke 1948: 284). There is the rich fund of proverbs so often used to
14 Zulu proverbs are frequently exhibit in metrical form.

ornament both everyday and literary expression with their figurative and
elliptical forms. There are the ‘praise names’ that occur so commonly in
”antu languages, forming on the one hand part of the figurative resources
of ”antu vocabulary and word-building, and on the other a form of literary
expression in its own right, often elaborated in the south into full praise
verses of complex praise poetry see Ch. . To all these literary resources we
must, finally, add the formal genres of ”antu literature prose narration,
proverb, riddle, song, praise poetry. In each of these the artist can choose to
express himself, drawing both on the resources of the language and on the
set forms and styles placed at his disposal
From the artless discursiveness and unaffected imagery of the folktales to

the stark economy of phrasing and the elaborate figures of speech in the
ritual chants, from the transparent simplicity and highly-charged emotion of
the dramatic songs to the crabbed allusiveness and sophisticated calm of the
proverb, and from the quiet humour and modest didacticism of the riddle
to the high seriousness and ambitious rhetorical flight of the praise-poem.
Lestrade
I have written at some length about the basis for oral literature in the single
”antu group in order to illustrate from one well-documented example the
kind of resources which may be available in an African language. Other
languages and language groups in Africa have other potentialities—some
in common with ”antu, some very different but a similar kind of analysis
could no doubt be made in each case. There is no reason, in short, to accept
the once common supposition that African languages, unlike those of
Europe, could provide only an inadequate vehicle for the development of
literature. This point is made here in general terms and will not be repeated
constantly later, but it is necessary, in the case of each analysis of a single
literary form, to remember the kind of literary and linguistic resources that,
though unmentioned, are likely to lie behind it.
III
It is necessary to examine briefly the general relevance of certain other
elements, particularly tone, metre and other prosodic forms, and music.
The significance of tone in literary forms has been most fully explored in
West African languages, though it is not confined to them. In these languages
It is worth bearing this in mind since in most cases it has only been possible to include
translations of the literary examples quoted.
tone is significant for grammatical form and for lexical meaning. In, for
instance, Yoruba, Ibo, or Ewe, the meaning of words with exactly the same
phonetic form in other respects may be completely different according to
the tone used—it becomes a different word in fact. The tense of a verb, case
of a noun, even the difference between affirmative and negative can also
sometimes depend on tonal differentiation. Altogether, tone is something
of which speakers of such languages are very aware, and it has even been
said of Yoruba that a native speaker finds it easier to understand someone
who gets the sounds wrong than someone speaking with incorrect tones.
This awareness of tone can be exploited to aesthetic effect. Not only is
there the potential appreciation of unformalized tonal patterns and the
interplay of the tones of speech and of music in sung verse (see Ch. 9), but
tones also form the foundation of the special literary form in which words
are transmitted through drums (Ch. 17). In addition tone is apparently
sometimes used as a formal element in the structure of certain types of
orally delivered art. In Yoruba not only do tonal associations play a part in
conveying overtones and adding to the effectiveness of literary expression,
but the tonal patterning is also part of the formal structure of a poem. One
light poem, for instance, is based on the tonal pattern of high, mid, low,
mid, with its reduplicate of low, low, mid, low:
Jo bata—bata o gb’ona abata (2)
Ojo bata—bata (2)
Opa b’o ti mo jo lailai.
Dancing with irregular steps you are heading for the marsh (2),
If you will always dance with those irregular steps,
you [? will] never be a good dancer. Lasebikan
Another, in more serious vein, gives a vivid description of a great battle,

adding a note of authenticity with the author’s claim to have been an
eye-witness:
Ija kan, ija kan ti nwon ja l’Ofa nko—
Oju tal’o to die mbe?
Gbogbo igi t’o s’oju e l’o wo’we,
Gbogbo ikan t’ó s’oju e l’o w’ewu ęję
Ogọro agbọnrin t’ò s’oju e l’o hu’wo l’oju ode
Sugbọn o s’oju mi pa kete n’ile we nibi nwọn bi mi l’omo
Agba ni ng o ti da, mo kuro l’omode agbekorun r’oko.
What about a great fight that was fought at Ofa—
Is there anyone here who witnessed a bit of it?
Although the trees that saw it here all shed their leaves,
And the shrubs that saw it were all steeped with blood, And the very stags
that saw it grew fresh horns while the hunters looked on,
Yet I saw every bit of it, for it was fought where I was born.
I do not claim to be old, but I’m no more a child that must be carried to the
farm Lasebikan
Lasebikan comments on the tonal structure of this poem. It falls into four
distinct divisions:
How are these divisions marked out? Not by means of rhymes as in English
poems, but by the tone of the last syllable of the division . He shows how
the actual words used are carefully chosen to fit this tonal structure, for
possible alternatives with the same meaning and syllable number have tonal
compositions that would spoil the cadence of the poem . Lasebikan
“ similar but more detailed analysis has been made by ”abalola of the
way tonal patterning is a characteristic feature of the structure of Yoruba
hunting poetry (ijala). The musical and rhythmic effect of this poetry arises
partly from tonal assonance—specific short patterns of syllabic tones
repeated at irregular intervals—or, alternatively, from tonal contrast which
‘seems to . . . increase the richness of the music of the ijala lines by adding to
the element of variety in successive rhythm-segments ”abalola ,
1966 (Appendix A passim)).
In other forms and areas too we sometimes see tonal correspondence.
There is sometimes tonal parallelism between question and answer in ‘tone
riddles’ or within the balanced phrases of some proverbs (see e.g. Simmons
Efik Van “vermaet Luba . The use of tone correspondence
in some poetry is so striking as to have been called a species of ‘rhyme’
(e.g. the ‘tonal rhyme’ of Efik, Ganda, and possibly Luba poetry (Simmons
a Morris Van “vermaet Stappers a).
Some of the detailed analyses of the significance of tone in literature are
controversial, and little enough work has as yet been done on this formal
aspect. ”ut as linguists increasingly stress the general importance of tone in
African languages throughout the continent, so we can expect many more
studies of this aspect of literature.
Ideophones and other forms of sound association are so important in non-
”antu as well as ”antu languages that they are worth mentioning again at
this point. Thus there are the important sound associations in Yoruba which
connect, for instance, a high toned nasal vowel with smallness, or low toned
plosives with huge size, unwieldiness, or slow movement, often intensified
by reduplication Lasebikan the connection in Ewe and Gbeya with
the vowel /i/ and a lateral resonant consonant in ideophones for ‘sweet’, or
the common use of back rounded vowels for ideophones indicating ‘dark,
dim, obscure, foggy , etc Samarin a: 120). In many cases ideophones
constitute a high proportion of the lexical resources of the language. In Gbeya,
in the Central “frican Republic, about , ideophones have been recorded.
A number of African languages are said to have twenty, thirty, or even forty
ideophones just to describe different kinds of walking Samarin ,
118). Indeed it has been suggested by one authority that ‘ideophones by
count constitute, next to nouns and verbs, a major part of the total lexicon of
“frican languages Samarin .
Many different instances of these graphic ideophones could be added
to the earlier ”antu examples we have cited. We have, for instance,
the Yoruba representation of water draining out drop by drop (to to to),
a lady in high heels (ko ko ko ko, ko), or a stalwart in heavy boots (ko ko
ko Lasebikan . The Zande ideophones digbidigbi (boggy, oozy,
slushy), guzuguzu (fragrantly, sweet smelling), gangbugangbu (listlessly),
degeredegere (swaggeringly), and gbaraga-gbaraga (quarrelsome-ly).16 The
effectiveness of such forms for descriptive and dramatic formulations
and the poetic quality they can add to ordinary language need not be
re-emphasized except to say that this point constantly reappears in detailed
analyses of African oral art.
Then there is the topic of prosodic systems in African verse. This is
a difficult question which, apart from one classic article by Greenberg
largely devoted to “rabic influence Greenberg also , has
received relatively little attention. It is clear that many different forms are
possible which can only be followed up in detailed accounts of particular
literary genres. ”roadly, however, one can say that six main factors can be
involved: rhyme, alliteration, syllable count, quantity, stress, and tone (here
and throughout this section I draw mainly on Greenberg 1960). Of these, the
last three can only be used when there is a suitable linguistic basis. Tone,
for instance, can only perform a prosodic function in tonal languages and
this influence of language on form can be seen in the way Hausa has been
able to keep to the quantitative form of its Arabic verse models, whereas in
Swahili, equally or more dominated by the Arabic tradition, the nature of the
language has precluded the use of quantitative metres and instead turned
interest to rhyme and syllable count Greenberg , .
16 Evans-Pritchard cf, also E. E. Evans-Pritchard for other discussions

of ideophones in non-”antu languages see e.g. Equilbecq i, West “frica
Finnegan Limba Galaal and “ndrzejewski imitative words in
Somali), as well as many passing references in collections of stories, etc..
The Arabic influences on African prosody have been summarized by

Greenberg and need not be repeated in detail here. In spite of various
difficulties and uncertainties the Arabic-based styles are somewhat easier
to analyse than some-other forms of African poetry, partly because, for
one familiar with the Arabic forms, the parallel African ones are ultimately
recognizable partly because they appear in local written forms in which
the evidence tends to be somewhat more plentiful and accurate than for
oral African poetry. Classical Arabic prosody is a source of verse forms in
several African languages, particularly the qasidah (ode) based on quantity
and rhyme. This occurs, for example, in learned Fulani poetry, and in
learned and sometimes in popular and oral Hausa poetry in both cases
there is the retention of quantitative features made feasible by the forms of
these two languages. The post-classical tasmit has also influenced African
forms. Again it uses quantity and rhyme, but with more stress on rhyme. It
occurs in several West “frican languages Hausa, Kanuri , but has reached
its highest development in Swahili where ‘it is by far the most common form
in both learned and popular poetry, whether sung or recited’ (Greenberg
. Since Swahili does not possess vowel quantitative distinctions,
this principle has been replaced by that of syllable count accompanied by
rhyme. Its most popular form is the four-line stanza (each line containing
eight syllables), with the basic rhyme scheme aaab/cccb/dddb/. . ., but five-
line stanzas (takhmis) also sometimes occur Greenberg ,
also Harries ff., Hichens .
The instances so far are unmistakable cases of direct Arabic influences.
Certain other examples are not so clear, though Arabic influence seems
likely. In the Horn of “frica Ethiopia and Somali, etc. rhyme is a frequent
prosodic principle (sometimes in combination with other features), to such
an extent that Greenberg speaks of this region as the ‘East African rhyming
area Greenberg ff. . In various ways, this use of rhyme is exploited
in—to give just a few instances—early Ge’ez verse (classical Ethiopic), the
Amharic royal songs, Galla strophic poetry, and Tigre verse. A few indications
of possible Arabic influence can also be detected among the Muslim Nubians
of the Nile Valley and the ”erbers particularly the Tuareg where, again,
rhyme is used De Foucauld i, xiii . “s Greenberg sums it up
The outstanding impression in the historic dimensions is the vast reach of

certain, and in many cases highly probable, Arabic influence in the northern
part of Africa—an influence well documented for many other aspects of the
culture of the area. (Greenberg 1960: 947)17
17 On “rabic influences see also Sow , and the interesting analysis of a Fulani poem
by Seydou 1966.
For the forms of African prosody which cannot be thus traced to ultimate
Arabic influence, the picture is much less clear—indeed little work has been
done on this. It seems that rhyme and regular metre are uncommon or non-
existent. Sometimes alliteration seems to be a marked feature. There are,
for example, the very rigid rules of alliteration in Somali poetry in which
each line in the whole poem must contain a word beginning with the same
sound Greenberg “ndrzejewski and Lewis . There
is also the much less formalized alliteration arising from parallelism in
Southern ”antu praise poetry see above, also Ch. . “s mentioned earlier,
tone is also sometimes a formal characteristic of some African poetry,
though its analysis has not as yet proceeded very far. In Nkundo poetry, on
the other hand, tone seems to be of less significance, if we accept ”oelaert s
contention that stress (accent dynamique) is the basic characteristic of the
prosodic system ”oelaert, . The same point might be made about
the dynamic stress in Southern ”antu praise poems Ch. and in “nkole
recitations Morris ff. . In other cases again, it seems that either
the musical setting or such features as repetition, linking, or parallelism
perform certain of the functions we normally associate with metre or
rhyme. ”ut the whole question is a difficult one, and there seem to be many
cases when, either out of ignorance or from the nature of the material, the
observer finds it difficult to isolate any clear prosodic system in what he
calls poetry . Thus in Southern ”antu literature, to quote Lestrade again
The distinction between prose and verse is a small one . . . the border-line
between them is extremely difficult to ascertain and define, while the verse-
technique, in so far as verse can be separated from prose, is extremely free and
unmechanical. ”roadly speaking, it may be said that the difference between
prose and verse in ”antu literature is one of spirit rather than of form, and
that such formal distinction as there is one of degree of use rather than of
quality of formal elements. Prose tends to be less emotionally charged, less
moving in content and full-throated in expression than verse and also
but only in the second place—less formal in structure, less rhythmical in
movement, less metrically balanced. Lestrade
The analysis of indigenous African prosody is thus clearly by no means a

simple matter, and apart from the work of musicologists on the rhythm of
fully musical forms (on which see Ch. 9 below), relatively little study has
apparently yet been made of this aspect of African literature.18
18 For some further references to questions of prosody see Coupez and Kamanzi ,
and Coupez , on the quantitative element in Rundi and Ruanda
verse Klingenheben argues from “mharic popular songs that metre is based on
accent rather than, according to the usual view, on syllabic numbering).
This brings us to the final point—the significance of music. Clearly this

is not a feature of all African literary forms. It occurs seldom in what is
normally classified as ‘prose’—stories, narrations, riddles, proverbs, or
oratory except for songs within stories, see Chs. and .. In poetry
it is more common. In fact the occurrence of music or of a sung mode of
expression has sometimes been taken as one of the main differentiating
marks between prose and verse. Even here, however, there is a wide range
of possibilities. On the one hand, in much panegyric and some religious
verse the verbal element is markedly predominant over the musical,
and such forms are, at most, delivered in a kind of recitative or intoned
form. Then there are other types in which the music is progressively more
important, until we reach the extreme choric form (often with leader and
chorus) instrumental accompaniment and even dance, like the ‘symphonic
poems’ of the Chopi (Tracey 1948a). In such cases the music, however
closely intertwined with the words, may come to dominate them and we
can no longer assume that, as seems so often to be taken for granted in
Western culture, verbally expressed literature can be taken as self-evidently
the ‘top art’. In some cases, indeed, it is clear that musical expression (or
even sometimes the dance) may be the object of greater interest, critical
appreciation, and specialized performance. This is a central question in
any assessment of the position of oral literature within a particular cultural
tradition, for even in less extreme cases the musical aspect may still be
a very important one. Though it may appear secondary to one basically
interested in literature, it is clearly something which cannot be ignored,
above all in lyric forms.
As in the case of the more purely linguistic basis, I will not keep drawing
attention to the significance of music for every single relevant form (some
further points are made on this subject in Ch. . ”ut to allow ourselves to
forget the importance music may assume in certain cases of African poetry
is to minimize the intricacy and full aesthetic appeal of these instances of
oral literature.
IV
”efore proceeding to the main part of the book, there are a few general
points to make about presentation and the nature of the literature involved.
First, there is the question of the categories I have used to present the
material. An immediate problem is how to differentiate between ‘prose’
and ‘poetry’. Though some cases seem to fall clearly under one or the other
heading, the distinction between the two is not always self-evident. I have
in fact begged the question by making a firm division between the parts
devoted to ‘prose’ and to ‘poetry’ respectively. This however has been done
more for convenience than in an attempt to make a definite typology. The
kinds of factors which it has seemed helpful to consider include: musical
setting most sung forms can reasonably be regarded as poetry the intensity
and emotion of expression sometimes but not always rhythm, and tonal
or syllabic rhyme the latter infrequent except under “rabic influence
special vocabulary, style, or syntactical forms local evaluation and degree
of specialism more marked with poetry than with prose and, finally, the
native classifications themselves. Such factors give some kind of indication
of the form involved, though none is either necessary or sufficient. At best
they are only a matter of degree and in many cases can provide no rigid
distinctions (e.g. from Portuguese Africa, South West Africa, or the Central
African republics). There is clearly a large amount of overlap, like the
introduction of songs into stories (in some cases so marked that the ‘story’
becomes swamped in the singing) or the ‘poetic’ form of proverbs which
are nevertheless usually classified as prose. ”ut this kind of overlap and
lack of clear differentiation need not worry us too much (unless, that is, our
main preoccupation is the building of typologies), particularly when we
recall the recent blurring of the traditional prose/verse distinctions in more
familiar literatures.
One obvious way to present the evidence might have seemed to be
by geographical area, describing the different oral forms characteristic of
different regions or peoples. ”ut there are serious difficulties about such
an approach. One is its tendency to become a mere catalogue—and a
repetitive one at that, since such forms as stories, proverbs or work songs
are very wide-spread, and perhaps universal. A more serious obstacle is
the fact that so far there has only been the most haphazard sampling of the
apparently huge oral literary resources of the continent. The selection has
all too often depended not only on geographical accessibility and historical
accident, but also on the preconceptions of the observer or the ease of
recording, rather than on the evaluation of the people involved. Hence we
have a vast number of proverbs, riddles, and stories but relative neglect of
poetry or oratory. Only the literature of very few peoples has ever been at
all adequately covered, among them perhaps some of the southern ”antu
languages Swahili, Fulani, Hausa, Dogon and some of the Kwa groups of
the west “frican coast but even in these cases there has not been systematic
or rigorous covering) and for some whole areas little serious work appears
to be available (e.g. from Portuguese Africa, South West Africa, or the

Central African republics). It is thus extremely difficult to draw any well-
founded conclusion about the different forms recognized by a people at
a given time. Since a clear distinction between prose and poetry seems to
be associated with writing (and more particularly with printing), it is not
surprising that the difference is somewhat blurred in non-literate cultures.19
One can make a few broad generalizations: the significance of Arab-
influenced forms in the north and east in such languages as Fulani, Hausa,
or Swahili the importance of elaborate panegyric among the Southern in
contrast to some of the Central ”antu the spread of drum literature over
the tropical forest areas of West and West Central Africa (including the
Congo and the probability yet to be fully explored that some languages
and cultures are more interested in certain forms of artistic expression than
are others e.g it has been observed Horton, personal communication that
Yoruba seems to be an intensely ‘verbal’ culture with particular emphasis
on poetry as against, say, Ibo or Kalahari where the main stress is rather on
drama (including drumming and dancing) and perhaps oratory (see also
”abalola s comment on v on the Yoruba tonal, metaphor-saturated
language which in its ordinary prose form is never far from music in the
aural impression it gives and which has produced an extensive variety of
spoken art . ”ut beyond this one can give little of an over-all picture. In this
unsystematically covered field the argumentum ex silentio is not a good one
and at present there is not enough evidence for a geographical approach.
There are also drawbacks to the type of presentation I have adopted, i.e.
grouping the material according to broad literary genres. A ‘religious song’,
for instance, or a ‘praise poem’ may be very different in form, in relationship
to other genres, or even in function in different areas, and an over-rigid
insistence on the categories I am using could be misleading. Suffice it to say
that the chapter headings I use here seem satisfactory enough for a brief
introductory survey and have arisen fairly naturally from the material at
present available but that they are likely to prove inadequate for future
detailed research. In fact local classifications of poetry in particular would
seem normally to be far more complex than the handful of categories I
employ.
This leads on to a further point. To read about, say, the hunting songs of
the Ambo, Christian lyrics of the Fante, proverbs of the Jabo, or stories of the
19 “mong them perhaps some of the Southern ”antu languages, Swahili, Fulani, Hausa,
Dogon, and some Kwa groups on the West “frican coast but even in these cases there
has not been systematic or rigorous coverage.
Limba may give the impression that each of these are the most valued or even
the only forms of oral art in the society concerned. In fact all the available
evidence suggests that this would be misleading. In general terms, poetry
seems to be more highly valued and specialized than prose—the opposite of
the impression given in many of the numerous collections of African stories.
It is also common for many different literary genres to be recognized in any
one society. Among Akan-speaking peoples of Ghana, for instance, a large
number of different poetic forms have been distinguished by Nketia (in his
classic article in Black Orpheus , Nketia b)). In terms of the mode
of delivery, there are four broad classes of Akan poetry, each including
many different types in detail: (1) spoken poetry, which covers many of the
poems to do with chiefship, like the praises delivered at state functions
recitative poetry half spoken, half sung, like funeral dirges, elegies by court
musicians, and hunters poetry lyric i.e. sung poetry, a large category
comprising many different types of song each with its own conventions—
among them songs of insult, heroic songs, sung interludes in stories, maiden
songs, love songs, songs of prayer, exhilaration and incitement, cradle songs,
and warrior songs and finally poetry expressed through the medium
of horns or drums, in lyric, eulogistic, or proverbial vein. These instances,
furthermore, are only selective (and cover only poetry, not prose), and many
others could have been added in a more comprehensive catalogue (see for
instance the sung forms mentioned in Nketia Chs. , , a). A similar
account could be given of Yoruba literature from Western Nigeria. In prose
there are stories of various kinds, riddles, proverbs, and praise appellations.
In poetry, the variety can be sufficiently illustrated by merely listing some of
the vernacular terms that describe different verse forms esa, ewi, ijala, rara,
ofo, ogede, oriki, ogbere, ege, arofo, odu ifa see ”abalola vi Lasebikan
, Gbadamosi and ”eier . Poetic forms have probably been studied
in more detail in West African languages than elsewhere, and it is possible
that some of these languages may be particularly rich in poetic forms. There
is no reason, however, to suppose that this kind of poetic diversity is without
parallels in other parts of the continent. We hear, for instance, of many
different forms among the Ngoni of Malawi, Ila and Tonga of Zambia, Luba
of the Congo, Rwanda of Ruanda, Somali of North-East Africa, and many
others. And further research will without doubt reveal similar instances
throughout the continent.
This kind of literary complexity can be assumed to lie behind many
of the actual examples which are mentioned in this volume Read
Jones Kalanda ”urton Kagame , b, etc.
Andrzejewski and Lewis 1964) practically all accounts to date give only
a tiny selection from the manifold literary genres of any one society.
The present exceedingly simple impression of African literature can be
seen to rest more on lack of research than on lack of actual material. A
real understanding of the oral literature of any single African people
will only be possible with further detailed research and collection. More
information is required not only of actual texts but also of the nature and
interrelationships of all their literary genres: their conventional forms,
content, occasions, exponents, and expected audience.
II. POETRY
4. Poetry and Patronage
Variations in the poet’s position. Court poets. Freelance and wandering

poets. Part-time poets.
This chapter is intended to give some account of the conditions in which

African oral poets produce their works, and the audiences to which they
address themselves. However, even the most summary account of this
topic is a matter of great difficulty. This is partly because of sheer lack of
data. Even those who have spent time and care recording African texts
have frequently taken next to no interest in the position of the authors or
reciters. A related but more profound cause of confusion lies in the popular
images which underlie the work of many commentators on African oral
literature, images which suggest some general and simple pattern to which
these poets are expected to conform.
One commonly held view of the position of the poet among unlettered
peoples seems ultimately to derive from the picture of the rhapsodist of the
Homeric age. The bard is depicted as standing before the gathered lords
to chant the heroic lays handed down through the generations, rewarded
with honour and rich gifts. It seemed to some earlier writers natural to
assume that African societies were at a certain evolutionary stage, one long
since passed by Indo-European peoples, and that the type of poetry and
of patronage apparently once found in the latter would be discoverable in
the former. This image of the bard delivering his rude but stirring verses to
barbaric audiences has gained a profound hold on the popular imagination
from its vivid representation in literature as well as in scholarly works
inspired by the concept of ‘the heroic age’.
There is another common image which presents an opposite picture.
In this the poetry of non-literate peoples is seen as in some way arising
directly and communally from the undifferentiated folk. In this case song
is its own reward and the specialized role of the poet has not yet made its
appearance.
In fact neither picture fits the varied nature of poetry in Africa: This will
be immediately obvious: as soon as the question is raised it is self-evident
that any study of the conditions and background of poetry in Africa can no
longer afford to rely on such half-consciously held generalizations but must
proceed to a much more rigorous and detailed investigation of the actual
position of poets in the various societies. Some poets, it is clear already, are
associated with royal courts and receive reward as professionals. Others
depend on private enterprise, perhaps wandering from patron to patron
and living on their wits. Others gain their basic livelihood from farming
or cattle-keeping (or whatever the local basis of subsistence may be), but
are marked out by their expert skill on special occasions. Finally, in some
contexts poets are not set apart from their fellows in terms of training,
reward, or position. Indeed, almost every category of relationship between
poet and audience can be found in Africa in one context or another. These
differences are not confined to different geographical areas but can be
discovered even within a single society. Even in one culture Hausa or
Fulani, for instance, or, to a lesser extent, Ashanti) one can sometimes see
the coexistence of a learned and a more popular tradition, and it is common
for many different genres of poetry to be recognized simultaneously, each
with its own type of performer, reward, and occasion. No single picture
can cover all these variations and even the most cursory account of poetry
in Africa must begin by insisting on the variety before going on to discuss
certain common patterns.
I
The practice of poetic composition and performance as a specialist art is
not uncommon in Africa. Poetry is, by and large, differentiated from prose
as being marked by greater specialism. The most specialized genres of
poetry occur in association with royal courts. The other familiar form of
patronage—religion—is also relevant, but in an organized form it is less
significant.
In the traditional kingdoms of Africa, with their royal courts and clearly
marked differences in wealth, power, and leisure, court poetry flourished.
Poets were attached to the courts of powerful kings, to the retinues of
nobles or lesser chiefs, and to all those who had pretensions to honour
and thus to poetic celebration in their society. The speciality of these court
poets was, of course, panegyric, a form illustrated in the following chapter.
One can cite the elaborate praise poems of the Zulu or Sotho in southern
4. Poetry and Patronage 85
“frica, the poems of the official singers of the ruler of ”ornu, the royal
praises of the Hausa emirs, the eulogies addressed to rulers in the various
kingdoms of the Congo, and many others. In all these areas the ruling
monarchs and their ancestors were glorified in poems, and real and ideal
deeds were attributed to them in lofty and effusive language. The court
poets sometimes had other functions too. Preservation of the historical
record and of genealogies, for example, was often a part of their art, and it
is sometimes suggested that this was at times a distinctive activity carried
on in its own right. ”ut in spite of repeated assertions about this,1 there are
few details about the actual performance or expression of historical poetry
as distinct from panegyric, and we have to content ourselves with vague
generalizations.2 It is clear, at least, that a knowledge of accepted history
in the sense of the glorification of the great deeds of royal ancestors or
present rulers was a necessary part of the cultivation of panegyric poetry,
and that praise poems are a fruitful source of the currently authorized
interpretations of certain historical events and genealogies. What we
always come back to in the productions of these court poets is the adulatory
aspect, giving rise to poetry of profound political significance as a means of
political propaganda, pressure, or communication.
The actual position and duties of these court poets vary in different
areas. In some cases a poet holds a single clearly recognized office among
a ruler s entourage. This was so with the Zulu and other ”antu kingdoms
of southern Africa where not only the paramount king but also every chief
with any pretensions to political power had, wherever possible, his own
imbongi or praiser. This was an official position at the court, important
enough to the rulers to have survived even the eclipse of much of their
earlier power. The imbongi’s profession was to record the praise names, the
victories, and the glorious qualities of the chief and his ancestors, and to
recite these in lengthy high-sounding verse on occasions which seemed to
call for public adulation of the ruler. The poet had two duties: to remember
and to express the appropriate eulogies. Though these praises tended
to have a set and recognized form (particularly those of dead rulers),
the poet’s task did not consist of mere memorizing. The praises had no
absolute verbal immutability, and emotional and dramatic force in actual
For example on the Yoruba Johnson , Fon Herskovits and the

general comments in Notes and Queries on Anthropology , and Vansina
148–9.
2 On the question of ‘epic’ and historical poetry generally see the note appended to this
chapter.
recitation was expected of a successful imbongi. The lofty strain of these

Zulu eulogies and the impressiveness of their delivery can be pictured
from a few lines taken from the praises of a Zulu king they glorify the
swiftness and completeness of his victory over the foe:
Faster-than-the-sun-before-it-has-risen!
When it rose the blood of men had already been shed.
The ”ush, the ”uck-catcher , caught the men of Sekwayo s.
He made men swim who had forgotten how,
Yes! even in the pools! . . .
The tobacco fields rotted even to pulp!
The wrapping-mats were finished at ”anganomo
At (the kraal) of Kuvukuneni,
At that at Mdiweni, even Vimbemsheni’s,
“t that at ”ukledeni,
At that at Panyekweni (Grant 1927: 227)
In many West African kingdoms the pattern is more complicated. A whole

band of poets is often involved, the various members making their own
specialist contributions to the performance. Musical as well as verbal
elements play a part, so that the skills of many different performers are
necessary. Among the Ashanti, for instance, there were not only minstrels
(kwadwumfo) to recount the deeds of past kings whenever the living king
appeared in public, but also royal horn-blowers and a band of court
drummers especially appointed as part of the ruler’s formal entourage
and over whose performances he held a kind of monopoly. On state
occasions these drummers provided both music and the type of ‘drum
poems’ described in a later chapter—the drum-beats or notes of the horn
being ‘heard’ as actual words, praising the ruler and his predecessors and
commemorating the glorious victories of the past. Such performances were
an essential part of state occasions: at state receptions at the palace or out of
doors in processions to display the regalia or visit some sacred spot and at
national festivals, state funerals, and political functions like the installations
of new chiefs or the swearing of oaths of allegiance by sub-chiefs. Again,
in the old and powerful kingdom of Dahomey there was not just one but
a series of royal orchestras charged with praising the power of the royal
dynasty, the high deeds of past kings, and the glory of the present ruler.
See Nketia b Chapter and Meyerowitz . Similar musical groups are

found in the retinues of other Ghanaian chiefs (e.g. Ga, Adangme, or Ewe), charged
with the duty of performing praise chants as well as processional and dancing music
(Nketia 1962: 18–19).
Every morning in Abomey concerts were held by the main state orchestra
before the royal palace, and when the king went out it accompanied him
to sing his praises Da Cruz . “ final well-known West “frican
example is that of the maroka teams of praisers still associated with the
wealthy and cultivated Islamic emirates of the Hausa of Northern Nigeria.
These highly specialized teams are attached permanently to the office of
the king, and, to a lesser extent, to that of District Heads. Smith describes
the king’s team:
The king’s musicians and maroka form an organized group containing one or
more titular series and effective authority hierarchies. The group is both more
numerous and specialized in its musical functions, and more permanently
attached to the title, than are the teams linked to District headships, which are
similarly organized. Many of the royal maroka proudly describe themselves
as royal slaves, and point to the fact that their ancestors held titles as royal
musicians under earlier kings. It seems that there is at least a core of such
maroka hereditarily attached to the throne. The king’s musical troupe is also
peculiar in containing one marokiya (female praiser), who formerly had
the title of Boroka in Zaria, but is nowadays known as Zabiya (the guinea-
hen) from the shrill ululating sound which it is her function to let out at
odd moments, such as during the king’s address to his assembled subjects
after Sallah. Other specialized musical functions in the royal troupe include
blowing on the long silver horns or shorter wooden ones, playing on the
taushe (a small hemispherical drum), and singing the royal praises in Fulani,
the last being the task of maroka recruited from among the ”ombadawa
Fulani. Royal maroka are in constant attendance at the palace, and announce
the arrival of distinguished visitors such as the Resident, Divisional Officer,
District Chiefs, and the like, by trumpet fanfares, drumming, and shouting.
They also salute the king on the Sabbath eve and nightly during the annual
fast of Ramadan, when the royal drums (tambari) are regularly played. The
king’s maroka address no one except their master, unless to herald visitors
into his presence. They are allocated compounds, farm-lands, and titles by
the king, who may also give them horses and frequently provides them with
clothes, money, or assistance at weddings as well as with food . . . As befits
their position, the royal maroka are unique within the state and work only
as a team. Smith 4
Nothing has been said about the Interlacustrine ”antu kingdoms of East “frica there
is in fact surprisingly little evidence about any formal office of court poet(s) there,
though the Chadwicks report a personal communication by Roscoe about a chief at the
Ganda royal court responsible for the recitation in poetical form of royal genealogies
Chadwicks iii also Roscoe . It is possible that some of the functions
of court poets, such as adding pomp and ceremony to the king’s public appearances,
were in East Africa fulfilled by musical performances with less stress on the verbal
element, e.g. by the Ganda royal drummers described in Roscoe ff.
In spite of differences in status and medium of expression, there are obvious

similarities in the positions of all these court poets. They all depended on
royal or chiefly patronage, given them in an official capacity and often
implying exclusive rights over their services. Their performances were
public with the emphasis, it appears, on their ceremonial functions rather
than their entertainment value. And their audiences were primarily those
who attended either the royal court or state occasions in the royal capital.
To some extent this type of poetry must also have filtered down to other
levels of society, with every local chief and leader attempting to follow the
model of the ruler. ”ut it seems that it was at the centre that court poetry
and music were cultivated in their most specialized and exclusive form.
Many of these court poets seem to have been true professionals in the
sense that they gained their livelihood from their art. Their official position
at court presumably gave them a share in the greater luxury and leisure
of court life, though the degree must have varied from area to area—more
marked, say, in the wealthy and specialized Hausa emirates than in the
kingdoms of southern “frica. However, the exact economic position of
court poets is obscure. There is little detailed evidence about, for instance,
the relative wealth of specialized poet and ordinary subject, or how far court
poets could count on steady economic support as distinct from occasional
lavish gifts. The whole subject merits further investigation.
The question of specialized training is also not very clear. That
apprenticeship in some sense was involved is obvious, but this was probably
sometimes of an informal kind, perhaps particularly when, as with the
Hausa or the Yoruba, there was some hereditary tendency. In the case of
highly specialized skills, however, there must also be a certain amount of
quite formal training. This is so with Ashanti players of the speaking drums
Nketia b , the Fang mvet singers Towo-“tangana , or
the highly specialized bards of Ruanda.
It is worth considering the Rwanda school of poetry and its complex
corporation of poets in some detail. They are among the few official poets
of Africa whose life and learning have been described at all fully and they
provide a striking instance of the specialized and learned artistic tradition
which can develop in a once-termed ‘simple’ society.
In the highly centralized traditional kingdom of Ruanda, the royal
poets had their own association and were officially recognized as holding
a privileged position within the state. They were in charge of the delivery
The account here is based mainly on Kagame b, esp. pp. 22ff.

and preservation of the dynastic poems whose main object was to exalt the
king and other members of the royal line. This was only one branch among
the three main types of Rwanda poetry (dynastic, military, and pastoral)
which corresponded to the three pivots of their society (king, warrior, and
cattle). It was in turn divided into three sub-types, different genres through
which the king’s praises could be declaimed.
A court poet was known as umusizi w’Umwami (dynastic poet of the
king). This category included a number of poets, both those with the
inspiration and skill to compose original works, and those (the bards)
who confined themselves to learning and reciting the compositions of
others. The court poets have always had their own association—the
Umutwe w’Abasizi, ‘band of dynastic poets’—comprising those families
officially recognized as poetic. The office of president of this band, the
Intebe y’Abasizi, was previously restricted to a member of the clan that was
first traditionally associated with the profession of poet. More recently
the president has been the most conspicuous of the royal poets, a role that
has tended over the last few generations to become a hereditary one. The
president had the responsibility of organizing the poetry officially needed
by the royal court for any particular occasion, including both ceremonial
affairs and discussions on points of tradition. This he was in a position to
do because of the attachment of a number of official poets to the court. Each
of the recognized families of the poetic association had to be permanently
represented there, if not by a creative poet, at least by a bard capable of
reciting the poems particularly known by that group. In the reign of Yuhi
V Musinga, for example, there were nine royal poets holding such official
positions, each on duty for a month. In addition there were a number of
unofficial bards, also members of poetic families, who gathered in large
numbers around the court and could be called on if necessary.
”oth the poets themselves and the recognized poetic families had
a privileged position in Rwanda society. They held hereditary rights
like exemption from the jurisdiction of the civil chiefs and from certain
servile duties. This applied even to ordinary bards and individual
amateurs—so long as they were able to recite certain poems by heart, they
were automatically regarded as direct servants of the crown. The exact
economic position of the official court poets is not fully described but the
presentation of a poem to the king normally earned the gift of a cow—
perhaps more—and in a society in which economic, social, even political
worth was measured in terms of cattle, this was no mean reward.
The poems themselves were exceedingly elaborate and sophisticated,

with a specialized mode of expression mastered only by the corporation of
poets and the intelligentsia of the society. The style was full of archaisms,
obscure language, and highly figurative forms of expression.6 The sort of
sentiments and phraseology involved, elevating the king as the centre and
ideal of Rwanda society, can be glimpsed from a few lines extracted from a
long dynastic praise poem of the impakanizi genre:
Il me vient a l’esprit une autre parole du Roi,

Lui Source intarissable, fils de la Souveraine,
Je me suis rappelé que ce Refuge devait introniser un Roi,
Leguel deviendrait l’objet de mes hommages dès qu’investi.
Il n y a pas d époque où le Rwanda n éprouve des perplexités,
O “rtisan-des-lances, souche du Chef des “rmées
Personne ne jugera à l encontre de ta décision.
En ce jour-là des préparatifs minutieux,
O Empoigneur-d’arc, descendance du Svelte,
Ta marche a brûlé les étapes accoutumées.
Un conflit armé dans le palais même s était déclanché,
L Irréprochable seul luttant en personne,
Nous, hommes, la terre faillit nous engloutir vivants. Kagame b: 117–8)
The poems are clearly the conscious product of a learned and specialist
intellectual tradition.
The skilled and separate nature of this poetry is further evident from
the existence of specialist training, particularly in the skill of recitation.
Among the Rwanda, somewhat unusually, part of the production of
their oral literature was through memorization of received versions of
the poems, and the attribution of personal authorship was the rule rather
than the exception. The praise poems were often repeated by bards with
little change from one occasion to the next, and there seems to have been
a conscious effort to preserve the exact words of the text. From an early
age, children of the recognized poetic families had to learn poems by heart.
Though this took place within the family, at first at least, it was under
the general supervision of the president of the association of poets who
was ultimately responsible. Local representatives of the president called
frequent gatherings in the open air at which the youths of the privileged
poets’ families exhibited their art in recitation. Those who showed
themselves to good advantage were given a reward by their family, perhaps
See Kagame b: 14ff. on the three main types of figurative language which he
designates, respectively, as synonymique, homonymique, metonymique.
even a cow as récompense de félicitation In this way future court poets

and reciters underwent a long and rigorous apprenticeship, one necessary
both for the mastery of the actual poems already extant and for acquiring
the vocabulary, imagery, and subject-matter which formed the traditional
basis of any future composition.
In Ruanda then we see the development of a strikingly specialized class
of court poetry, one designed not for everyday recitation to the people at
large, but for performance among other members of this specialist group,
and, above all, for the king himself. The royal court was the centre of
patronage—in fact in most important genres of Rwanda poetry the court
held a near monopoly—and the Rwanda assumed it to be basic to the
production of specialist poetry, being both its central stimulus and its most
valued context.
Clearly not all African court poetry took so highly specialized and
restricted a form. ”ut it can serve as an extreme instance of one important
type of patronage for the poet in traditional Africa. It must be added,
however, that this particular patronage—the royal court—is in many
areas increasingly a thing of the past. This is not because of any decline
of interest in poetry or in praise, for both continue to flourish in different
contexts and with new patrons. Praise poems crop up as flattery of political
leaders or party candidates, and can be heard on the radio or at political
meetings they can be seen in written form in newspapers and they even
appear under the auspices of commercial recording companies. ”ut often
the older royal courts with their official retinues and monopoly of the most
highly professionalized poetry have become less attractive as political
and economic centres, and many of the traditional court poets have either
abandoned their art or turned to other more lucrative patrons.
II
Unlike court patronage, religious patronage in Africa is relatively limited.
Islam, it is true, has in certain areas played a potent role in the stimulation
of verse on religious and historical topics. ”ut this has not been through
the direct patronage of an organized church so much as through the
historical association of Islam with Arabic culture in general, so that
Islamic scholars were also sometimes engaged in the transmission within
their own societies of local compositions based on Arabic models.7 These
7 For further comments on Islamic religious poetry see Chapter 7.

were primarily designed for the academic few, qualified by learning to

produce or appreciate such pieces, and were often written down, though
wider dissemination in other spheres of society sometimes took place
orally. “mong such peoples as the Swahili, Fulani, or Hausa it appears that
such composers held honoured positions (and presumably also economic
resources) primarily because of their Koranic learning, their association
with royal courts, or, in some cases their noble birth.8
Ethiopia is one important exception. Here there is a long history of
patronage of the arts by the Coptic Christian Church. This includes a
vast amount of literature which, being in every sense a written one, falls
outside the scope of this book. There was also, however, a certain amount
of oral ecclesiastical poetry by the dabteras or professional religious poets.
”esides long written poems their work also included oral compositions like
extemporized hymns at church festivals and similar occasions. Their most
famous product was the qene, a short witty poem, highly artificial, of which
there were said to be at least ten different types. These were marked by
great obscurity of style, extreme condensation, delight in the use of puns,
and an abundance of metaphors and religious allusions. In keeping with
their highly specialized nature the qene demanded prolonged intellectual
training for their mastery, and we hear of schools of rhetoric designed to
train poets in the art of qene composition. We may also suppose that their
audiences were correspondingly restricted. Indeed it seems to be the other
important class of professional Ethiopian poets, the non-religious azmaris,
who were found among all classes of society and thus reached wider
audiences Chadwicks iii ff while the dabteras preserved their
specialist and intellectual type of versification.
More recently, Christian missions have made their contribution to the
encouragement of oral literature. As yet, this seems mainly to be of the
more or less extempore type—a worshipper declaiming or leading the
singing in the course of a service—and has probably not produced any
highly specialized poets.9 ”ut much more may yet come of this type of
religious patronage, and it is possible that this might be one of the growing
points in the further development of oral literature in Africa.
8 For example, the Cameroons Fulani modibbo, who was at once an official writer, a
narrator, and a court poet Mohamadou .
Or so it seems from the sources. ”ut much more investigation needs to be made of the
role of the local preacher in this respect (and of course in the sphere of oratory many of
these preachers make their own contributions to oral art week after week).
Apart from the patronage of these larger religious movements, we also

find poetry evoked by more localized cults. This is particularly marked in
the non-Islamic parts of West Africa where there are specialized cults to the
deities of the various West African pantheons. Priests of some of the gods
among, say, the Yoruba of Nigeria or Fon of Dahomey seem to be fully
professional, sometimes to have undergone many years of training. This is
true in particular of the priests of Ifa (described in Chapter 7) who spend
at least three years as apprentices learning the lengthy verses and stories
pertaining to this oracle-god. The gods each have their own lengthy and
allusive praises which must be mastered by their priests, who are, it seems,
responsible for both their recitation and, ultimately, their composition.
Such professional priests receive direct or indirect recompense in virtue
of their religious office and in this way have a certain amount of leisure
to devote to the practice of poetry. However, fully professional priests are
by no means the rule in these societies they seem to be more typical of the
highly organized and wealthy kingdoms, like those of the Akan, Fon, or
Yoruba. ”ut even in these areas priests are often only part-time experts who
also rely on other means of subsistence. Their relationship to their public
is more like that discussed in section iv below: they are experts who only
appear on particular occasions when they display their art in return for
direct reward.
In spite of some exceptions, one cannot really speak of religion as
having the same outstanding connection with the arts in Africa as it has
sometimes held elsewhere. In terms of specialization of the poet’s role or
of the complexity of the verse itself, it does not seem to be anything like
as important as royal and courtly patronage. The interpretation of poetry
which connects it directly with the religious role of the seer would not,
therefore, in its obvious sense at least, derive much support from the data
on oral literature in Africa.
III
Another large category among oral poets in Africa is that of the freelance
specialist, a poet who moves from place to place according to where he can
find a wealthy patron or audience prepared to reward him in return for his
poems. This type of poet may shade into the official court poet, but even if
he spends a certain amount of time at the courts he does not hold an official
and exclusive position. He relies on occasional rather than permanent
employment. Such independent professional poets are particularly common

in West Africa, the coastal areas of East Africa, and Ethiopia, where both the
degree of specialization and the existence of relatively large quantities of
movable wealth from which poets can be subsidized make it feasible for
them to gain a livelihood in this manner. The existence of court poets may
actually facilitate the development of this type of freelance professional
tradition. Court poetry is what local chieflets or wealthy commoners would
like to hear declaimed around them and many of those wondering singers
and poets have found lucrative patrons in men who wish to hear addressed
to themselves some semblance of the praises ultimately due to the rulers.
It is not surprising then to find frequent instances of the coexistence in one
society of both official poets at courts, and roving poets in other spheres
of the kingdom. This is true, for instance, of the Hausa roaming singers,
the counterparts of the royal praise bands already mentioned. Among the
Nzakara of the Sudan the trained professional poet, a singer accompanying
his words on the harp, gains his livelihood either at the court of the prince
or, alternatively, by moving from village to village, ready to vilify a chief
who does not entertain him up to the standard of his expectations, or
singing the glorious ancestry of one who does de Dampierre .
Such singers can exploit the hierarchy of political power without an official
permanent attachment to any one individual.
Figure . Tayiru ”anbera, West “frican bard singing his Epic of ”amana Segu
(photo David Conrad).
For these unattached poets, generosity and economic resources are as

great an attraction as the political power connected with state office. Thus
where there is a distinction between the distribution of wealth and that of
aristocratic political power, the former may be a particular focus for poetic
activity. We hear, for instance, of the wealthy but low-born Hausa man
who is a prey to poets who sing of his high descent—or at least significantly
omit any oblique suggestion of commoner birth Smith in return
for large rewards. Poets naturally turn to the patronage of well-off men. In
Pemba, an area in which the development of verse is probably unequalled
along the whole of the East African coast, there have until recently been large
numbers of poets, each with his band of pupils, esteemed and patronized
by the wealthy Arab landowners. These poets lived in or around the main
centres or by the clove plantations and delighted their patrons with poems
expressed in the traditional mainland forms on subjects inspired by local
events Whiteley . Nowadays another lucrative source can be found in
commercial concerns—record companies and broadcasting in particular—
and in some areas these are now becoming a potent if erratic source of
patronage to the freelance poets.
The poet’s reliance on their art and their wits for a livelihood also affects
the subject-matter of their compositions. Overt begging, innuendo, and
even threats towards individual patrons are much more marked a feature
of this poetry than in the praises and occasional verse associated with state
ceremonials, the normal context of the official court poetry. The element of
entertainment rather than formal pomp is perhaps also more to the fore.
Whatever their individual media, at any rate, it is certain that some of these
poets have been able to amass large fortunes and have sometimes gained
the general reputation of being avaricious and mercenary Smith
. Unlike court poets, their performances are not at the service of one
exclusive patron, and they can move on (or threaten to move on) to another
patron who is prepared to give them a better price.
It is not surprising that these poets have sometimes been the object
of fear and suspicion as well as of admiration, and the reward given to a
poet by his temporary patron may seem to be more like a buying off than
any positive appreciation of his talents. This comes out very clearly in, for
instance, Smith’s description of the arts of the roving solo singer among
the Hausa Smith . The singer arrives at a village and finds out
the names of the important and wealthy individuals in the area. Then he
takes up his stand in public and calls out the name of the individual he has
decided to apostrophize. He proceeds to his praise songs, punctuated by
frequent and increasingly direct demands for gifts. If they are forthcoming
in sufficient quantity he announces the amount and sings his thanks in
further praise. If not, his innuendo becomes gradually sharper, his delivery
harsher and more staccato. This is practically always effective—all the
more so as the experienced singer knows the utility of choosing a time
when all the local people are likely to be within hearing, in the evening,
the early morning before they have left for the farm, or on the occasion
of a market which leaves no escape for the unfortunate object singled out
for these ‘praises’. The result of this public scorn is normally the victim’s
surrender. He attempts to silence the singer with gifts of money or, if he has
no ready cash, with clothes or a saleable object like a new hoe. Similar types
of pressure are used by groups of Hausa praise singers in the towns. Here
they mainly address themselves to the nouveaux riches, relatively wealthy
men like builders, commission agents, and the larger farmers. People with
officially recognized high status through noble birth, religious position,
or high government employment are not attacked in this way, but people
from other areas or local people of low birth are picked on even if they are
in government pay. Again the declamation begins as praise, but failure to
pay soon leads to a hostile tone. Instead of laudatory remarks about his
ancestry, prosperity, and political influence, the victim soon hears innuendo
on all these themes, as well as derogatory references to his occupation,
reputation, political integrity—and, of course, his meanness. There is never
open mention of ‘the ultimate insult—imputation of ambiguous paternity’,
but this lies behind the increasing pressures on the man addressed (Smith
. In view of the effectiveness of this type of poetic pressure the
extraction of money by virtual blackmail—it is small wonder that attempts
have been made in some Hausa kingdoms recently to forbid or limit the
activities of these singers Smith .10
Though there are few other such detailed accounts of the pressures of
professional poets, it is clear that this pattern is not uncommon in West
Africa. Similar powers have been exercised by the well-known Mande
musicians, for instance, or the Senegalese ‘griots’. The forceful way in
which their counterparts in some of the more southerly areas too can sing
at a chosen patron has to be seen to be believed. The praisers direct their
verses and their music with such vehemence and volume that until they are
10 That all freelance poets are not equally conventional, however, is apparent from
Gidley s account of Hausa comedians who satirize and parody the usual praise songs
(Gidley 1967: 64–9).
placated with a gift or by the intervention of some recognized authority, no

business can go forward.
From one point of view the power of freelance poets can be increased
if they are regarded as foreign or at any rate set apart from the patrons to
whom they address themselves. This can add to the fearsome quality of
their words while at the same time making them free from the obligations
which are binding on other members of the society. We find that this is the
case with some freelance poets in the further western area of West Africa.
The Mande-speaking musicians sometimes known in West African English
as ‘jellemen’ (from Mandingo dyalo) are found (sometimes as professional,
sometimes as part-time experts) throughout a wide area of the country
outside their original home area. Throughout this region they exploit their
abilities and extract rewards for their songs from wealthy and powerful
families.11
An even more striking example are the ‘griots’ of Senegambia, poets
belonging to a special low caste in the society. In view of the wide currency
of this word in both French and English, it is worth saying a little more
about the particular poets to whom it refers. In fact the term ‘griot’ gives a
totally false impression of precision. Though it was presumably originally
a translation of the Fulani gaoulo (wandering poet or praiser) or Wolof gewel
(poet and musician), it is now popularly used as a term to refer to almost
any kind of poet or musician throughout at least the French-speaking areas
of West Africa.12 In the process it has acquired a kind of quasi-technical ring
which, it seems, is felt to absolve those using it from any further detailed
description of the status of these artists. ”ut clearly not all poets throughout
this wide area answer to the more precise description of the term: they
do not all belong to special castes and are not necessarily regarded as of
inferior status.
11 See also Zemp 1964. I came across a number of these musicians in northern Sierra
Leone in 1961 plying their trade in the non-Mandingo communities of the country, as
did Laing over a century earlier Laing .
12 It has also been suggested that the term is connected with the Arabic oawwal (narrator
of the Soufi sect ”lair in Diop xix . It apparently first entered French through the
early French travellers to Senegal in the eighteenth century see Zemp , and,
as is well known, has since been taken up by the négritude French literary movement.
”ut a full study of the history and usage of this word in European languages, let alone
its referents in West Africa, seems never to have been made (though see the discussion
in Colin , Ch. and Rouget n.d. and should be well worth pursuing.
In particular this seems not to apply to the authors of Muslim poetry, who, among
some of the Fulani at least, tend to be of noble birth ”a Lacroix ,
. See also ”elinga ff. on the mbom-mvet of Cameroun.
Those that concern us here, the poets of Senegambia and of the Western
Fulani, were so regarded, however. Among the various castes into which
society was divided, those of the poets and musicians came near the bottom.
They were thus set apart from those to whom they addressed themselves
and not unexpectedly met with a somewhat ambiguous attitude among
other members of society—at once feared, despised, and influential.
Some of these Senegambian griots specialized in shouting praises and
reciting genealogies and had some kind of attachment to the various
freeborn lineages others sang praises of chiefs and leading men at public
functions and could gain great influence with local rulers. Traditionally a
Wolof gewel had the power to insult anyone and, as in other areas, could
switch to outspoken abuse if no sufficient reward was forthcoming. Their
membership of the special poetic caste gave them impunity, so that together
with their low status they at the same time had freedom from the sanctions
that deterred other members of society from open insult of their fellows.
Here too some legal attempts have been made to limit their power, and it is
significant that as the old caste system breaks down, thus in a sense raising
the low status of the poet, this brings with it a decrease in his previous
power to mock with impunity.
The freelance professionals clearly have more scope than the court
poets, who are exclusively employed, as it were, by the state (Anyumba
1964: 189–90). The poet can, indeed must, think about himself as well as
his patron he can more easily vary conventional styles and motifs than his
official counterpart. There is no premium on verbal accuracy or even near
accuracy as in the case of some of the politically sanctioned court poetry,
and there is not the distinction between reciter and composer that was
just discernible in some of the court poetry discussed. The audiences, too,
tend to be wider, and there is a corresponding lack of a highly specialized
or esoteric style. The public is still chosen from among the wealthy and
powerful, but depends more on entertainment and on communication and
less on formal pomp.
It is through poets like these that the poetry of a certain culture can
become diffused over a wide area, even one covering different sub-
cultures and languages. For instance, one of the characteristic results of
the professional freelance poets (azmaris) in Ethiopia was that poets were
found everywhere, from the courts to the poorer houses, to the roads, or to
public gatherings, commenting on their audiences or on local events, a kind
of gazette chantante in their reflection of contemporary public opinion. Their
persons were sacrosanct and they were received honourably everywhere.
In the opinion of the Chadwicks it was this which to a large extent led to
the uniformity of Ethiopian poetry.14 The same general point holds good
for certain areas of West Africa. In parts of Senegambia, Guinea, and Sierra
Leone, the cultural uniformities stretching over a wide area of differing
societies and languages can be put down in part to the long history of
wandering poets who could apparently travel unmolested even in wartime
Chadwicks, vol. , . Such poets give an international as well as a
national currency to the conventions of their poetry in a way that formally
appointed court poets or localized experts could never have done.
IV
So far we have been dealing with professionals or semi-professionals, those
who are known first and foremost as poets and who depend primarily on
their art. ”ut there are also many less specialized poets to consider. These
practitioners are sometimes found coexisting with their more professional
colleagues, but they also sometimes appear as the most skilled proponents of
the poetic art in cultures which, as in many of the traditionally uncentralized
societies of Africa, do not possess full-time literary specialists. At these less
professional levels women are often mentioned. Certain kinds of poetry
are typically delivered or sung by women (particularly dirges, lullabies,
mocking verses, and songs to accompany women’s ceremonies or work),
and each culture is likely to have certain genres considered especially
suitable for women. However, references to men seem to occur even more
often and, with a few striking exceptions,16 men rather than women tend to
be the bearers of the poetic tradition.
Very often these poets earn their living in some other way, supplementing
their incomes by their art. At times the poet’s main reward may be in terms
of honour rather than of more tangible goods, but usually some material
return is forthcoming from his audience or temporary patron. These poets
are often not equally expert in the whole field of oral art. Usually a poet
becomes known for his exposition of a single genre of sung or spoken
verse, one perhaps associated with a particular occasion when the poet-
singer comes forward from the mass of his fellows to exhibit his art.
14 For some further details of this rather complex organization in Senegambia see Gamble
Silla in Haut-Sénegal and Niger, Delafosse iii for the
Toucouleur of Senegal, Diop a useful bibliography is given in Zemp .
For example, the Fon wives choruses praising chiefs, Herskovits ii the
Hottentot sarcastic reed songs Hahn , Somali buraambur (Andrzejewski and
Lewis 1964: 49), or certain named dancing songs at Limba memorial ceremonies.
16 Notably the Tuareg see Chadwicks iii ff .
Within this general category there are naturally many different degrees
of expertise. Some poets hold a relatively specialized status, differing only
in degree from that of the professionals discussed earlier. This seems to be
true of some of the West African poets usually lumped together under the
general name of ‘griot’17 or the non-professional poets of the Somali who
build up an entourage of admirers in competition with others and hear their
poems transmitted further by reciters who learn them by heart (Anyumba
1964: 189–90). It is also true, although to a lesser degree, of the Luo nyatiti
(lyre) player who generally acts as an entertainer in this uncentralized
society of East Africa. As we have some detailed evidence (Anyumba 1964)
about these particular singers, it is worth giving a fairly full description to
illustrate the kind of part the poet may play in such a society.
The great forte of the Luo nyatiti singer is the lament song. Funerals
are celebrated on a grand scale and one essential part is the songs of the
nyatiti player. He needs no special invitation for he is always welcome once
the noise and bustle of the actual burial have subsided. From the singer’s
point of view there are various reasons why he puts in an appearance: he
may come from sorrow at the loss of a friend or relative to do his duty to
a neighbour to take advantage of the food and drink profusely available
at funerals and finally a not insignificant motive to make money from
a large and admiring audience (here he may have to contend with a rival).
He takes up his stance, singing at the top of his voice to the accompaniment
of his lyre and the rattling of his ankle-bells. He sweats profusely with the
effort, and consumes vast quantities of beer. ”efore him lies a plate into
which those who accost him can drop their pennies. He is frequently called
on to sing about the dead person, and, in preparation for this, he has a
tune ready from his normal repertoire which can be modified to suit the
occasion. He adds an uncle here and a grandfather there, together with
any knowledge he may possess of the attributes of the deceased. The skill
and beauty with which the musician is able to improvise at such moments
is a measure of his musical and poetic stature’ (Anyumba 1964: 189–90).
These songs, involving the arts both of composition and of performance,
are in fact usually soon forgotten after serving the purpose of the moment.
Others, however, arise from more studied composition in preparation for
the funeral. This is usually when the singer himself is deeply moved by the
death or has some especially close link with the deceased. Here he creates
a new song. He must consider and weigh up both the suitable melodic
17 For example, some of the Ivory Coast singers mentioned in Zemp 1964.
patterns and also the words and names to go with them. The process takes
time and concentration, but the tune itself sometimes comes to the singer
at an inspired moment. After some trials on his lyre, he then, on the actual
occasion, sings with so much intensity and meaning that large gifts are
showered on him. Indeed the song may gain such favour that he is begged
to sing it later by his fans—and, after the due deposit of a few coins on
his plate, he agrees. ”y then the song being freed from the solemnity of
a funeral may rove from the fate of a particular individual to that of other
people, and finally to the mystery of death itself’ (Anyumba 1964: 190).
If the nyatiti singer’s prime function is that of the lament, his art also
extends to other spheres and occasions. He is called on to praise friends or
relatives, to recount his personal experiences, to exalt kindness, hospitality,
or courage, and to comment on current affairs. In all these he is judged by
the degree to which he can unite the art of the musician/performer and that
of the poet/composer he is judged as much by his skill on the instrument
as by his ability to weave a story or meditate on human experience. In this
lies the real fascination of the nyatiti player’ (Anyumba 1964: 187–8).
This account of the nyatiti singer illustrates the kind of role which
the part-time poet/musician can play in a non-literate society. His art is
practised partly to fulfil social obligations and to share in ceremonies
which are also open to others, but also partly for direct material reward.
Some of his performances arise out of the ceremonial occasion itself, with
his audience directly involved in the occasion but others, particularly
those by the most skilled singers, are specifically given at the request of
admirers who patronize him and reward his performance. Finally, there
are some occasions (and for some singers these may be in the majority)
when the song produced is uninspired and stale, in spite of cleverly
introduced modifications while on other occasions the song is the product,
and recognized as such, of the truly creative imagination of the singer.
The position of the poet in many other African societies is unfortunately
not often described in even the detail given in Anyumba’s short article.18
”ut it seems that the position and conditions of many of the more expert
(but non-professional) poets are not unlike those of the Luo nyatiti singer.
We frequently meet the same kind of balance between the social and the
profit motive, the more and the less specifically ‘artistic’ occasion, the
greater and lesser personal inspiration of the poet.
18 See the excellent description of Yoruba ijala singers in ”abalola , especially chapters
4 and 8.
Other African poets, however, have less general recognition than Luo
singers. ”ut there are still many specific occasions when they can exhibit
their poetic skills. One frequent context is at meetings of the specialized
associations characteristic of many parts of West Africa. The Yoruba, Akan,
and others have hunters’ societies each with their own special hunting
songs. These are performed on festive occasions, at funerals of members of
the group, and at other meetings of the association. The poets are there in
their capacity as hunters, but one aspect of their craft, for some members
at least, is skill in poetic composition and performance. These very part-
time poets, then, are patronized by fellow-hunters and also at times by the
public at large, as when the Yoruba ijala poet is especially invited to perform
as a general entertainer on non-hunting occasions. Similar connections
between specialist association and a specific genre of poetry exist among
the Akan military associations, cults of particular deities among the Yoruba
and others, secret societies, local churches, and some of the more formally
organized cooperative work groups. In all these cases the primary context
is that of the association, and the poet is fulfilling his social obligations as
a member though he may acquire a material profit in addition special
performances to wider audiences or for more direct reward seem to be
secondary and in many cases not to occur at all.
The various crucial points in the human life cycle also provide contexts
for festivity and thus for artistic performance. Occasions such as initiations,
weddings, or funerals provide fertile stimuli for poetic exhibition. Here again
the range is wide—from occasions when those most intimately involved
sing just as part of their general social obligations in the ceremony, to special
appearances of famous artists or bands. Even within one society, different
rituals may have different degrees of expertise considered appropriate
to them. A good example of this can be seen in the contrast between the
initiation ceremonies of boys and of girls among the Limba. An important
part of the boys’ ceremony consists of the all-night session during which
the boys must demonstrate their skill and endurance in the dance before
hundreds of interested spectators. A number of singer-drummers must be
present. Therefore the best (part-time) artists in the boys’ village or group
of villages are called on to attend and are booked several weeks in advance.
They receive numerous small monetary gifts during their performance,
and the amount earned, when all the several contributions from the boys’
relatives and the audience are counted up, may come to as much as a fifth
or quarter of the average labourer s wage for a month. ”y contrast the girls
ceremony is a less celebrated affair. The singers are merely those who are
in any case directly involved in the occasion, with no special reward due to
them for their songs. Other Limba occasions provide yet another contrast.
In their large-scale memorial rituals the most famous singers in the whole
chiefdom area or beyond are begged to come to display their specialist art
they usually have no direct relationship to the principals in the ceremony—
or if they have this is irrelevant—but take time off from their everyday
pursuits to attend as specialists in return for the very large gifts their hosts
undertake to provide.
In some areas weddings are occasions for much singing and dancing,
sometimes by those directly involved, sometimes by especially invited
expert teams. Thus Hausa weddings, elaborate and complex affairs,
require the presence of specialist maroka teams. These are independent
and unattached bands who gain their livelihood partly from their craft
and partly from subsistence farming Smith , . They attend
weddings largely for profit, and they are the principal beneficiaries of the
costly gifts that are made publicly on these occasions.
The kind of performance that can take place at funerals—another
common context for poetry—has already been illustrated from the case
of the Luo lament singer. A rather different type is provided by the Akan
dirge singers. Every Akan woman is expected to have some competence
in the dirge, and though some singers are considered more accomplished
than others, nevertheless every woman mourner at a funeral is expected
to sing—or run the risk of strong criticism, possibly even suspicion of
complicity in the death Nketia . Thus they perform as part of
their general social responsibilities and their audiences hear and admire
their performances as one aspect of the funeral rituals which they are
attending, rather than as a specialist aesthetic occasion which demands
direct recompense to the artist. Yet that even this relatively low degree of
specialization can result in elaborate literary compositions, valued alike
for their aesthetic merits and their social functions, should be clear from
the detailed account of these dirges given by Nketia summarized in
Chapter 6).
”esides such occasional poetry at the crucial points in the life cycle,
there are other contexts in which the element of entertainment is foremost.
Sometimes these actually hinge on organized competitions by poets,
as used to be the case in several areas of East Africa. In Tanganyika, for
instance, two singers of the same type of song, each leading his own group
of members, sometimes decide to compete on an agreed day. In the interval
they teach their followers new songs of their own composition. Then on
the day the two groups sing in turn at a little distance from each other.
The victor is the singer who draws the greatest number of spectators to
his side. Sometimes these competitions are arranged by the Sultan who
also acts as umpire between the two insulting sides—for insults are also in
order, and as each side has taken the trouble to find out their opponents’
songs in advance, they have prepared suitably sarcastic replies to them
Koritschoner .19 In other types of entertainment, the element
of competition is absent and the emphasis is on the skill and expertise
with which the artists make their specialized contribution to the occasion.
At social gatherings among the Ila and Tonga of Zambia, for instance, a
woman who is skilled in the special type of solo termed impango stands
up and sings from her own personal repertoire. If she has close friends
or relatives present, they too stand up to praise her song and present her
with small gifts like tobacco or a sixpence Jones . Some of the
West African entertainments draw on more complex teams, with singer,
drummers, and sometimes wind-instruments like the Hausa teams who
sometimes play for the young peoples’ recreational associations (Evans-
Pritchard ff Lienhardt , f , or the “kan popular bands
who perform for pure entertainment, often for dancing in the evenings.
Their purpose is social and recreational, but they make some economic
profit from their performances Nketia b .
This discussion of the various occasions and forms of poetry finally
brings us to the times when there is practically no degree of specialization
at all. This is particularly true of certain general categories of song in any
society—in work songs,20 children’s verse, lullabies, or the chorus parts
of antiphonal songs. There are also the times when every member of a
society (or every member who falls into a certain category) is expected to
have some competence in certain types of verse. Sotho boys, for instance,
were all required to demonstrate proficiency in praise poetry as part of
their initiation ceremonies, and had to declaim the praises of their own
achievements and expectations before the crowd gathered to welcome them
after their seclusion (although even there the common African practice of
19 See also the Pemba competitions mentioned in Whiteley , and the rather different
Somali use of poetic combat as a means of publicity in war and peace in Andrzejewski
and. Galaal .
20 Though even there the common African practice of balancing soloist and chorus gives
scope for a certain degree of expertise by the leader.
balancing soloist and chorus gives scope for a certain degree of expertise by
the leader among some of the Zambian peoples a young man had to sing
a song of his own composition on the occasion of his marriage (Laydevant
. Not all contexts are as formal as this. We hear of the Nuer youth
leading his favourite ox round the kraal in the evenings, in pride and joy,
leaping before it and singing its praises, or, again, of young Nuer or Dinka
boys chanting their songs in the lonely pastures (Evans-Pritchard 1940:
ff Lienhardt , ff the lullabies which mothers in numberless
societies sing to their babies the spontaneous outburst of song over a pot
of palm wine or millet beer in a Ghanaian village the lyrics sung by Somali
lorry drivers to shorten the tedium of their long journeys (Andrzejewski
1967: 12) or the ability of the Congolese Mabale, or Rhodesian Shona, or
West African Limba, or countless others to join in the choruses of songs led
by their more expert fellows. In all these cases poetic facility has become
no longer a specialist activity, but one which in some degree or other all
individuals in the society are expected to have as a universal skill.
It would clearly be impossible to relate all the occasions and audiences
that there are for poetry, or all the roles that can be played by the African
poet. ”ut enough has been said to show that it is not only in societies in
which there is courtly, aristocratic, or religious patronage, or marked
cleavages of wealth or power, that the poet finds opportunity to exercise
his skills. There are many egalitarian societies too, often those with little
specialism in any sphere of life, in which nevertheless poetry can flourish—
like the Ibo, the Somali, the Nilotic peoples of the Sudan, and many others.
It is true that it does seem to be in court poetry, and occasionally in religious
poetry, that we find the highest degree of specialism, and the longest and,
in a sense, most intellectual poems. ”ut they do not necessarily reflect a
more sensitive understanding of language and of experience than, say, a
Dinka youth’s praise of his ox, which to him represents both his own role
and the whole world of beauty around him Deng in Lienhardt
a lyric to accompany the dance, or the lullaby in which an Akan mother
verbalizes her joy in her child in the world she knows:
Someone would like to have you for her child

”ut you are my own.
Someone wished she had you to nurse you on a good mat
Someone wished you were hers she would put you on a camel blanket
”ut I have you to rear you on a torn mat.
Someone wished she had you, but I have you Nketia b: 18)
V
We have assumed that there is a conjunction, characteristic of oral poetry,
between the performer and the composer. It is often futile, therefore, to
ask about the circulation of a particular piece—those who ‘circulate’ it are
themselves poets of a kind and make their contributions and modifications.
It may be that many of them are not particularly good or original poets
even in terms of their own culture, and make more of a contribution to the
performance than to the composition. ”ut the fact remains that this too is
an essential part of the poetic skill of the oral practitioner, and that poems
cannot reach their public without the interposition of such artists.
There are, however, a few exceptions to the joint role of the poet which
should be mentioned in conclusion. In some of the most highly specialized
or technically complex poetry—Rwanda dynastic poetry, Yoruba Ifa
literature, or Somali gabay—reciters may be distinguished from creative
poets: the former are responsible for transmitting the poems of others, and
for preserving the authoritative tradition for political or religious motives.
Thus even if in fact the reciter does modify a poem, this aspect is played
down and the poem is supposed to be merely transmitted by reciters in
the traditional form. Thus certain poems may circulate in their own right,
sometimes even with named authors (as in Ruanda or Somaliland).
Another and very different class of poems where performance may be
so much to the fore that the element of composition seems to vanish is that
of dance songs, work songs, or songs accompanying children s games. Here
the song is merely the background to some other activity, and repetition of
known verses is more noticeable than poetic originality. Songs of this kind
can become popular and spread over a wide area with incredible speed, to
be supplanted after a time by new ones. Yet, as will appear in later chapters,
even in these cases there can be modification and additions either in the
musical aspects or in the words. Even if, for instance, the chorus remains
more or less the same so that a superficial observer may be pardoned for
considering it just another performance of the same old song, the soloist
who leads the song and supplies the verses may in fact be making his own
original musical and verbal contribution.
A more accurate case of the true circulation of a poem independently of
its composer is to be found in the areas where the existence of writing has
led to the concept of a correct version which can be copied or learnt in an
exact form. For indigenous African verse the writing is most often in Arabic
script, and we find as in Swahili, Hausa, or Fulani a tradition both of
the circulation of definitive versions of poems and of remembering the
original authors by name. Such poems may also circulate by oral means,
for actual literacy is often confined to the few, but they differ from fully
oral compositions in that the roles of composer and reciter can be clearly
distinguished.
In many cases it is difficult to assess how much emphasis should be
laid on the two aspects of composition and of delivery. It is not easy to tell,
for instance, how far the verse in any single instance is the product just
of a performer reproducing well-known and prescribed forms with little
contribution of his own, and how far it can also be put down to the arts
of the creative poet or how much one can attribute to the stimulation and
participation of the audience or the emotion of the occasion itself. Many
investigators have particularly emphasized the aspect of the second-hand
reproducing of known traditional forms and this interpretation has of
course been especially popular with those very impressed by the concepts
of communal creation or of the ‘typical’ poem and so on.
In African literature one can of course encounter both the second-rate
technician and the inspired artist oral art is no exception in this. ”ut
when the role of the poet or singer is analysed in some detail, we are left
wondering whether creative composition (either the spontaneous creation
of the accomplished and sensitive artist or conscious long-drawn-out
composition in preparation for later display) may not be rather more
important than is often realized and we may suspect that the playing
down of this factor may be due as much to lack of investigation as to any
basis in the facts. Without Anyumba’s analysis, for instance, we could
hardly appreciate the care and conscious art with which some Luo singers
sometimes compose their songs, and would be more likely, in a common
search for ‘the typical lament’ of the Luo, to omit any consideration of
the individuality of the inspired Luo poet. The actual circumstances of
composition and the personality and skill of individual poets deserve fuller
consideration than they have yet received.21
21 A partial exception, with the main emphasis on the musical aspect, is Nketia’s African
Music in Ghana . See also besides references given earlier Lacroix on “damawa
Fulani , de Dampierre Nzakara , “ndrzejewski and Lewis Somali , ”abalola
1966 (Yoruba). For some further remarks on composition see Chapter 9.
To others, as to me, this chapter must seem unbearably sketchy and

impressionistic. A few of the points raised are explored a little further in
later chapters which deal with some of the different genres of poetry and
their exponents in various cultures. ”ut the main reason for the gaps is
ignorance, not lack of space. This must be in part because I have not read
far enough in the sources to discover the answers to many of the questions
I want to raise. ”ut it is also that such factors as the general position of the
poet, his poetic training, his economic situation, his relation to his audience,
his patron, other poets, or the general culture of his time, his modes of
composition and inspiration—all these have seemed to be of little interest
to investigators, even those who have published excellent accounts of other
aspects of oral literature. We know enough to be able to guess at the variety
that can be found and that the simplistic pictures we opened with are not
sufficient but in practically no “frican society have these points been fully
explored. This is the sphere above all in which there is the widest need and
scope for further investigation.
A NOTE ON ‘EPIC’22
Epic is often assumed to be the typical poetic form of non-literate peoples,
or at least of non-literate peoples at a certain stage. Surprisingly, however,
this does not seem to be borne out by the African evidence. At least in the
more obvious sense of a ‘relatively long narrative poem’, epic hardly seems
to occur in sub-Saharan Africa apart from forms like the (written) Swahili
utenzi which are directly attributable to Arabic literary influence.
The term ‘epic’ appears in the titles of several collections or discussions
of African oral literature (perhaps partly because of the common
expectation that it is likely to be a wide-spread art form . ”ut almost all
these works in fact turn out to be in prose, not verse—and often only brief
prose tales at that. There are only a very few in verse form.24 Many of the
lengthy praise poems, particularly those in South Africa, do contain some
22 This is admittedly a large subject to discuss in such a note, but some brief apologia
seemed due to explain the non-appearance of the term in a work of this kind. For a
helpful introduction to this rather controversial subject see Knappert in Andrzejewski
and Messenger 1967.
For example, Puplampu Larson Jacobs a ”a and Kesteloot
Meillassoux Niane Cornevin Konate ”a and Kesteloot see
also Clark Papadopoullos de Vries chapter , The epic poetry of non-
Indo-European nations’, speaks of the ‘epic poetry of the Fulbe’).
24 See especially the discussion in Cornevin 1966 and the poems in Coupez and Kamanzi
1962.
epic elements and provide the nearest common parallel to this form in
Africa. Nevertheless, as will emerge in the following chapter, panegyric
poetry concentrates far more on the laudatory and apostrophic side than
on the narrative and cannot really qualify as ‘epic’ poetry in the normal
sense of the word.
The most frequent mentions come from the equatorial areas of the
Congo, particularly among the Mongo-Nkundo peoples where ‘epics’
have been referred to by many scholars. ”ut even these cases are somewhat
doubtful. For one thing, many of these narratives seem quite clearly to be in
prose merely interspersed with some sung pieces in the regular manner of
African stories, and there is no reason to believe that they differ radically
in form from such prose tales.26 And even if one waives the verse criterion,
as is done in some definitions of epic, the Congo instances are still rather
ambiguous. Take the most famous case of all, the ‘Lianja epic’ (see Chapter
. In its most fully published form it runs to about pages of print
for both text and translation—the sort of scale which might qualify—and
covers the kinds of events we tend to associate with epic or heroic poetry:
the birth and tribulations of the hero, his travels and leadership of his
people, finally his death. ”ut how far was this conceived of and narrated as
a unity prior to its recording (and perhaps elaboration) in written form?27
It is not at all certain that the traditional pattern was not in fact a very
loosely related bundle of separate episodes, told on separate occasions
and not necessarily thought of as one single work of art (though recent
and sophisticated narrators say that ideally it should be told at one sitting,
de Rop . ”y now, of course, its circulation as a composite written
narrative among sophisticated audiences has, in a sense, established ‘The
Tale of Lianja’ as a kind of (prose) epic in its own right, and this and similar
forms in the Congo are well worth study—but it does not follow that we
have discovered the existence of an oral epic tradition even in prose, much
less in verse.
A better case might be made out for the less celebrated mvet literature
further to the west in Gabon, Spanish Guinea, and the Southern Cameroons
(particularly among the Fang peoples). In this area many different kinds
For example, ”oelaert and , de Rop and ”iebuyck .

26 In spite of ”ascom s description of the Lianja narrative of the Nkundo as a remarkable
epic poem’ (1964: 18), examination of the actual text suggests that seven-eighths or
more is in prose.
27 Edited or discussed in, among other sources, ”oelaert and de Rop
. , , .
of songs are sung to the accompaniment of the mvet (a type of lyre), and
these seem to include some historical poetry not unlike epic.28 It has been
described as art musical, art chorégraphique, art theâtral même, mais
surtout art de la parole qui retrace avec tant d habileté la société de nos
pères pahouins Towo-“tangana . However there is as yet little
published material readily available about this type of narrative poetry,
and further study is needed before we can come to any conclusion about
whether or not it can truly be described as ‘epic’.
All in all, epic poetry does not seem to be a typical African form. Some
exceptions can of course be found (in addition to the controversial cases
already mentioned , nearly all of which need further published elucidation 29
and we must not forget the many Arabic-influenced historical narratives in
the northerly areas of the continent and the East Coast. Certain elements of
epic also come into many other forms of poetry and prose. ”ut in general
terms and apart from Islamic influences, epic seems to be of remarkably
little significance in African oral literature, and the a priori assumption that
epic is the natural form for many non-literate peoples turns out here to
have little support.
28 For example, “wona , a narrative poem of about , lines Towo-“tangana

discusses the various types of mvet songs, including the Angon Mana, a ‘type
of epic Towo-“tangana Echegaray on primitive epic poetry in Spanish
Guinea ”elinga , Ch. on Pahouin-”antu of Cameroun .
29 For example, the ‘magnificent traditional sung historical . . . chants’ of the Nigerian
Idoma R. “rmstrong, personal communication , the Haya sung legend Tracey a:
, or the Igala chanted stories John ”oston, personal communication .
5. Panegyric
Introductory: nature and distribution; composers and reciters; occasions.

Southern Bantu praise poetry: form and style; occasions and delivery;
traditional and contemporary significance.
I
In its specialized form panegyric is the type of court poetry and one of the
most developed and elaborate poetic genres of Africa. It seems to go with a
particular ethos, a stress on royal or aristocratic power, and an admiration
for military achievement. It is true that praises (including self-praises)
also occur among non-centralized peoples, particularly those who lay
stress on the significance of personal achievement in war or hunting (such
as the Galla or Tuareg), and also that the use of ‘praise names’ is nearly
universal. ”ut the most specialized forms, and those which will primarily
be considered here, are the formalized praises directed publicly to kings,
chiefs, and leaders, composed and recited by members of a king’s official
entourage.
First, something must be said about the ‘praise names’ which often form
the basis of formal praise poetry. These are most often given to people but
may also describe clans, animals, or inanimate objects, and they are usually
explicitly laudatory. The Zulu king Shaka is praised in one of his names as
The Ever-ready-to-meet-any-challenge Grant , a Hausa chief as
‘Fearful and terrible son of Jato who turns a town into ashes’, or an Ankole
warrior as He who Does Not Fear ”lack Steel Morris . Such words
or phrases occur frequently within the more complex form of a complete
poem. Other ‘praise’ names are derogatory or concerned more with insight
into inherent qualities than with praise. The Hausa praise names kirari),
which in fact are often whole sentences and may refer to inanimate objects,
illustrate this well. The stock praise name of molo (three-stringed guitar)
goes Molo, the drum of intrigue if it has not begun it is being arranged
(in reference to the common association between the molo and immorality)
Fletcher of the wind O wind you have no weight, but you cut
down the biggest trees Merrick . Similar stock descriptions are
used of people or animals a butterfly is O Glistening One, O ”ook of God,
O Learned One open your book i.e. the wings, compared to the Koran
a lion O Strong One, Elder ”rother of the Forest while an old woman is
addressed as ‘O Old Thing, you are thin everywhere except at the knee,
of flesh you have but a handful, though your bones would fill a basket’
Tremearne . These generalized and derogatory praise names
seem characteristic of some West African societies and appear in proverbs
and riddles as well as conversation. They do not replace the more laudatory
comments, however, for, also among the Hausa, every celebrated man has
his own praise name which is used as a basis for prolonged praises by
what Tremearne describes as professional flatterers . Similarly
among the Yoruba the oriki or praise names are permanent titles held by
individuals, given to them by friends or, most often, by the drummers.
Some individuals have several of these names, so that a collection of them,
recited together, resembles a loosely constructed poem (also called oriki)
about the person praised Gbadamosi and ”eier .1
In eastern and southern Africa cattle form a popular subject in praise poetry,
and inanimate things like divining implements or even a train or bicycle are
also praised. In West Africa, apparently unlike other areas, formal praises are
addressed to supernatural beings. Hausa bori spirits for instance, each have
their own praise songs (taki, kirari). When the spirit is to be called, its praise
songs are played through one after another until it takes possession of one of
its worshippers Smith . The Yoruba praise poems to deities in Nigeria
and Dahomey as well as from the Yoruba in ”razil are particularly famous.2
Each of the many Yoruba deities (orisha) has a series of praises expressed in
figurative and obscure language, sung by the priest. Here, for instance, is a
praise poem about Ogun, the god of iron, one of the most powerful deities,
worshipped particularly by warriors, hunters, and blacksmiths:
Ogun kills on the right and destroys on the right.

Ogun kills on the left and destroys on the left.
Ogun kills suddenly in the house and suddenly in the field.
Ogun kills the child with the iron with which it plays.
1 For further discussion of names and their significance see Chapter 16.
The largest collection is in Verger .
5. Panegyric 113
Ogun kills in silence.

Ogun kills the thief and the owner of the stolen goods.
Ogun-kills the owner of the slave—and the slave runs away.
Ogun kills the owner of thirty ‘iwofa’ [pawns]—and his money, wealth and
children disappear.
Ogun kills the owner of the house and paints the hearth with his blood.
Ogun is the death who pursues a child until it runs into the bush.
Ogun is the needle that pricks at both ends.
Ogun has water but he washes in blood.
Ogun do not fight me. I belong only to you.
The wife of Ogun is like a tim tim [decorated leather cushion].
She does not like two people to rest on her.
Ogun has many gowns. He gives them all to the beggars.
He gives one to the woodcock the woodcock dyes it indigo.
He gives one to the coucal the coucal dyes it in camwood.
He gives one to the cattle egret the cattle egret leaves it white.
Ogun is not like pounded yam:
Do you think you can knead him in your hand
And eat of him until you are satisfied?
Ogun is not like maize gruel:
Do you think you can knead him in your hand
And eat of him until you are satisfied?
Ogun is not like something you can throw in your cap:
Do you think you can put on your cap and walk away with him?
Ogun scatters his enemies.
When the butterflies arrive at the place where the cheetah excretes,
They scatter in all directions.
The light shining on Ogun’s face is not easy to behold.
Ogun, let me not see the red of your eye.
Ogun sacrifices an elephant to his head.
Master of iron, head of warriors,
Ogun, great chief of robbers.
Ogun wears a bloody cap.
Ogun has four hundred wives and one thousand four hundred children.
Ogun, the fire that sweeps the forest.
Ogun’s laughter is no joke.
Ogun eats two hundred earthworms and does not vomit.
Ogun is a crazy orisha [deity] who still asks questions after 780 years.
Whether I can reply, or whether I cannot reply,
Ogun please don’t ask me anything.
The lion never allows anybody to play with his cub.

Ogun will never allow his child to be punished.
Ogun do not reject me!

Does the woman who spins ever reject a spindle?
Does the woman who dyes ever reject a cloth?
Does the eye that sees ever reject a sight?
Ogun, do not reject me! [Ogun needs his worshippers].
Gbadamosi and ”eier
Despite these elaborate religious praises, however, the most frequent

subjects for panegyric are humans, especially kings and chiefs. Sometimes
these are self-praises, like the personal recitations of the Hima noble class
of Ankole in which a man celebrates his military achievements, building
his poem on a sequence of praise names:
I Who Am Praised thus held out in battle among foreigners along with The
Overthrower
I Who Ravish Spear In Each Hand stood resplendent in my cotton cloth
I Who Am Quick was drawn from afar by lust for the fight... (Morris 1964: 42)
Praises of kings are the most formal and public of all, ranging from the
relatively simple Ganda praise of the powerful nineteenth-century king
Mutesa cited by the Chadwicks:
Thy feet are hammers,

Son of the forest [a comparison with a lion]
Great is the fear of thee
Great is thy wrath
Great is thy peace
Great is thy power Chadwicks iii,
to the more allusive and figurative praise of another powerful ruler, a man
who had seized power for himself in Zaria and was deposed by the ”ritish
when they occupied Northern Nigeria:
Mahama causer of happiness, Mahama yenagi yenaga [meaning uncertain],

Mahama slab of salt who handles it tastes pleasure
though thou hatest a man thou givest him a thousand cowries

thou hatest a naked man s blood but if thou dost not get his garment thou
slayest him
Mahama the rolling flight of the crow, O boy cease gazing and seeing first
white then black . . .
the wall of silver that reaches the breast of the horseman
the tying up that is like releasing4
Reference to a crow with a white band which shows intermittently in flight i.e. do not
expect consistency from this powerful ruler.
4 i.e. we ought to enjoy even ill treatment from such a great man.
5. Panegyric 115
son of “udu thy help is God

son of “udu, the support of God which is more than the man withthe
quiver, yea more than his chief on his horse
hammer of “udu
salt of Kakanda that is both sweet and bitter
son of “udu, O sun thou dost not look askance and slightingly6
storm on the land, medicine for the man with the mat-cover
elephant with the red loins, medicine for the standing grass,7 with thy
trunk thou spiest into every man’s house
the beating of the rain does not stop the jingling of the bell8
the swelling of the palm-stem that fills the embrace of the climbing boy9
black dafara tree there is labour before thou breakest.10
The frank assessment of the emir’s character which accompanies the

lauding of his power and achievements is not unparalleled. ‘Praise’ poems
of people frequently include derogatory remarks, veiled or otherwise,
or give advice as well as praise. Thus the praises of two Hausa emirs of
Zazzau run
Look not with too friendly eyes upon the world,

Pass your hand over your face in meditation,
Not from the heat of the sun.
The bull elephant is wise and lives long.
and
”e patient, and listen not to idle tales

Poisoned chaff attracts the silly sheep and kills them Heath ,
Self-praises, created and performed by the subject him or herself, are not
uncommon. Among the Sotho all individuals (or all men) are expected to
have some skill in the composition and performance of self-praises, and
the composition of formalized praise poetry among the Ankole is expected
to be within the capacity of every nobleman: he must find inspiration in a
particular episode, compose a personal and topical praise poem based on
it, and add it to his repertoire Morris . “gain, among the Ibo the
taking of a title is sometimes followed by a string of self-praises (Egudu
1967: 9–10). As we saw in Chapter 4, a certain amount of private enterprise
We must bear his will whatever it is.

He is as overpowering as the sun dazzling in the sky.
7 You trample it down as you trample your enemies.
8 No efforts of ours will curb his will.
9 As formidable to his foes as the swelling in the palm-tree to one trying to swarm up it.
10 His power is compared to that of a tough climbing plant. Fletcher . On Hausa
praise poetry see also Prietze Smith .
praising of individuals is also widespread. In northern Sierra Leone

and other parts of West Africa it is not uncommon for expert Mandingo
singers, sometimes accompanied by drummers or xylophonists, to wander
through the streets or attend festivals on their own initiative. They pick
on some outstanding or reputedly wealthy individual for their praises
and even those who refer to them contemptuously as ‘beggars’ are in fact
glad to reward them with gifts and thanks, and thus hope to send them
on their way content, avoiding the possibility of public shaming for lack
of generosity. Praises by women sometimes occur too. In the kingdom of
Dahomey choruses of wives are expected to perform in praise of the king
and chiefs Herskovits , ii and professional singers include a
women s group among the Nupe ”owers .
The most formal state praises, however, are usually made by official male
bards. Thus every Zulu king had one or more specialists who both recited
the praises of previous rulers and composed new ones to commemorate
the achievements and qualities of the present king. Similarly there were
specialist praise poets, ranging from the Ashanti state drummers and
singers to the Rwanda dynastic poets described in an earlier chapter. Where
accompaniment is important whole teams may sometimes be responsible
for official praises among the Hausa a District Head s maroka (praise) team
normally contained several drummers (to play the different types of drum),
eulogists, two or more pipers, and sometimes a horn-blower Smith
29). Lesser chiefs tended to have bards who were less skilled and less
specialized, modelled on the king’s but performing in a less complex and
more limited way.
The style of recitation varies between the unaccompanied forms
characteristic of the Southern ”antu praises, those with fairly minimal
accompaniment on some stringed instrument,11 and that in which the
accompaniment is stressed (usually percussion or wind). This last type
is widespread in West African states and its precise form is sometimes
a significant aspect of the attribution of status implied in the praise.
“mong the Hausa the amount or type of musical accompaniment is
clearly laid down for the praises of each grade of ruler in the hierarchy
wooden gongs, for instance, may not be used to praise anyone below a
certain level, and there are special instruments that can only be used for
11 This is apparently typical of Eastern ”antu poetry Chadwicks iii, and of

some peoples in West “frica such as the ”ambara Pâques .
5. Panegyric 117
praising kings and leading vassals Smith . In West “frica the

whole praise may take place on the drum or on horns, without the use of
the human voice at all, a particularly common form in southern Ghana,
Dahomey, and Nigeria but also recorded in some more northerly areas
(for drum poetry see Ch. 17).
Most praise poetry, above all the official type, seems to adopt a more or less
obscure and allusive style. The language may be archaic and lofty, there are
often references to historical events or people which may need interpretation
even to local listeners, and figurative forms of expression are common.
Especially frequent are comparisons of the person praised to an animal or
series of animals. His strength may be conveyed by referring to him as a lion,
a rhinoceros, or an elephant, and, particularly in Southern ”antu praise poetry,
the actions and qualities of the hero may be almost completely conveyed in
metaphorical terms, only the animals to which the hero is implicitly compared
being depicted in action. Comparisons to natural phenomena are also fairly
frequent—the hero is likened to a storm, a rock, a downpour of rain. Other
figurative forms of expression occur, sometimes reaching a high degree of
complexity. In one Rwanda poem the royal name, ‘Ntare, suggests to the poet
the term intare, lion he does not make a direct substitution of one name for
the other, but ‘veils’ the royal lion by talking about the qualities of the animal,
and so refers to the king by such terms as Hunter of zebras , Clamour of the
forests , Mane-carrier Kagame b: 17). Not all praise poetry takes allusion
quite so far, but in general panegyric seems to exploit allusion and imagery to
a higher degree than other forms of poetry in Africa. Praise of a person (or a
thing) is not something to be expressed in bald or straightforward language.
Much panegyric is formalized, thus less variable than many other types
of oral literature. Unlike self-praises and the more informal and topical
praise poems there seems to be a marked tendency for the state praises of
present (and particularly past) rulers to be handed down in a more or less
received version. Word and stanza order is, indeed, sometimes varied from
recitation to recitation, or follows the particular version approved by an
individual bard as in the case, for instance, of Southern ”antu panegyric ,
but the changes seem to be minor stress is laid on conformity to tradition. In
Rwanda, with its powerful corporation of bards, the exactness of wording
seems even more close. In one case there were only very slight variations in
four versions by four different bards of a -line praise poem attributed to
a poet of about 1820 (Ibid.: 24ff).
The occasions for the performance of praise poetry have already been
touched on in the discussion of its authors and reciters. Praise names are
used when formal address is required. “mong the Southern ”antu the
praise name of an individual’s clan was used on formal occasions, while
among the Yoruba praise names, sung or drummed, are to be heard widely
on festive occasions when the drummers go about the streets formally
addressing the passers-by and receiving a small reward in return. Among
many West African peoples drummers at a king’s gate play not only
the king’s praise names, but announce and honour important guests by
drumming or piping their names as they enter the palace. A man’s status
is recognized and reaffirmed by the use of these formalized praise names,
particularly when, as in the announcement of visitors, this is a matter of
public performance.
Among peoples to whom the concept of praise names or praise verses
is common, there are many informal occasions when praises are used in
the same way as speeches or commentaries in other contexts. Thus among
the Kele of the Congo wrestling matches are often accompanied by a form
of praise on the talking drum: the contestants are saluted as they enter
the ring (‘the hero, full of pride’), there is comment and encouragement
from the drums as the match continues, and at the end praise for the victor
(Carrington 1949a . On festive occasions among many peoples the
Yoruba are one example—singers and drummers often welcome those
who attend with songs or chants of praise, usually led by a soloist who
improvises to suit the individual, accompanied by a chorus. The popularity
of praises means that they can be used for profit, a possibility frequently
exploited by the roving Hausa soloist described in the last chapter. ”ut
they can also stir people to genuine excitement: gifts are showered on the
praise poets from enthusiasm as well as fear. Among the Soninke, writes
Meillassoux,
leur maniement du langage, les chaleureuses louanges dont ils couvrent

leurs auditeurs, la beauté de leur musique ou de leurs rythmes suscitent
d authentiques émotions, une sorte d ivresse enthousiaste qui entrâine à
donner sans compter. (1967: 14)
Praise poetry often plays an essential part in rites of passage: when

an individual (or group) moves from one status to another in society,
the transition is celebrated by praises marking the new status or
commemorating the old. The eulogies involved in funeral dirges are
described elsewhere, but in a sense they also fall into this category. Again,
5. Panegyric 119
self-praises by boys at initiation, as among the Sotho or the Galla, are an

important aspect of their claim to adulthood, which is heard and accepted
by their audience. Among many peoples, weddings are also an obligatory
occasion for praises of bride and groom either by their friends and relations
or by professional bards. Accession to office is another common context
for praise poetry, usually in public and in the presence of those who take
this opportunity to express their loyalty. Sometimes self-praising is used
on such occasions the Hima of “nkole recited praises when a man was
given a chieftainship by the king or when he dedicated himself to the king
for service in battle (Morris 1964: 12).12 Even when a new status is not
being formally marked, praise poetry is often relevant in the analogous
situation of publicizing an individual’s recent achievements, particularly
those in battle or the hunt.
Most spectacular and public are the frequent occasions on which
rulers are praised. Sometimes this takes a very simple form—as on the
bush paths in northern Liberia or Sierra Leone when a petty chief, carried
in his hammock, is accompanied by praises as he enters villages and the
local dwellers are thus instructed or reminded of his chiefly dignity. Or
it may be a huge public occasion as in the Muslim chiefdoms in Nigeria—
Hausa, Nupe, Yoruba when at the Sallah rituals the Muslim festivals
of Id-el-Fitr and Id-el-Kabir) the subordinate officials attend the king on
horseback, accompanied by their praise-singers. Their allegiance is shown
by a cavalry charge with drawn swords outside the palace the official
praise-singers take part in the gallop, piping and drumming the king’s
praises on horseback. Any sort of public event (the arrival of important
visitors to the ruler, the installation ceremonies of a chief, a victory in
battle may be the occasion for praises by official bards or other experts
the ruler’s position is commented on and recognized by the stress laid
both on the dignity of the office and, more explicitly, on the achievements
of its present incumbent. Periodic praises are often obligatory. Among
some of the Yoruba the praises of the king, with the complete list of his
predecessors and their praises, must be recited once a year in public. In
many Muslim kingdoms the ruler is celebrated weekly by teams of praisers
(reciters, drummers, pipers) who stand outside the palace to eulogize his
office, ancestry, and power, sometimes including at his request those of his
12 For similar self-praises among the Ibo on the occasion of taking an ozo title see the
instance quoted in Ch. 16.
friends or patrons. In return the ruler acknowledges their praise by gifts or

money which are often given publicly.
The manifold social significance of praise poetry is clear. It can
validate status by the content of the praise, by the number and quality of
the performers, and by the public nature of the recitation. This validation
is often acknowledged by gifts. Praise poetry stresses accepted values:
the Hausa praise their rulers in terms of descent and birth, the Zulu
emphasize military exploits, and the Nupe voice their admiration for
modern achievement in their praises of the ruler’s new car (Nadel 1942:
140–1). This kind of poetry can also act as a medium of public opinion, for
up to a point praisers can withhold praise or include implicit or explicit
derogatory allusions as a kind of negative sanction on the ruler’s acts.
Further social functions are publicizing new status or achievements in
a non-literate culture, flattering those in power or drawing attention
to one’s own achievements, preserving accepted versions of history
(particularly the exploits of earlier rulers), serving as an encouragement
to emulation or achievement, and, not least, providing an economically
profitable activity for many of those who engage in it. ”ut consideration
of the obvious social functions of praise poetry must not obscure its
very real literary qualities. It was also appreciated for its intellectual and
aesthetic interest, and for the fact that on some occasions it was recited
purely for enjoyment in the evening recitations of the Hima, or in the
salons of important Hausa prostitutes where there was nightly praise-
singing and witty conversation.
Many of these general points will emerge more clearly in a detailed
discussion of the praise poetry of the Southern ”antu, the praise poetry
which has been most fully documented and described. Obviously the
details of occasion, tone, performance, and, most of all, style are peculiar
to the societies which practise them. ”ut the importance of praises in
”antu society has something in common with praises of other aristocratic
or kingly societies in “frica, and a consideration of Southern ”antu praise
poetry during the remainder of this chapter can throw further light on the
general aspects that have been discussed so far.
”esides references to panegyric cited elsewhere in this chapter, see also the collection
of Kanuri praise poems in Patterson 1926.
5. Panegyric 121
II
The praise poems of the ”antu peoples of South “frica are one of the most
specialized and complex forms of poetry to be found in Africa. Many
examples have been published in the original or in translation (though as
yet these are probably only a fragment of what could be found), and there
is a large literature about them by scholars in South Africa. Elsewhere, in
general studies of African oral literature, they have tended to be ignored,
or, in the most recent general account ”ascom , mentioned only in
passing under the heading of ”riefer Forms , which is an odd way of
classifying such elaborate and lengthy poems.
These praise poems have been described as intermediary between epic and
ode, a combination of exclamatory narration and laudatory apostrophizing
Lestrade . “ certain amount of narrative is involved the
description of battles or hunts, and the exploits of the hero. ”ut the general
treatment is dramatic and panegyric, marked by a tone of high solemnity and
a lofty adulatory style. The expression is typically obscure and intense, and
the descriptions are presented in figurative terms, with allusions to people
and places and the formalized and poetic praise names of heroes.
This poetry occurs widely among the Southern ”antu cluster of peoples
in South Africa where it is regarded by the people themselves as the highest
of their many forms of poetic expression. It has been particularly well
documented among the Nguni-speaking peoples (a group which includes
Zulu, Xhosa, and Swazi as well as the offshoot Ngoni of Malawi and the
Sotho groups including, among others, the Lovedu and Tswana and it
also occurs among such people as the Venda and the Tsonga-speaking
groups. Although at different periods and among different peoples there
are differences of tone and form which would have to be considered in
a detailed account of this poetry,14 in general they share the same form
and here they will be treated together. ”esides these famous Southern
”antu forms, similar poems occur elsewhere among the ”antu, notably
among the cattle-owning aristocrats of East Central Africa. The poems of
the ”ahima in “nkole, described by Morris as heroic recitations ,
14 See in particular the detailed analysis of different periods of Zulu poetry in the
unpublished thesis by Kunene summarized in Cope ff. “lso detailed
studies by Cope, Schapera, Mofokeng, and others. There is a brief description of some
different styles which contrast with ‘the main stream of Zulu praise-poetry’ in Cope
.
and the dynastic poetry and historical poems of Ruanda Kagame b

Coupez have something in common with Southern ”antu praise
poetry and they could perhaps be classed together.
Although normally addressed to distinguished human beings, praise
poems can be concerned with almost anything—animals, divining bones,
beer, birds, clans. Even a stick may be apostrophized in high-sounding
terms, as in this Zulu poem:
Guardsman of the river fords,

Joy of adventurers reckless! (Dhlomo 1947: 6)
Praises of animals are very common, usually of the male. Among the
pastoral Zulu cattle are a particularly popular subject, but wild animals
also appear. The lion is referred to as the ‘stone-smasher’, or ‘awe-inspirer’,
or ‘darkness’, and the crocodile is the
Cruel one, killer whilst laughing.

The Crocodile is the laughing teeth that kill. Lekgothoane
Some animal praises are more light-hearted and humorous than the solemn
panegyrics of prominent people. Consider, for example, the following
Southern Sotho praise poem with its vivid and concise description of a pig:
Pig that runs about fussily,

“bove the narrow places, above the ground
Up above the sun shines, the pig grows fat,
The animal which grows fat when it has dawned.
Pig that runs about fussily,
With little horns in its mouth. Lestrade
”ut even praises of animals are often marked by solemnity and allusiveness.
Indeed there is often an intentional ambiguity in the poems between animal
and person, and some poems can be interpreted as sustained metaphors.
The following Northern Sotho poem appears to be about a leopard but the
allusion is to the chiefs of the Tlokwa, whose symbol was a leopard:
It is the yellow leopard with the spots

The yellow leopard of the cliffs
It is the leopard of the broad cheeks
Yellow leopard of the broad face, I-do-not-fear
The black and white one, I-get-into-a-small-tree
”esides other references in this chapter see also Chiwale the brief description of
Shona praise songs by Mandishona in Fortune also the Rozi praise poem quoted
in Fortune Morris Gbadamosi .
5. Panegyric 123
I tear off the eyebrows16

Clawer am I, I dig in my claws
My people (adversaries) I leave behind
Saying: this was not one leopard, there were ten.
Mr. Claws, scratch for yourself
Even for a big man it’s no disgrace to yell if scratched
Leopards of the Tlokwa country
Of ”olea, where the Tlokwa came from
Wild cat with the broad face
”oth impala buck we eat and cattle
You died in ”otlokwa
In the Tlokwa-land of Mmathsaka Maimane
Tlokwa-land of the sons of Mokutupi of Thsaka
Where do you go in Tlokwa-land (to seize cattle)?
It is full of blood, it has got the liver
Leopard of ”olea.
Yellow leopard of the clan Maloba the great
Yellow spotted one
Poor nobody, active smart fellow that summons together a huge gathering
My victim goes away with his scalp hanging down over his eyes
Leopard of the many spots
Leopard of the very dark spots
Leopard grand old man (formidable one)
Even when it can no longer bite, it still butts its adversaries out of the way
with its forehead. Lekgothoane
The most developed and famous forms, however, are those in which people
are directly praised and described. In some areas these include self-praises,
such as those composed by boys on their emergence from traditional
initiation schools or by warriors on their return from battle. Others occur in
the relatively informal context of a wedding when a woman may be praised
(which is otherwise unusual). Most ambitious and elaborate of all are the
praises composed and recited by the professional bards surrounding a king
or chief. The following extract from one of the many praises of the famous
Zulu king, Shaka, illustrates the use of allusion, metaphor, and praise
name which are combined with some narrative to convey the bravery and
fearsomeness of the king as he defeated his enemy Zwide:
His spear is terrible.

The Ever-ready-to-meet-any-challenge!
The first-born sons of their mothers who were called for many years!17
16 The leopard sits in a tree over the path and claws at the head of a passer-by.
17 i.e. Shaka’s courage is contrasted with the cowardice of those who did not answer the
call.
He is like the cluster of stones of Nkandhla,

Which sheltered the elephants when it had rained.18
The hawk which I saw sweeping down from Mangcengeza
When he came to Pungashe he disappeared.
He invades, the forests echo, saying, in echoing,
He paid a fine of the duiker and the doe.
He is seen by the hunters who trap the flying ants
He was hindered by a cock in front,
”y the people of Ntombazi and Langa [mother and father of Zwide]
He devoured Nomahlanjana son of Zwide

He devoured Mdandalazi son of Gaqa of the amaPela
He was lop-eared.
He devoured Mdandalazi son of Gaqa of the amaPela
He was lop-eared.
The Driver-away of the old man born of Langa’s daughter!

The Ever-ready-to-meet-any-challenge!
Shaka!
The first-born sons of their mothers who were called for many years!
He is like the cluster of stones of Nkandhla,
Which sheltered elephants when it had rained . . .
The Eagle-which-beats-its-wings-where-herds-graze!
He drove away Zwide son of Langa,
Until he caused him to disappear in the Ubani
Until he crossed above Johannesburg and disappeared
He crossed the Limpopo where it was rocky
Even though he left Pretoria with tears.
He killed the snake, he did not kill it in summer,
He killed it when the winter had come. Grant
In more purely panegyric vein is the briefer praise poem to Moshesh, the
famous Southern Sotho chief:
Nketu (frog) of the regiment, companion of Shakhane and Ramakh-wane,

Stirrer-up of dust, you came from the centre of the plateau of Rathsowanyane,
The child of the chief of Qhwai saw you,
You were seen by Ratjotjose of Mokhethi
Cloud, gleaner of shields,
When Nketu is not there among the people,
The leaders of the regiment cry aloud and say, Nketu and Ramakhwane,
where are you? Lestrade
18 A reference to a famous battle between Shaka and Zwide which took place in the
broken country near Nkandhla.
5. Panegyric 125
The main topic tends to be the chief s military exploits. However, other
subjects are also introduced. Among the Swazi a leader’s praise poems are
always known by all his followers, and include references not only to his
actions in war but also to acts of generosity and to his skill and achievement
in hunting. Comments on personality,19 and criticism which can provide
a kind of social pressure on an unpopular chief, are not uncommon, and
sometimes sarcastic or even insulting remarks are included which, among
the Ngoni at least, are said to represent a high kind of praise—such
comments are so ludicrous that they could not possibly be true (Read
. Praises composed more recently may include references to, for
instance, winning a case in the High Court Morris ff. , travelling
abroad to work in European areas, or dealing with tax collectors (Schapera
, . ”ut it remains true that the most outstanding and beautiful of
the traditional praises are those to do with war (and often more peaceful
exploits are expressed in military terms).
Various stock topics about the hero’s military actions are described in,
for example, most Sotho praise poems.20 These include the leader’s temper
before the battle, his journey to the field, his fighting, his victims, the booty,
and finally his return home, all portrayed in emotional and high-flown terms.
The basis of the events mentioned is authentic, but the emphasis is on those
incidents in which the hero excelled. Thus even if reverses are mentioned,
they are expressed euphemistically. Even if a war was lost, the hero won one
of the battles. Or a rout may be admitted to throw into greater contrast the
hero’s second and more vigorous offensive. The opponents are frequently
referred to in contemptuous terms, compared, for instance, to a small and
despicable ox, or to a bull without horns fighting against a conquering and
triumphant bull. In these praises it is usually the chief himself who is the
centre of attention, but his companions and relatives may also be mentioned
and their support is seen to add to the hero’s prestige and success.
The wars in which these heroes are depicted as fighting are varied.
Many of them are against neighbouring peoples in South Africa and
involve not only pitched battles but more mobile cattle raiding. Others are
between rival contenders for power in one area, such as Shaka’s hostilities
with some of his rivals. Wars against European invaders are also frequent
occasions for praise poems—and, as Norton puts it, one may wonder
whether the exploits of the conquerors were celebrated in as poetic and
elevated a manner as some of those of the conquered Norton .
19 See the examples of this in the Zulu panegyric in Cope .

20 The following account is mainly based on Mofokeng, part iii, Ch. .
Here, for example, is a poem praising the bravery of a Swazi king, Mavuso,
who was involved in fighting with the Afrikaaners:
Mavuso of Ngwane,
Dangazela [i.e. Mavuso] of Ngwane of Sobhusa.
News of war eats the child still in the womb.
If a person can walk he would have run away.
Flee ye by all the paths,
Go and tell the news to Mpande of the Zulu:
Say one elephant ate another,
And covered it with dress material and quantities of beads.
Those who ran away swore by Lurwarwa,
Saying, ‘Mswazi [early king and prototype] will not return, he is killing’
He fights in the darkness, when will the dawn come?
O chief that fights with the light of burning grass until the dawn comes.
They were saying that Mswazi was a boy herding calves
We shall never be ruled by the hoe stood in the door of Majosi-kazi.
He will rule Mkuku and Msukusuku.
O one who comes in and goes out of sandy places,
O bird of Mabizwa-sabele
You are called by Shila of Mlambo,
For him you asked cattle from Mhlangala,
You are asked by Mawewe to ask cattle from Mzila of Soshan-gane.
Dutchmen of Piet Retief, we do not approve of you,
We blame you
”y stabbing the chief who was helping you.
You cry at the grave of Piet Retief,
You cry at the grave of John.
O one alone without an advocate
Although Ntungwa had one:
Our chief who can stab,
I never saw a man who could stab like him.
He stabs with an assegai until he tires.
Mngqimila who bears a headdress of feathers,
Mababala who arms on a bad day,
Lomashakizela [one-who-goes-quickly], Lomashiya impi
[one-who-leaves-his-army-behind],
”ayete, ”ayete. Cook
III
The Southern ”antu praise poems are largely built up of a series of praise
names and praise verses. These praise names can be either category
terms—a cock is ‘the aggressive one’, the class of cattle ‘the horned one’ or
‘God of the wet nose’ (Sotho)—or individual terms, as when a particular
5. Panegyric 127
bull is ‘biggest in the herd’. Clan praise names are used in formal address
to clan members a Tswana clan, for instance, has the praise name Mokzvena
(from kwena, a crocodile, the symbol of the clan), so an individual of the
clan may be called by the general praise name of Mokzvena. In addition
many individuals have their own laudatory epithets which refer to their
character or their deeds these epithets are usually bestowed on kings,
leaders, and outstanding warriors. Thus we meet the Zulu ‘Sun-is-shining’,
Fame-spread-abroad , or the Venda Devouring ”east , Lord of the Lands ,
or Huge Head of Cattle . Sometimes the praise name is expanded so that
it takes up a whole line as in the Zulu Herd-of-Mtsholoza-he-escaped-
and-was-killed’), and certain prominent people are praised with a whole
string of names: Shaka, for instance, is said to have had several dozen.21
Sometimes the hero is also referred to by the name of his clan’s symbol or
other animal—as, for instance, a crocodile, lion, rhinoceros, or elephant—
and much of the poem is thus built up on a sustained metaphor, almost
allegory, about the animal which represents the hero. Some poems seem to
make special use of these praise names, but in all of them the inclusion of
these colourful epithets adds both grandeur and imagery to the verse.
”esides individual praise names often just one word in the original
there are praise verses or praise lines in which one laudatory phrase
takes up at least a whole line in the poem. One of the Sotho praise verses
about the class of cattle runs The beast lows at the chief s great place if
it lows in a little village—belonging to a commoner—it is wrong’, while
Dingane’s silent and cunning character is referred to by ‘The deep and
silent pool is calm and inviting, yet dangerous’, a Venda chief is ‘Light
of God upon earth’, and Shaka is described as ‘The play of the women at
Nomgabi’s’.
A praise poem is in general built up of these smaller units which are
often loosely linked together into stanzas.22 These stanzas follow in varying
orders in different versions. The order is variable because the different
stanzas are often linked not by specific meaning but by their general
application to the hero of the poem it is often as important to convey a
general picture of his actions and character as to present his exploits in
a narrative within a chronological framework. The whole composition is
extremely fluid, with given stanzas sometimes appearing, sometimes not,
or some versions combining into one poem what others give as two or even
21 Several occur in the poem about Shaka quoted earlier.

22 There may be some exceptions to this. The pre-Shakan Zulu praise poem is said to be
short and simple and not always made up of stanzas Cope .
three distinct praises. Thus each type (praise name, verse, stanza, and
poem) is an extension of the previous kind, and the literary significance
which is attached to each finds its fullest expression in the complex and
extensive poem.
Any discussion of the formal structure of praise poems must include
some reference to prosody see especially Lestrade , Grant
Mofokeng ff. . This is a difficult topic, but it seems that there
is some kind of dynamic stress which, in addition to other stylistic features
mentioned below, is one of the main characteristics which distinguish
this art form as ‘poetry’. The division into lines is in most cases indicated
fairly clearly by the reciter’s delivery, so that certain groups of words are
pronounced together in the same breath, followed by a pause, and fall
together in terms of sense, sometimes consisting of a formalized ‘praise
verse’ of the kind already described. Within each of these lines there are
normally three or four groups of syllables (or ‘nodes’, as Lestrade terms
them), each group marked by one main stress but containing any number
of other syllables. This ‘node’ sometimes consists of just one word (or is
dynamically treated as one word). The main stress is sometimes on the
penultimate syllable of the node , followed by a brief break the stress
on the last ‘node’ of the line is usually the strongest, and is followed by
a more pronounced break. A stanza—and, ultimately, a whole poem—is
thus made up of a succession of these lines, each consisting of three or
four ‘nodes’ following each other indiscriminately. There seems to be
no attempt at regular quantitative metre, for the stanzas are made up of
irregular numbers of lines each with varying numbers of syllables, but
the variety in syllable numbers (by some considered a mark of richness
in itself) is bound together not only by the over-all pattern of this strong
stress rhythm, but by repetition, parallelism, and other devices to be
discussed below.
The overall pattern is also brought out by certain melodic features in the
actual recitation. This has been studied in some detail in the case of Southern
Sotho and especially in Zulu praise poetry Mofokeng ff. Rycroft
1960, 1962). In the delivery there is some musical use of pitch, even though
the actual tones are too close to the tones of normal speech for the poems
actually to count as ‘songs’. The melodic aspect centres round a limited
series of notes, enough to provide a contrast with the less formalized speech
See the detailed examples in Schapera ff.

5. Panegyric 129
of ordinary prose. The ends of stanzas in particular are brought out by the
lengthening and special pitch (often a glide) of the penultimate syllable.
This amounts to a kind of concluding formula, melodically marked, for
each stanza (a detailed description is given in Rycroft 1960).
The example quoted by Lestrade may serve to bring out more clearly the
effect of the penultimate stress (marked by an acute accent) in the ‘nodes’
and at the end of each stanza. This is a praise poem of Moshesh:
Ngwana/Mmamokhathsane/Thesele, Child of Mmamokhathsane,

Thesele (praise-name),
Thesele/pharu/e telele/ Thesele, deep chasm,
telele, ‘Kxomo/di Cattle enter into it on their way,
kene/ka yona,/di sa ile,
Le batho/ba kene/ka yona/ba sa lie. Also people enter into it on their
way.
Hlabfsi/ya ”aKwena, You who give the ”aKwena
cattle to kill,
Ak’O/hlabfse/nkxono/’ao, Please give your aunt cattle to kill,
Ak’O/hlabise/Mmasetenane/ Please give Mmasetenane cattle to
ak’a rwale. kill, that she may carry the meat
away,
A re/ke mehlehlo/ya dikxomo/ That she may say, These are the
le ya batho. fat stomachs of cattle and of
people.
Lestrade
The poetic style of these poems emerges more fully when one considers
the language and form of expression in some detail.24 The language differs
from that of ordinary prose (and to a large extent from that of other poetic
genres among the Southern ”antu in its archaic quality as well as the
introduction of foreign words which add colour to the poem. Alliteration
and assonance are both appreciated and exploited by the poet. As well
there are many syntactic constructions peculiar to the poems: the use of
special idioms and of elaborate adjectives and adjectival phrases means
that there is a special style which has to be mastered by a composer of
praise poetry. Long compounds abound, many of them in the form of the
24 On style and language see especially Lestrade , Grant , Schapera

and Cope the following account is based particularly on Mofokeng s
unpublished thesis especially part iii, Chs. and on Southern Sotho praise poems.
See the instances of this in Zulu praise poems in Cope .
praise names mentioned already, and built up in various ways: from a

predicate and object (‘Saviour-of-the-people’), predicate and adverb (‘The-
one-who-sleeps-in-water’), noun and adjective (‘The-black-beast’), noun
and copulative (‘The-cliff-white-with-thick-milk’), and several others. In
Southern Sotho praises, prefixes and concord also appear in characteristic
ways, with certain rare omissions of prefixes, and with contractions. There
are special prefixes suitable for praising, for example se-, which indicates
the habitual doing of something and is common in praises to suggest the
hero’s habit or character, and ma-, which appears in names with the idea of
doing something extensively or repeatedly.
Parallelism and repetition are marked features in praise poetry. These
take various forms, and can be illustrated from the praise of Moshesh just
quoted. In the third and fourth lines of the first stanza there is parallelism
of meaning as well as, in part, of the words, with the second half of the line
repeated identically the second time and in the first half a repetition of the
same verb but with a different noun. Parallelism by which the same person
is referred to by different names can be illustrated in the second and third
lines in the second stanza, where the proper name Mmasete-nane refers to
the same person mentioned earlier, with, again, identical repetition of other
parts of the line. ”oth these forms of parallelism are common elsewhere in
praise poetry. There are also many other forms: sometimes the repetition is
not exact but the repeated phrase has something added to it, thus leading
to progress in the action:
He has taken out Ntsane of ”asieeng

He has taken out Ntsane from the cleft in the rock. Mofokeng
“ motif which is frequently used in describing someone s exploits when

placed like this side by side it adds to the impression of achievement. Or
the thought may be repeated in following lines even when the wording is
different:
Watchman of derelict homes,

Caretaker of people’s ruins,
Guardian of his mother s deserted house. Schapera
The many other forms that occur include chiasmus (cross parallelism),
deliberate change of word order in the second of three parallel lines, and
the practice of linking, by which a phrase at the end of a line is taken up
and repeated in the first half of the next.
5. Panegyric 131
The use of ideophones and interjections in praise poetry is another

way in which its poetic quality can be enhanced. In Southern Sotho, for
instance, the interjections hele (expressing surprise), he (of a wish), or pe
(a recognition of something overlooked) are frequently used to convey
emotion. Ideophones too can add to the descriptive quality with vivid
conciseness: qephe, for instance, conveys a sound picture of the last drop
of milk during milking, occurring in such a line as ‘There is not even the
sound of the last drop, there is no milk’.
The characteristically obscure nature of the language in praises is partly
due to its figurative quality, as we shall see. ”ut it also arises from the great
emphasis on allusion in this form of poetry, to historical events, places, and
peoples. As will be obvious from some of the examples quoted, the use of
proper names is often extensive and at times stanzas consist mainly of a
catalogue of names and places.
The imagery in this form of poetry provides a striking contrast to the
more straightforward expression in prose. ”y far the most common form is
that of metaphor. The hero is associated with an animal, often the animal
symbolic of his particular clan: a chief belonging to the clan associated
with the crocodile may appear as ‘The crocodile of crocodiles’ or, as in the
Southern Sotho praises of Lerotholi, the hero’s nature may be indicated in
terms of the animal:
The crocodile looked in the deep pool,

It looked with blood-red eyes. Mofokeng
Where the comparison is to domestic animals, it is often with the suggestion

that they are too wild for their enemies to manage—cattle may refuse their
milk, kick mud into the milk, tear their milker’s blanket, and in the case of
a bull (a common image) his sharp horns are dangerous to those around
him. Most frequent of all are comparisons to wild animals, to their bravery,
wildness, and fearsome appearance. Thus a hero may appear as a lion, a
spotted hyena, a big vulture, or a buffalo. In some praises the hero speaks
in his own voice and himself draws the parallel with an animal or a series
of animals:
I am the young lion!

The wild animal with pad-feet and black back!
Whose father has given up hope from the beginning and whose mother has
wept for a long time.
I am the fine elephant of the Mathubapula, the finest elephant in the
Matsaakgang. Ellenberger
Though animal metaphors are the most common, heroes are also compared
to natural phenomena like lightning, wind, or storm, or to other objects like
a shield, a rock, flames of fire:
The whirlwind [i.e. the hero] caused people to stumble

The people were swept by the downpour of spears
The heavy rain of summer, a storm,
The hailstorm with very hard drops Mofokeng
Sometimes there is a whole series of metaphors by which the hero is

compared, or compares himself, to various different objects:
The rumbling which is like the roll of thunder,

Ox belonging to the younger brother of the chief . . .
I am the wind that raises the yellow dust,
I am the rhinoceros from the ”adimo cattle-post,
Son of Mma-Maleka and nephew of Lesele Mofokeng
Similarly in the Transvaal Ndebele lines:
The hail that came down in the middle of winter,

And came down at emaKhophana.
The elephant that took fire in a pot-sherd,
And went and set the kraals of men alight,
“nd burned down those of all the tribe Ellenberger
Special grammatical forms are also used to introduce a metaphorical

impression. In Southern Sotho, for instance, there is sometimes a change in
the course of a poem from class 1 concords (the personal class) to others, a
device which both conveys a metaphor and leads to variety, a change from
the monotony of class throughout Mofokeng and wrong
concords in Zulu similarly suggest a metaphorical idea Vilakazi .
Similes are much rarer than metaphors, but a few occur in descriptions.
Someone may be said to be
Like a stone hammer

Like a round boulder, the hero Mofokeng
or the chief may be ‘as shapely as the full moon’ or ‘as straight as a
sandalwood tree Schapera .
Hyperbole appears in emotional description, adding to the vividness of
the picture. The confusion and fierceness of the battle may be indicated by
A cow should run carrying her calf

A man should run carrying his child
5. Panegyric 133
or
The small herbs were frost-bitten in the middle of summer . . .
The trees lost their leaves,
The sparrows, the birds that lay eggs in the trees, forsook their nests
Mofokeng ,
while a man’s feelings may be conveyed by

He left grieved in his heart
He left with the heart fighting with the lungs,
Heaven quarrelling with the earth Mofokeng
It is largely through this figurative and allusive form of description that

actions and qualities of people are conveyed in the praise poems. There
is little stress on personal emotions, lyrical descriptions of nature, or
straightforward narration. Rather a series of pictures is conveyed to the
listeners through a number of laconic and often rather staccato sentences,
a grouping of ideas which may on different occasions come in a different
order. In this way impressions are communicated with economy and
vividness. Vilakazi comments, for example, on the ‘emotional shorthand’
of such a passage as this Zulu poem:
The thunder that bursts on the open
Where mimosa trees are none.
The giant camouflaged with leaves
In the track of Nxaba’s cattle
He refuses tasks imposed by other people Vilakazi
Here the figurative language conveys the action. First the hero s temper
is described as like a sudden thunderstorm, then his force is indicated
by comparing it to a giant elephant hidden by the leaves of the trees. His
strength is then brought out further by the way he is able to win back the
cattle taken away by one of the headmen (Nxaba) who fled north in Shaka’s
reign finally the fact that not even Shaka can impose his commands on him
proves his hardihood and strength of mind.
This loose ordering of stanzas by which a series of pictures of a man’s
qualities and deeds is conveyed to the listener is typical. Nevertheless there
are also vivid descriptions of the action itself in a way which fits the partly
narrative aspect of praise poetry. Thus there are many examples of battle
scenes in Southern Sotho praise poems. Here the sounds of the words, as
well as the meaning, sometimes serve to heighten the effect:
Cannons came roaring, the veld resounding
Sword came tinkling from all sides
(Kanono tsa tla li kutuma thota e luma.

Lisabole tsa tla li kelema kahohle Mofokeng
The hero’s attack and the fate of his victims are favourite topics:
Maame, the whirlwind of Senate,
Snatched a man off his horse
The European’s horse took fright at the corpse
It took fright at the corpse without a soul
and
The lion roared when it saw them near.
It jumped suddenly, wanting to devour them
They ran in all directions the people of Masopha, They ran in all directions
and filled the village,
They scattered like finches. Mofokeng ,
When the victim falls on the ground, dead, and lies motionless this is
described in one poem as
He lay down, the grass became taller than him
While it was finally dead quiet on the ground
while the effect of battle, its many deaths, can also be shown indirectly in a
description of the general scene:
A foul smell came from the ridge,
They no longer drink water the people of Rampai
They are already drinking clods of human blood Mofokeng ,
It has frequently been remarked that the stress in praise poetry is on action
and on the building up of a series of pictures about the deeds and qualities
of the hero, rather than on lyric descriptions of nature and in a general
way this is certainly true. A few passages can be singled out as Dhlomo and
Vilakazi have done, to represent a more lyrical approach to the beauty of
nature. In a Zulu praise poem we have
The greenness which kisses that of a gall bladder!
”utterfly of Phunga, tinted with circling spots,
As if made by the twilight from the shadow of mountains,
In the dusk of the evening, when the wizards are abroad. (Dhlomo 1947: 6)
Another picture which seems to be expressed for its own beauty is the brief
praise of the blue-throated lizard in the Northern Sotho:
”lue-throated lizard of the Lizards
A blue chest (or throat) I have put on
”rown I also have put on
I, father-of-clinging of the hillside Lekgothoane
5. Panegyric 135
”ut while such instances can fairly easily be found, in general the stress is
far more on the hero and his character, so that what pictures are given of
the scene and surroundings are subordinate to the insight they give into
the hero’s activity. The weather, for example, may be described not for its
own sake but as a kind of formalized indication that some important event
is about to be depicted or to show the determination and perseverance of
the hero whatever the conditions. This comes out in the following Southern
Sotho passage:
When he is going to act the mist thickens
The mist was covering the snow-clad mountains,
Mountains from which the wind blows.
There was a wind, there was snow, Likila,
There was a wind, there was snow on the mountains,
Some were attracted by pillows and remained. Mofokeng
Here, as in all these praise poems, the first interest seems to be the laudatory
description of the hero rather than descriptions of natural phenomena or
the straightforward narration of events. It is to this panegyricizing end that
both the general form and the detailed style of these poems all tend.
IV
As these poems are very much oral compositions, intended to be heard
rather than read, they demand also some consideration of the way in which
they are delivered and composed and the kinds of occasions on which they
tend to be heard.
Although again the details vary, there seems to be general agreement that
praise poems are delivered much faster, and in a higher tone, than ordinary
prose utterances. The reciter pours forth the praises with few pauses for
breath and at the top of his voice. Often there is growing excitement and
dramatic gestures are made as the poem proceeds. Grant describes a well-
known Zulu praiser whom he heard in the 1920s. As the poet recited, he
worked himself up to a high pitch of fervour, his face was uplifted, and his
voice became loud and strong. The shield and stick that he carried were,
from time to time, suddenly raised and shaken, and his gestures became
more frequent and dramatic, so that he would suddenly leap in the air or
crouch with glaring eyes while praises poured from his lips—until at last he
stopped exhausted (1927: 202). The audience too play their part and often
shout out encouragingly in support of what the praiser is saying or to cheer
him on, adding to the emotional, even ecstatic mood that is induced by the
delivery of these poems.
Something has already been said about the metrical and quasi-musical
form of the delivery. Even in the mood of excitement described by Grant
there is a clear emphasis on the penultimate syllable of certain words,
and, in a more marked way still, on the word just preceding a pause at
a line- or stanza-end. Praise poems have no musical accompaniment, nor,
apparently, are they actually sung. Rather, they are semi-chanted, in the
sense that a special stylized intonation is expected during the recitation. In
Zulu the tonal and melodic movement is not a separate musical creation,
but arises directly out of the words of a given line and at the ends of lines
and stanzas there are certain formalized cadences and glides, used as
concluding formulas (Rycroft 1960).
The power of a praise poem seems to depend partly on the delivery and
the personality of the reciter. It is said, for instance, that when the great general
Ndlela kaSompisi recited the whole audience became awestruck ”ang ,
and Lekgothoane expresses the same view in an extreme form when he writes
that ‘a man whilst praising or being praised can walk over thorns, which
cannot pierce his flesh which has become impenetrable . However,
with this complex and sophisticated form of poetry, unlike the simpler prose
tales, the literary effect does not seem to have been dependent primarily on the
skill of the reciter, but rather on the art of the poet as composer—in his use of
the traditional forms described above, such as figurative expression, allusion,
and the various stylistic devices which, quite apart from his delivery, served to
heighten the effectiveness and power of the verse.
The composition of praise poetry was traditionally both a specialist and
a universal activity. All men seem to have been expected to have a certain
skill. Commoners composed their own praises or those of their families
and their cattle while those of high birth or outstanding prowess had their
praises composed by others, the chiefs by specialist bards. The poems
about earlier chiefs were handed down and probably known by the chief’s
followers as well as by the specialist reciters but it was the particular
responsibility of the official bards to recite them on appropriate occasions.
Though the older poems were preserved in this way, this is not to say that
each recitation of a single poem was verbally identical. Indeed several
versions of the ‘same’ poem have sometimes been recorded, differing in, for
instance, the order of the stanzas, their length, or the detailed wording or
order of lines. The form of praise poetry makes it easy for poems to become
telescoped without radically altering the sense this is what seems to have
happened with many of the earliest poems which tend to be considerably
shorter than those about more recent chiefs. The recitation itself can also
5. Panegyric 137
lead to additions by the performer, in the sense that a stanza or line may
be introduced in that particular performance from his knowledge of the
stock language and imagery. In these ways each separate performance of
the traditional poem may involve a certain amount of ‘composition’ in the
sense of introducing variant forms into a poem which has a clear outline
but is not fixed into an exact verbal identity. Composition also of course
takes place in the more familiar way with original creation by a single
poet, notably by the professional bards of the chief. Using the conventional
forms the poet produces a new poem, perhaps designed to commemorate
a particular occasion like the coming of distinguished visitors, perhaps
in general praise of the chief’s deeds and character. The poem may then
become famous and be added to the repertoire of praise poems of that
particular chief, to be handed down to the court poets even after the chief’s
death. Among some peoples at least these original praise poems are the
property of the composer in the sense that until his death no one may recite
them in public Schapera , on Tswana , and the names of the original
poets may be remembered for some time.
During the nineteenth and earlier part of the twentieth centuries, one of
the main occasions for the composition of praise poems, among the Sotho-
speaking peoples at least, was at the initiation ceremonies of boys (Laydevant
Mofokeng Schapera . During their period of
seclusion at the age of fifteen or sixteen the boys were required to compose and
recite poems in praise of themselves, of their chief, and of their parents, and
they had to recite these praises publicly on their emergence from seclusion. In
this way the art of composition was insisted on as a necessary accomplishment
for every man, involving some acquaintance at least with the various stylized
forms of expression and historical allusions mentioned earlier.
Self-praising also takes place on many other occasions. The most
famous situation is after a battle when a warrior composes his own praises
to celebrate his exploits or, if he is outstanding in bravery or birth, may
have them composed for him by others. In this way every soldier had his
own praises (in addition, that is, to the praise names possessed in virtue
of his membership of a particular clan) which he either recited himself
or, among the Zulu at least, had shouted out to him by his companions
while he danced or prepared for war (Tracey, 1948b vii Ngubane .
War was the main occasion for such praises, but many other events may
inspire them—exploits in hunting particularly, and the experience of going
to work in European areas which, as Schapera notes, forms a new type of
adventure to be celebrated among the Tswana Schapera .
Whatever the initial occasions and subjects of their composition, the

situations when recitations are made are basically the same—some public
gathering, whether a festival, a wedding, a beer drink, or the performance of
some public work. The chanting of praise poetry takes its place among the
singing of other songs, and it is frequent for someone to walk about reciting
praises of himself or his leader, while those present become silent and
attentive. Among the Sotho peoples, the situation of divining also provides
a formalized occasion for praises of both the bones used in divination
and the various ‘falls’ which the diviner follows in his pronouncements.
Weddings too are very widely regarded as another stock situation in which
praises are not only possible but required, for the bride or bridegroom is
lauded in praises which include references to the fame of their family and
its ancestors Schapera Vilakazi .
However, the prototypical situation for reciting praise poetry arises
when a chief and his ancestors are praised by the specialist bards who
form part of the chief’s official entourage. These praise poets (Zulu imbongi,
Tswana mmoki) were much respected members of the chief’s official
retinue and had the function of recording the praise names, victories,
characteristics, and exploits (or expected exploits) of the chief to whom
they were attached. The office was still recognized in the 1920s (Grant 1927:
202), although it seems that later on these functions were performed by
poets without official positions. One of the traditional occasions for the
recitation of praises of the chiefs was in the early morning when the praiser
shouted them out. Formal praises were delivered on ceremonial and public
occasions when the bard recited a whole series of eulogies, starting with the
famous praises of the king’s or chief’s ancestors—praises handed down to
him by word of mouth—and finally reaching the praises, often composed
by himself, of the present chief (Nyembezi 1948: 111). Such praises were
also declaimed on special occasions such as after a victory by the chief, on
the advent of distinguished visitors, at the installation of a new chief, or at
the distribution of royal bounty.
V
The social significance of these praise poems is bound up with the
aristocratic nature of the Southern ”antu societies, traditionally based on
a hierarchy of rank dependent on birth, and linked by an emphasis on the
institutions of kingship and chiefship. The pastoral emphasis was also
important, for even in those groups for whom agriculture formed the basis
5. Panegyric 139
of the economy, cattle-holding was particularly esteemed as a mark of

status and pride, an attitude which the many praise poems to cattle express
clearly. The marked military tradition of all these societies, in particular the
Zulu, is also relevant, together with the emphasis on competition, whether
in military exploits, in hunting, in vying with other members of the same
age-set, or for the favour and notice of the chief or king. This desire for
fame and praise was something considered relevant not only in life but also
after death: a man’s memory was kept alive in his praises.
Figure 11. Songs for Acholi long-horned cattle, Uganda. Cattle are often the subject of
individual praises and praise names, sung by their herdsman (photo David Murray).
In societies where status and birth were so important, the praise poems
served to consolidate these values. As so often with panegyric, the
recitation of the praises of the chief and his ancestors served to point out
to the listeners the chief’s right to the position he held both through his
descent from those predecessors whose great deeds were commemorated
and through his own qualities so glowingly and solemnly depicted in the
poetry. As elsewhere, however, praises could contain criticism as well as
eulogy, a pressure to conform to expectations as well as praise for actual
behaviour. In this way, praise poetry could also have the implicit result
of exerting control on a ruler as well as the obvious one of upholding his

position.
These praise poems were, furthermore, not only a result of but in some
cases a means towards acquiring position and power. The effective earning
of praises was one way in which a man could recommend himself to his
chief for honour and advancement. Praises meant support from others and,
in Zulu society at least, a man’s influence was closely correlated with his
praises the more a man achieved in battle and in council, the more and
better his praises. Further, in a culture in which dancing was so important,
a man could only dance publicly according to the number and quality of
his praise poems Dhlomo Cope . The poems also acted as
an inducement to action and ambition. A young man’s promise and his
future heroic deeds were described in the praises he and his fellows made
up, particularly on the occasion of his initiation when the ideals implied
in the poems could fire the imagination. A chief who had only recently
succeeded to office and whose reign still lay before him could be roused to
activity by the exploits expected of him as by the knowledge that the praise
poets could, however guardedly, sometimes blame as well as praise. Thus
in youth a man was reminded in praises of the measure of his promise
in maturity his praises presented an inspired record of his deeds and
ambitions in old age he could contemplate the praises of his achievements
and adventures while after death the poems would remain as an ornament
to his life, an inspiration and glory to his friends and followers, and a
worthy commemoration to keep his name alive as one of the ancestors:
People will die and their praises remain,

It is these that will be left to mourn for them in their deserted homes
from a Zulu praise poem Cope
The praise poems thus express pride in the possessions and values of the
peoples among whom they were recited—pride in cattle, in family and clan,
in chiefship, and in military achievement. It was war in particular that filled
people with pride and emotion about their own actions or those of their
friends above all, about those of their chiefs and leaders. “nd the memory
of such actions ‘fills the praiser with emotion, excitement, joy mingled with
sorrow Mofokeng .
Praise poetry is also a vehicle for the recording of history as viewed by
the poets. There is little straightforward cataloguing of genealogies, for a
knowledge of these is assumed in reciter and listener and merely touched
on allusively. It is the great deeds and characters of earlier heroes which
5. Panegyric 141
are commemorated rather than their mere names or ancestry, and national
glories are thus recounted and relived. How far back these historical poems
can go can be illustrated from the Ngoni praise of Ngwana, the hero who
led one group of the Ngoni northwards to their present home in Malawi in
the early nineteenth century, in flight from Shaka’s wars:
You who cut the trees and who cut the mouths,
You the locust, the grasshopper who fixed in your hair the feathers of the
locust.
Who went below, and climbed up, and went to bring the morning star of the
dawn.
You go, since you are rejected you go and bring the armlets of wild animals
those of cattle will be much disputed.
You who remember the fault of long ago.
In descending, you descend together with the mountains.
You who drank the blood of cattle.
You who separated from the people of Shaka, Shaka of Mbelebele kraal.
You who separated from the people of Nyathi the son of Mashobane it
thundered, it was cloudy.
Thou resemblest cattle which were finished by wolves.
You who originated with the people of Mzilikazi.
You who originated with the people of Mpakana son of Lidonga.
You who originated with the people of Ndwandwe Read
In spite of the great social importance of praise poetry in the aristocratic

and military society of the nineteenth century, it would be wrong to
overemphasize the social functions of this poetry at the expense of its
literary and artistic significance. As is clear from a detailed consideration of
their conventional form and style, Southern ”antu praise poems represent
a complex form of art, and one which, while in the hands of the second-rate
it can lead to mere bombast and pompous repetition, can also give rise to
poems of great imagination and power. It would be wrong to suppose that
a people capable of developing such an art form were unappreciative of
its artistic qualities whether as listeners or as reciters. And praise poems
continue to be composed. Although the aristocratic and military basis of
society has gone and the content of these poems has been transformed by
new interests and preoccupations, nevertheless the form and tone of praise
poetry remain. The style has been influential as basis for written poetry, and
such well-known writers as Nyembezi, Mangoaela, Vilakazi, and Dhlomo
have made studies or collections of traditional praises in which they find
inspiration for their own writings. In some areas praise poetry may no
longer be so popular as in earlier years, but local newspapers still abound
with written praise poems on important occasions, on the installation of a

new paramount chief, for instance, or the arrival of some famous visitor.
Interest in praise poetry is not confined to written forms either. Of Zulu
panegyric, Rycroft writes:
Its oral composition continues to be a living art among illiterate and semi-
literate people. Young Zulu men from country areas who take up manual
work in towns nowadays have the habit of interspersing long strings of their
own self-praises between the verses of their guitar songs, despite the firm
tradition that no Zulu should ever praise himself.26 (Guitars are a sine qua
non and are played while walking in the street).
Self-praises here serve to re-assure and raise morale in an unfamiliar
environment. They seem to be found particularly useful as a stimulant when
proceeding on a courting expedition, besides being used to impress the
ladies, on arrival. (D. Rycroft, personal communication)
Some of the subjects treated in these modern praise poems are analogous
to the traditional ones—new types of adventures, distinguished visitors,
wedding feasts, self-praises in modern terms—and such topics can be
treated with the same kind of solemnity and imagery as the traditional
ones. Other new poems concentrate on praises of inanimate things and of
animals (race-horses, for instance). The following brief oral poem about a
bicycle seems typical of modern interests and treatment it was recorded
from the Hurutshe living in the native reserve and location of Zeerust
My frail little bicycle,

The one with the scar,27 my sister Seabelo,
Horse of the Europeans, feet of tyre,
Iron horse, swayer from side to side Merwe
From the same source comes this extract from the praises of a train. It
includes the traditional motifs of metaphorical comparison to an animal,
parallelism, allusion, and adulatory address:
”east coming from Pompi, from Moretele,

It comes with a spider’s web and with gnats28
It having been sent along by the point of a needle and by gnats.
Swartmuis, beast coming from Kgopi-Kgobola-diatla [bumping]
Out of the big hole [tunnel] of the mother of the gigantic woman . . .
Team of red and white pipits [the coaches], it gathered the track unto itself,
26 Though see Cope 1968: 21.

27 i.e. the bag of tools attached.
28 A reference to the smoke.
5. Panegyric 143
Itself being spotlessly clean.

Tshutshu [noise of engine] of the dry plains
Rhinoceros (tshukudu) of the highlands
”east coming from the South, it comes along steaming,
It comes from Pompi and from Kgobola-diatla Merwe
The same kind of style is also evident in modern written forms. One can
compare, for instance, the following lines from another praise poem about
a train, this time written by a Sotho student at a training institute:
I am the black centipede, the rusher with a black nose

Drinker of water even in the fountains of the witches,
And who do you say will bewitch me?
I triumphed over the one who eats a person (the sun) and over the pitch black
darkness
When the carnivorous animals drink blood day and night.
I am the centipede, the mighty roarer that roars within Van Zyl
Amidst new interests and the inevitable changes of outlook consequent on

the passing of the old aristocratic order, the literary form of praise poetry
still flourishes, in however modified a form, and the ancient praises still
bring inspiration and a formal mode of literary expression to modern artists.
Praise poetry still performs its old functions of recording outstanding
events, expressing praise, and recalling the history of the people.
Praise poetry, and in particular the Southern ”antu form, is among the
best-documented types of African oral poetry. Nevertheless, much remains
to be studied. Further collections could be made or published—so far only
a fragment has appeared in print. There are other general problems too.
There is the question, for instance, of how far this form, apparently so
closely connected with kingly and aristocratic society, also occurs in non-
aristocratic areas or periods.29 Many detailed problems arise too about style,
prosody, and, in particular, composition. Though many texts have been
collected, particularly from South Africa, full discussions of these are less
common, and further detailed accounts are now needed of specific forms
in particular areas.
29 See forthcoming work by W. Whiteley on praise songs among the Kamba also instances
among the Ila and Tonga of Zambia Jones .
Including some published in the original only, e.g. C. L. S. Nyembezi, Izibongo zamakhosi
Zulu , not seen reference in Cope Z. D. Mangoaela, Lithoko tsa marena a
Basotho S. Sotho , Morija, not seen reference in Schapera .
Though see Schapera Tswana Morris “nkole Cope Zulu Coupez
Ruanda and Mofokeng on Southern Sotho. Otherwise detailed discussion
tends to be in the form of short articles.
6. Elegiac Poetry
General and introductory. Akan funeral dirges: content and themes;

structure, style, and delivery; occasions and functions; the dirge as literature.
I
Elegiac poetry is an exceedingly common form of expression in Africa. We
hear of it from all areas and in many different forms. However it is usually
less specialized and elaborate than panegyric poetry, and, perhaps for this
reason, it has attracted less interest.1 More private and normally lacking
the political relevance of panegyric poetry—to which, nevertheless, it
is closely related—it tends to be performed by non-professionals (often
women) rather than state officials. It shades into ‘lyric’ poetry and in many
cases cannot be treated as a distinctive genre. However, lamentation so
frequently appears in a more or less stylized and literary form in Africa
that it is worth treating on its own in this chapter. Furthermore, some
account of Nketia’s detailed work on Akan funeral dirges—a study not
known widely enough2—may serve as a stimulus to further similar work,
and at the same time illustrate some of the complex artistic conventions
that can be distinguished in one type of non-professional oral poetry in
Africa.
The most obvious instances of elegiac poetry are those poems or songs
performed at funeral or memorial rites. In this sense elegiac poetry ranges
I know of only two analyses in any detail, Nketia and “nyumba though
there are many brief accounts and passing references.
It is not mentioned, for instance, in ”ascom s bibliographic survey of “frican oral
literature, 1964.
from the Islamic funeral song sung by Hausa mallams and reduced to
writing in the nineteenth century Robinson , or the short but
complex Akan funeral dirges chanted by women soloists, to the simple
laments with leader and chorus that are sung among the Limba and others,
laments in which the musical and balletic elements are as important as
the words.
The occasions for these laments differ from people to people. Often
dirges are sung round the corpse (or round the house in which the corpse
lies) while it is being prepared for burial. Sometimes, as among the Akan,
this is followed by a period of public mourning, during which the corpse
lies in state and dirges are sung. The actual burial may or may not be
accompanied by elegies among the “kan it is not Nketia , while
among the Limba all normal burials should be accompanied by singing.
Deaths are also often celebrated by memorial ceremonies later and these
too are usually accompanied by songs that sometimes include strictly
funeral songs, and sometimes panegyric of the dead.
On these occasions women are the most frequent singers. Among the
Yoruba women lament at funeral feasts Ellis f. , “kan dirges are
chanted by women soloists Nketia and passim) and the zitengulo
songs of Zambia are sung by women mourners Jones . The fact
that these songs often involve wailing, sobbing, and weeping makes them
particularly suitable for women—in Africa as elsewhere such activities
are considered typically female. Also common are laments sung by a
chorus of women, sometimes led by one soloist, and often accompanied
by dancing or drumming. Occasionally men too are involved. Among the
Limba, for instance, the initial mourning over the corpse is invariably by
women, in either chorus or antiphonal form but in the case of an adult
male the burial itself is by the men’s secret society and the accompanying
songs are by men. Specialists too are sometimes conventionally mourned
by their peers. Thus an expert hunter may have special songs sung at his
funeral by fellow hunters (men) who come to attend the rites. Occasionally
too one hears of professional or semi-professional singers. Thus the
Yoruba sometimes invited professional mourners to their funerals to add
an extra embellishment to the usual laments of the bereaved women (Ellis
.
6. Elegiac Poetry 147
Figure 12. Funeral songs in the dark in Kamabai, 1961 (photo Ruth Finnegan).
Many of these songs are topical and ephemeral. That is, they are composed
for use at the funeral of one individual and relate to him only, though
they naturally use the accepted idioms and forms. Thus among the Ila
and Tonga of Zambia, the zitengulo mourning songs are sung only once:
they are very short and composed by a woman who mourns and thinks
over the life s work of the deceased she bases her song on this, starts to
sing little by little, and adds words and melody until the song is complete
Jones . Other funeral songs, perhaps particularly the choral ones,
seem to have a set form repeated more or less exactly at all funerals, or all
funerals of a certain category—though on this point the evidence is often
not very precise. There are also instances of songs or poems said to have
been composed initially for some other occasion but taken over for regular
use at funerals. The Chadwicks speak of elegies in Ethiopia said to have
been preserved ‘for several centuries’ and instance the famous and much
sung elegy for Saba Gadis Chadwicks iii, . “nother case is the
Ibo song originally sung by warriors to their leader Ojea as he lay dying at
the moment of victory, but now used as a generalized funeral dirge:
Ojea, noble Ojea, look round before you depart,

Ojea, see, the fight is over
Fire has consumed the square and then the home,
Ojea, see, the fight is over.
Ojea, ”rother Ojea, ponder and look,
Ojea, see, the fight is over
If rain soaks the body, will the clothes be dry?
Ojea, ah! The fight is over Osadebay
The content of these elegies varies. At times—as in this Ibo example—there

is no direct reference to the deceased. ”ut often he is specifically addressed,
and praise is one of the most frequent motifs. Among the Yoruba praise
poetry is recited or played on drums at funerals as well as on other
occasions Gbadamosi and ”eier , and in “kan dirges the singer
calls on the deceased by his praise names and lauds his great deeds and
ancestry. Occasionally the personal reference or address to the deceased is
deepened by more general allusions. This is well illustrated by the Yoruba
funeral song from Ede:
I say rise, and you will not rise.
If Olu is told to rise, Olu will rise.
If Awo is told to rise, he will rise.
The newly wedded bride gets up at a bidding,
Although she dares not call her husband by name.
The elephant on waking gets up,
The buffalo on waking gets up,
The elephant lies down like a hill.
Alas! The elephant has fallen,
And can never get up again!
You say you have neither wealth nor children,
Not even forty cowries with which to buy salt.
You muffled head, rise! Gbadamosi and ”eier
We also find resignation and acceptance of the inevitable. These are, for
instance, mentioned as frequent characteristics of much Sudanese funeral
poetry (Tescaroli 1961: 9). Other poems dwell on the personal feelings and
experience of the mourner. Ellis quotes from a Yoruba example:
I go to the market it is crowded. There are many people there, but he is not
among them. I wait, but he comes not. “h me! I am alone. Ellis
The same note of personal grief is heard in the Acholi funeral dirge:
I wait on the pathway in vain
He refuses to come again
Only one, beloved of my mother oh,

My brother blows like the wind
Fate has destroyed chief of youth completely
I wait on the pathway in vain Okot 4
or again in an Ngoni lament:
I have stared at the setting (death) of my husband.

They say, show me the pool that has a crocodile.
Let me throw myself away.
What can I do? “las! Read
We are not, unfortunately, told the details of the occasion on which the
much quoted ”ushman lament, The broken string , was composed or
performed, but in this too we see that the main concentration is on the
singer’s feeling: he is mourning his friend, a magician and rain-maker:
People were those who

”roke for me the string.
Therefore,
The place became like this to me,
On account of it,
”ecause the string was that which broke for me.
Therefore,
The place does not feel to me,
As the place used to feel to me,
On account of it.
For,
The place feels as if it stood open before me,
”ecause the string has broken for me.
Therefore
The place does not feel pleasant to me,
On account of it ”leek and Lloyd
The elegies so far discussed have been those specifically connected with
funeral rites of various kinds, or, at least, poems or songs mourning the
death of some individual. There is also, however, a sense in which elegiac
poetry also includes poems that take death or sorrow as their general themes
without being connected with funerals or actual mourning. In this sense,
elegiac poetry in Africa does not often seem to be a distinctly recognized
genre. Although certain dirges (such as those of the Luo or the Akan) are
sometimes performed in other contexts and with other purposes, funerals
remain their primary and distinctive occasions, and death is merely one—
and not apparently a very common one—of the many subjects that occur
in lyric poetry generally. In this sense, then, elegiac poetry does not seem a
type that demands extensive discussion here.
The sort of way, however, that the theme of death is occasionally
used outside a dirge is worth illustrating from the impressive Ngoni
song recorded by Read. This is a very old poem, originally intended for
performance at a marriage, but now sung on other occasions (including
church meetings). The refrain, ‘the earth does not get fat’, is a reference to
the way the earth is always receiving the dead, yet is never satisfied:
The earth does not get fat. It makes an end of those who wear the head plumes
[the older men]
We shall die on the earth.
The earth does not get fat. It makes an end of those who act swiftly as heroes.
Shall we die on the earth?
Listen O earth. We shall mourn because of you.

Listen O earth. Shall we all die on the earth?
The earth does not get fat. It makes an end of the chiefs.
Shall we all die on the earth?
The earth does not get fat. It makes an end of the women chiefs.

The earth does not get fat. It makes an end of the nobles.
The earth does not get fat. It makes an end of the royal women.

The earth does not get fat. It makes the end of the common people.
The earth does not get fat. It makes an end of all the beasts.
Listen you who are asleep, who are left tightly closed in the land.
Shall we all sink into the earth?
Listen O earth the sun is setting tightly.
We shall all enter into the earth Read
Rather than generalizing further about elegiac poetry or reproducing

further isolated examples, it seems best to concentrate on one example, the
Akan funeral dirge. From this something of the social context of the form
and its complex conventions will emerge. It will also show how some of
the familiar questions of literary criticism can be pursued with profit in the
case of oral, as of written, poetry.
II
The funeral dirges of the Akan have been intensively studied by Nketia who
published his collection and analysis in . “mong the “kan-speaking
peoples of southern Ghana dirges form just one among their many types of
poetry. They are sung or intoned by women as part of the public mourning
during funerals. In them ‘speech [is] inlaid with music, sobs and tears and
conjoined to bodily movement Nketia . Unlike some of the
lyric poetry to be discussed later, however, the emphasis is on the words
rather than the music, and the poems are performed by soloists without the
accompaniment of either musical instruments or a chorus of supporting
singers.4
Here in introduction are two examples from Nketia s collection. The
first is sung by a woman for her dead son, Gyima (poetically referred to as
her ‘grandsire’):
Grandsire Gyima with a slim but generous arm,

Fount of satisfaction,
My friend Adu on whom I depend,
I depend on you for everything, even for drinking water.
If I am not dependent on you [i.e. if there is any doubt that I depend on you],
see what has become of me.
Although a man, you are a mother to children,
A man who takes another’s child for his own,
Who builds mighty but empty houses,
Who is restive until he has fought and won, Osibirikuo, Gyane the short one,
Dwentiwaa s husband, and a man of valour. Nketia
In the second example the mourner is singing about her dead mother:
Grandchild of grandsire Kwaagyei of Hwedeemu that drinks the water of
Abono,
Daughter of a spokesman, who is herself a spokesman,
Mother, it may appear that all is well with me, but I am struggling.
Further references to elegiac poetry include “nyumba Luo ”eaton ”ari

Tescaroli 1961, part 2 Sudan Gutmann Stappers Hulstaert Littmann
1949. See also Moore 1968 (mainly but not exclusively on written forms).
4 In addition to the dirges described here the Akan also have choral laments sung by
groups of women in solo and chorus form (not discussed here).
Nyaakowaa of Anteade and grandchild of Osafo Agyeman,

O, mother, I am struggling all is not as well as it appears.
Mother, if you would send me something, I would like a parcel and a big
cooking pot that entertains strangers.
The god opem has
failed the gourd of charms has won.
O, mother, there is no branch above which I could grasp.
Mother, if you would send me something, I would like parched corn
So that I could eat it raw if there was no fire to cook it.
Mother, the parrot will catch a skin disease from the fowls and die!
Grandchild of grandsire Kwaagyei of Hwendeemu that drinks Abono,
Grandsire, the mighty pot, saviour of strangers,
O, mother, I am struggling all is not as well with me as it appears.
Mother who sends gifts, send me something when someone is coming this
way.
Mother, there is no fire in the deserted dwelling
From which I could take a brand to light my fire.
My helpful Wicker ”asket that comes to my aid with lumps of salt,
O, mother, I would weep blood for you, if only Otire’s child would be
allowed to.
Grandsire, the crab that knows the hiding place of alluvial gold,
What is the matter, child of the spokesman?
Mother has allowed this death to take me by surprise.
O, mother, I am struggling all is not as well with me as it appears.
Nketia
Nketia describes in some detail the conventional language and themes

of dirges—themes which throw light on features which might otherwise
seem puzzling or banal. The deceased is the focal point. He may be
addressed, his individual qualities described, or he may be identified
with one or several ancestors. To refer to him the mourner often uses a
series of different names that vary the language as well as honouring the
dead. ”esides proper names the “kan also have corresponding by-names
and these often occur in dirges for affective reasons. The same applies to
praise appellations, terms which ‘describe in a convenient short or gnomic
form the qualities or expected qualities, accomplishment or status of a
holder of the corresponding proper name Nketia . Thus in the
first dirge quoted above, Gyima’s praise names include Anko-anna (‘one
who is restive until he has fought and won’) and Dwentiwaa kunu barima
Salt in the past was a very precious and scarce commodity.

Katakyie (‘Dwentiwaa’s husband and a man of valour’). Other instances

of praise names can be translated as ‘the beetle that eats away raffia’ or
Noble “pea Kusi, feller of Odum trees Nketia . They may in fact
have been won by an earlier individual of the same name, but are used for
contemporaries who are imaginatively pictured in the dirge as possessing
the same qualities or status as their famous namesakes. The poetry is also
further embellished by another type of reference to the deceased—the
‘dirge names’. These are sometimes made up of a string of by-names, praise
names, and other words, but also have less usual forms according to which
a person of a given proper name can be addressed by any one of several
dirge names. Many of these names cannot be translated—for example,
one of the dirge names of a man called Apea: Nyenenkye Asamanwoma
Apeantummaa Nketia but used in a dirge they introduce an
elevated and high-sounding effect.
”eside these specialized names, the deceased is also addressed by
kinship terms and terms of endearment. In the second dirge quoted, the
dead woman was addressed throughout as ‘mother’ and other such terms
(‘father’, ‘uncle’, etc.) are frequent. The relationship to some third person
is also used the deceased may appear as, for instance, The Drummer s
child’, ‘Father of Obempon and Ayirebiwaa’, or ‘Grandchild of Wealth’.
Finally, a name of reference may be used to associate him with his clan or
group Child of the ”iretuo clan of Sekyere , Grandchild of the ”uffalo
(i.e. of the ekoona clan), or ‘The white fowl spotted by the roving hawk’ (i.e.
of the ”osomtwe Ntoro group Nketia .
”esides these ornamental names, qualities are often dwelt on.
”enevolence in particular is frequently lauded in the dirges. It is referred to
in such stock phrases as ‘The slender arm full of benevolence’, ‘Grandmother,
the big cooking pot that entertains strangers’, ‘You are a mighty tree with
big branches laden with fruit. When children come to you, they find
something to eat , or Fount of satisfaction Nketia . Sympathy
and kindness are also picked out He is a father to other people s children
He was like the tree of the plantain planted behind the house, that gave
shade and coolness and frequent references to the wisdom of the dead are
expected, expressed by the singer lamenting that she no longer has anyone
to give her advice. Fruitfulness is also commonly described, and one of
the conventional comparisons is between a fruitful woman and the okro
fruit with its many seeds: ‘Mother the okro, full of the seeds of many issues
and proven’. These stock ways of referring to the deceased both elevate his
good points and bring home to the community the loss it has suffered.
While the person of the deceased is the focus of attention, there are
other themes. One of the most frequent is that of the ancestor. Among the
Akan, ancestry is important, both through the mother (significant for most
social purposes) and through the father who represents the ‘spiritual’ side.
In dirges both types of ancestry are commemorated, and the fact brought
out that a member of two social groups (the father’s and the mother’s) has
been lost. Thus the paternal ancestry of the deceased is often referred to
in special name-clusters which indicate the ntoro (paternal group) of the
person being mourned, names such as ‘Nwanwanyane, offspring of the
Leopard’, or ‘Gyebiri Siaw Anim, the nobleman’. References to ancestors
in the female line are even more common, and the kinship of the deceased
to a series of ancestors is emphasized. Some dirges concentrate almost
completely on this theme. One opens
Kotoku man and grandchild of the Vanguard of Kotoku,

Grandchild of Ampoma: our lineage originates from Kotoku.
Grandchild of ”aabu our lineage hails from Kade . . . Nketia
and then continues through the various relationships of the deceased.

Particularly in royal dirges one of the ancestors may be singled out for
praise. “n ancestor s bravery, skill, or leadership may be mentioned. His
use of power, for example, is dwelt on in one dirge:
In the olden days, when you were

On your way to Akora Kusi’s house,
You would stumble over skulls
Vultures got up to greet you
”lue bottle flies buzzed round you,
“s if to say, “las! Nketia
In this way the deceased can be praised indirectly through his ancestors’
great deeds. At funerals the Akan remind themselves both that their
ancestors too were once human beings and that they themselves, as well as
the deceased, are not without an ancestry and a historic tradition of which
they can be proud. As a mourner sings:
We are from Creation.

It was my people who first came here,
“nd were joined later by the Fante Hosts.
It was my grandfather that founded Komenda.
I am the grandchild of the Parrot that eats palm nuts.
It was my grandfather that weighed gold
And the scales broke into pieces under its weight.
Grandchild of “pea Korankye hails from “booso. Nketia
Rather similar to the theme of ancestors is that of places. The identity of

the deceased (or his ancestors) is clarified by adding the name of his home
or place of origin (the link between the dead and their mourners is often
brought out by the fact that they share a common home). This convention
often introduces historic evocations into a dirge. It also adds colour to
the words, for it is common for a descriptive phrase to be added to the
name itself: ‘Asumegya Santemanso, where the leopard roars and comes to
town for its prey or Hwerebe “kwasiase, where the Creator first erected
a fireplace and placed a beating stick by it Nketia . References to
places can either be interspersed throughout the poem or, in combination
with the theme of the ancestor, form the main framework on which the
whole dirge is built up.
While the main focus of the dirge is on the deceased—his nature and
qualities, his ancestors, his historic home—the mourner also makes certain
reflections. There are certain stock ways in which these are expressed. The
dead man is often pictured as setting out on a journey, so that part of what
the mourner is doing is bidding him farewell—’Farewell, thou priest’ or
Receive condolences and proceed on Nketia . The sorrow of
parting is brought out in stock phrases like ‘I call him, but in vain’, ‘I would
weep blood’ (if only that would bring you back), or, with more passionate
emphasis on the mourner’s sense of loss, ‘I am in flooded waters. Who
will rescue me?’ and ‘There is no branch above which I could grasp’. The
mourner wishes for a continued friendship with the dead man even when
he reaches the world of spirits, and speaks of wishing to go with him, or
to exchange gifts or messages this is why the singer so often asks the dead
to ‘send me something when someone is coming’—an imaginative rather
than a literal request. The mourner expresses her sorrow and loss through
particular concrete images rather than through general statements about
death. Instead of speaking of death taking away her support, she sings
The tree that gives shade and coolness has been hewn down and, when
she alludes to the shortness of life, she uses the conventional metaphor in
which the duration of life is compared to the time a market woman takes to
sell her goods—‘What were your wares that they are sold out so quickly?’
Among all these various motifs and conventions of content and expression
the individual mourner can select her own. The use of many of the stock forms
of expression does not necessarily mean a lack of sincerity on her part or that
she creates little artistic impact. As Nketia puts it, the ‘traditional forms of
expression [are] still pregnant with emotion to the Akan, expressions which
are not considered outworn in spite of frequent use Nketia .
III
Four main types of dirge can be distinguished. All are built up on the
conventional themes and forms of expression already described, but they
vary both in the arrangement of the material and in the scope given for the
spontaneity of the mourner.
The first, type ‘A’, is the most stereotyped and dignified. This kind
of dirge is short and marked by unity of subject. ”esides mention of the
deceased, reference is normally made to just one ancestor, one of his
qualities, and one single place. Many different dirges of this type can be
built up about the same person the same ancestor can be brought in but
with a different quality described or all the references could be changed,
with a different ancestor introduced and a different place of domicile,
forming the framework for another set of dirges round that theme. In spite
of the stereotyped structure, then, the possibility of variation according to
the singer’s choice in a particular situation is manifold.
Such dirges open with a name, usually of an ancestor, and this theme is
then taken up in the next portion of the poem, referred to as the subject, in
which the ancestor s qualities are mentioned. He may be associated with
some historical event, or with some message or observation. This portion
of the dirge can be short or long according to the theme chosen. This is
followed by a break, a point at which the dirge name of the deceased is
inserted. In other words, until this point the dirge can be used for any
member of the group associated with the ancestor, but the insertion of the
dirge name ties the poem to a particular individual. After the dirge name,
the formal part of the poem can be ended, often with the theme of the place
of origin and domicile. ”y linking them both to the same place, the ancestor
mentioned in the opening and the deceased just referred to by his dirge
name are brought together. The dirge may stop at this point, but if the
mourner wishes she can extend it by adding her own reflections in rather
less conventional style.
Type ‘A’ dirges, then, can be seen to fall into four sections—(a) opening,
(b) subject, (c) insertion, (d) close, followed by an optional addition, (e) the
extension. The structure can be illustrated in the following example:
(a) Karikari Poti of Asumegya.

(b) When I am on the way, do not let me meet
Gye-me-di, the terror.
It is Karikari Poti, Gye-me-di, the terror
That spells death to those who meet him.
(c) Pampam Yiadom ”oakye “kum-ntem.
(d) Grandchild of Karikari Poti hails from Asumegya Santemanso

Where the leopard roars and comes to town for its prey.
(e) O, mother,
(What of) Your children and I.
O, mother,
Your children and I will feed on the spider,
The mouse is too big a game. Nketia
Though dirges of the other three types are somewhat less stereotyped,
similar detailed analyses could be made of their conventional structure.
Type ” is made up of a series of short stanzas which can follow each
other in any order and are themselves structured according to certain
conventional patterns. An example of this type is the three-stanza dirge:
Grandchild of ”oampon of “sokore clan
That walked in majesty amid flying bullets:
Child of a leading Spokesman.
He was an elephant tusk which I was going to use
for carving out a trumpet,
Ofori, child of Konkonti.
Father Apau that overpowers bullets:
Offspring of Nkwamfo Abredwom.
Alas! Death gave me no warning
so that I might get ready.
Mother will go: she has not come back yet.
I shall follow her. Nketia
Type ‘C dirges are constructed on cumulative linear stanzas, sometimes

marked off by a reflection or statement—a simple style often used for
ordinary people. Such a dirge might open
Grandchild of Minta that hails from Dunkesease.
Grandchild of Obeeko “samoa that hails from ”onkaben.
Grandchild of Obiyaa that hails from “borodesu. Nketia
and so on through a dozen lines or so. Even in these very simple dirges
emotion is aroused through the connotations of the names introduced.
Some women, however, do not consider this type to possess much appeal
or depth and instead prefer type ‘D’ dirges. This type, while not possessing
the dignity of the first two, has the attraction of giving more scope to the
mourner’s individual emotions and reflections. The conventional themes
are included but may be woven into the dirge as the individual singer
wishes. ‘Grandchild of grandsire Kwaagyei’ quoted earlier is one example
of this type. Another is part of a dirge sung by a Cape Coast woman for her
mother, a poem which begins lightly and gains depth as the sorrow of the
mourner grows in intensity:
Mother! Mother!
Aba Yaa!
You know our plight!
Mother! you know our plight.
You know that no one has your wisdom.
Mother, you have been away long.
What of the little ones left behind?
Alas!
Who would come and restore our breath,
Unless my father Adorn himself comes?
Alas! Alas! Alas!
Quite often it is a struggle for us!
It is a long time since our people left.
Amba, descendant of the Parrot that eats palm nuts, hails from the Ancestral
chamber.
I cannot find refuge anywhere.
I, Amba Adoma,
It was my grandfather that weighed gold
And the scales broke under its weight.
I am a member of Grandsire Ksse’s household:
We are at a loss where to go:
Let our people come, for we are in deep distress.
When someone is coming, let them send us something.
Yes, I am the grandchild of the Parrot that eats palm nuts Nketia
A final example of this type illustrates how the conventional themes and
stock terms of address can be woven together into an original piece by the
mourner in which she can dwell at length on the deceased and her own
state. It was sung for a Mass Education Officer who died in , and is
in the form of a continuous poem with two slight breaks after ‘father on
whom I wholly depend’:
Valiant Owusu,
The stranger on whom the citizen of the town depends,
Father, allow my children and me to depend on you
So that we may all of us get something to eat,
Father on whom I wholly depend.
When father sees me, he will hardly recognize me.
He will meet me carrying an old torn mat and a horde of flies.
Father with whom I confer,
My children and I will look to you.

Father on whom I wholly depend.
Killer-of-hunger,
My saviour,
Father the slender arm full of kindness,
Father the Rover whose footprints are on all paths. Nketia
Certain types of dirges are considered suitable for particular occasions—

types “ and ” , for instance, are held to be more dignified and thus
appropriate for royal funerals—but at any funeral the mourner is free to
sing whichever kind she prefers.
The detailed linguistic style and delivery of dirges are also discussed
by Nketia Chs. , . The diction is marked by the great frequency
of keywords throughout the poems, terms closely associated with the main
themes already mentioned. Thus there is constant use of personal names,
names of places and sources of drinking water, kinship terms and terms of
address, and, finally, terms referring to an individual’s clan or paternal group.
Certain verbs of identification are also particularly common, for example, ne
(to be) and firi (to come from),6 which occur in conjunction with the theme
of the ancestor and of the place of domicile. ”esides these keywords, all part
of the mourner’s stock-in-trade from which she constructs her dirge, there
are also conventional expressions used to describe someone’s attributes
or express farewell or condolence. The deceased or his ancestor may be
described and praised by such set phrases as ‘fount of satisfaction’, ‘the big
cooking pot’, ‘large breast’, or ‘friend Adu: one on whom someone depends’.
The mourner may also refer to her despair and sense of loss by using verbs
which mean ‘to get dark’, ‘to be flooded’, ‘to be homesick or hungry for a
person’, or nouns like ‘coolness’, ‘darkness’, or ‘empty house’.
Many conventional arrangements form part of the artistic style. These
include name clusters, repetitions of key-words, and such combinations
as, for instance, ‘Asim Abenaa’s grandchild-and-my-mother comes from
Ahensan’, which follows the common pattern by which the term nana
(grandchild) is combined with personal names, kinship terms, and the
verb firi (come from). Similar conventions can be observed in the structure
of sentences. Of the varying patterns, the most common is a construction
with a front-placed nominal, that is, sentences opening with a name or
name cluster—as in ‘Ano Yaa Kani whose kola tree bears fruit out of season’
6 Many other examples of such conventional collocations are given in Nketia as part of
his detailed picture of linguistic conventions in dirges Nketia .
or ‘Asim Abenaa of Ahensan, the Queen of old in whose vessels we grind

millet’. This placing of names at the start of sentences is a characteristic
feature of the language of Akan dirges and forms a conventional basis on
which chains of reference can be built up.
Apart from these specialized syntactical forms and certain obscure
names and figurative expressions, the language of dirges is relatively
straightforward. Indeed the style as a whole is often simple and the main
units within the dirge (the stanzas) tend to be short, in keeping with the
circumstances of the performance. The compressed and allusive expression
can also be connected with this names and historical events, for example,
are referred to briefly rather than described or narrated in full. ”y these
means, in spite of the ordinary language and short span of the poem, a
whole range of highly charged impressions can be conveyed.
When the prosody of Akan dirges is considered, it is clear that there is no
even beat in a piece as a whole, though there is a scattered use of prosodic
patterns of various kinds throughout the poem. Stress is not significant
and there is no systematic use of tones or syllables. There is, however, a
diffused occurrence of tonal and phonological patterns. These depend on
the nature of the lines or linear units in dirges. These units are relatively
easily identified through a number of phonological and grammatical forms
which mark them off, such as a concluding particle (ee, oo), pause, or sob
parallel formation within a line break in sequence marked by repetition or
pronoun referring back and occasional end-patterning frequently tonal .
Within linear units there is often repetition of single phonological terms
(as, for instance, the s in the line Osoro se meresen asase), of syllables and
groups of syllables in words (e.g. Sakrabutu onye butufoo), or of words
or segments (e.g. Yese yenni nton, yenni abusua). Repetitions of tone
patterns also occur within lines for example, in the line odehye damfoo boo
dam, the high tone dam is in each case preceded by a low tone, and the
repetition of the low-high sequence is noticeable. Within groups of lines
similar repetitions can be observed: whole lines may be repeated, the first
or second halves of succeeding lines may be identical, or there may be cross
repetitions with the word or words in the end position appearing again at
the beginning of the following line. This ‘prosody of repetition’, which is
copiously illustrated by Nketia, fulfils some of the functions of rhythm and
brings out the poetic style conventionally associated with Akan dirges.
This poetic flavour is further marked by the musical features of
the dirge. It is true that, for the Akan, the verbal content of the dirge is
paramount Nketia quotes the remark that it is not so much the beauty of
the voice as the depth of the verbal forms, in particular the range of the
praise appellations that counts’.2 However, musical aspects of form and
performance also play some part in the artistry of the dirge as actually
heard Nketia , esp. Ch. .
There are two different ways of singing dirges. The first is to adopt a
type of wailing voice in which the words of the dirge are ‘spoken’ and
the contours of the melody reflect the speech contours of the performer,
sometimes accompanied by a few tuneful fragments. There are special
musical conventions for the treatment of interjections, and this type of
delivery also gives scope for the use of the sob, which is often uttered on
the syllable hi and rapidly repeated perhaps five or six times. The other
form is more purely musical. A fairly normal singing voice is used, with
melodic contours resembling those of songs. However, there is a general
tendency for dirge melodies to begin high and move down to a low
resting point at the close. There are some traditional tunes associated with
fragments of dirges, but in the main, whichever musical mode she employs,
the singer makes up her own tunes as she goes along. Unlike many other
types of songs, the rhythm of Akan dirges is free in the sense that there
is no handclapping or percussion accompaniment to the singing, nor is it
intended for dancing. This, in conjunction with the fact that the mourner
herself acts as both soloist and chorus, gives the individual mourner greater
scope to treat the subject in her own manner, without reference to others
present, and to express her own feelings in the words and melodies she
chooses.
IV
The occasions of the Akan dirge are easily described. It is a literary form
expressly composed and performed for the occasion of a funeral and it
takes its place alongside such other social expressions as drumming, the
firing of guns, singing, wailing, and speaking. Indeed, some of Nketia’s
informants were unwilling or unable to reproduce their dirges apart from
the stimulation of an actual funeral as they frequently explained, they
could not utter the words of the dirge without shedding tears or fasting’
Nketia .
Funerals are important and memorable events among the Akan. They
usually open with the preparation of the corpse, a stage at which no dirges
are sung. In the second phase of public mourning, however, dirge singing
is a central part of the proceedings. As Nketia describes it:
From among the confused noises will be heard the voice of many a woman
mourner singing a dirge in pulsating tones in honour of the dead or his
ancestors or some other person whose loss she is reminded by the present
death, for ‘One mourns one’s relation during the funeral of another
person’ . . . The dirge is made the culminating point of the preparation for
the funeral as well as the beginning of public mourning. Grief and sorrow
may be personal and private, nevertheless Akan society expects that on the
occasion of a funeral they should be expressed publicly through the singing
of the dirge. Nketia
During this stage the women who sing the dirges pace about among those
attending the funeral, pausing before the corpse or the chief mourners.
Though there is no dancing to dirges, the singer makes gestures and
gracefully rocks her head to add to the pathos of what she sings, and, like
the chief mourners, she too is expected to fast as a sign of the sincerity of
her anguish. There is great freedom as to how and what any performer
sings, for dirges are not normally an organized performance, so that the
individual can draw on her own resources and originality to express and
evoke the emotion she is expected to feel. As the funeral ceremonies go
on, the dirges tend to become fewer and fewer, partly because the singers
become worn out by the physical and emotional strain of fasting, anguished
lament, and pacing about the public gathering. Nevertheless, occasional
dirges are heard from time to time until the end of the funeral:
The funeral dirge is heard with diminishing frequency and from fewer and
fewer mourners, though it rarely ceases until the funeral is over. A sudden
outburst is heard from time to time from a relation while all others may be
resting. And so the funeral goes on until after the third day of the event of
death when fasting and mourning cease Nketia .
The funeral is sometimes followed by remembrance ceremonies some

weeks after the death some dirges are sung on these occasions, but they
play a relatively minor part.
Very occasionally dirges are heard outside the context of a funeral. ”ut
funerals remain the conventional setting, and at them dirges are obligatory.
In this context the dirge is, above all, a means of praising the dead person.
He is honoured and mourned, and, as well, the general links between the
past and present, the living and the dead, are brought out in stock themes.
The sorrow felt by the mourners at the funeral is not only expressed in this
conventional form, but can actually be heightened by a skilled singer who
evokes the pathos of the situation through her passionate utterances. These
dirges, in fact, form the mainstay of any funeral particularly at the outset it
is only towards the later stages that the dirges of the women are reinforced
and finally replaced by music and dancing.
The Akan funeral dirge is a conventional medium of expression, with
its own canons of form, theme, and delivery as well as its own traditional
occasion when it is performed. There are certain stock forms of phraseology
which are regarded as obligatory, and errors in these are quickly corrected.
Nevertheless, within these limits both variations and scope for individual
creativeness are possible. Traditionally all Akan girls were expected to
learn how to sing and compose dirges. They had to master the traditional
themes and language, but when performing they were free to exercise their
individual tastes and express their own sentiments. The dirges are thus
both fixed and flexible. For the Akan the funeral dirge is a form recognized
not only for its clear social importance but also for its aesthetic merit. Far
from being random or wholly spontaneous, the Akan dirge has its own
complex and sophisticated conventions, a literary tradition at the service of
the individual composer.
7. Religious Poetry
Introductory. Didactic and narrative religious poetry and the Islamic

tradition; the Swahili tenzi. Hymns, prayers, and incantations: general
survey; the Fante Methodist lyric. Mantic poetry: Sotho divining praises;
odu Ifa (Yoruba).
There is a great variety of religious poetry in Africa. There are hymns,

prayers, praises, possession songs, and oracular poetry, all with their
varying conventions, content, and function in different cultures. They
range from the simple one- or two-line songs of Senegalese women in
spirit possession rituals1 or the mystical songs of Southern Rhodesia with
their many nonsense words (Tracey 1929: 99). to the specialized hymns to
West African deities or the elaborate corpus of Ifa oracular literature which
is so striking a phenomenon among the Yoruba of Southern Nigeria. We
should also take account of the prevalence in certain areas of the religious
literature associated with the influence of the world religions in Africa.
There is the Arabic-influenced poetry of the Swahili in East Africa and of
Islamized peoples such as the Fulani or Hausa in the northern portions of
West “frica the ecclesiastical poetry, associated with the Coptic Church, of
the dabteras of Ethiopia and, from less ancient origins, hymns and lyrics
arising from the recent impact of Christian missions in many parts of the
continent.2 In these cases it is common for a written tradition of religious
literature to coexist, and to some extent overlap, with an oral tradition.
There are three main ways in which poetry can be regarded as being
religious. Firstly, the content may be religious, as in verse about mythical
G. ”alandier, Femmes possedees et leurs chants , Présence qfr. , .

On Ethiopia see Chadwicks iii, ff. and further references given in Ch. . On
Islamic and Christian poetry see below.
It is because of this overlap that I have not thought it inappropriate to include some
consideration of the largely written religious poetry in Swahili.
actions of gods or direct religious instruction or invocation. Secondly, the

poetry may be recited by those who are regarded as religious specialists.
Thirdly, it may be performed on occasions which are generally agreed to
be religious ones. These three criteria do not always coincide. Hymns, for
example, may have definite religious content and be sung on religious
occasions, but they may or may not be performed by religious experts
oracular poetry may be recited by priests (as in Yoruba divination) but
neither the content nor the occasion be markedly religious and didactic
verse, like that of the Swahili, may have a theological content and be recited
by specialists but not, it seems, be performed on particularly religious
occasions. I do not want to propose any strict definition of religion here the
reader may exclude any examples that seem to him to be only marginally
religious or include certain types of poetry such as ‘lyric’ or ‘dirges’ that
have been treated in other chapters. However, I am not including here
poetry that is religious only in the sense that it is performed on ‘ritual’
occasions such as the ceremonies to do with initiation,4 marriage, or death.
Figure . Limba girls initiation Coming Out . The young girls line up with whitened
faces to show off their new singing and dancing skills all spectators join in the choruses.
”iriwa, Sierra Leone, photo Ruth Finnegan .
See, for example, some of the initiation texts given in Dieterlen .

Dirges are considered in Ch. , marriage and initiation songs, etc., mentioned in Ch.
some further references on initiation songs are given in Ch. 8.
7. Religious Poetry 167
I
Though didactic and narrative elements are sometimes found in a
rudimentary form in the invocations and divination literature that will
be discussed later, they do not typically appear in Africa as developed
poetic forms. ‘Myths’ tend to appear in prose rather than verse6 and the
songs embedded in them are not usually independent enough to count
as narrative religious poems in themselves. Histories sometimes appear
in verse with certain religious overtones—as, for instance, the Akan drum
history quoted in Chapter 17—and praise and elegy for dead ancestors
may in a sense be both religious and narrative but the religious aspect
does seem to be somewhat secondary in terms of content, occasion, and
performer. The same is true for the poems associated with initiation and
other rituals—when these are religious in content they are more concerned
with invocation or praise than any explicitly didactic interest.
Islamic verse is the exception. In the areas where Arabic models have
been influential through the tradition of Islam, religious poetry, often in
written form, occurs with a pronounced homiletic and sometimes narrative
emphasis. Such religious poetry occurs, for instance, among the Hausa and
others in West Africa. Although written in the local language, it is often
directly influenced by the Arabic models and contains many Arabic words
and sentiments.7 These poems typically open with some such invocation as
In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful and may the peace of
God be upon him after whom there is no prophet
and continue in a didactic fashion about, for example, the deceitfulness

of this life, Heaven, Hell, pilgrimage to Mecca, exhortations to follow
Mohammed, or prayers for divine assistance. This religious literature
is a specialist form, often with named authors learned in Islam, and for
its composition and propagation it relies primarily on the written word.
Nevertheless, it is not totally divorced from the oral tradition, and there
are instances of these religious poems being transmitted both orally and
Though see the discussion in Ch. ff.

Migeod ii, , Ch. . On Hausa, see C. H. Robinson, Specimens of Hausa Literature,
Cambridge, Tremearne Paden “. Mischlich, Religiöse und
weltliche Gesänge der Mohammedaner aus dem Sudan , Afrika [”erlin] . . On similar
Fulani instances in various parts of West “frica see e.g. ”a Pfeffer Monod
E. F. Sayers, In Praise of the Faith of Futa and a Warning to Unbelievers a
Fula Poem with Introductory Note and Translation’, Sierra Leone Studies o.s. ,
Lacroix Mohamadou . On Songhai, ”. Hama, L esprit de la culture sonrhaïe ,
Presence afr. / , .
through writing it is not always clear how they began. “n example is The
song of ”agauda . This is a long Hausa poem said to be of great antiquity
which runs to over twenty pages in the Hausa text. It includes a prelude
doxology and eulogy of Mohammed , a list of Hausa kings, and a long
homily on the frailty of this world, expressed in a form typical of Islamic
tradition with eschatological material from the Koran and the conventional
stock of images it closes with rulings on points of Muslim law. The whole
is set in a free form of a classical Arabic metre and rhyme system (qasida
form, wafir metre and rhyme throughout in zva). In spite of its length and
form, this primarily religious poem seems to have flourished in both oral
and literate forms. Hiskett, its recent editor, was able to collect a text from
an old Hausa woman and reports that it is also sung by beggars.8
The same sort of phenomenon appears in Swahili in East “frica. Here
too there is a strong written tradition which includes religious poetry. It
can be traced directly to Arabic models.9 This literary tradition goes back
something like three hundred years and was a medium of expression
which had its origin in the Muslim religion, although it was later used for
secular verse. ”oth Islam and the “rabian models used for its expression
may have had their origin outside the area: but the tradition came to
be a national Swahili one, influenced and moulded by the genius of the
Swahili language and culture. ‘Verse composition after the Arabian pattern
involved the question of pride in Swahili origins it revealed knowledge of
Arabian life and of Islam, a sure guarantee for the highest prestige among
the Swahili people Harries .
There are many different types of Swahili verse, but they can roughly
be divided into the shorter lyric forms and the much longer didactic or
narrative poems called tenzi (sing. utenzi northern dialect tendi/utendi). The
first form is closely related to oral traditions and appears sometimes in
written, sometimes in oral form: it is ‘not easy to classify definitely into
literary and popular sections Werner . The tenzi, however,
depend much more on a written form sometimes indeed they are said to
M. Hiskett, The Song of ”agaudu a Hausa King List and Homily in Verse , BSOAS
, .
9 A great deal of work has been done on this written literature. There is a general
discussion with examples original and translation in the recent books by Harries
Harries , supplemented by the bibliographic material in the review by J. Knappert
in Afr. Studies , , and Knappert b , as well as in earlier writings by ”(ttner,
Velten, Werner, Allen, Dammann, and others (see bibliography under ‘Swahili’ in IAI
Bibliography “ by R. Jones, East “frica, and M. van Spanndonck, Practical and
Systematical Swahili Bibliography, Leiden, .
be written as much for the eye as for the ear, and there seems to be less of
an overlap between the written and oral forms of such Swahili poems than
with the corresponding forms in Hausa. Nevertheless, though in the first
instance the tenzi were written, they were designed for public performance
they were chanted aloud, sometimes by the composer himself, to musical
accompaniment Harries . “nd it seems clear that the existence of
such a wide-spread and valued tradition must have had a profound effect
on the whole Swahili literary tradition, oral as well as written.10
Swahili tenzi11 are long religious poems containing either homiletic
material or a narrative treatment of the deeds of Muslim heroes, including
the deeds of war. More recently other secular material has also been
included, but the main emphasis is still strongly Islamic. The poems are
marked by deep religious inspiration, and the conventional opening,
whatever the subject, is a praise of God and his prophet. The narratives
are based, more or less closely, on “rabian traditions however, the models
do not seem to have been followed exactly, and in the case of tenzi based
on the general prose accounts of events relating to the Prophet, the poets
were free to treat this material as they wished. To mention just a few, such
narrative tenzi include accounts of the deeds of Job, Miqdad, or Joseph, a
dispute between Moses and Mohammed as to which is the greater, the
epic of Heraclios depicting the legend of a Holy War against the ”yzantine
Christians, and a popular version of the death of the Prophet.
A typical example of the way in which a religious tone pervades the
narrative can be seen in the Utendi wa Ras al- Ghuli, the story of Ras al-ghul.
This deals with the adventures of the Prophet’s Companions when they
were avenging a Muslim woman whose children had been killed by a pagan
king. The events are set in Arabia and the poem opens in characteristic
form with praise of God and a description of the copyist’s materials and
methods. It continues:
Take down the beginning of the story / One day, we understand, / there
appeared the ”eloved / Our Prophet the ”ringer of News.
At his coming forth, the Trusted One / went to the mosque / there inside the
building / at the time of dawn.
10 See, for instance, the modern Swahili ballad published in P. Lienhardt 1968, which,
though purely oral, is in the traditional utenzi form. In some areas, e.g. Pemba, the
connection with oral tradition seems to have been even closer see Whiteley .
11 This section is mainly based on Harries , Ch. , which contains a convenient
synthesis and collection of much of the earlier work on this form of verse. See also
Knappert 1966, 1967.
“fter he had arrived / He called for ”ilali / He called for him to call the people
to prayer quickly / for the time had come.
“nd ”ilali called them to prayer / sending out the cry / and the people heard
/ from the elders to the children.
And the Companions met together / all of them together / both Ali and
Othman / as well as Shaikh Umar.
The leading Helpers / they were all present / with no one absent / and so “bu
”akr was there also.
When all had arrived / the Prophet came forward / to lead the people in prayer
/ with a high voice.
After they had prayed / giving thanks to the Glorious God / the Companions
with Shaikh “li / and the congregation of the Helpers.
They were inside the mosque / studying the holy books / when almost at once
/ they discerned a cloud of dust.
The Companions watched / and saw people coming / all riding camels / the
number of them being ten.
They were coming in a hurry / and on arriving at the mosque / they proceeded
to dismount / watering the camels.
And the leader of the party / a woman of distinction / giving greeting / and
asking for the Prophet.
She spoke straightway / saying, Where is the Prophet / the ”eloved of the
Glorious God? / Show me without delay.
She said, Where is the Prophet / the beloved of the ”eloved / our Prophet
Muhammad / who sets at nought the infidels?
Show me the Exalted One / the Prophet of the ”ountiful God / I have come an
oppressed person / that I may give him my news Harries
The woman gives a long account of her suffering, then the miraculous
events of the story are recounted, ending with the victory of the Prophet
and his friends over the pagans.
Popular epics of this kind were intended for public performance. They
‘were meant to amuse and elevate the uneducated masses who liked to see
their religious, social, and political ideals realized in the history of former
times’, and ‘occasionally it is still possible to find a utendi being intoned in
public on the veranda of a house. Public recital ensured that at least the gist
of the story would reach the ears of the ordinary man Harries , .
The shorter homiletic tenzi were intended for a more limited audience
and were often directed at younger members of the community as
instruction in religious and social behaviour. The most famous of these is
the seventy-nine-line Inkishafi, ‘Revelation’, a poem composed in the early
nineteenth century on the theme that all men must die, the glory of this
world passes away, and we await judgement in the next world. The poet
meditates on the transitoriness of life and the danger of eternal damnation,

and looks into his own heart—for the title really implies the revealing or
uncovering of his own heart and soul. Another well-known didactic poem
is Utendi wa Mwana Kupona, a mother’s instructions to her daughter about
her wifely duties. Even such household instructions are permeated with
religious sentiments:
“ttend to me my daughter / unworthy as I am of God s award / Heed my last
instructions / for it may be that you will apply yourself to them.
Sickness has seized upon me / and has now lasted a whole year / I have not
had a chance to utter / a word of good advice to you.
Come forward and set yourself / with ink and paper / I have matters at
heart / that I have longed to tell you.
Now that you are near / Write, In the Name of God / name of Him and the
”eloved / together with his Companions.
When you have thus acknowledged / the Name of God the Mighty / then let
us pray for His bounty / as God shall deem fit for us.
A son of Adam is nought / and the world is not ours / nor is there any man /
who shall endure for ever.
My child, accept my advice / together with my blessing / God will protect you
/ that He may avert you from evil.
Take this amulet that I give you / fasten it carefully upon a cord / regard it as a
precious thing / that you may cherish it with care.
Let me string for you a necklace / of pearls and red coral / let me adorn you as
a beautiful woman / when it shines upon your neck.
For love let me give you a clasp / a beautiful one without flaw / wear it upon
your neck / and you shall perceive benefits.
While you shall hold to my counsel / my child, you shall escape trouble / you
shall pass through this world / and cross over to the next.
Harries
After this affectionate opening, the mother goes on to instruct her

daughter as to her religious duties, her duties to her husband, household
management, and kindness to the poor, followed by her own confession of
faith as a Muslim. It concludes:
Read, all you women / so that you may understand / that you may bear no
blame / in the presence of God the Highest.
Read, you who are sprouts of wheat / obey your menfolk / so that you may not
be touched by the sorrows / of the after-life and of this.
She who obeys her husband / hers are honour and charm / wherever she shall
go / her fame is published abroad.
She who composed this poem / is one lonely and sorrowful / and the greatest
of her sins / Lord, Thou wilt her forgive. Harries
In form the tenzi are modelled on Arabic poetry. Each line is divided into
four parts (sometimes written as separate lines), of which the first three
rhyme and the fourth acts as a terminal rhyme throughout the poem. This
terminal rhyme is often a double vowel, and though these do not always
rhyme to our ears (they may be -iya, -eya, -ua, -owa, etc.), added length
can be given to both of the vowels in actual reading or recitation. There is
a conventional dialect in which tenzi are written, but, unlike the involved
syntax of lyrics, the narrative is expressed in a straightforward manner. The
stock themes and form—in particular the opening prayers and invocations
to God, the great emphasis on the frailty of this world, exhortations to
religious duty, and the torment of the wicked—are strikingly similar to the
corresponding Hausa ones from the other side of the continent.
This tenzi form has by no means lost its popularity in East Africa. It
frequently appears in the vernacular press, now mainly written in the
Roman as distinct from the traditional Arabic Swahili script. It is now also
sometimes employed as a vehicle for Christian rather than Islamic doctrine,
as in the utenzi reported by Knappert in which passages from the Gospel
have been cast in the traditional epic style,12 or for political expression
as in the utenzi about Nyerere’s life, recited in his presence following his
inauguration as President in . As has frequently been pointed out,
this form of verse, with its conventional prosody and themes, ‘lends itself
to indefinite longueurs Werner in the hands of a poetaster but,
treated by a master, it can result in magnificent epic poetry.
Though the extent and antiquity of the Swahili tradition of religious
verse is probably unparalleled in subsaharan Africa, it is proper to remind
ourselves that the influence of Islam, unlike that of Christianity, has a
long history in several parts of the continent. The literary tradition that
accompanied it, to a greater or lesser degree in different areas, may be
particularly evident and well documented among such peoples as the
Swahili, Somali, Hausa, Fulani, or Mandingo and have resulted there in
many well-known compositions in the local languages. ”ut it may well
have had an even wider literary impact to an extent that still remains to be
explored.
12 J. Knappert, ‘The First Christian Utenzi: a New Development in Swahili Literature, Afr.
u, Übersee 47, 1964.
Z. Himid, Utenzi wa Muheshimiwa Rais wa Tanzania . . [Epic of the Hon. the
President of Tanzania, Sept. , Swahili , .
II
Apart from Islamic verse the most common type of religious poetry in Africa
seems to be the hymn. A common feature of this form is that the religious
content consists of invocation or supplication rather than narrative, and
is sometimes closely allied to panegyric.14 The detailed subject-matter
and context, however, vary greatly with the differing religious beliefs and
institutions of each people.
It is among certain West African peoples that hymns are developed
in their most specialized form. This is in keeping with the elaborate
pantheon of divinities recognized by such peoples as the Yoruba, Fon,
or Akan. Among the Yoruba, for instance, each divinity has not only his
own specialist priests and customary forms of worship, but also his own
symbolic associations, his iconography, and his literature, including both
myths and hymns.
Thus, for example, the Yoruba divinity Eshu-Elegba (the messenger
deity and ‘god of mischief’) has his own cult of worshippers with their
special rituals and organization. He is represented sculpturally in shrines
according to special conventions which also appear in the insignia worn
by his worshippers and in bas-relief representations, with the recurrent
motifs of a club, whistle, high head-dress, cowries, and the colour black.
The praises of Eshu chanted by his particular worshippers and priests
bring out his paradoxical nature: he is shown as big and small, youngest
and oldest, black and white, ‘one who defies boundaries and limitations
with gay abandon’. His hymns or praises are expressed as a series of
paradoxes:
When he is angry he hits a stone until it bleeds. When he is angry he sits on the
skin of an ant. When he is angry he weeps tears of blood.
Eshu, confuser of men.
The owners of twenty slaves is sacrificing,
So that Eshu may not confuse him.
The owner of thirty ‘iwofa’ [pawns] is sacrificing,
So that Eshu may not confuse him.
Eshu confused the newly married wife.
14 In some cases (e.g. Yoruba oriki) the same term and conventions are used for praises of
both deities and humans in others e.g. South “frican ”antu praise poetry is confined
to humans.
J. Westcott, ‘The Sculpture and Myths of Eshu-Elegba, the Yoruba Trickster’, Africa ,
1962.
When she stole the cowries from the sacred shrine of Oya16
She said she had not realized
That taking two hundred cowries was stealing.
Eshu confused the head of the queen—
And she started to go naked.
Then Eshu beat her to make her cry.
Eshu, do not confuse me!
Eshu, do not confuse the load on my head . . .17
Eshu slept in the house—
”ut the house was too small for him.
Eshu slept on the verandah—
”ut the verandah was too small for him.
Eshu slept in a nut—
At last he could stretch himself.
Eshu walked through the groundnut farm. The tuft of his hair was just
visible. If it had not been for his huge size, He would not have been visible
at all.
Having thrown a stone yesterday he kills a bird today. Lying down, his
head hits the roof.
Standing up he cannot look into the cooking pot.
Eshu turns right into wrong, wrong into right. Gbadamosi and ”eier
The obscure and poetic nature of these Yoruba hymns, concerned more
with praise and allusive imagery than with intercession, can be further
illustrated by another example taken from Verger’s great collection of
Yoruba hymns Verger . This is the hymn to Shango, the powerful and
violent god of thunder, praised in the poem under many different titles.
Only about half of the full text is given:
Logun Leko ne me donne pas tort, que ma parole soit correcte

Lakuo peut brûler toutes les terres
Le tonnerre a brisé la maison de “re père du chasseur Mokin
La mort a amené l éléphant dans la ville . . .
Mon Seigneur qui d une seule pierre de foudre a tué six personnes
Logun Leko qui fait beaucoup de bruit sans rien faire
Très sale et très têtu, gifle le propriétaire de la maison et empoigne l amala
Il le coupe en morceaux, il fait de la tête un remède
Il prend l’enfant têtu et l’attache comme un mouton
Ceint d’un tablier d’argent il entre dans la ville
Sur la tête d’un ose il monte et part
Il se bat comme la tornade dans la ville,
16 Goddess of river Niger, wife of Shango.

17 Metaphor for ‘relatives’.
Il monte en spirale sur un arbre Odan et part

Lorsqu il a tué quelqu un il accroche sa jambe dans un arbre arere
Amugbekun rit sans ouvrir la bouche
”aba Oje Ibadan pénetre dans la brousse et poursuit le danger
Mon seigneur qui coupe une tête comme un regime de noix de palme
Contrariété venue comme le signe Oyeku sur le plateau de Ifa
Mon seigneur qui fait lutter le mari et la femme ensemble . . .
Mon coeur n’est pas perdu, j’irai avec lui Shango
Roi qui prend celui-ci et qui prend celui-la
Il est difficile d’être en sa compagnie
Il dit que pour le propriétaire tout est fini
L’enfant mange tout ce qu’il trouve
Il rit lorsqu’il va chez Oshun
Il reste longtemps dans la maison d’Oya
Ni Ogun ni Shango ne revélent aucun secret
Revenant puissant pour lequel nous roulons le mortier
Léopard qui tue le mouton et se lave avec le sang
Il lorgne brutalement vers le menteur
Le Sorcier Lakin Sokun chauffe la maison avec son souffle (?)
Mon seigneur qui fait se sauver celui qui a raison
Le menteur se sauve avant même qu’il ne lui parle
Léopard père de Timi
Il attend ce qui nous a fait peur
Il les brise par centaines
Il verse tous les gens dans la forge
Mon seigneur, la forge devient le lit de tous les grands
Il se bat sans avoir tort
Il détruit la maison d un autre et y met la sienne derrière
Il a battu deux cents personnes dans la forêt et brise la forêt autour avec son
dos
Il y a beaucoup de debris au-dessus
Orisa qui ayant déjà tué Efun Doyin, veut encore se battre
Lagun se ferme comme une calebasse d’huile
Il monte sur le mouton sans tomber
Résistant comme la racine de tipe
Il monte sur le kapokier et le fait tomber déraciné
Il est sombre, calmement comme l enfant d une femme qui prépare l indigo.
Seulement quelqu’un qui ne touche jamais terre
Il n’y a pas d’os qui ressemble aux dents
Balogun Ede tue les gens
Asusu Masa est amer comme la feuille d’egbesi
Il rit et ne crie pas
Il n y a pas de danger pour moi en présence de Olukoso
Il va en dansant gbangu de Ibadan jusqu’e Oyo . . .
Père de honneur (nom de Shango)
Propriétaire talisman nom de Shango

Il grille les intestins et les mange
Même dans les jours de détresse il y a des récoltes et Shango mange de la pâte
Il tue le père, l’a mis sur l’enfant
Enlève son pénis et le met sur son pantalon
Sa poitrine est brûlante comme la brousse du pied du palmier
Entortillé comme la jambe de l animal semi
Il transforme le pilier d’une maison et le fait devenir immense comme Olokun
Si Olokun est immense Shango également est immense
Il fait brûler le fils de Olumon (Egba) dans le feu de Aragunan
Il écrase le talisman de mon chef de maison
Il prend auprès de ceux qui ne possèdent pas ce que nous lui souhaitons
Il est très sale comme Eshu et se tient, une jambe tendue et l autre pliée
Éléphant qui marche avec dignité
Regardez l éléphant lever aisement une patte guerrière, léopard père de Timi . . .
Il menace le male, il menace la femelle, il menace l’homme important, il
menace le riche
L indiscret qui veut découvrir le secret de Olukoso ne restera pas au monde
Celui qui respecte le secret, mon seigneur lui facilitera les choses
Il prend quelqu’un, il tue quelqu’un
Il danse avec precision en regardant vers le ciel à la dérobée
Aki Rabata danse avec les gens
Il saute hors de la maison si elle brule
Si la maison brûle il sort et rit après . . .
Si la pluie tombe il dit qu’il n’y a pas de feu
Si l’auto arrive que les gens accroupis se lèvent de la route
S éloigner du serpent dont on n a pas coupé la tête
Le feu brûle celui qu’il connait
La pluie mouillant l ortie, éteint son feu Verger
The hymns of some other African peoples are very different from these
elaborate praises of Yoruba gods. Praise may be replaced by an emphasis
on prayer, supplication, or consideration of the relations of man to god(s).
This seems to be true, for instance, of many of the hymns of the Dinka,
a people of the Nilotic group famous for its special type of monotheism,
emphasis on Spirit, and, at the same time, general lack of any developed
priesthood. We can see the reflective nature of the first of two short hymns
quoted by Lienhardt and, in the second, the tone of complaint and demand
characteristic of Dinka hymns. In each ‘Divinity’ is approached directly
and simply, and the poetic effectiveness is created partly through the use
of vivid visual images from the everyday world:
Great ng is near, and some say ‘far’

O Divinity
The creator is near, and some say ‘he has not reached us’ Do you not hear, O
Divinity?
The black bull of the rain has been released from the moon’s byre.18 Do you
not hear, O Divinity?19
I have been left in misery indeed, Divinity, help me!
Will you refuse [to help] the ants of this country?20
When we have the clan-divinity ng
Our home is called ‘Lies and Confusion’.21
What is all this for, O Divinity? “las, I am your child. Lienhardt, 22
When we come to the hymns of the ”ushmen of southern “frica we find

the aspect of supplication taken still further. There are no priests among
the ”ushmen and, for certain northern groups at least, invocations to their
gods are said to take place spontaneously when the thought comes to
them. Consonant with the continual difficulties and scarcities of ”ushman
life, the topics of their invocations are the day-to-day material needs with
which they are preoccupied:
You have created me and given me power to walk about and hunt. Why do
you lead me in the wrong way so that I find no animals?24
In these examples, often characterized by a mixture of mild imprecation

and pleading, the prayer is more marked than the praise or worship often
associated with ‘hymns’. The same emphasis on praying and the demand
for daily needs also comes out in the prayers of some southern ”ushman
groups, where there is a conventional form into which such prayers are
thrown. Each poem, or each of its verses, opens with an invocation to the
moon, sun, or stars Ho Moon lying there or O Star coming there , and so
on. This is followed by a prayer for life (that is, a prayer for food), made the
more intense by the repetition and parallelism of the expression:
Ho Moon lying there,
Let me early tomorrow see an ostrich,
18 The image is of the clouding over of the penumbra of the moon.

19 G. Lienhardt, Divinity and Experience, the Religion of the Dinka, Oxford, .
20 In religious contexts the Dinka often speak of themselves as ‘ants’ in the sight of
Divinity, thus looking at themselves as they may be supposed to appear in the eyes of
Divinity.
21 Meaning that everything is going wrong, since people deceive and distrust each other.
22 This is only part of a complete hymn, but most Dinka hymns seem in fact to be short, a
few lines only.
L. Marshall in J. L. Gibbs (ed.), Peoples of Africa, New York, .
24 Ibid.
As the ostrich sits on the eggs,

Let me whisk out the yolk
With a gemsbok tail hair (brush)
Which sits together upon a little stick
Upon which the gemsbok tail sits. ”leek
A similar pattern can be seen in the famous ‘Prayer to the young moon’:
Young Moon!
Hail, Young Moon!
Hail, hail,
Young Moon!
Young Moon! speak to me!
Hail, hail,
Young Moon! Tell me of something.
Hail, hail!
When the sun rises,
Thou must speak to me,
That I may eat something.
Thou must speak to me about a little thing,
That I may eat.
Hail, hail,
Young Moon! ”leek and Lloyd
The same emphasis on intercession is evident in some of the songs associated

with rain ceremonies in the central “frican area. Here, however, the musical
and dramatic aspects are more pronounced than in ”ushman prayers. “s
with many antiphonal songs, the refrain is assigned to a chorus while the
verses are extemporized by a soloist according to a conventional pattern—a
marked contrast to the lengthy and specialist hymns to West African deities.
This can be illustrated from a Ndau rain song from Portuguese East Africa,
a song in which the antiphonal form is expressively used to indicate the
personal plight of both singer and chorus:
Thunder-of-the-East, we’re dying,

E we iye yo we
And the race will die this season!
E we iye yo we
O ye Highland folk, we perish!
E we iye yo we
O ye Sea-Side folk, we’re dying!
E we iye yo we
Ye Mamboni folk, we perish!
E we iye yo we
Ye Mashangna folk we’re dying:

E we iye yo we
Ye Nyalinge folk, we perish!
E we iye yo we
Thunder-of-the-East, we’re dying!
E we iye yo we. Curtis
It is sometimes supposed that one of the most common forms of conventional

utterance in non-literate society is the spell or incantation—a verse or formula
believed to be magically effective in manipulating people or things. In fact the
evidence from Africa does not seem to suggest that this is often a particularly
significant form of literature. It is true that magical incantations of a kind
do occur—perhaps particularly in the areas most influenced by Islam—and
in some societies are distinguished by a special term from other religious
poetry such as hymns or prayers. ”ut even in these cases this form does not
seem to be developed as a lengthy and specialized form in its own right as it
is, for instance, in Melanesia.26 Even among a people like the Azande who are
so famous for their emphasis on magic and on witchcraft, verse incantations
or spells do not seem to be highly developed: invocation to the poison oracle,
for instance, appears to be in a prose form which, though marked by its own
conventionally elliptical phraseology, is apparently not a set word-perfect
formula. And the songs sung at Zande ‘witch-doctors’ seances’, where we
might expect to find such incantations, are in fact short and relatively simple
like, for instance, ”rush away tears oo eee, we will sit down with her and
brush away tears 27 they deal with a variety of social events unrelated to
magic, just as do songs sung at dances or beer-parties, and they are performed
in the normal antiphonal form with leader and chorus.28
A further general point is that even where there is some element of what
might be termed ‘magic’, this does not necessarily lead to a definite type of
‘magical incantation’. Just as the previously assumed distinction between
‘magic’ and ‘religion’ is now questioned by many students of African beliefs
E.g. Songhai zamu (hymns) are distinguished in terminology, intention, and form from
gyindize (magical formulas) (J. Rouch, La Religion et la magie songhay, Paris, .
26 Or in some literate societies. One of the largest collections of African ‘magical’ texts is
in fact taken from the written tradition of Ethiopia (D. Lifchitz, Textes éthiopiens magico-
religieux, TMIE , .
27 E. E. Evans-Pritchard, Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande, Oxford, .
The songs have more latent meaning than may appear on the surface.
28 Ibid.: 180–2. The use of prose for prayers and magical spells and the lack of a rigid
word-perfect pattern also occur among the Ibo (Green 1948: 841). Some comments on
prose prayers, curses, etc., can be found in Ch. 16. Divination literature is discussed
later in the present chapter.
and practices, so too it emerges that it is often not feasible to differentiate a

clear-cut category of ‘magical’ incantations, spells, and charms as distinct from
‘religious’ poetry involving prayer, praise, invocation, or ritual announcement.
The following two examples may help to illustrate this point. ”oth
are characterized by the kind of rhythmic and expressive diction, further
brought out by the use of repetition, that in fact appears in many forms
of literature but is often thought to be particularly typical of ‘magical’
utterances. The first is taken from the Songhai, a people, long in contact
with Islam, who do distinguish between religious praises and magical
formula. It is a spell used in hunting magic—and yet even here there is
mention of God and of his messenger and prophet, Ndebi:
Je parle avec Ndebi.
Ndebi n’a qu’à parler avec Dieu
Les hommes d avant ont donné à Saley.
Saley a donné à son petit frère.
Ndebi, laisse-moi passer par le trou avec mes captifs et mon poison.
Ndebi, ouvre le trou et referme le trou.
Ndebi, ferme le trou aux Zin.
Ndebi, ferme le trou au lion méchant.
Ndebi, ferme le trou à la hyène méchante.
Ndebi, ferme le trou aux antilopes méchantes.
Ndebi, ferme le trou aux êtres méchants.
Ndebi, ferme le trou aux langues méchantes.
Ndebi, ferme le trou aux frères méchants.29
In the second example, from the Kongo, the ancestors are being thanked
for their help in curing a patient, and are being ritually shown the animals
brought for a feast in their honour these animals are to be in good condition
and not attacked by hostile forces:
May the leopard coming from the forest Have his teeth on edge for these
animals.
May the weasel coming from the forest
”e unable to take these fowls.
May the witch who twists his belongings,
Fail to fascinate our goats.
May the thief on the look-out
Sprain his feet in his course.
Let all these animals prosper
And multiply,
Then the feast will be beautiful.
29 Rouch, op. cit. . Ndebi also appears in many of the other texts cited in idem., Ch. 7
(‘La magie’).
So far, this might seem to accord with the picture of a typical ‘magic
incantation but the speaker continues, addressing the ancestors in whose
honour the whole is uttered:
I have held out my hands to you (in prayer),

And he who holds out his hands dies not. I have shown you the animals of the feast,
And I have brought you no other presents, Except palmwine,
That you may favour the procreation of (human) wealth.
And here are the kola nuts I brought for you.
I am not intending to suggest that references to personal supernatural

beings (such as deities or ancestors) always appear in such utterances, but
that they appear frequently enough to make a general distinction between
‘magical charms’ and hymns or prayers a difficult one to draw. As a result
it is not easy to find many specialized instances of purely ‘magical’ verses.
It seems that the popular picture of all-important and word-perfect magical
formulas, intended to manipulate impersonally through the force of the
words alone, is one that does not often have a real counterpart in any
developed or specialized form in subsaharan Africa.
Another common supposition is that with the advent of Christianity and
its associated literate traditions, the importance of oral religious utterances
will necessarily diminish. The contrary, however, would seem to be
true. It is precisely in the religious sphere that there has been a marked
development of oral forms in lyrics, prayers, and testimonies, each with its
own conventions and techniques. This goes hand in hand with the great
proliferation of native Christian churches and other separatist religious
movements that is so well known a feature of contemporary Africa.
Sometimes these utterances are subsequently reduced to writing or
even make an early appearance in written form: but even in these cases
their spread and significance among their largely non-literate patrons
is often primarily oral. Instances could be drawn from Mau Mau hymns,
from the ‘very Zulu’ modern hymns of the Church of Nazareth, and
from testimonies in various separatist churches in South Africa, which,
even when ‘spontaneous’, have their own conventions and appear as
rhythmic and liturgical chants. One example that has been described
J. Van Wing, ”akongo Incantations and Prayers , JRAI , .

L. S. ”. Leakey, Defeating Mau Mau, London, , Chs. ”. G. M. Sundkler, Bantu
Prophets in South Africa, London, nd edn, Tracey b: 48ff. See also e.g.
R. Kauffman, Hymns of the Wabvuwi , Afr. Music . , ”. Kingslake in ibid. .
, improvised church chants by Yoruba women E. G. Parrinder, Music in
West “frican Churches , ibid. . , P. Jans, Essai de musique religieuse pour
is the lyric in the Fante Methodist Church in Ghana, and I will discuss
this briefly here.
The Methodist Church in Ghana is Western in organization, worship,
and ethos. Nevertheless, certain aspects have been developed which
appeal particularly to non-literate members, above all the Fante lyric which
appears so often in services. There are two main types. In one, words and
music are more or less fixed, though there may be minor variations by the
congregations who actually sing them. The second type falls into the form
of an individual recitative accompanied by a relatively fixed chorus. It is
this second form that gives scope to the highest degree of improvisation.
Though the lyrics sometimes become stereotyped in context, a competent
singer can improvise. He may wind his theme, for instance, round some
reference that has struck him in the sermon just delivered or in a prayer or
reading. Sometimes he will even break into the sermon with a lyric which
is then taken up by others present. In a way typical of much oral literature,
the rest of the congregation also play their part, for they sing the responses
in chorus and are quick to anticipate what is required. Not all members of
a church are themselves competent lyric singers.
It is common for there to be one or two individuals in the congregation,
usually from among the older men and women, who are recognized as song
leaders. A good singer must possess two qualities: an extensive repertoire
of the more familiar lyrics, and a capacity to improvise successfully within
the canons of accepted musical and verbal styles. He thus requires poetic
and musical ability as well as considerable verbal skill. Such lyrics are
important devotionally to the non-literate Fante Methodists and play a
significant part in their religious services. Williamson considers them as
‘simple and sincere expressions of religious belief and experience’ and
contrasts this with the attitude to Western hymns which, even in translation,
are stilted and un-Fante Williamson .
The background to these modern lyrics lies not in the specialist hymns
to deities but rather in certain lyric forms of the oral Akan tradition,
particularly those associated with the asafo military companies, with
indigenes dans le vicariat apostolique de Coquilhatville’, Aequatoria , . These

developments tend to be a feature of the separatist sects rather than of the orthodox
mission churches, and also, it is frequently said, arise from the way in which European
hymn-tunes in mission churches violate indigenous tonal patterns, thus stultifying
further developments.
S. G. Williamson, ‘The Lyric in the Fante Methodist Church’, Africa , see also “.
A. Mensah, ‘The Akan Church Lyric’, Internal. Rev. of Missions, 49, 1960.
the female mmobome and asrayere songs, and perhaps with the adenkum
(calabash) music associated with older rituals. They also recall the practice
in traditional Fante stories of the narration (like the sermon) being
interrupted by a song which acts both as diversion and as commentary. As
with the Methodist lyrics, such songs appear either in regular metrical form
or as recitative with response from the audience. The lyrical aspect of the
church songs comes out particularly in the frequent use of apostrophe and
affirmation linked with the idea of a personal proclamation or recital. Most
of the lyrics are brief and fairly stereotyped in content, as in the following
example of one of the relatively fixed forms. The image of a shower of
blessing suggested in the second line of the Fante text is a traditional one:
Open the windows of heaven, Give us thy blessing! Open the windows of
heaven, Give us thy blessing!
Our Father, Onyame [God]!
Sweet Father of us, the Church membership.
Open the windows of heaven,
Give us thy blessing. Williamson
Although such lyrics are short and simple and tend to be despised by literate
church members, they nevertheless represent a vigorous oral tradition, and
one that has parallels elsewhere. It is one, furthermore, that is now gaining
wider currency in a series of voluntary associations outside the church as
well as through the increasing emphasis on such lyrics in broadcasts by
Radio Ghana. Altogether, this kind of development is one likely to prove a
fruitful field in the future study of oral literature.
III
Mantic poetry represents a different type of religious literature. It can
take several forms. One consists of the utterances of mediums believed by
themselves and/or others to be possessed by some spirit. When oracular
utterances take the from of poetry, they have their own conventions.
However, although possibly widespread in “frica, there have been few
detailed studies of them, perhaps because they tend to be obscurely
expressed in oracular language (sometimes even in a special language
Though see “. V. King, “ ”oorii Liturgy from Katsina , Afr. Language Studies 7, 1966
and Supplement, G. ”alandier, Femmes possedées et leurs chants , Présence
afr, , and work in progress by F. Topan on spirit pepo songs and their role in a
spirit mediumship cult in Mombasa, Kenya.
of their own) or in a fragmentary or repetitive form. On the other hand

the poems that accompany certain divining procedures are of a more
systematized and specialized type and, accordingly, have been more
accessible to collectors. This type of mantic poetry tends to be highly
conventional, with little emphasis on the individual creativity of the
performer a common pattern is for it to be the preserve of specialist
diviners who have undergone training and/or special initiation to master
the techniques of divination and its interpretation, as well as to develop the
ability to recite the requisite poetry. And, finally, there are combinations
of these two types, when both possession and more conventional forms of
divination are involved.
Two examples of the more specialized divination literature will be
illustrated here. The examples come from opposite ends of the continent:
the praises associated with divining bones among the Sotho of southern
Africa, and the highly elaborate Ifa corpus of literature from West Africa.
i Praises of divining bones among the Sotho

In Sotho divination an integral part is played by the ritual chants or praises
(lithoko direto) associated both with the bones used in divination and with
each of the special combinations formed by these bones when thrown by
a diviner. Mastery of these oracular poems depends on long training and
initiation, and the diviner must know a large number of them before he can
practise his art.
The general pattern of divination and its associated literature seems
to be constant throughout the Sotho area, though the actual poems differ
according to the locality. The divining apparatus itself consists of a set
of bones from various animals including cattle. As the diviner begins his
session, he handles the bones and praises them, saying, for instance:
You my white ones, children of my parents, Whom I drank from mothers’

breasts! And you many coloured cattle Whom I knew when still on mother’s
back, From whose hoofs these chips were cut Hoofs of cattle black and red
and yellow. Eiselen,
I am not proposing to discuss here the specialized invocations sometimes made to

oracles before the results of the query are declared. Further remarks on prose prayers,
etc., are to be found in Ch. 16.
”ased on W. M. Eiselen, The “rt of Divination as Practised by the ”amesemola , Bantu
Studies , F. Laydevant, The Praises of the Divining ”ones among the ”asotho ,
ibid. , “. W. Hoernlé in I. Schapera ed. , The Bantu-speaking Tribes of South Africa,
London, .
Each of the four principal bones in the set (four to twenty in all) has special
significance as well as its own name and praises. After praising his bones
the diviner makes a throw and notices how the four principal bones have
fallen the first two have four sides each and can thus fall in any of four
ways the second pair are counted as having only two each. Each of these
many combinations has a special ‘praise’ associated with it which the
diviner then recites. This consists of a title, a poem which is interpreted as
alluding to the questioner’s problem, and a direct or indirect suggestion as
to the remedy that should be employed. After the recitation, the questioner
is led to agree that the verse recited fits his case Laydevant, .
The enigmatic and allusive nature of these oracular poems can be
illustrated from the praise entitled ‘The swimming (fall) of the sunbird’, a
poem which illustrates a particular ‘fall’ of the four principal bones. It can be
seen how the symbolic expression is susceptible of several interpretations
and is not concerned with direct literal prediction:
Sunbird, secret and daring.
When you take a bit of straw,
And say you imitate the hammerkop.
The hammerkop nobody can imitate.
It is the bird of those who take a new garment in the deep waters.
It is taking bits of straw one by one’.
It is building above the pools.
The little sunbird should not fall.
It falls and makes phususu in the pools.
It is the patient one sitting at the drift.
The sins are passing and you see them.
The reed of the river is mocking at the reed of the plain.
It says: When the grass is burning.
The reed of the plain is laughing at the reed of the river,
It says When the rivers get full. Laydevant
One interpretation of the verse is that people are trying to kill the questioner
by lightning because of his wealth and good luck they accuse him of
imitating a chief and say he must fall. To protect himself he is told to get
a feather of a hammerkop, sunbird, or one of the yellow sparrows living
in the reeds, ‘a feather of the lightning’, which will guard him. Further
allusions are suggested to a Sotho listener, not all of them directly connected
with the diviner’s interpretation: the hammerkop is not only commonly
associated with lightning, but is also an accepted symbol of power, while
the reeds symbolize the common people quarrelling together because of
jealousy the image of the sunbirds falling into the water is an allusion to
the circumcision rites of Sotho girls Laydevant .
Jealousy and discord are very common themes. In the fall named ‘The
Fame of the Lamp’ the diviner alludes, through the image of an elephant,
to a chief who is spreading enmity between his sons while even the nation
takes part in the quarrel. It is suggested that the people must be treated
with medicine from the horn:
O female elephant,
O elephant, I have become blind,
O elephant, I have entered secretly.
The path of the enemy was red
There was blood, there was disorder.
Shake the ear, you running elephant.
That the others should grow and remember your name. Laydevant
The next verse briefly and effectively pictures the hatred between a man’s
co-wives. One of them feels she is persecuted on account of the others, and
she is given medicine to help her by the diviner:
Child of the tortoise, I am burning, I suffered in my heart,

On account of my smallness of being a tortoise. Laydevant
Again, ‘The Famous Masibo (a plant) of the Swimming’:
Swim on the deep waters, lie upon them.

They have no hippo and no little things.
They have no beast of prey biting whilst it moves,
And coiling itself in a corner.
Only the little hippos are swimming.
The big ones do not swim any more.
They rip open and throw out their backs.
Why are the crocodiles quarrelling in the water?
They are quarrelling on account of an old crocodile,
Of many talks in the water.
Which says I do not bite, I only play
I shall bite the year after next.
When the mimosa and the willow tree are growing. Laydevant
The crocodile and hippopotamus symbolize the important people who

are spreading misunderstanding between their children. The remedy
prescribed is to use certain plants, among them the willow tree and the
mint.
Other topics introduced are problems about going on a journey
hunting illness signs of good or bad luck. ”ut the obscure and symbolic
character of the poems is noticeable in every context, and there is a tendency
for both poems and interpretations to be concerned less with definite

predictions than with commenting allusively on some facet of personal
relationships. Thus illness is usually dealt with not by predicting a cure
or its opposite, but by suggesting the possible enmities and witchcraft
that may have given rise to it, alluding to this in poetic and figurative
terms. The poems themselves play a central part in the whole divination
process, for it is through the imagery of the poetry that the sufferer can
recognize his own case. In spite of the conventional nature of the poems
there is wide scope for personal interpretations of them in a particular
case, a possibility closely connected with their obscure and allusive
nature. The flexible application of this oracular literature is added to by
the fact that though the poems as a whole seem to be orally transmitted
and memorized (with but slight variations) by the diviners, each diviner
is also free, if he is able, to compose new praises for the various falls,
and ‘is only too glad to show his artistic ability in that kind of poetry’
Laydevant, . Mantic poetry among the Sotho is developed for
its own sake as an artistic form of poetic expression governed by its own
conventions as well as for the light it throws on people’s ills and hatreds.
ii Odu Ifa
The final example of religious poetry is the oracular literature associated
with divination among the Yoruba of Southern Nigeria. Although this
includes prose as well as poetry, it is worth considering here both for its
intrinsic interest and for the way it illustrates the complexity there can be
in African religious literature.
”efore discussing Ifa literature, it is necessary to describe something
of the mechanism and beliefs of the Yoruba divination system. Ifa, the
Yoruba oracle, is one among the pantheon of Yoruba gods, and as such
appears in many (and sometimes contradictory) stories and myths, often
The main sources used are G. Parrinder, West African Religion, London, , Ch. R.
C. Abraham, Dictionary of Modern Yoruba, London, under Ifa ”ascom ,
“bimbola , Gbadamosi and ”eier ff. R. Prince, Ifa, Ibadan, and
Morton-Williams et al. 1966. Full bibliographies can be found in Maupoil 1961 (who
discusses in detail the very similar Fa divination system in Dahomey and ”ascom .
Similar or identical systems are found among the Fon of Dahomey and Ewe of Togo as
well as some other Nigerian peoples. Its elaborateness has led some to speculate about
possible external origins, but it is now generally agreed that Ifa has a long history in
West Africa and that, for recent centuries at any rate, the centre of distribution has been
Yoruba country in Southern Nigeria.
under his alternative title of Orunmila. In one myth, for instance, the gods
are depicted as hungry because they received few sacrifices. The trickster
god, Eshu, then showed Ifa the system of divination so that as a result men
could be helped through the diviners’ skill, while, at the same time, the
gods would benefit through the sacrifices and thank-offerings that human
beings would be commanded to make by their diviners. Ifa has a special
position among the gods. He is both the deity who acts as the intermediary
between men and gods, and also in a sense is the impersonal principle of
divination by which mankind has access to what is otherwise hidden from
them. Ifa thus, as god and as oracle, plays a central part in Yoruba religious
and everyday life:
Ifa is the master of today

Ifa is the master of tomorrow
Ifa is the master of the day after tomorrow
To Ifa belongs all the four days
Created by Orisa into this world. “bimbola
The Ifa divination system is a highly elaborate one. It rests on a series

of mathematical permutations, the principle of which must be grasped
in order to understand the way in which certain pieces of literature are
associated with each of these. The permutations of figures (odu) are based
on two columns of four units each, and the different combinations which
these eight units may form between them. The total number of figures is ,
each with its own name and associated literature. It is only after obtaining
one of the figures to form the basis of his utterance that the diviner can
proceed to the divination itself.
There are two main ways of obtaining the figures. The first, less elaborate
mechanism consists of a chain or cord of eight half-seeds (often split mango
stones), divided into two portions of four half-seeds each. When this is
thrown down by the diviner, the resultant figure makes two columns of
four units each, the exact combination depending on whether the seeds
have fallen convex- or concave-side-up. The other way of obtaining a
figure, a longer method used in important consultations, is with a set of
sixteen palm-nuts and a small board. The diviner throws or passes the nuts
rapidly from one hand to the other. If either one or two nuts are left in the
right hand, the throw is valid and he makes a corresponding mark on his
board: a double mark for one nut, a single for two. The process is repeated
eight times and eight marks are thus made in the dust on the tray these
start from the bottom right-hand side and are laid out in the form of two
parallel columns of four sets of marks each. This gives the same result as the
eight-seed chain, the double mark corresponding to a seed convex-side-up,

a single mark to the concave.
1. ogbe 2. oyeku . iwori 4. odi

I II II I
I II I II
I II I II
I II II I
. irosun 6. owara 7. obara 8. okonron
I II I II
I II II II
II I II II
II I II I
9. ogunda 10. osa 11. ika 12. oturopon
I II II II
I I I II
I I II I
II I II II
. otuwa 14. irete . ose 16. ofun
I I I II
II I II I
I II I II
I I II I
Table showing the names and structure of the columns which form the basis of Ifa
figures (odu) from Parrinder “braham The order of the odu
figures also has some significance in the full divination process. The one here is the
most commonly found, but there are regional variations. see ”ascom
The order of the odu figures also has some significance in the full divination process.
That given here is the order most commonly found, but there are regional variations
see ”ascom .
It is the figure thus produced that determines the diviner’s utterances to

his client. As can be seen from the table, each column of four can fall in any
of sixteen permutations. When the two columns are considered together,
as they are by Ifa diviners, the total number of different figures that can
be produced is × = . Of this number, are the leading figures or
odu proper: these are the combinations of two identical columns. Thus the
double figure based on the column called oyeku and known as oyeku meji
appears as
II II
II II
II II
II II
while the double figure iwori meji, based on the iwori column, is
II II
I I
I I
II II
The remaining 240 figures, those in which the two columns differ, are
considered secondary, and, though often referred to by the same term as
for the principal figures (odu), are strictly omo odu, ‘children of odu’. An
example of one of these secondary odu would be that name iwori gbara,
a combination of the obara and iwori columns (the right-hand one being
named first in the Yoruba title):
I II
II I
II I
II II
Once the diviner has thrown his figure, the divination proper can begin.
Each figure has several pieces of literature (ese) specifically connected with
it, and it is in the words associated with the figure thrown that the answer
to the client’s query must be found. There is no definite number of pieces
for each odu, but a diviner would not normally begin to practise unless he
knew at least four for each (thus involving mastery of at least one thousand
in all good diviners are said to know about eight of the pieces for each
of the figures and many more for the important figures ”ascom
, It is commonly believed that the number of pieces for each figure is
ideally sixteen, in keeping with the mathematical symmetry of the system
as a whole. ”ut there seems to be no such fixed correspondence in actual
practice, and the number and to some extent the content of the verses vary
with individual capacity and with the locality.
The practical point of these pieces is to guide the inquirer by suggesting
a sacrifice or type of worship, by indicating his likely fortune, and by
referring to a precedent from which he can judge his own case. Since
more than one piece can be quoted for whatever figure is thrown, these
are recited at random one after the other, and it is for the client, not the
diviner, to select which applies to his particular case. The consultation
thus proceeds through poetic allusion and analogy rather than through
straight answers to specific questions—and it is this quality which leads to
its development as a corpus of literature and gives depth and meaning to
the bare injunctions with which the divination may open.
The pieces associated with each figure fall into a general pattern. Each
usually opens with a mention of the sacrifices and other actions the client
must carry out to have success. This first part is relatively prosaic it may
run, for instance:
This person is intending to marry a new wife. He is warned to make sacrifice

to Osun so that the wife may be prosperous. He is warned never to flog the
wife if he wants peace in his home. He should make sacrifice with fifteen
cowries and a big hen. Ifa says that if he observes all these warnings, success
will be his “bimbola .
This is followed by the main part of the piece, expressed in poetic language
and sometimes chanted all through. This part is concerned with setting out
a precedent in terms of a previous divination. First often comes the name
of the priest of Ifa who is said to have made the prophecy in the precedent
cited, and the name of the client(s) for whom he was divining—these may
be people, deities, animals, plants, inanimate objects. Thus the client may
be told that on the previous occasion
The-big-and-terrible-Rainbow
Cast Ifa for the Iroko tree
Of the town of Igbo. “bimbola
“nother diviner is referred to as Oropa Niga to fight and stir up dust like
”uffalo parched dust on the top of a rock ”ascom or as T-have-
no-time-to-waste “bimbola . It will be seen that this section
often involves elaborate and poetic names which may have symbolic
meaning. Second in this main part of the piece there usually comes a poem
Praise name of the diviner.

(sometimes elaborated in a prose story) which describes the occasion of the

previous divination. As will emerge from the examples given below, the
subject-matter of this part is most varied. There are variations in length:
sometimes there is only a fragmentary allusion (perhaps not much more
than a poetic proverb), while at others there is a long and dramatic narration.
Finally, the client is told the result of the previous divination described
and thus, indirectly, what he can expect himself. Very often the conclusion
pointedly shows that on the previous occasion the one who performed the
due sacrifices prospered, while the negligent met disaster. Sometimes the
whole recitation is then closed by a chorus which is chanted in unison by
the diviner, his pupils, and the client.
Within this general pattern there is plenty of scope for variation in
the actual pieces recited. They differ greatly in length. Abimbola reports
several that can be recited for more than half an hour, while others take
only one or two minutes “bimbola . The plots and the people
involved in them are also of many different kinds. They include just about
all the topics that can be met in narrative stories throughout the continent.
This great variety is hardly surprising when one considers that even a
mediocre diviner must know at least a thousand of these precedents
with their accompanying verses and stories. They can be about animals,
gods, legendary humans, natural phenomena like rivers or hills, plants,
and even inanimate things like metals or shells, and they may take the
form of a simple story about a man going on a journey, an account of the
founding of a town, a philosophical discussion of the merits and demerits
of monogamy—’there is . . . no limit to the subject-matter which ese Ifa may
deal with “bimbola . The outcome often takes an aetiological
form with the present nature of some plant or animal traced to its imaginary
actions in the story—in particular its obedience or disobedience to the
injunctions laid on it by the oracle its characteristics in the world today
thus provide a kind of imaginative validation of the truth of the story.
The sort of plots involved can be seen from a few brief synopses:40
1. It is because Maizebeer, ”amboo-wine, and Palm-wine refused
to sacrifice that a person who has been intoxicated recovers from
his stupefied condition after sleeping.
2. Lizard was told to make a sacrifice, part of which was to enable
him to marry, and part of which was to ensure that his wife
40 Quoted from the convenient summaries in ”ascom , , .

would continue to love him. Lizard sacrificed only the first part,
and after he had married, his wife left him. It is because he is
looking for his wife in the tree-tops that he raises himself on his
forelegs and peers from side to side.
. When ”rass, Lead, and Iron were told to sacrifice, Iron said that
the diviners were just lying, that events had been predestined
by Olorun [God], and that their course could not be altered by
sacrificing. Only ”rass and Lead sacrificed, and because of this
they can be buried for many years without rotting, while Iron
rusts away in a short time.
4. When the kinds of trees in the forest were told to sacrifice,
only three did as they were told. The others replied that they did
not have enough money. When Eshu [a god] reported this to
the gods, a storm was sent to the forest. It pulled up the larger
trees by the roots, or broke them down but the atari bush and the
ariran and esun grasses, who had sacrificed, simply bent down
while the storm passed over them.
. Orunmila [another name for the god Ifa] was told to include a
knife as a part of a sacrifice, lest he be taken as a thief on a journey
he was considering. He postponed the sacrifice, and when he stole
some kola-nuts on the way, he escaped capture only after having
been cut on the palm of his hand. The owner of the nuts asked
the king to gather everyone together so that he might identify
the thief by this cut. Frightened, Orunmila went to the diviners,
who doubled the sacrifice. While everyone slept Eshu took one of
the knives and cut the palms of everyone, including the unborn
children. (It is because of this that people have lines on their
palms.) When the owner of the nuts demanded that Orunmila
open his hand, Orunmila showed that everyone, including the
king himself, had the same scars and because he had been falsely
accused, he was given a great deal of wealth.
6. Stout Foreigner was told to sacrifice so as to find good fortune he
sacrificed, and everything to which he turned his hand became
good.
The actual poems and prose narratives which give full expression to
these plots are of course much more lengthy and elaborate than the bald
summaries just quoted. The last one, for instance, seems to be the piece
quoted in full in another source, and is associated with the fourth of

the sixteen principal odus. The allusive verse is, as often, explained and
expanded in the straightforward prose narrative which follows it.
Ifa sees the prospect of greatness for this person in a strange land. He
should make sacrifice with four pigeons, a good garment of his, and a shoe.
I arrived in good time,

I travelled in good time,
I am the only man who travels in time of fortune
When valuable objects of wealth are being deposited I entered unannounced
like the heir to the wealth
I am not the heir to the wealth, I am only good at travelling in time of fortune.
(These people) divined for the fat stranger41
Who would enter unannounced
On the day the property of the dead king of ”enin was being shared.42
The fat stranger was going to ”enin in search of a suitable place to practise
his Ifa. He was told that he would prosper in ”enin but he was warned to
make sacrifice. “fter making the sacrifice he made for ”enin. He entered
”enin just as the King of that city died. He thought that it would not
speak well of him—a renowned diviner (babaidwo)—if he did not say his
condolences to the people of ”enin. ”ut he did not know that whenever the
properties of a dead king were being shared out in ”enin a good portion
usually goes to the fortunate stranger who entered just in time. On arriving
at the place where the properties were being shared, the fat stranger was
given a good portion of the property.
“fter gathering the materials given him, he made for his native land. He
started to sing in praise of his diviners (who divined for him before he went
to ”enin while in turn his diviners praised Ifa. He made a party for his
neighbours. There the aran was beaten, and it gave its pleasant melodies.
Unconsciously, as he stretched his legs, he started to dance. On opening his
mouth the song of the diviners was already on his lips.
He said it happened, just as his Ifa priests said it would.
I arrive in good time,

I travelled in good time,
I am the only man who travels in time of fortune
When valuable objects of wealth are being deposited I entered unannounced
like the heir to the wealth
41 Godogbo—fat or bold, and at the same time tall and stately.

42 ”enin has the reputation of great wealth among the Yoruba ”enin the place of
money’.
Drum connected with Ifa.
I am not the heir to the wealth, I am only good at travelling in time of fortune.
(These people) divined for the fat stranger
Who would enter unannounced
On the day the property of the dead king of ”enin was being shared.
Who will help us reconstruct this city?
Only the fat stranger will help us reconstruct this city. (Abimbola 1964: 7–8)
Additional examples can give a further idea of the poetic quality and variety
of much of this Ifa literature. It will be remembered that each is only one of
several pieces belonging to a particular throw and that the allusive poems
are often accompanied by explanatory prose narrative. To a Yoruba listener
their obscurity is also lessened by the fact that they conventionally deal
with common and recognizable themes: the consequences of sacrifice (often
to be seen in the present characteristics of things praise of a particular Ifa
figure or a particular god often suggesting that he should be worshipped
and indication of the client’s present fortune or misfortune.
In the first, the questioner is allusively told to worship Obatala:
The sky is immense, but grows no grass.
That is what the oracle said to Obatala,
To whom the great God gave the reins of the world.
God of the Igbo, I stretch out my hands.
Give the reins of the world to me. Gbadamosi and ”eier
The next extract from a long Ifa poem is about Ifa under his title of Ela, and
is remarkable for its effective use of tones. Whenever there is a pause the
phrase ends with a low tone, and the whole poem concludes with the word
Ela, which ‘fittingly comes in on a low monotone, giving the whole extract
a sense of gravity Lasebikan .
He made the Odundun King of leaves, “nd the Tete its deputy He made the
Sea King of waters, “nd the lagoon its deputy
Still Ela was accused of the mismanagement of the world,
Whereupon, Ela grew angry,
And climbed to heaven with a rope.
Come back to receive our homage,
O, Ela! Gbadamosi and ”eier
In the next two examples the listener can, if he decides they apply to him,
draw inferences about his future fortune. The first, if told to a woman,
suggests she may bear a child the second, in narrative form, alludes to
death:
I am blessing two, not one.
This was prophesied to the sea lily
Which reaches down into the mud, the origin of creation. The time of creation
has come. Gbadamosi and ”eier
This is the oracle of a hunter

Who went hunting in the forest of Onikorogbo.
They asked him to sacrifice,
So that he might not meet his death.
They asked him to sacrifice eggs,
All the eggs in his house.
”ut he refused to sacrifice.
He came into the forest,
”ut found no animals to shoot.
After he had wandered about for a long time
He met Death.
For a while they were hunting together.
At last they found two eggs.
Death said to the hunter:
You may take them home.
The hunter proposed to divide them,
”ut Death refused.
The hunter went home lonely.
Soon after that famine came.
The hunter cooked the eggs
And ate them with his children.
Then Death arrived and said:
I have come for my share.
There is famine in heaven.
And we have nothing to eat.
The hunter said: Alas,
We have already eaten the eggs.
Then Death killed the hunter and his children. Gbadamosi and ”eier
Particular divination figures are also mentioned in the Ifa poems. One
praises the figure eji ogbe which is the first and senior figure in all systems
of Ifa divination:
The might of all rivers in the world is not to be compared with that of the sea
the dignity of rivers which rise on a hill is not as that of the lagoon.
There is no Ifa that can be compared with Eji-ogbe
To command is the privilege of a commander
Eji-ogbe, you are the king of them all.
I asked for honours from the Lagoon, for he is greater than the River.
I received them, but I was not satisfied. I asked them at the hands of Olokun
Jeniade, the God of the sea and father of all rivers, but still I was not
satisfied.
Who does not know that only the gifts of Olorun, the God of Heaven, are
sufficient till the day of one’s death?44
44 J. D. Clarke, ‘Ifa Divination’, JRAI , .

The poem about the figure iwori wotura also alludes to good fortune:
Iwori Wotura
Anybody who meets beauty and does not look at it will soon be poor.
The red feathers are the pride of the parrot.
The young leaves are the pride of the palm tree. Iwori Wotura. The white
flowers are the pride of the leaves.
The well swept verandah is the pride of the landlord. Iwori Wotura.
The straight tree is the pride of the forest.
The fast deer is the pride of the bush. Iwori Wotura.
The rainbow is the pride of heaven.
The beautiful woman is the pride of her husband. Iwori Wotura. The children
are the pride of the mother.
The moon and the stars are the pride of the sun. Iwori Wotura. Ifa says: beauty
and all sorts of good fortunes arrive. Gbadamosi and ”eier
The final example expresses once more the constant theme that one must
sacrifice to obtain success:
The lord of the Forest and the lord of the Savannah,
Wanted to seduce ”eloved, the wife of Fire.
They were asked to sacrifice broomsticks, a hen and Ifa leaves.
”ut the lord of the Savannah refused. He said
‘And why should I, chief of the Savannah bring sacrifice
Merely because I seduced a woman?
Have I not an army of poisonous yams and thorny shrubs
“ll ready to protect me? ”ut the lord of the Forest sacrificed.
The day came when ”eloved, Fire s wife, had gone to the house of Savannah
The Fire ran burning to the lord of the Savannah and cried ”eloved, ”eloved,
”eloved.
And he burned the poisonous yams and the thorny shrubs, and all the
Savannah was burned.
”ut when Fire returned to the forest, they sprinkled Ifa leaves on it and it died.
Gbadamosi and ”eier
Those who memorize and recite such poems are members of a highly
trained and respected profession. The Ifa diviners (babalawo, lit. ‘father of
mysteries’) spend several years learning the literature for their profession.
The minimum seems to be three years: the first is often spent learning the
names and structure of the odu, the second and third learning some of
the literature of each as well as the actual practice of divination and its
rituals Parrinder . ”ut sometimes seven or ten years are spent
in apprenticeship to a qualified diviner, and the general opinion is, not
surprisingly, that an Ifa diviner continues to learn as long as he lives. In
some areas at least it is also a strictly organized profession with a head
diviner (olori-awo) in each quarter of a town or village and several grades
of diviners under him Clarke “braham, . It is clear

also that both they and others regard their skill seriously. Though it is
presumably possible in principle for dishonest individuals to exploit the
system, there seems to be no question of the system as a whole being a
piece of calculated trickery. As will be clear even from the few examples
cited, however, the Yoruba themselves admit the existence of individual
scepticism on the subject. Nevertheless, the general belief is not only that
the diviners themselves are genuine but that what they say represents the
accumulated wisdom of generations, a belief strengthened by the fact that
diviners themselves approach their own problems through Ifa consultation.
That Ifa divination and its literature should be regarded as seriously as
this is not surprising when one considers the nature of the consultation.
Only one point need be repeated in this connection. For each figure that
is thrown the diviner does not repeat just one poem (and associated story),
but at least four or so, either in outline or in full. Not only are these mostly
expressed in allusive and poetic language, but the diviner himself does
not know in advance the specific problem the questioner has in mind,
and it is left to the client to make his choice among the several verses
recited there is always likely to be at least one which will appear relevant
to him, particularly in view of the fact that what is described is not an
exact prediction for the future but a poetically described precedent. ‘The
diviner’s role is to recite and explain, the supplicant’s role is to discern the
precise canto in which Ifa is speaking to him, and Ifa may speak in veiled
ways’ (Prince 1964: 9).
In view of this literary and thus in a sense unfalsifiable nature of Ifa,
the respect given to diviners and the continued popularity of Ifa divining
among Christians and Muslims as well as pagans is not any cause for
surprise.
Ifa, then, covers a whole corpus of literature consisting not only of
straightforward injunctions to sacrifice, of meaningful and elaborate names
and (sometimes) prose stories, but also of a body of allusive and complex
poetry. This literature cannot be said to form a definitive and fixed canon.
Not only does the number of pieces associated with each figure differ from
diviner to diviner, but there are also regional differences in the pieces
themselves ”ascom as well as in the formal order of the figures.
Each piece is separate and complete in itself, and may contradict other
For further factors involved in the continuing faith in the validity of Ifa divination
procedures see ”ascom .
comparable pieces. The literature itself is fluid in the sense that there may be
changes in the pieces, with new material merged and added by individual
diviners which is then accepted as authoritative by their followers. ”ut
in spite of this lack of fixity and comprehensiveness, it remains true that
the Ifa utterances form part of a conventional and vast scheme, hugely
conceived, one that is known and recited by serious and highly qualified
specialists but which has not yet been systematically collected in written
form in anything approaching the scale of its conception.46
IV
One of the main points to emerge from this brief account of African religious
poetry is its variety. Just as the theory and practice of religions vary in
different parts of Africa, so too does religious poetry. Similarly, even in
one society there may not only be religious variations with corresponding
effects on literature, but different poetic genres, many of them connected
with religion, are likely to be recognized. Furthermore simplistic
assumptions which attribute cultural unity of various kinds to African
religion or to religious expression turn out to be highly questionable. Thus
the picture of African religious expression dominated by magical spells
and incantations can be seen to have little evidence to support it. Certain
other generalizations also seem uncertain. It is asserted, for instance, in
one recent collection of religious texts that when authors of these pieces
do exist they are always anonymous, and that such texts possess no literary
character for their users who are interested only in their religious functions
Dieterlen . There are in fact far too many variations to sum
up the matter so simply. Sometimes there are official priests and religious
specialists, people who tend to be authoritative and conservative and lay
great stress on the idea of preserving the ancient text. In other cases there is
little interest in authority and more scope for improvisation and originality.
Moreover, the literary appreciation of religious pieces varies with culture,
46 The largest published collection is in Maupoli 1961 (of the more or less identical Fa
system of Dahomey , but even he does not attempt to cover all the odu. Abimbola
has collected much of the literature pertaining to the sixteen principal odu, but writes
that it will probably take thirty or forty years to record the pieces associated with the
remaining odu which are less well known—’for if it takes about two sessions to work
on Odus, it will take years to work on the remaining ! “bimbola .“
number of recordings have also been made more recently by the Institute of African
Studies, University of Ibadan, but not yet fully transcribed.
context, genre, and even individual—there is certainly no a priori reason to

suppose that it cannot coexist with religious sentiments or situations.
Another misleading generalization is the idea of the ‘intense
religiousness’ supposed to characterize the peoples of Africa and their
religious texts Dieterlen . On the basis of their oral literature this
seems doubtful. In any one culture religious poetry is not necessarily the
most developed or valued—one need only mention the instance of the
Southern ”antu among whom panegyric of human beings not gods is
the most specialized and prized. Ifa divination literature might perhaps
be cited as a counter-example, being the most largely conceived scheme of
Yoruba literature. ”ut, quite apart from the question of whether this means
it is necessarily the most complex or valued type, one could hardly say, in
view of much of its content and context, that it really offered definite proof
that the Yoruba were therefore a highly ‘religious’ people in any obvious
sense. In any case the religious significance of a poetic product can only be
assessed with a detailed knowledge of its social and literary background,
for only then can one grasp its meaning (or meanings) for composer, reciter,
and listeners.
It is true that a few general remarks can be made about African religious
poetry the prevalence of the hymn in various forms the relative lack of
significance (apart from Islamic verse) of didactic and narrative religious
poetry and the spread of recent forms influenced by Christianity. ”ut apart
from such obvious generalizations few general points can be established.
Indeed perhaps they are not worth searching for at this stage. What is now
needed is much more detailed collection and analysis of religious poetry
(including recent Christian-inspired forms). The whole subject deserves far
more study than it has as yet received. In particular it needs to be analysed
in terms of literature (and not just social function) and presented not as
isolated snippets but in relation to its proponents, listeners, and social
context.
8. Special Purpose Poetry—
War, Hunting, and Work
Military poetry: Nguni; Akan. Hunting poetry: Yoruba ijala; Ambo hunters’
songs. Work songs.
Some subjects are of particular significance in “frican poetry. ”esides

the subjects already elaborated there are others that could be discussed.
There is poetry associated, for example, with secret societies,1 various
types of associations,2 initiation, begging e.g. Fletcher Hausa ,
masquerades e.g. Gbadamosi and ”eier Yoruba Egudu
1967: 9 (Ibo)), and there are also the very common songs to do with cattle
and cattle herding e.g. ”a Fulani Kagame Rwanda
”eidelman ”araguyu also Ch. . ”ut war and hunting are topics of
particular interest for many African societies, and have frequently given
rise to specialized poetry while songs to accompany work are so common
throughout Africa as to demand treatment by their sheer quantity.
In treating these genres we are faced with one difficulty. Some of
them, at first sight at least, so closely tied to the actual occasions on which
they are performed—whether war, hunting, or work—that they seem to
approach a fixed formulaic utterance with little room for variation, and
change and innovation are thus at a minimum. How far then can they be
treated in the same way as other, more innovatory, genres of oral literature?
We are reminded here of the difficulty of making a clear-cut distinction
1 E.g. the songs of various Limba societies.

2 E.g. the songs of the various associations in Dahomey, which extol their own worth and
the aid they give to members Herskovits , ii .
E.g. Lambert Kenya Driberg , Didinga and Lango Schulien
ff. Cameroons Fulani “lnaes Dieterlen , part ii Krige Von
Sicard AA . .
between literature and non-literature in oral cultures. (Ch. 1) One needs to

remember, however, that this distinction is clearly only a matter of degree
some of the examples mentioned here are evidently as much ‘literature’ as
examples in earlier chapters. Even if we make a rough division between
innovatory and non-innovatory genres, with hunting and work songs in
the second category, lyric or topical songs as pre-eminently in the first, we
still find that even within these categories there can be distinctions on these
same lines. Among hunting poems, for instance, Yoruba ijala poetry clearly
provides much scope for variation and composition, whereas Ambo songs,
it seems, do not. The same might be said of work songs, depending on the
amount of variation by the leading soloist (see Ch. 9). A second point is that
our attitude to such examples must depend not least on the local evaluation
of these pieces. Too often this is something we are not told about, so that
in the meantime all we can do is to present the pieces and hope that more
research will elucidate their background. Finally, some of these poems are
not nearly so closely tied to their occasions as they might seem at first sight:
detachment and insight, so crucial for literary expression, are also involved.
All in all there is no real solution to the problem—except to point to it
and to suggest further research. What we particularly need to know about
are both local attitudes to these forms and the amount of innovation and
variation that actually take place.
I
Poetry about both hunting and war seems to involve the same ideas of
romance and glory. Sometimes the same genre of poetry is even used to
deal with both, like the Galla gheraera or boasts, universal among warriors
and hunters Chadwicks iii, , or the “dangme tegble poetry used
both for war and to honour a man who had killed a leopard with a spear
Puplampu . ”ut even where there is no such direct association,
the two subjects seem to be related. ”oth involve action that is out of the
run of ordinary everyday pursuits in both there is danger, triumph, or
heroism and boasting, challenge, and specialized ability sometimes
supplemented by magic) are frequent elements in both.
The sorts of occasions on which war songs were sung are not very
thoroughly documented—I suppose one of the conditions for the collection
and study of such songs was in fact the ending of widespread warring—
but it is clear that they were by no means confined to the field of battle.
8. Special Purpose Poetry—War, Hunting, and Work 203
The excitement and emotion associated with military exploits are often
expressed in poetry beforehand. In this way both poet and audience can
be stirred up to declare war or to prepare for battle. So we have the Shona:
Solo. King be-not-persuaded-by-other-people-not-to-fight-your-

enemies ho! ho!
Chorus. So long as the regiment agree, ho! ho! Taylor
Delafosse, when an administrator in West Africa, was similarly addressed

by an Agni chief and his warriors who came to offer him their help against a
rebel, urging on him and on themselves the attractions and urgency of war:
Donne-moi de la poudre et des fusils: je partirai demain.

Je veux leur couper la tête: je partirai demain.
Ils ont des femmes qui sont jolies: je partirai demain.
On dit qu’ils ont de l’or: je partirai demain.
Aujourd’hui il faut que je fasse des balles: je partirai demain.
Aujourd’hui il faut que j’offre un sacrifice: je partirai demain.
Je veux leur couper la tête: je partirai demain.
Donne-moi de la poudre et des fusils: je partirai demain.
(Delafosse 1900: 180–1)
Such war songs in fact are sometimes more an expression and reinforcement
of the militant strength of a group than a direct incitement to the fight or
a part of the battle itself. Several of the military poems recorded for the
warlike Nilotic peoples seem to be of this kind. They involve glorification,
the expression of high morale, and, very often, refer to cattle—among the
Nilotes there is a very common association between war and cattle raiding:
Great bull with testicles has been killed

It is Divinity
The dark clouds and the morning rain blow up
My mother abuk, Divinity my father, help me
My father garang, help me Divinity my father
If we sleep abroad,4 the white cow of my father
Will bring us cows
Avoid the spear, my age-set Mayom, avoid the spear
An affair of the great spear (a great fight)
O my club!
The spear-haft in the man’s back quivers
deng kur is a powerful divinity.
If we sleep abroad, it brings cows
White cow of my father, I did not start the fight
4 i.e. as warriors on a cattle raid.

The bulls meet head to head!

Cow which gave peace to my father
Cow bringing cows
Make peace as the Kongor tribe did with the Agar
Last year’s fighting is ended Last year’s fighting thus is ended
Lienhardt cf. also Tescaroli , Ch. Shilluk
The same associations with cattle come out in another Dinka war song
where the ‘feast’ or sacrifice implies war and hostility to enemies:
Though the tribe holds a feast against me
I shall not fear,
Though all the people hold a feast against me
I shall not fear,
O my tribe, I am a bull with sharpened horns,
I am a maddened bull . . . (Lienhardt 1961: 282)
Some war poetry, then, is rather the expression of the general values
relating to war than an immediate part of an actual military expedition. ”ut
other poems involve more direct participation, at least in the preliminaries
and aftermath of war. The Ngoni of Malawi, for instance, had two main
branches of war songs: first imigubo, those specifically intended for singing
before going out to fight and secondly imihubo, sung on their return. The
first type was still being sung in the s, danced in full war dress with
shields and spears, and performed in the Paramount Chief’s village, the
traditional place of mobilization. The women too join in the dance, and the
tempo works up and up to inspire the men with the lust for battle. Many
of these songs seem brief, but much of the tune was sung to meaningless
though rousing sounds—inyo ho, oya ye yayo and so on—and they were
added to by the varied accompaniment of stamping feet and the clashing
of spears and shields. Read Similar war songs from Malawi are
mentioned by Kidney. When sung they are accompanied by small drums,
by the brandishing of spears, and by bodily movements signifying courage
and defiance, which stir up warlike feelings:
Fight now! Come and fight now!
Slay them! We’ll brandish spears!
Straight forth doth speed your arrow.
Tremble! Yes! They tremble!
When we draw near,
And far they’ll flee as we approach them!
Sharpen keen your arrows!
”rave heads upraised and shouting
Loudly our defiance.
All they who oppose us.

Quickly our spears
Shall pierce their breasts. They will be scattered. (Kidney 1921: 26)
It is common for songs celebrating military success to become highly

developed after the return home. For example, the Kamba of Kenya make
the return into a triumphal procession. Special honour is ceremonially
given to a Kamba man who has earned the high title of mutiaetumo, i.e.
one who has personally killed a Masai warrior. Such a man leads his
triumphant band round the villages. When they approach a village, they
strike up their songs of victory. The hero is praised but his comrades’ help
is not forgotten:
You wonder he who sings the song of victory, who is he? He is mutiaetumo X
(here follows his real name), who has fought with the men of cattle [Masai],
but if we had not helped each other, he should not have come out of it
successfully, aaaaah! (Lindblom 1920: 199)
The women play their part by greeting the warriors with shrill cries—lili,
lili, lili, lili!—their normal way of expressing joy and delight, thus adding
to the display and to the men’s sense of heroism.
The use of war poetry in the actual face of the enemy is best documented
for certain peoples of North-West Africa. The Galla gheraera, warriors’
boasting, is often in the form of a challenge, sometimes hurled between
two armies Chadwicks iii, . The Somali geeraar also played
an active part in war. Challenges to another clan to fight at an appointed
place used to be delivered in this form, and it was also used to insult the
enemy before the battle, at the same time raising the singer’s morale. The
geeraar is characterized by a note of urgency and rapid movement and
was traditionally recited on horseback (Andrzejewski and Lewis 1964: 49).
“mong other groups, however, such as some of the Southern ”antu, the
convention was to utter certain set war cries rather than songs at the time
of the actual charge.
War songs are possibly also sometimes sung in triumph on the victorious
field of battle. This is supposed—perhaps speculatively—to have been the
case with an old ”emba war song more recently sung only round the camp
fire, but originally, it is said, it was sung by warriors dancing round the
slain brandishing their spears. In it the chief is described sending out his
warriors on their return they
Sing songs of victory, saying,
‘Sompa, sompa, sompa, sompa, sompa’, with the heads of the slain.
(O’Ferrall 1926–8: 841)
”ut there are not, in fact, many references to singing at the actual moment
of victory. The most frequent occasions seem to be as the war parties
depart or return home, at later celebrations after victory, or, occasionally,
as challenge and insult before an actual battle.
Figure . Ceremonial staff of Ogun, Yoruba, ins high, top figure on horse ¼ ins,
probably late eighteenth century [detail]. Ogun is the Yoruba and Haitian god of iron,
hunting, politics, blacksmiths and the users of iron weapons warriors. He is shown
here, as often, on horseback, holding a spear (for further details see information in
http://www.mamiwata.com/ogun.html).
Also common are poems in which the events of war are touched on in
retrospect. The exploits of war, together with religious topics, are the most
common themes of poems associated with the Islamic tradition, as among
the Swahili or the Hausa. It has already been said that, apart from Islamic
influence, narrative poetry is not a typical form in African oral literature, and
it is not surprising to find that in many of the poems about war the element of
narrative is overshadowed by that of glorification, so that one cannot always
draw the line between war poetry and panegyric (including praise at funeral
celebrations . The praise poems of the Southern ”antu, discussed in an earlier
chapter, have war and military prowess as one of their main themes, and the
same blend of praise and interest in battle heroism can be seen in the ‘heroic
recitations of the “nkole Hima. Morris In Ruanda, Kagame describes
military poetry as taking two main forms. Kagame , also Coupez and
Kamanzi 1962) The heroic ibitekerezo (the conquests of Ruanda) are preserved
by the court bards as a type of ‘classical’ military poetry. When young men
are being trained in the military arts, they have to learn these poems and try
to compose others in the same style. In these, it seems, the narrative element
is the more marked. The second type, however, is much more in the form
of panegyric. These are the lyric odes termed ibyivugo, composed by the
court bards to exalt the exploits of heroes. There is no exact correspondence
with real acts, for the point is to celebrate high and often fictitious deeds
rather than to record c était de la Poésie oeuvre d imagination , Kagame
and the descriptions of battles are decorated by the frequent
use of praise names glorifying the hero and his companions—’Prodigue-
de-blessures , Chagrins-des-pays-étrangers , and so on. Contemplation
and description of battle after the event seem inevitably to be expressed as
glorification and praise.
These then are some of the occasions on which poems described in the
sources as ‘military’ or ‘war songs’ were (or are) actually performed. It
seems clear that the romantic picture of the ‘natural’ occasion for savage
war songs—as mainly confined to the actual heat of battle, or its immediate
prelude or aftermath—is an exaggerated one.
How over-simplified this popular picture is will emerge further from a
glimpse of the military poetry of the Nguni and the Akan peoples. These
peoples, in particular their sub-groups the Zulu and the Ashanti, were well
known to their European opponents of sixty or seventy years ago for their
military qualities. The Nguni case must be pieced together from various
passing references to their military poetry in the past. For the Akan we can
look at the equally interesting way in which a type of poetry regarded as
military survives in the contemporary situation.
The Nguni-speaking peoples of southern Africa are famous for their

military organization and warlike ethic. The best known of all are the
Zulu, welded together into a great military system by Shaka in the early
ninteenth century. ”ut others too of this group have also been noted for the
same all-pervading military spirit—the Swazi, neighbours of the Zulu, the
Ndebele, and the Ngoni of Malawi who formed part of the great Nguni
dispersal of peoples moving north as a result of Shaka’s expansion.
From Shaka’s time the whole nation was organized into a kind of
military camp, and war was the main centre of interest Krige ff. .
The stress on military glory, on triumph, and on the possibility of attaining
honour and position through achievement in war comes out both in the
praise songs discussed in an earlier chapter, and also in the Zulu war songs
(iziqubulo, amahubo):
Oye oyeye!
Seek out the cowards,
The lion-conqueror strikes.
Come, let s march into battle
No more the time for boastful arguments.
What, sayest thou the time for boastful argument is over?
”egone!
Who told the news that wranglings have ceased?
The house of Qolwana set we on fire.
We make no jokes, no lies tell we.
He is full of hate, full of hate.
Oyeyiya wo!
Come, see us set aflame the house of Qolwana.
On whom will you make war
If you wipe out all the nations thus?
Ho! Ho! . . .
You who defeat the foes
And conquer the nations.
If you wipe out the nations thus,
On whom will you make war?
Yea, what will you do?
You have subdued the kings
You have wiped out the nations.
Where and what next, O Conqueror?
E! E! E! Dhlomo
Under Shaka, the Zulu were reorganized into regiments of 800–1,000

strong, making up an army of perhaps , , maybe more Krige
The most convenient summary is that in Krige .

262). There was a centralized standing army, an unusual feature in Africa,

and unlike the Nilotes and similar peoples, the Zulu showed an interest in
conquest and territorial expansion as well as mere raiding for cattle and
other movables. Internally there was rivalry between the different Zulu
regiments, expressed in competitiveness in battle and in dancing and
singing at the royal kraal. Each regiment had its own regimental songs,
dress, and war-cry, which distinguished it from others, and it was only in
the actual heat of battle that the national war-cry was used before that, as
they set off, only the regimental war-cries were shouted. Each regiment
also often had its military kraal, separate from others and under its own
captain. Even in normal conditions the men were expected to serve for
at least two to three months a year, and, if there was no war, they were
engaged in various communal tasks. Even in peace, the military spirit was
paramount. There was stern discipline, and military dances and songs
fulfilled the function of drill.6 Many of these dances were based on military
manoeuvring and amounted to a kind of sham battle. The desire for glory,
the excitement of war, and national and regimental pride could be instilled
within the military kraals even in peacetime.
War songs were also sung on more colourful occasions. The most
striking of all was the annual first fruits ceremony held in the presence of
the king, when the army of the nation gathered, regiment by regiment, to
display its might in public. Several of these nineteenth-century displays are
described in early sources, summed up by Krige:
The most spectacular and imposing of all Zulu dancing was . . . that of the
regiments of warriors in full regimental dress and the annual dances at the
royal kraal, just after the Feast of the First-fruits, must have presented a most
brilliant and colourful sight . . .
The king first of all reviewed the army, seated in his chair of state. On
the occasion witnessed by Delegorgue, the regiments of young warriors
came, grouped in six great masses of about 1,000 each, made a rapid charge,
then became orderly again and began to dance a war chant, the ground
resounding under their feet. They marched to within five paces of the king,
and formed a kind of serpent which unrolled itself from three rings. Each
regiment had its own particular dance and song, and each man, on passing
the king, bent low and hurled him a greeting with an air of anger. These
evolutions lasted many hours . . .
The king, on one such occasion, took his position at the head and centre
of a line of several thousand men, with an equal number opposite them. They
began to sing and march, reinforcing their foot movements with gestures
6 Similar Swazi chants to accompany military drill (still being sung) can be heard on a
recording in the ‘Music of Africa’ series (GALP 1041).
of the arms in all directions with wonderful uniformity. Then, chanting

and dancing, the column following, the king slowly advanced and the two
horns united to form a circle, the warriors finally sitting down in a ring with
shields raised yet heads showing . . . Krige
The excitement and pride engendered by such ceremonial displays come

out too, although perhaps with rather lesser intensity, in the war songs
sung before going out to battle, or in triumph after it. The desire for glory
and the sense of competitiveness were incited by the stirring war songs
and dances, where the words, the melody, and the movement all helped to
create a warlike atmosphere. These, like other war songs, were often highly
rhythmical and onomatopoeic. An example can be given from the Ngoni
of Malawi, a Nguni offshoot who preserve war songs of the same types as
do the more southerly Nguni groups. They are known as imigubo (songs
for setting out to war) and, though short and onomatopoeic, mount up to a
high pitch of intensity as the men dance, stamping their feet and knocking
their shields:
Ee, ee, ee
What are we contending for?
What are we contending for
In this way in the sky?
Ee, ee, ee
Oyi, oyi, oyi!
The sun is setting.
Ee, ee, ee
What are we contending for?
What are we contending for
In this way in the sky?
Ee, ee, ee
Oyi, oyi, oyi! Read
These songs, once so appropriate to the warlike spirit of Nguni society, are
not totally forgotten today. In the s some were still being sung in Malawi
others have been recorded more recently in South Africa by the African
Music Society. However, nowadays they are used mainly for ceremonial
display or, at times, to pander to romantic ideas about the savage and tribal
past of the ”antu. Some of the songs are now sometimes adapted for faction
fighting (Tracey 1948b: vii-viii), and modifications of the old military forms
have been used, it is said, for political intimidation (Afr. Music 2, 4, 1961:
Southern Rhodesia . ”ut these survivals are of less interest than the
purposeful development of military literature in the nineteenth century.
These earlier Nguni war songs can only be fully appreciated in relation to
their complex and specialized military organization. They are not attached
primarily to the circumstances of actual battle, but to the routine and the
ceremonies of military activity, developed among a people for whom, even
in peacetime, the military ethic was predominant.
The Akan peoples, with their multiplicity of specialist associations,
are very different from the Nguni. The Akan have a tradition of warrior
associations or ‘war companies’ that possess their own characteristic
form of drumming and poetry. Nketia b, Ch. 9) It is true that these
associations no longer flourish as in the past (the Ashanti associations,
for example, were suppressed after the events of . ”ut in the
southern Akan area, particularly among the Fante, they are still active,
and even elsewhere their poetry is still performed. There is an over-all
homogeneity in their patterns of music and organization that makes it
possible to generalize about their poetry.
There are two main types of Akan warrior associations: companies of
the court comprising the highest war leaders under the control of the rulers,
and the company of commoners, asafo, a term now used indiscriminately
for all warrior associations. These war companies consist of all able-bodied
men combined under a leader in external or internal disputes. They also act
as a group for certain types of communal work and in the enthronement
and deposition ceremonies of rulers. In the Fante area where these asafo
companies are most important, there may be as many as seven or ten
companies in a single town elsewhere one village or group of villages
shares one company. All these companies are highly organized bodies with
their own captains, who act as intermediaries between themselves and the
political rulers of the state. They are headed by the ‘captain of the host’
or war leader who is helped by various other officials, among them the
frankaatufoo or standard-bearer who regulates the march, the asafo kyerema,
the master drummer who calls the warriors to action, urges them on, and
keeps up morale, and the nnawutabofoo, player of twin gongs.
Drumming plays an important part. Drums and gongs are played with
a few members of the company leading the song, the rest acting as chorus.
Among the most important songs are the calls. These are rousing cries to
the company that, nowadays at least, precede or interrupt a cycle of songs
but show clear marks of their once fully military character:
Fire!7 Fire!
Fire! Asafo Kyiremu.8
7 Sign of danger hence = alarm.

The name of an association any other such name may be substituted.
Fire!
We are not afraid.
No, not a bit.
Asafo Kyiremu,
We are not afraid of anybody. Nketia b: 107)
Different companies often have their own special calls and responses,
sometimes partly ‘spoken’ by the drummer, and these mark out their
identity as distinct from others and ‘engender the mass feeling that is so
important in the activities of asafo. (Ibid.: 108)
This feeling is further intensified by the frequent songs celebrating
particular companies, combining boastfulness with insults to their enemies.
Thus one song about Apente (a court company) runs:
Osee, man of Apente.

Osee, man of Apente,
We shall fight battles for our nation,
There was a battle brewing Osee,
”ut the army of the enemy never arrived.
We did not feel their presence.
You are children of ghosts, and nocturnal fighters.
Night fighters,
You have laid them low.
Osee has laid you low.
The night fighter has laid you low.4 (Idem)
“nother such song refers to the “shanti wars with the ”ritish and praises
the deeds of Apagya, a royal military company among the Ashanti:
Hirelings adamant to rain and scorching sun,

Members of the Apagya company,
There was a cannon mounted vainly on top of the fort.9
The cannon could not break us,
The trusted company that engages in battle.
Hail the helper! Idem
The Apagya company is also exultantly praised in
He has killed the Southerners.

He has killed the Northerners,
It is Asafo Apagya,
The Umbrella tree.
The Umbrella tree has branches above and below,
The crafty Umbrella tree.
Refers to the “shanti wars with the ”ritish.

King,
Hail the helper! Nketia b: 108–9)
Not all military songs explicitly glorify war, however. Some also exhibit an
awareness of the dangers and cost of war. There are always casualties, for
‘battle never goes hungry’. The warrior leaves in the knowledge that he may
not return but that he goes to do his duty courageously:
Kwaakwaa10 accompanies me to the front.

Man of Apagya, if I die in the morning, no-one should mourn for me.
Yes if I fall in the morning,
Okoromansa accompanies me to battle, no-one should weep on my account.11
Yes if I fall in the morning,
If I fall in the morning do not cry.
Yes if I die in the morning. (Ibid.: 109)
Members of the association are also summoned to battle by a drum-call

giving the association’s name, praise name, and other characteristic marks
that distinguish it from others. One of these
”odyguard as strong as iron,

Fire that devours the nations . . .
is quoted in full in Chapter 17. In another the various names associated

with the company are given, then the ordinary members are stirred up for
the fight:
Members of the Advance Guard, I mean you.

The leopard goes hungry
If it pounces on a tortoise.
The leopard should never be considered old and feeble.
The leopard walks in the thicket:
The thicket trembles and shakes violently.
Come hosts come hosts come hosts!
Come in thick numbers. (Ibid.: 111)
There are also ‘songs for conveying a dead member to a place of burial,
songs for parading in the street, songs of insult, songs of incitement and
so on . Ibid. ”esides these there are also some characteristic types
belonging to particular companies or groups of companies. The No. 1
Company of Cape Coast, for example, has several styles of drumming, each
used with a set of songs designed to accompany different kinds of action.
10 The god of a certain Apagya company.

11 As interpreted by a member of the company: ‘If I fall in the morning of my life, do not
cry’.
A high-spirited style accompanies a display of bravery in leap-dancing and

strutting action, and a gentler style is used for normal dancing. Associations
also sometimes create their own recreational music and dance as well as
the more traditional types. All the regular songs are characterized by their
emotional quality and by the specially stirring effect of the drumming,
achieved largely by the peculiar timbre of the leading drums. Within this
general spirit of the military songs
the leading role is . . . played by the cantors who may vary their styles.
Sometimes they sing long sustained notes while the chorus is held in
suspense sometimes they use a recitative style, interpolating pauses in
the chorus responses with calls, short phrases or shouts, while others
animate the performance with occasional whistling and catcalls. Everybody
lets himself go, singing at the top of his voice and with great feeling.
Nketia b: 110)
Are these military songs still significant? Obviously the directly military
functions of warrior associations have been superseded, and in Ashanti at
least, in the present century, they have not even acted as very pronounced
corporate groups. Yet it seems that not only are the companies active on
certain occasions (particularly in the south) and seize the opportunity to
perform their own songs and music, but in some contexts they preserve
their warlike and forceful spirit. As Nketia writes:
In the past, the most important context in which Asafo groups drummed and
acted was during wars. Although this is no longer operative, there is always
a resurgence of the war spirit during major political disputes, particularly
disputes over constitutional issues in which Asafo groups act as political
pressure groups. Thus in Ashanti, where Asafo companies are practically
dormant, political crises often bring a temporary awakening of such groups
who are kept together by drums and songs which promote the type of action
required by the situation. Ibid.
Asafo music also still occurs in other contexts.12 In rural areas in the south,
asafo companies are called on to perform certain communal tasks and to
organize search-parties for missing persons, in the forest and at sea. Such
searches create a particularly emotional atmosphere if the missing person
is a member of the company, and many asafo songs are sung. Funerals of
a member are also occasions for the performance of these songs. In the
southern Akan states there are sometimes special annual ceremonies
12 Or apparently did when Nketia was writing. His book appeared in , based on field
research in the s.
when members renew their loyalty to their association and to the chief, in
which the most important feature is the performance of music and dancing,
sometimes accompanied by the firing of guns, the exhibition of the
association’s standards and emblems, and the installation of new officers.
Annual festivals of the community as a whole are often the most common
occasions for corporate public activity by warrior companies.
In all these contexts the spirit of enjoyment as well as of emotional
intensity is now evident. The military companies are distinguished by their
specialized artistic conventions—the military mode of song, music, and
drumming—and, in adapting to changing situations, retain the military
subject-matter and warlike fervour which before was of more practical
immediate relevance.
II
Hunting poetry can be discussed more briefly. It shares many of the
characteristics of military poetry, particularly its association with the ideas
of danger, pride, and glory, its common appearance as a more or less
specialized branch of poetry, and, finally, its frequent preoccupation not
just with action but with the contemplation of action, in prospect or (more
often) in retrospect.
It is not surprising that hunting, with its associated hazards and heroism,
is a frequent topic in the songs of many peoples. It is, for example, one of the
most common themes of ”ushman songs Kirkby in a way that
fits their harsh struggle for existence. This is well expressed by Marshall:
Women bring the daily food, but there is nothing splendid about returning
with vegetables and wood. Many of the vegetable foods, furthermore, are
rather tasteless and harsh and are not very satisfying. The return of the
hunters is vastly different. The intense craving for meat, the anxiety that
goes with the hunt, the deep excitement of the kill, finally the eating and
the satisfaction reach to the very core of the people, engaging powerful
emotions. Once a young man, Qui, who was said to be the best hunter in the
region, had been charged by a magnificent cock ostrich on a big open pan
where there was no refuge. He knelt, facing the creature, until it was within
close range and shot an arrow straight into its heart. ”ack in the werf, while
the meat was being cut up and distributed by Qui’s wife’s brothers, he slept
exhausted on the mound of black and white plumes and the women—some
Other references on military songs include Munonga AA . includes eight

war songs Cerulli reference in IAI Bibl. (AA Jones Savard Gaden
Westermann Dahle .
of the plumes in their hair—danced a dance of praise around him. This is the
role of !Kung [”ushman] hunters. Marshall
The romance and excitement associated with hunting is vividly depicted in

the Zulu song about a buffalo hunt:
Iyeyahe! Iyayayi!
A whirlwind! the buffalo!
Some leave and go home
Some pursue and obtain
We shoot the rising,
”ut leave the wounded.
Iyeyahe (Dhlomo 1947: 6)
Perhaps the most common occasion for hunting songs is a successful kill.
As in military celebrations, they often take place some time after the event.
We do, it is true, occasionally hear of a solitary hunter or group of hunters
bursting into more or less immediate song over some outstanding kill.
Among the Akan, for instance, a hunter is expected to climb on to the body
of an elephant and burst into song:
The violent shaker that shakes down living trees it by-passes [the elephant],
Duedu Akwa,
Father Duedu Duben,
Oben and Dankyira, trier-of-Death,
Father [the hunter] deserves to be congratulated.
Father has achieved something:
The hunter has done well!
Nketia b for a Rongo song in similar circumstances see Junod
”ut even among the “kan, hunting songs are most frequently performed
on public and festive occasions. In general the most commonly mentioned
occasion is when the hunter has returned to the village: he is often
welcomed and congratulated. The Ethiopian hunter returning from killing
an elephant is received by a double chorus:
1st chorus He has slain, he has destroyed him.
2nd chorus Whither went he when he slew him?
1st chorus As he went hence did I see him at all?
All Perhaps on the bank of the river he has stricken him down.
Destroyer and slayer art thou called, Hurrah, Hurrah,
doubly a slayer. Chadwicks, iii,
Among other peoples a later and more organized celebration is the usual
pattern. Thus among the Limba of northern Sierra Leone, the killing of a
bush cow is regarded as the occasion for a special celebration (madonsia).
”ut this never takes place on the actual occasion of the hunt. Instead, a
special date is fixed, several days later. Then, in the night, the hunter comes
out, accompanied and watched by others, and the special hunters’ songs
and dances are performed. The occasion necessarily involves many people
as participants and spectators, and is in striking contrast to the actual
process of the hunt, typically pursued, among the Limba, by the solitary
individual, followed only by his faithful dog.
Praise and celebration is often reserved for the killing of game considered
to be particularly outstanding or dangerous. According to the area, these
may be such animals as elephant, lion, leopard, or buffalo. The risks and
the achievement of the hunter(s) are further magnified by the terms used to
refer to these beasts—like, for example, the Yoruba ‘Elephant praisenamed
He-who-uses-his-hand-as-a-trumpet, Elephant called He-who-remains-
mountainous-even-when-seated ”abalola . The hunter himself
also sings boastfully of his exploits and retells his heroism in poetry
designed for an audience rather than for the exigencies of the hunt itself.
Among the Akan he announces his return after a major kill by firing his
gun on the outskirts of the village, and when people come to meet him he
relates his success in recitative, a set refrain denoting the sex of the elephant
killed—for example:
I am stalking an animal.
I am stalking an animal stealthily,
That I might kill it. Nketia b: 84)
Such songs of triumph and recollection are common and are often
mentioned as separate forms. In some societies they are particularly
specialized. Hunters may be expected to undergo special training, often
involving magical and artistic as well as practical skills, and are sometimes
formed into organized associations with their own rules, hierarchy, and
initiation. Such organizations are not uncommon in West Africa and often
have their own songs. Among the Akan the professional association of
hunters uses hunting songs to assert their pride and their dominance over
even the political authorities—or so they wish to suggest:
Is the chief greater than the hunter?
“rrogance! Hunter? “rrogance!
The pair of beautiful things on your feet,
The sandals that you wear,
How did it all happen?
It is the hunter that killed the duyker:
The sandals are made of the hide of the duyker.
Does the chief say he is greater than the hunter?

The noisy train that leads you away,
The drums that precede you,
The hunter killed the elephant,
The drum head is the ear of the elephant.
“rrogance! Hunter? “rrogance! Nketia b: 76)
Hunting songs are also often sung at the funerals of skilled hunters.14
Hunting associations also sometimes have special festivals when, for
example, they admit hunters to new ranks in the hierarchy or celebrate a
major kill Ibid. ff. . “t these celebrations the episodes of the hunt are
often dramatically re-enacted, with the members of the association singing
and declaiming the traditional hunting songs.
In some cases, hunting poems have become a specialized and
independent branch of poetry, no longer related to the actual hunt at all.
Yoruba ijala chants, for example, are sometimes associated specifically
with hunting and performed at gatherings of specialist hunters. ”ut ijala
artists are also highly regarded by the public as general entertainers and
are invited to perform on social occasions that have no specific association
with hunting at all ”abalola . This genre of Yoruba poetry has
its own conventions and themes see ”abalola . It is delivered as a
kind of recitative—’a type of speech utterance with rudimentary musical
characteristics, rather than a species of song ”abalola which is
accentuated by certain rhythmic and tonal devices. Often there is no very
clear central theme, but the poem rambles from one topic to another in a way
that distinguishes these poems from certain of the other specialist branches
of Yoruba poetry and also demonstrates how far removed this species of
hunting poetry is from direct involvement in action. One dominant theme is
verbal salute and praise in such phrases as ‘Son of a fighter at Ilala, offspring
of warriors carrying many arrows’, or ‘In my very person I have come, /
“tanda He-whose-face-is-usually-cloudy-like-the-sky-before-a-storm, /
He-who-fatigues-his-opponent-like-a-person-soaked-and-exhausted by
rain ”abalola . ”ut there are also many chants about the
animals and plants of the forest, particularly about monkeys, antelopes,
elephants, or the much feared buffalo. Various comments on social life are
also typical and many of the poems are noted for their vitality and humour,
14 E.g. among the Dogon, Limba, Akan, Ambo, and many others.
The last two sections of the second passage consist of three words only in the original.
in particular their treatment of sex. These points can be illustrated from

three ijala poems from Gbadamosi and ”eier s examples
Tuku—Wild Pig
The fat one of the thick bush.
The animal that carries scissors in its mouth.
Although we do not marry his daughter
Yet he demands to be treated like our father-in-law.
(For the one who wants to shoot it
Must prostrate to it).
An animal that enlarges its nose
In order to better smell the vagina. Gbadamosi and ”eier
Erin—Elephant
Elephant who brings death. Elephant, a spirit in the bush.
With his single hand he can pull two palm trees to the ground.
If he had two hands—
He would tear the heavens like an old rag.
The spirit who eats dog, the spirit who eats ram.
The spirit who eats a whole palm fruit with its thorns.
With his four mortar legs—he tramples down the grass.
Wherever he walks, the grass is forbidden to stand up again.
An elephant is not a load for an old man—
Nor for a young man either. Gbadamosi and ”eier
Cassava
If you eat me and call my praises at the same time
You teach me to be dangerous.16
Plant me like a good planter—and I will grow fat even like yam.
Throw me away—and I will still develop well.
”ut the one who hangs me on the branch of a tree he is really my enemy.
I do not fight the one who holds the stick—
Only the one who holds the pot.17
It causes the lips of the wife to swell.
It enlarges the penis of the husband.
The mouth of Lambare becomes large like a drum.
If you ask him: What is the matter?
Are you eating so much cassava?
He will reply Oh, occasionally, occasionally,
You just wait: cassava will deal with you.
Tete ”ere! Now you have dysentery!
Now you start worshipping Oshun!
This is not a matter for the gods:
16 It is forbidden to say the oriki (praises) of cassava while eating it.

17 When making gruel out of cassava flour the one holding the pot may burn his fingers.
Even if you pray to Obatala himself

Cassava will carry you away!
When people see you on the road they argue:
Is it a new wife? Ha, it is cassava.
See how it rubs its body with red camwood.18
Cassava with a rough skin to its back. Gbadamosi and ”eier
These ijala poems are far removed from simple and more direct hunting
songs. The Yoruba hunter is expected to possess intellectual skills beyond
those to do with the hunt and to sing of other topics than his own bravery.
Yet these poems are locally classed as the poetry of hunters and ultimately
are connected with the same root idea as in other hunting poems—the idea
of hunting as a heroic and memorable activity.19
This cursory discussion of hunting poetry will be concluded by a
somewhat fuller account of the hunting songs (cinengwe) of the Ambo of
Zambia, which have been treated in some detail by Stefaniszyn .
For the Ambo the hunter—and above all the elephant hunter—is
traditionally surrounded with a halo of romance and hero-worship. Though
there seem to be no associations of the West African type, nevertheless,
hunters are experts and have their own rituals, feasts, and songs. The Ambo
hunter seems to be typically a solitary practitioner, but in certain respects
he is helped and guided by other members of the community and has
obligations to them when he kills meat. He usually receives his gun the
mark of a hunter—from one of his mother’s relations in accordance with the
matrilineal inheritance pattern of the Ambo, and, both after his acquisition
of the gun and before certain of the hunts, private and joint rituals are
carried out to ensure success. A hunter also has a special relationship with
the spirit of one of his dead kinsmen, often his father, who guards and
guides him as a hunter. The emotional relationship with his father is of a
much more personal nature than the legal bond with his matrilineal kin
and comes out in several of the hunting songs. The son praises his father’s
exploits as a hunter and mourns his loss:
I had a father,
The wailing is great.
Father, it’s dawn . . .
I remember the great hunter.
They are bursting into tears . . .
I, a poor fellow, I shall wail,
I, who had been dividing the meat. Stefaniszyn
18 Cassava has a reddish colour like camwood. New brides rub their bodies with
camwood.
19 For further discussion and examples of ijala poetry, see ”abalola also Collier .
Or, again, he sets out delighting in his gun. Then his thoughts are drawn
back sorrowfully to when his father was alive—but he brings himself back
to the present, to look at the tracks of his quarry:
How fine is my gun,

How fine is my gun,
Ah, when my father was alive.
I mourn for Siliyolomona,
”ut I must see the tracks. Stefaniszyn
When an Ambo hunter is wandering alone and unsuccessful he sometimes

sings to cheer himself up. ”ut by far the most frequent occasions for
performing the hunting chants are communal ones. The hunting chants
are sung with other songs at ordinary beer parties. A hunter also joins with
others in singing on the night before a hunt, and at the sacrificial beer for a
successful hunt. A special ‘hunting feast’ may also be prepared by a hunter
who has killed, say, four animals. He invites his friends and feeds them
from the meat he has killed. After the meal the men sing about the hunt.
They reminisce, for example, about how the game is being cut up or how a
canoe is called for after a hippopotamus has been killed:
Chop it, chop it, chop it,

Do take it and chop it
Do take it and chop it yourself.
Chipishya, bring the boat,

Have you killed it, hunter?
Chipishya bring the boat,
Chipishya bring the boat,
Have you killed it, hunter? Ibid.
Stefaniszyn states that the hunting songs sung on these occasions are all
traditional ones, and that no new songs are composed. They are all relatively
short and fairly directly involved with the actual process of hunting and its
consequences. In other words, Ambo hunting poetry does not seem to have
developed into a complex and flexible branch of poetry that can be turned
to many subjects and occasions in the way we have seen in some of the
Akan or Yoruba ‘hunting poems’. Nor are there lengthy narratives. ‘This is
lyrical poetry. There are no long descriptions of events, but a short recalling
of events of rather sentimental value, always very realistic’. (Stefaniszyn
Their artistic conventions come out partly in the mode of delivery. Though
they are sung antiphonally, the melody is not of great importance and the
main tone is recitando with strongly marked rhythm. The accompaniment

consists of percussion (gourd drums, rattles, and axe-blades struck against
stones), and sometimes the hunter himself dances with a gun, horns, and
animal trophies. There are also stylistic and verbal conventions. A special
poetic vocabulary is used in the songs, including borrowed and perhaps
archaic words. This poetic effectiveness is heightened by the frequent use
of ideophones and of what Stefaniszyn refers to as Homeric epithets
praise terms like ‘The uprooter of mwenge trees’ (of an elephant) or ‘The
pursuer of game . . . The pursuer of tails’ (the hunter). The use of various
types of parallelism is also common, compared by Stefaniszyn to that
in the Hebrew psalms. This may involve more repetition or the type of
development through parallelism exemplified by
Off he went to the veld,

Off he went to the veld, the great hunter. Stefaniszyn
Parallelism is also used to lead up to a climax at the very end of the piece—a
marked tendency in these poems:
Heavens, my heart is throbbing,

While I see them standing.
Heavens, my heart is throbbing,
While I see them standing,
While I see the game standing.
Nafwa mutima kubamba,

Pakusanga silimakene.
Nafwa mutima kubamba
Pakusanga silimakene,
Pakusanga silimakene noma. (Ibid.: 10)
This song, expressing the hunter’s thrill at the sight of game, leads up to an
effective climax when the final word ‘game’ (nama) ‘is at last uttered as if
with awe . Stefaniszyn
”esides the conventional forms of delivery and verbal expression
there are also stock themes, all directly concerned with hunting. Several
of these have been illustrated already: the triumph and excitement of a
successful kill and its aftermath family feelings, especially the emotions
of pride and grief felt by a son for his father and the thrill of pursuit. ”ut
the hardships and dangers of hunting are not forgotten, and these too are
common subjects. The Ambo hunter’s grim tenacity and perseverance in
face of hardship are often extolled:
Let the hunter take out the thorn,

Let the hunter take out the thorn,
Then cursing and roving.
You love it, you will die of the thorn.
Off he went to the veld.
Off he went to the veld, the great hunter. Stefaniszyn
Worse than physical hardship is the disappointment when the hunter is

unsuccessful, and this too is a frequent theme in song:
I shall taste the mark of the game,

When I find them where they lie.
Abundant is the spoor of game,
”ut the game has slipped away
It is gone. (Idem)
and
We are tired of this bush

There are no shadows in it,
There are no shadows in it, mind you,
There are no shadows of game. (Idem)
Success is sometimes tinged with jealousy when the hunter compares his
own achievements with those of others. One song, for instance, describes
the success of a hunter’s companions:
It’s boiling and boiling,

The hunters are cooking in a big pot.
It’s boiling and boiling,
The hunters are cooking in a big pot.
Truly it’s boiling hard,
I’ll kill two head to-morrow. (Ibid.: 9)
These Ambo hunting songs are more simple and direct than, for example,
some of those from West Africa. Yet like them they involve the glorification
of the hunter, the expression of his hopes and fears, the activities of the chase,
and reminiscence and reflection at a time removed from the actual hunt.
They are most frequently performed on public occasions—for in hunting,
as in war all members of the community, and not just the individual hero,
are involved in both its results and its poetic distillation.20
20 Further references to hunting songs include ”ouillon and Paulay .

III
Songs to accompany rhythmic work seem to occur universally in African
societies. They are extreme examples of ‘special purpose’ poetry in that
they have a direct connection with a specific occasion and with action
itself, to an extent not found in most hunting and war chants. The sort
of work that these songs accompany usually consists of routine tasks
such as paddling, threshing, or hauling—which are not in themselves
regarded as glorious or romantic. Unlike hunting and military poetry the
work thus provides the occasion rather than the subject-matter, and the
song depends on the rhythm of the work rather than an audience for its
point of departure.
The occasions for these work songs include almost all contexts in which
monotonous labour is involved though conventions as to their use vary
in different societies.21 There are co-operative songs for hoeing, weeding,
mowing, launching a boat, sawing, hauling in fish-nets, pounding, floor-
beating, throwing water up from deep wells in a human chain, carrying
a chief in his hammock, hanging up beehives, or rubbing animal skins to
make them soft there are domestic and solitary songs for women grinding
corn or pounding rice there are gang songs for pulling trucks, for road
work, for factory hands, and for miners.
It is well known that manual workers often sing such songs to accompany
their hard physical labour. The dock hands at ”eira have a song
Dawn—with freight,
Yes, Yes!
Dawn—with freight,
Look for the label. Curtis
while the men pushing heavy truck-loads of hides down the Kilindini road
in Mombasa used to sing in Swahili
Namna hii—macho jnu! This way—eyes up!

Senti hapana—macho juu! There are no cents—eyes up!
(Werner 1927: 102)
Many other similar songs are popular among labouring gangs. There are,
for instance, the songs by South African road workers and miners, by the
men working on the Kariba dam, or by builders in Nigeria.
21 On the conventions in different parts of Ghana, for example, see Nketia 1962: 7.
Figure . Limba work party spread out in the upland rice farm, inspired by
Karanke’s drumming, Kakarima, 1961 (photo Ruth Finnegan).
In rural areas, agricultural work provides the occasion for work songs.
For instance, in Southern Rhodesia, maize threshing is a popular time
for songs. The men and boys do the singing while the women stay in the
background, yodelling at intervals with a staccato effect. As often with
work songs, the words themselves are simple, with many nonsense words
to fill up the rhythm effectively, and there is alternation between leaders
and chorus. This is evident in the following three Zezuru threshing songs
from Southern Rhodesia:
1st Leave me to die, they have gored me, Nwechafaka.

All Yes, yes (he he ha he ha) the priest, oh, plenty of trouble.
1st Do not trouble me—
All Trouble, trouble
Let the women dance in our honour, do not trouble me
My wife do not come to trouble me.
1st Wife
All Trouble
1st To the spring
All Trouble
We love each other friend, is she not friend.
1st Woe is me, we have grown up
All Those who have cattle, let them gather them, we do not know
1st Woiye iye iye you must thresh like mother
All Oh, they cry for a fruit tree. Stead
The way such songs can at once lighten, co-ordinate, and embellish
agricultural labour can be briefly illustrated from two types of work songs
among the Limba. For them, songs accompany many of their agricultural
activities. Two only are singled out here: hoeing the rice near the start of the
farming year, and the threshing that follows harvesting.
One of the most demanding occasions of the Limba farming cycle
is hoeing in the rice after it has been sown, and this, if undertaken by
individuals, is regarded as involving wearisome and exhausting labour.
The most common practice is to form special ‘companies’, each with a
drummer, to go round to the farms to hoe. The occasion is turned into a
festive one. The drummer stands in front, beating his drum and leading
the song. Next follow those who are scattering the seed. And finally the
hoers come, perhaps sixteen or twenty of them, sometimes fifty or more,
stretched across the hillside in a long line singing in reply to the leader.
The whole line raise their hoes simultaneously, then strike together at the
ground three times before the up-stroke and pause as the hoes are raised
once more—a marked rhythm of dig, dig, dig, up one, two, three, pause,
with strong emphasis on the first down-stroke. The beat and song keep the
line exactly together, and there is a feeling of competition and excitement
which keeps all in their places with no falling behind or faltering. In this way
the huge farm gets hoed with incredible speed, and the Limba themselves
point to the importance of the songs in adding both efficiency and pleasure.
Their joy in the songs is very obvious (they even look forward to this season
of exhausting work), and many of them make semi-dancing steps as they
progress with their hoes up the hill.
Figure 16. Work company of singing threshers at Sanasi’s farm, Kakarima, where
the work is accomplished with amazing speed and joy, the rhythm being essential to
coordinate the blows, 1961 (photo Ruth Finnegan).
Many Limba consider the songs used for threshing even more attractive.
In these—normally sung by rather smaller groups—the words are more
developed, more variation seems to be encouraged and many different
songs are sung on one occasion. There is no drumming and usually no
specialist singer, for even the leader takes part in the work, albeit a little
less vigorously and regularly than the others. The occasion of threshing
is a happy one: the harvest is on the way to completion, there is plenty
of food once again, and the moment that has been looked forward to
throughout the year has arrived. The rice is piled up on the threshing area,
and the young men gather round with their sticks, raising them in a ring
of a dozen or so at a time. Another ring may form at the other end of the
threshing floor, and, led by the most expert singer, the two groups begin by
answering to each other’s song in turn, repeating the verse inaugurated by
the leader. Later they join together in the chorus. Again a fourfold rhythm
forms the framework of the music and the work, this time with the stress
on the third beat, followed by a pause as the sticks are raised and the men
take a step together, kicking up the straw, to move down the floor—beat,
beat, beat, pause one, two, three, step. With heavy sticks about three feet
long, brought down with great force, the co-ordinated timing given by the
rhythm of the music is indeed necessary to avoid accidents as well as to
encourage and delight both workers and bystanders. They may sing, for
example:
Soloist Don’t reproach me about (not having) children!

I had a child long ago but God did not let him live.
1st chorus Don’t reproach me about children!
I had a child long ago but the witches ate him.
2nd chorus Laima o laima.22
1st chorus Yes!
2nd chorus Laima o laima.
Double chorus Don’t reproach me about children!
I had a child long ago but the witches ate him.
Soloist Don’t reproach me about (not having) a wife!
I had a wife long ago, but the chief took her.
1st chorus Don’t reproach me about a wife!
I had a wife long ago, but the chief took her.
1st chorus Yes!
Double chorus Don’t reproach me about a wife!
I had a wife long ago but the chief took her . . .
22 Meaningless but (to the Limba) pleasing syllables.

and so on and on with constant repetitions of the soloist’s verses. This

time the dancing is quite explicit. The step onwards is a dance step, the
movements are thought beautiful in themselves, and sometimes the rice
is beaten only twice so that the dance can be elaborated in the time of the
third beat. The work is exhausting and the men run with sweat—but the
dominant feeling is of a festive and artistic occasion.
Canoeing songs are common among many riparian and coastal peoples.
They are especially well known in the Zambesi area. The Chikunda people,
for instance, are known as excellent watermen along the Zambesi from its
mouth to Feira, and their boat songs are excellently designed to accompany
the rhythm of their paddling:
The outside hand holds the paddle shaft below the bulwarks and over the
side. The shaft is then tapped on the boatside during the stroke and again
as it is being withdrawn from the water. Then there is a pause before the
new stroke. The rhythm is one of four beats, thus—instroke, tap, tap, silent,
in, tap, tap, silent. This gives the effect of triple time, and so a cross rhythm
results when combined with the singing. The speed of stroke varies between
and to the minute. Denny
The songs are usually sung by a soloist, often encouraged by shouts from
his companions, while the chorus comes in with meaningless words like
aye, oyo, ndende. Sometimes they are sung antiphonally, one side of paddles
answered by the other (Kidney 1921: 119). The actual words are simple,
and the attraction of the songs seems to lie in the music and the rhythm
that accompany the steady stroke of the paddle. There is also some interest
in the subject-matter, which, however sketchy, distracts from the labour of
the moment:
Let the horn sound!
Sound the trumpet
Yes, let it sound. (Ibid.: 41)
This is a song about drinking: the beer is finished, so now let us dance, to
drums and horns. Or again:
Leave the drum, leave the drum,
Leave the dance.
I wear clothes
”ecause I am clever. Idem
The background to the third song is said to be a husband’s asking his wife
where she had got extra clothes beyond what he himself had given her. She
Fieldnotes, 1961.
replies with this song repeated over and over by the paddlers. The next
song is also about love, the song of the cunning Don Juan who has only to
look at a woman and speak for her to come—but he never marries properly
and is always in trouble with the parents:
I have married a wife with my eyes,

The dowry was my mouth, ye ye
I have married with my eyes. Denny
Many of the other songs too are about everyday matters—love and marriage,
leaving and returning home, dancing, eating, family life. About the only
one that refers to the river at all is about the hippopotamus (poetically
called a rhinoceros), which is a favourite dish along the river:
O rhinoceros, O man rhinoceros,

Rhinoceros of the river banks
Is good to eat with tomatoes. (Ibid.: 42)
The same type of subject-matter also occurs in songs by some of the Congo
river boatmen. The Mabale paddle songs recorded by Tanghe (1926–8) are
more often about local events, death, the ancestors, or the local chief than
about the monotonous and protracted labour of propelling the canoes. The
rhythm of the paddles provides the framework of the song. The binary
measure in the song matches the twofold structure of the paddle strokes—
first a strong beat corresponding to the tension of the muscles and sweep
of the paddles, further marked by the beat of an accompanying gong or
drum and secondly a relatively feeble beat while the paddles rest. These
paddle songs are sometimes by a soloist echoed by a chorus but, unlike the
Chikunda examples, they are more often sung by the whole crew, preceded
and accompanied by the beat of a drum. Consonant with this pattern the
words are short and simple in the extreme. The song
Ekouloulou, qui rames incessamment

Ekouloulou, qui rames incessamment
Ekouloulou, qui rames incessamment . . .
(Ekululu jaboluka ntek’ . . .)
repeated over and over in unison is one of the few to refer to the actual
work—the crew compare themselves to the little ekululu fish that is always
swimming. Tanghe Even simpler are the words which
alternate between solo and chorus:
Solo. Les herbes Chorus. Oye

Solo. Les herbes Chorus. Oye Tanghe
or:
Solo. Chef, o, Chorus. Waza waza

Chef, e, Waza waza
Ventre, e, Waza waza
Fusil, e, Waza waza
Malle, e, Waza waza
Sel, e . . . Waza waza . . . Tanghe
The structure is also simple, and, like many such songs, depends
fundamentally on various types of repetition: repetition of the same formula
with or without a pause repetition with a slight variation the second time
through and alternation and repetition of two different phrases, sometimes
with variation. They are sung in a slow, monotonous, and plaintive way,
repeated over and over in uniform and regular measure, with the low and
constant accompaniment of gong or drum in the background. Each song is
brought to an end by a long-drawn-out final note, followed by a long low
note, not really part of the song itself.
While most of these Mabale paddle songs are sung in unison, occasionally
led by one of the paddlers, there is also sometimes a specialist singer. This
is a young man with a reputation for both his voice and his repertoire of
songs who comes specially to sing and is exempt from paddling. He may
sing in alternation with chorus, but sometimes performs freely on his own,
a situation which is held to lead to the best songs of all. Yet even here, it
seems, the words themselves are relatively unimportant. What matters is
the regular repetition that stimulates and eases the effort of paddling:
Hélas, mon enfant

Hélas, je le pleure
Hélas, avec douleur
Saurais-je l oublier, hélas.24 Ibid.
Hélas, mère
Hélas, mère
Un homme est tombé
Un homme est mort . . . Ibid.
The occasions mentioned so far all involve rhythmic work by a group of

people in co-operation. ”ut there are also solitary work songs. Grinding
24 Two soloists.
One soloist.
corn, for instance, though sometimes done by several women, is also often
performed by one woman alone. This is a situation that gives scope to the
expression of more personal feelings, uttered at greater length, than in the
group songs. Thus a Kamba woman’s grinding song is concerned with
her own experiences. She was married to a man employed at a German
Leipzig Mission Station, a place with large whitewashed buildings that she
compares to the hills. She had once said she never wished to set foot in a
mission station, but even so she has now left her parents and come to live
here at the ‘master’s’ (missionary’s) place:
Let me be! Let me grind my flour in peace and recover from my grief!
You tell me that I have now neither people nor mother.
Although I once said that I would never come to these ‘hills’,
Yet I have come here to build my hut at the master’s (place).
These high hills, they shine like the seeds of the kivuti26 tree, or like coins.
I am tending my father s roaming bull. Lindblom iii,
A similar personal comment is evident in a Sotho domestic song, the lament

of a woman whose man is away:
Far, far away at Molelle’s place,

Where is the train going?
He has been away at the mines too long.
I, poor child, always say that.
I have lost my relatives
And have no one to tell me what to do. (Afr. Music , ,
The various types of work songs can be seen to shade into songs for
dancing, for in each case the singing accompanies rhythmic movement.
The difference, obviously, is that dance movements are not regarded as
monotonous or laborious. ”ut even so there is some overlap between the
two, with ‘work songs’ also functioning as, or following the pattern of,
dance songs. Thus the Swahili truck-pushing song quoted above has all
the characteristics of an up-country ngoma (dance) song (Werner 1927: 102).
Some tasks, furthermore, are carried out in a half-dancing manner, so that,
as with the Limba threshing songs, the work becomes attractive and artistic
rather than merely laborious, and the song a background to a kind of dance
as well as to labour.
26 Large red seeds with black spots.

This discussion of work songs has already involved some mention of

their style. Since they typically accompany collective rhythmical movement,
it is not surprising that a common form is that of leader and chorus. The
chorus words tend to be particularly simple, often meaningless—iyo, ayo,
ye ye, etc.—or involve repetition from the solo part. The soloist has more
scope to develop or improvise his words, particularly when, as sometimes
happens, he is not expected to take part in the work directly but can
concentrate on his singing (and on the musical accompaniment or even
dancing that he is also at times responsible for . ”ut even so, the wording of
these songs is usually simple. Typically the leader only sings a line or two
of his own before his words are taken up by the chorused refrain brought
in by the rhythm of the work, and there is little opportunity for elaboration
of the verbal content. The structure of a Southern Rhodesian work song
recorded by Tracey is characteristic in this respect. The poetry of the words
results in a carefully balanced piece of verse, but the words themselves
have little significance:
Chorus. Herende hi ho hi haiwa, hiho gore we hi haiwa no meaning

Solo. The girls have got their dancing beads on (i.e. this is a joyful occasion)
Chorus. Ye wo ye (oh, yes!), they’ve got their dancing beads on . . .
(Tracey 1929: 100)
It is the rhythm and the melody, not the words, that are the most striking
aspects of these songs. The rhythm of the work provides the fixed
framework within which the song must be developed, a framework that
is likely to continue for a long period of time during which the song (and
the work) is repeated again and again. The importance of the rhythmical
aspect is brought out further by the cases—which are beyond our scope
here—where complicated percussion is the main element of interest in
accompanying, the work. This sometimes takes precedence over or even
altogether replaces the words, and may be by drums, hammers, or even
the regular sequence of blows used by shipworkers in Dar-es-Salaam as
they hammer the rust off the steel sides of the ships—’producing a pleasant
effect which no doubt assists them in the performance of their monotonous
task Tracey . In the songs the words are punctuated and framed
by rhythmical effort—by hauling at the net in Ewe fishing songs, strokes of
the hoe or flail in Limba farming songs, paddle strokes in canoe songs. It is
this that provides their main structure and conditions their style.
Figure 17. Limba women’s daily task of pounding the rice for their favourite food is
often lightened by song, often heard (and learned) by the babies tied to their backs,
1961 (photo Ruth Finnegan).
Work songs stand out from others in their directly functional relationship
to the activity they accompany. Occasionally they appear as a separate
art form for sophisticated audiences,27 but normally they are inextricably
involved with the work itself. This is particularly true of songs
accompanying collective work. The joint singing co-ordinates the action
and leads the workers to feel and work as part of a co-operating group,
not as separate individuals. Such co-operation may be essential to the job
in hand (e.g. in hauling, paddling, and other tasks which depend on exact
27 E.g. the Ganda paddle songs performed at court Roscoe .

joint timing), but even where this is not essential, as in hoeing or road work,
the rhythm of the song still encourages collaboration and control within
the group, a pressure on all to take part equally within the given rhythmic
framework. The function of rhythmical music in encouraging people to
work harder, faster, and with more enjoyment has frequently been noted.
Work songs can also comment on life in general, on local events, or on local
characters, and can express ideas of love, friendship, or even obscenity
(Evans-Pritchard 1929). In short, work songs lighten the labour and give
an opportunity, however limited, for poetic and musical expression in the
midst of work.28
Such songs seem to occur throughout Africa. Their detailed words and
form, however, have not been extensively recorded by either linguists or
sociologists who have tended to leave this field to musicologists.29 However,
it may be that the same characteristics which have led to this partial neglect—
their relatively slight verbal element, their close association with work, and
their musical quality—are precisely those which encourage the continuing
development of such songs so that they fit new as well as older types of
work. This kind of song, probably unlike military and hunting poems, is
likely to remain a continuing source for the student of oral literature.
28 For a further general discussion of work songs, see ”rakeley , also Jones ff.
(Ewe) and Wilson 1966: 77.
29 Musicologists have made many recordings of such songs, particularly in Central “frica
the words, however, are often not published with these recordings.
9. Lyric
Occasions. Subject Matter. Form. Composition.
In the sense of ‘a short poem that is sung’, lyric is probably the most
common form of poetry in subsaharan Africa. It is not always recognized
that these songs, in which the musical element is of such obvious
importance, are in fact poems. It is true that the verbal aspect sometimes
appears less developed than in the lengthy poems that are delivered in
spoken or recitative style, like some of the praise poems, hymns, or hunting
chants that have already been described. ”ut this should not prevent us
from calling them poems. We should remember that classical Greek or
Elizabethan lyrics were equally designed to be sung. Indeed, in its original
form of a poem in a musical setting, lyric is one of the most important kinds
of African oral literature.
So far, with a few exceptions,1 the poetry we have considered has
mainly been associated with relatively formal events. The lyric songs
discussed here are for more informal occasions. Whereas much other poetry
depends on a specialist and even esoteric tradition, these involve popular
participation. The verbal content of these songs tends to be short (though
the actual performance may be lengthy) and is often ephemeral. There is
usually plenty of improvisation. Unlike the general pattern of Western
European folk-songs, the individual singer does not tend to stand out in
a dominant position as against a passive audience,2 but instead interacts
with a chorus. Yet these lyric songs still provide wide scope for individual
expression.
1 In particular the work song which could have been treated under the present heading.
2 See Lomax 1962 on the general contrasts in this respect between Africa, Europe, the
Orient etc.
I
Songs appear in an almost unlimited number of contexts. In words that
might be applied more widely than to the Ibo of whom he was writing,
Osadebay speaks of the ‘wealth of culture and fine feelings which find
expression in our music and poetry. We sing when we fight, we sing when
we work, we sing when we love, we sing when we hate, we sing when a
child is born, we sing when death takes a toll Osadebay .
Rites de passage are very common occasions for singing. There are songs
associated with birth, with initiation and puberty, betrothal, marriage,
acquiring a new title or status, and funeral and memorial celebrations. The
most serious of these songs, in which the verbal element is elaborated at
length, cannot be called lyrical. ”ut often such ceremonies are in fact more
an occasion for festivity, which includes song, than a solemn ritual with
specially designated music, and the gatherings normal at these times are a
reason for singing for its own sake.
Weddings, for example, are popular occasions for comment in song—by
no means always involving praise of the newly wedded pair:
Serpent que tu es!

Chien que tu es!
Tu fais: oua-oua! (Junod 1897: 46)
sing the bride’s friends about her husband among the Ronga, amid a series
of songs cheerfully warning her of the ill-treatment she will without doubt
receive at the hands of his parents. In more reflective and personal style is
the Ganda song of farewell by the young girl about to be married, with the
repetitions typical of this form:
Oh, I am gone,
Oh, I am gone,
Call my father that I may say farewell to him,
Oh, I am gone.
Father has already sold me,
Mother has received a high price for me,
Oh, I am gone. (Sempebwa 1948: 18)
It is likely that advantage will be taken of this opportunity to sing songs on

many other topics.
For other examples of marriage songs see e.g. ”eaton ”ari Leslau Harari ,
Dufays 1909 (Ruanda).
9. Lyric 237
Many of these songs are for dancing. A particular song type is sometimes
inextricably tied up with a particular dance. Thus the Swahili used to have
a special gungu song for the ‘pounding figure’ of the dance:
Give me a chair that I may sit down and hold (the guitar)
Let me sing a serenade for my Palm-daughter
Let me sing for my wife
She who takes away my grief and sorrow.
Knappert cf. Steere
This occasion for song is, if anything, increasing, and many examples could
be quoted like the Zulu ‘town dancing songs’ quoted by Tracey, where the
words are subordinate to the dance:
This is the girl that jilted me,

The wretch of a girl that jilted me.
At Durban, the dance leaders are afraid of us! (Tracey 1948b: 61)4
Zululand, my home, I love you.

Goodbye, Willie I like you too.
We are the boys. (Ibid.: 66)
The same kind of mood, of recreation and light-hearted enjoyment, is

evident in many of the ‘drinking songs’. These too, for all their lightness,
may express the thought in true lyric manner, with economy and grace. In
a Shona drinking song, the original is only seven words in all:
Keep it dark!
Don’t tell your wife,
For your wife is a log
That is smouldering surely!
Keep it dark! Tracey , no.
There are sometimes more formalized occasions for the singing of lyrics.
One could mention the recent interest in the short balwo lyric among the
Somali.6 Special balwo parties became fashionable in the towns. People
would recite the lyrics they knew or compose new ones, and the recitations
would be interrupted for tea and conversation (Andrzejewski 1967: 11).
4 i.e. a boast by the (Johannesburg) dancers that no one can dance better than they—their
reputation has even reached Durban!
Nearly all collections of poems include some dance songs. See also Stappers
Emsheimer not seen ”eaton , v. Funke Clark Traoré
Littmann Vansina Nketia .
6 On which see below.
Popular and occasional bands among the Akan also sometimes perform on
specifically recreational occasions Nketia b: Ch. 6). Again,
in many areas the radio nowadays frequently creates opportunities for
lyrics to be performed.
All over the continent it is a common pattern for stories to be interrupted
from time to time by a song, usually led by the storyteller, while the
audience act as his chorus.7 Sometimes these songs amount to quite long
poems, and are then often in recitative. Short verses are also very common,
sometimes with many nonsense syllables to fill in the rhythm and tune,
with repetition over and over again between leader and chorus. One Limba
story, about ‘The clever cat’, has a verse of this kind:
The story is about a cat who proposes to initiate the young rat maidens into
the bondo (women’s society). They, like all young girls, are eager to enter—
but the cat’s one desire is to have a chance of eating them! The cat pretends
to act in the usual way of a bondo senior woman. She lines them all up and
leads the singing, telling them not to look round. She sings:
When we go,
Let no one look behind oh!
When the cat is free, fo fen.
The chorus of young rats take up the same words:

When we go,
Let no one look behind oh!
When the cat is free, fo fen
in the way young initiates do in real life. The rhythmic and melodic
song is repeated in the story perhaps eight or ten times, first by the cat
(the narrator), then by the rat initiates (the audience) who have quickly
picked up the tune. ”ut while the singing is going on, what the cat is
really doing is to quietly pick off the rats one by one as they sing with
their backs to her. At last only one is left, still singing the song. Just in
time, she looks round, and throws herself out of the way and escapes.
for the full story see Finnegan
A story like this appeals to its audience partly because of the amusing form
of words and the parody of the usually very serious initiation ceremony, but
perhaps most of all because of the attractive song which, in terms of the time
spent repeating it over and over, took up as long as the prose narrative. Simple
as the words were in themselves, the audience all joined in enthusiastically,
overlapping slightly with the leader s last note and half dancing as they sang
On the function of songs in stories see Ch. . “lso ”elinga ff.

9. Lyric 239
they would, it seemed, have continued indefinitely had not the leader finally
broken into their response to continue his narration.
The same song is sometimes repeated at different points in the story,
a kind of signature tune with slight variations on the words to fit the
development of the plot. The structure of the story is thus marked by the
recurrence of the song in each new episode. Another Limba example can
make this plain:
The plot is the intentionally fantastic and humorous one of the hero Sara and
his endeavours to kill and eat a guinea-fowl he had caught without sharing it
with any of his friends. ”ut the bird is a magical one and the more Sara tries to
kill and eat it, going through all the usual preparations and cooking procedures,
the more it sings back at him. At last he eats it—but even in his stomach the
bird sings and demands to be excreted and in the final effort, Sara dies.
Each of the many parallel stages of the plot is marked by the same song,
with variations to suit the event, the last phrase and response being repeated
several times by narrator and audience with the same tune throughout.
First, the guinea-fowl is discovered in the snare, and it sings:
Sara is coming to loose me,
Sara is coming to loose me.
Here he found a path, a night passed,
Here he came and put a snare for me,
The guinea-fowl,
The guinea-fowl,
Ko de ba ko naligbe8
What is your name?
What is your name?
(Response) Tambarenke, Tambarenke.
What is your name?
Tambarenke, Tambarenke.
What is your name?
Tambarenke, Tambarenke . . ., etc.
Sara looses the bird from the noose, and brings it home to prepare for
eating. Again the bird sings:
Sara is coming to pluck me,
Sara is coming to pluck me.
Here he found a path, a night passed,
Here he came and put a snare for me,
The guinea-fowl,
8 Apparently nonsense words.

The guinea-fowl,
Ko de ba ko nagligbe
What is your name?
What is your name?
Tambarenke, Tambarenke.
What is your name?
Tambarenke, Tambarenke . . .
As the story continues, new first lines appear:
Sara is coming to cut me up . . .

Sara is coming to pound me . . .9
Sara is coming to mould me . . .
Sara is coming to put me in (to the pot) . . .
Sara is coming to take me out . . .
Sara is coming to eat me . . .
Sara is going to lie down . . .
And, finally,
Sara is going to excrete me . . . (Full story in Finnegan 1967: 284–90)
The linguistic content of songs in Limba stories, as in some others, is

relatively limited, and for the audience their main interest lies in the
rhythm and melody and the fact that they can participate in the singing. In
some other cases, however, such as some Akan stories, the words are more
developed. The following is a variation on a very common theme:
Elephant and Antelope are said to have made very good friends in the
forest. Elephant being the stronger and wealthier of the two was able to
lay on sumptuous meals every day to which he invited Antelope. One day
he expressed the desire to visit Antelope in his house. This embarrassed
Antelope for he also wanted to give him a good meal. It occurred to him after
failing to get any meat that Mother Antelope was the answer, so he caused
her to be killed and used. When Elephant arrived he was greatly surprised
by the delicious meal and asked to see Mother “ntelope. ”ut “ntelope
succeeded in putting this off. After the meal however, Elephant again asked
for Mother Antelope and Antelope replied in a song as follows:
Elephant, please don’t worry me.

Have you ever seen a poor man
And a wealthy man exchange things equally?
Elephant “kwaa ”renkoto that commands his destiny,
9 Meat is often pounded in a mortar, then moulded into balls.

9. Lyric 241
Elephant that plucks the tops of trees on his right,

King of musketry, father and king,
”irefi “kuampon, mighty one to whom all stray goods are sent to be used.
Yes let us proceed,
Mother Antelope, I have stewed her.
Yes, let us proceed.
Mother Antelope, I have used her to redeem myself. Yes, let us proceed.
Nketia b: 19)
II
The subjects of the many different songs sung on these various occasions
include just about every topic imaginable. There are songs about wives,
husbands, marriage, animals, chiefs, this year’s tax, the latest football
match, a recent intrigue, the plight of a cripple dependent on his family, an
amusing incident, a friend’s treachery or an enemy’s vices, the relationship
between variety in the human and the natural world—and so on according
to the genre of song involved, the context of performance, and the poetic
inspiration of the singer.
It has frequently been remarked that African poems about nature are
few and far between, and there is truth in this assertion. Certainly there
seems to be little in common between most African lyrics and the romantic
interest in ‘Nature’ typical of certain epochs of the English poetic tradition,
and lyrics about people, events, and personal experience are more common.
”ut observation of the natural world, especially the animal world is often
significant. Take the simple little song about a brook recorded in Malawi in
the nineteenth century. The effect is an imitation of the sound of the brook
and it is sung softly and soothingly in a subdued voice the main point
is to reflect the tune of the water rather than describe in words, though a
picture is given of the bank of the little stream (chiko) and the prickly bush
that grows by it (likwanya):
1st voice Likwanya likunyanya ku chiko.

Response Anyanyale.
(Simultaneously) 1st voice Likwanya likunyanya ku chiko
2nd voice Anya nya-nya-nya-le e.
Then the two voices interchange lines twice, with the final response:
Anyanyale. (Macdonald i, 1882: 49)

Again, we could mention the case of Somali poetry which ‘is imbued with a
consciousness of the beauties and cruelties of nature’ (Andrzejewski 1967:
. For instance, the simple lyric O Distant Lightning! Have you deceived
me?’2 gains its emotive tone from the inspiration of rain and its life-giving
and beautiful results. Lightning often presages rain, and this symbolizes
hope. ”ut sometimes the hope is disappointed and the rain-clouds move
away. So here the poet is writing of love, but calls the girl ‘Distant Lightning’,
expressing his disappointment in love in terms of natural forces.
Songs associated with birds are very common. Sometimes the song is
envisaged as sung by the bird itself, and at least in part is an onomatopoeic
representation of the call. We could instance the many lyrics supposed to
be sung and exchanged by birds among the ”eti of the Cameroons. The
ngiai afan (genderme silvatique) sings of the insecurity of life:
Point de sécurité en forêt. (Mvie e se a fie.

Point de sécurité en forêt. Mvie a se fie . “nya-Noa
The female kolvodo ban nga (magpie) in one of her songs praises the virtues
of work:
Va au travail. (Kel’ esie o.

Va au travail. Kel’ esie o.
Si tu entends dire: O wog na:
‘C’est une fille d’homme’ ‘Ngon mot’
C est grâce au travail. H esie.
Si tu entends dire: O wog na:
‘C’est une fille d’homme’ ‘Ngon mot’
C est grâce au travail. H esie.
Le pays serait-il généreux, Nnam akab,
Ne sois pas quémandeur. Te bo zaq.
Le pays serait-il généreux, Nnam akab,
Ne sois pas quémandeur. Te bo zaq. “nya-Noa
The Zulu songs attributed to birds attempt to represent something of

the nature and appearance of the bird as well as its cry—and cast a sly
glance at humanity too. The bird called uthekwane (hammerkop or heron)
is pictured strolling gracefully by the waterside, with his fine-looking crest
and shapely thighs—symbolizing vanity:
I myself, have often said:—Thekwane! You, with your crest, your leisurely
strolling when frequenting the spring, at the time it has been opened up—
mark you as a very fine fellow. You have large thighs. (Dunning 1946: 44)
9. Lyric 243
Other Zulu bird songs involve interchange between the hen and the cock,
the male in deep bass, the hen higher. The song of the insingizi (hornbill or
turkey-buzzard) is really a comment on married life, particularly the last
line of the cock’s exhausted rejoinder to his wife’s constant nagging:
Hen. Where, where is (the) meat? Where, where is (the) meat?
Cock. There’s none, it’s up in the trees above (bis)
Hen. Where, where are the worms? (bis)
Cock. There are none, there are no worms (bis)
Hen. Are there none, are there none over there? (bis)
Cock. Oh! get away with you! Where will I get them from? (bis)
Hen. Look for them, look for them over there (bis)
Cock. There are none, there are none over there (bis)
Hen. I am going, I am going, I am going home to my people (bis)
Cock. Go, go, you have long since said so (bis . Dunning
Most elaborate of all is the song of self-assertion attributed to the iqola,

the fiscal shrike. In it the cock utters his proverbial cries of ‘Goshi! Goshi!
Dadi! Dadi!’, cries which are supposed to describe the sounds made by the
movements of his wings and feet as well as the ejaculations he utters as part
of his great display. He is pictured as turning his head to the right, then to
the left, surveying himself in self-admiration. His cry really amounts to
saying ‘I am the personification of everything that is Majestic and Powerful
and my ornaments jingle and rattle in perfect rhythm . He sings
Goshi! Goshi! Dadi! Dadi!
Who do I kill (stab)? Who do I kill? Who do I kill?
I kill the relations of these (indicating his victims) outright! outright!
I kill the relations of these outright! outright!
I kill the relations of these outright! outright!
Sanxokwe, Sanxokwe (addressing her Majesty)
I’ll pay your bridewealth (lobola) with a red beast
I’ll pay your bridewealth with a red beast
I’ll pay your bridewealth with a red beast.
When men drink beer, they become intoxicated,

They take up their sticks
And they (the sticks) clashing together sound xakaxaka, xakaxaka, xakaxaka.
I have been across the Umdawane10

Where I ate up the big dance.11
I caught a small bird, I fixed it on the end of a slender twig very early this morning.
10 A fabulous river.
11 i.e. won all the prizes.
I repeated this by catching a Fantail Warbler early this morning

And fixed it on the end of a slender twig.
I drank the blood of a bird early this morning.
I struck its little stomach, it became red with blood at that very moment,
”ecause I am the King of ”irds.
Goshi! Goshi! Dadi! Dadi!
Bayede! Bayede! (Salute me royally) Khuleka! Khuleka! (Make obeisance to me)
Nkosi! Nkosi! [“ddress me as] King! Dunning 12
Finally, in a rather different style, is the brief but pathetic Nyanja song of
the unloved night-jar:
Moon, you must shine, shine that I may eat the tadpoles
I sit on a stone, and my bones all rattle.
If it were not for my big mouth,
The maidens would be crying for me. (Rattray 1907: 164)
Songs about, or attributed to, animals seem to be less common than those
associated with birds. ”ut some certainly exist particularly in South and
Central “frica. The brief Hottentot song about a baboon gives a vivid little
picture of his typical occupation:
There, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you . . .
Crack, crack, what a louse . . .
It bit me, what a louse . . .
Crack, crack, what a louse . . .
It bit me, what a louse . . . Stopa
and is cast in the typical form of a sung lyric, with plenty of scope for
repetition and, apparently, for chorus responses. Among the South African
”antu the tradition of praising seems still strong, and recent praises
(although strictly of a different order from the songs quoted in this chapter)
are much more simple and lyrical in concept than the lengthy and grandiose
praises of traditional culture. Thus Hurutshe men describe a hare
Ga-re-ya-gaa-koo!
Son of the little dark brown one with spots,
Little yellow one, leaper from the stubbles,
12 The line division is not quite clear in the text and I may have interpreted it incorrectly
in places.
The shout given when the hare jumps up from its lair.
9. Lyric 245
Yonder is the son of the little dark brown one

Leaper from the treeless plain
Leaper from the trunks of trees
It leaps up, and stretches its tail
And it places its ears on its shoulders
Ga-re-ya-gaa-koo! Merwe 14
Among pastoral peoples, songs are often composed and sung in praise of
individual beasts. Cattle come to mean far more to their owners than mere
economic sustenance, and are accepted as emotional and evocative topics
for deeply felt expression. This can be seen in the songs collected by recent
investigators from the Nilotic cattle-keeping people, and also from a Dinka
song published early in the century. The individual singer typically praises
his own bull in an outpouring of personal pride:
My ”ull is as white as the silvery fish in the river as white as the egret on the
river bank as white as new milk.
His bellowing is like the roar of the Turk s cannon from the great river.
My bull is as dark as the rain-cloud, that comes with the storm.
He is like Summer and Winter half of him dark as the thundercloud half of
him as white as sunshine.
His hump shines like the morning star.
His forehead is as red as the arum s [hornbill] wattles. His forehead is like a
banner seen by the people from afar.
He is like the rainbow.
I shall water him at the river, and drive
My enemies from the water with my spear.
Let them water their cattle at the well
The river for me and my bull.
Drink, O ”ull, of the river. “m I not here with
My spear to protect you? (Cummins 1904: 162)
”ut songs describing animals, or even birds, are apparently far less
common than those in which the main interest is human life. In fact this
can be seen even in many of the songs ostensibly about birds, for the bite
of the comment is often its veiled relevance for human action, character,
aspiration, or absurdity. There are lyrics about every facet of human
activity. Love and marriage are probably the commonest themes, and the
remainder of this section will illustrate some of these songs.
14 Animal songs also occur in Central Africa (Lamba) where they bear some resemblance
to Southern ”antu prises Doke .
Marriage is a topic that can be treated many different ways. Not only
its attractions are indicated in song, but also its difficulties or absurdities.
Thus one of the Ganda songs connected with marriage lightly warns young
suitors:
When he sees a pretty girl he falls for her,

‘I will go with you, let us go’.
Not knowing that he is going with a girl with a fiery temper.
(Sempebwa 1948: 17)
Among the Shi of the Eastern Congo, again, marital relationships are the
most common single subject in songs, many of them concerned with marital
and pre-marital strife. One of the popular forms is a song describing a girl’s
rejection of her suitor because she thinks him too poor:
‘You want to marry me, but what can you give me?
A nice field?’
‘No, I have only a house’.
What? You have nothing but a house? How would we live? Go to ”ukavu
there you can earn plenty of money. You can buy food and other things’.
‘No, I won’t go. I don’t know the people there. I have always lived here, and
I know the people and want to stay here’.
‘You are a stupid man. You want me to marry me but you have nothing. If
you don t go to ”ukavu and earn money to buy me things then I won t
marry you . Merriam
A different point of view is expressed in one of the many Chopi songs

on this subject. Here the girl is pictured as sad and solitary without her
husband like so many others he has gone off many hundreds of miles to
work in the mines. And yet there is something in common—a comment on
a woman’s demand for material possessions:
I am most distressed,
I am most distressed as my man has gone off to work,
And he does not give me clothes to wear,
Not even black cloth. (Tracey 1948a: 46)
The number of love songs recorded is surprising—at least to those

brought up to the idea that the concept of personal love is bound to be
lacking in African cultures. Even the idea of courtly and romantic love
is not always absent. It seems, for instance, to occur to some extent
among the Hausa, whose rich tradition of love poetry is now influencing
9. Lyric 247
surrounding people. Fletcher quotes a simple Hausa song of love, To

Dakabo, a maiden’:
Dakabo is tin!
Dakabo is copper!
Dakabo is silver!
Dakabo is gold!
Where greatness is a fortune
The thing desired is (obtained only) with time.
Thy things are my things,
My things are thy things,
Thy mother is my mother,
My mother is thy mother,
Thy father is my father,
My father is thy father!
”e patient, O maid!
”e patient, young maiden! Fletcher
The Somali balwo (later called heello) are even more striking examples of
romantic and emotional love poetry (see especially Andrzejewski 1967).
These are short lyric love poems that have become popular recently and
are particularly associated with the new urban generation. The balwo is
characterized by extreme brevity—it usually consists of only two lines—
and a condensed and cryptic imagery expressed in ‘miniature’ form. It is
sung to a distinct tune with syncopated rhythms, but there are relatively
few of these tunes and thousands of different poems. There are two, related,
themes in these lyrics: first, those addressed to a beloved woman, in hope
of marriage and secondly those to a woman admired from afar off, even
one seen only once whom the poet can have little hope of seeing again. This
theme of romantic and frustrated love gives rise, it seems, to genuine and
deeply felt emotion, expressed in a condensed and symbolic form arising
from one central image:
Woman, lovely as lightning at dawn,

Speak to me even once.
I long for you, as one

Whose dhow in summer winds
Is blown adrift and lost,
See Mayssal , on Hausa influence on the Cameroons Fulani.

Longs for land, and finds—

Again the compass tells—
“ grey and empty sea. Laurence
If I say to myself ‘Conceal your love!’

Who will conceal my tears?
Like a tall tree which, fallen, was set alight,

I am ashes. “ndrzejewski
My heart is single and cannot be divided,

“nd it is fastened on a single hope Oh you who might be the moon.
“ndrzejewski and Lewis also pp.
The romantic love poem is not just confined to the coast. The Nyamwezi of
central Tanganyika around Tabora can sing:
My love is soft and tender,

My love Saada comforts me,
My love has a voice like a fine instrument of music. Tracey
Not all African love songs, however, are in the romantic, even ecstatic vein
perhaps more typical of areas like Hausa country or the East Coast, long
influenced by Arabic culture. There are many ways of describing this fertile
theme. The Kuanyama Ambo of South West Africa have a series of brief
antiphonal love poems used in courtship, with call and response between
man and girl. Usually some analogy of a general rather than a personal
kind is made between nature and human relationships:
Where one sees birds in their flight, there is water

Where one hears the sound of women’s laughter, there is a kraal.
“ palm stick bow does not like the rainy season it warps
A woman fond of a man does not like to be among people.
Loeb , 16
An analogy with nature is also made in a very light-hearted love song by a

young Soga in East Africa:
All things in nature love one another.

The lips love the teeth,
The beard loves the chin,
“nd all the little ants go brrr-r-r-r together. Tracey
16 Loeb’s general interpretation, however, is highly doubtful.

9. Lyric 249
Zulu love poetry often seems to be by women, a feature that has parallels
elsewhere in Africa. Dhlomo gives one girl’s song that is both realistic and
romantic:
Never shall I fall in love with a suckling.

Joy, joy, O mother, this one sleeps unrealising.
Never shall I fall in love with one who is no ladies’ man.
I would like to fall in love with a dashing he-man.
Would love him-who-appears-and-causes-heart-aches!
Yes, I would like a whirlwind of a man!
Joy, joy, O mother, this one sleeps unrealising. (Dhlomo 1947: 7)
In much more disillusioned vein is another Zulu love song, this time by
an older woman living in Durban, where she runs her own small group
of singers. The song expresses all her despair and the mundane yet heart-
breaking aspects of parting:
I thought you loved me,

Yet I am wasting my time on you.
I thought we would be parted only by death,
”ut to-day you have disappointed me.
You will never be anything.
You are a disgrace, worthless and unreliable.
”ring my things. I will put them in my pillow.
You take yours and put them under your armpit.
You deceived me. (Tracey 1948b: 41)
Among the Luo of Kenya, too, love songs are sung by women. The final
examples of love poetry will be taken from their oigo lyrics, one of the many
types of songs in Luo country.17 These are love songs in a slightly different
sense from the ones already quoted.
The oigo are songs sung by young girls on their way to visit the young
men they are courting. The girls walk to the hut where they are to be
entertained by the men, by the light of the full moon. As they go, they sing
these songs, individually or in groups, taking it in turns to sing the whole
way. There was no formal order of singing the more musically gifted girls
17 I write in the present though in fact these songs are now a thing of the past. The
description is taken from Owuor 1961.
or the more effusive took the leading part according to their mood’ (Owuor
. Meanwhile the young men are waiting, straining their ears for
the first sounds of the song. When it is heard, one of them announces to the
rest, at the top of his voice: ‘The landing has taken place, they have arrived’.
The girls come and are welcomed with gifts. And then the evening’s
entertainment proceeds, the men playing on reed flutes while the girls sing
their oigo songs.
These songs have their own special form. The tunes are simple and
rather repetitive with an insistent rhythm. The most striking aspect is the
singer’s vocal style. ‘The singer trills in a bird-like voice and conveys an
impression of being possessed by the stream of song within her, breathless
and helpless. The emotions expressed are often sorrowful and almost
hysterical, yet the singer exults in her ability to sing endlessly like a bird’
Owuor . This distinctive style comes out, even in translation, in
the following poem. The characteristic refrain, doree ree yo, is far more
repetitive and appealing than can be represented in an English text:
I am possessed,
A bird bursting on high with the ree lament
I am the untiring singer.
Dear bird, let’s sing in rivalry
Our doree ree yo . . .
It is my wayward self,
Singing in rivalry
The doree ree yo
I am the untiring singer
That rocks far-off Mombasa
With the aree ree yo
It is the voice crying the doree
That rocks far-off Nakuru
I am the compelling Ondoro drum,
The bird bursting with the doree s plaintive tones
I am the untiring singer
Choking herself with the doree ree yo. Owuor
Sometimes the emphasis of the song is on the sorrow of the singer, or the
way she is possessed by the song. At other times we are given a picture of
another side of her nature—wilful and unpredictable, her impulsiveness
breaking through the ordinary rules of behaviour. This comes out in
one song that is arranged round the image of a family setting out, led by
the favourite bull who symbolizes their unity. Impulsively, the girl runs
9. Lyric 251
ahead to keep up with the animal, in spite of the pain in her chest from her
exertion:
Our bull is starting off for Holo,

The Kapiyo clan have fine cattle.
The Kapiyo clan have fine cattle.
Then the giggling one said,

Then the playful one said,
How amusing
The impulsive ree singer
Is a forest creature lamenting the pain in her chest
The forest creature lamenting the pain in her chest,
The spirited one lamenting the pain in her chest,
The giggling ree singer
Is a forest creature lamenting the pain in her chest,
The Nyagwe Gune lamenting the pain in her chest,
The impulsive ree singer
Is a forest creature lamenting the pain in her chest.

The Kapiyo have fine cattle
The Kadulo clan is a bull which starts off for Holo,
The Kapiyo have fine cattle. Owuor
In these songs, a special picture of girlhood is presented. It is one which

does not necessarily correspond in all ways to the reality, but forms a
conventional part of this particular form of art:
She lives in a dreamland, though much tempered by the idealised role she
longs to fill in the community . . . As with a bird, singing appears to be the
natural outpouring of the life force itself. The prestige of clan and family
depended not only on the prowess of its young men but also on the zealous
way in which its women represented its interests in song and dance. For a
group of girls the oigo was a means of announcing their presence and of
differentiating themselves from the older married women for an individual
a way of expressing her idiosyncrasies Owuor .
I’m still complaining,
Crying the ree ree ree,
I’m still complaining,
Ever tearful with the ree ree ree,
I m still complaining
The redo-singer’s unceasing complaint,
Scion of young women
Still complaining,

I’m still complaining.
I am in love with the oigo
I cry the ree ree ree
Infatuated with the oigo
The redo-singer’s unceasing complaint
”lasting “mimo s hearth
With constant complaining
I’m still complaining.18
III
Songs in Africa are very frequently in antiphonal form. That is, there is
response of some kind between soloist and chorus, and the song depends
on the alternation between the two parts. The role of the soloist (or ‘cantor’)
is crucial. It is he who decides on the song, and when it should start and
end. Even more important, he can introduce variations on the basic theme
of the song in contrast to the part of the chorus, which is more or less fixed.
In other cases, the soloist has complete scope to improvise his part of the
verse as he chooses (apart perhaps from the very first line). This type of
composition results in many impromptu and often ephemeral lyrics.
Within the general antiphonal form, which has often been mentioned
as one of the main characteristics of African song, there are several
possible variations. This is partly a question of who the performers are.
Sometimes, for instance, there is more than one cantor two or even three
may interchange verses with each other as well as with the accompanying
chorus. In other special musical types, the singers take turns in leading
the singing, or two answer each other s song. ”ut, as will appear, even in
18 Owuor . Other references on love songs include Tracey examples

and general discussion Knappert a Swahili G. Sch(rle and “. Klingenheben,
“frilcanische Liebeslieder Duala and Zaramo , ZKS , Chadwicks iii,
ff. Tuareg E. Von Funke, Einige Tanz-und Liebeslieder der Haussa , ZES ,
Tescaroli , Ch. Sudan E. Cerulli, Poesie di guerra e di amore dei Galla ,
Arch, antrop. e etnol. , reference in IAI Bibl. (A) by R. Jones, North-East Africa,
D. Earthy, “ Chopi Love-song , Africa , . For other discussions or
examples of ‘lyrics’ see J. Vansina, ‘La chanson lyrique chez les Kuba’, jeune Afrique
, T. Tsala, Minlan mi mved chants lyriques , Recherches et etudes camerounaises
, ”eti L. Longmore, Music and Song among the ”antu People in Urban “reas
on the Witwatersrand’, Afr. music Soc. Newsletter . , and references in following
sections. For written Swahili forms see Knappert f., .
9. Lyric 253
the most basic type (one leader/one chorus) there is scope for variety and
elaboration.
One of the simplest forms, at first sight at least, and one that seems to
occur widely in Africa, is repetition of two phrases between soloist and
chorus. Nketia terms this pattern the ‘call and response’ form and shows
how even this type of antiphony can be elaborated in actual performance
(Nketia 1962: 28ff).19 At its simplest level, one that occurs, for instance,
in children’s games or other action songs, there is merely a repeated
interchange between leader and group, the first singing his own phrase
“ , the chorus coming in with theirs ” .20 ”ut there are also more complex
forms.
Various techniques of elaboration of the basic “-” form may be
employed. Variations in text, in melody or both may be introduced in the
cantor s phrase “ while the balancing responsive phrase ” sung by the
chorus remains the same. Interest may be further enhanced by varying the
beginning and ending point of the cantor’s phrase in such a way as to make
this part overlap with the chorus response. In addition to these, a little
elaboration in the form of a short introduction based on the words of the
song may be sung by the cantor or by a member of the chorus who wishes
to start a new song before the leading phrase (A) is begun. Examples of this
will be found in the music of kple worship of the Ga people. It is also greatly
exploited in Adangme klama music (Ibid.: 29).
Songs founded on this type of repetition are basically short, though the
actual repetitions may be drawn out almost indefinitely. Further extensions
of the basic principle are also common. One might be built up on a kind of
sequential pattern so that “ and ” are repeated at different levels, resulting
in a form of “ ” “1 ”1. The complete unit (now of four sections, or even of
six, eight, or more) can be repeated several times over. In this type too the
cantor is at liberty to introduce slight variations, melodic or textual. The
words of the chorus usually remain the same, though in some elaborations
they are changed while the cantor’s part stays the same. As can be seen,
many other combinations are also possible—like, for instance, the A1 ”, “2
”, “ ” pattern of many Limba songs.
All these elaborations of the ‘call and response’ pattern basically involve
the balance of sections sung by leader and chorus against each other, and
19 I draw heavily on Nketia’s analysis here: though he is working primarily on Ghanian

music, his analysis has a wider application see also Rycroft .
20 The children’s singing games quoted in Ch. 11 include some examples of this basic
form.
depend essentially on repetition. This raises the problem of how the song
is ended. Sometimes the end is abrupt and the leader simply stops but at
other times he joins in the chorus response, often with a prolonged final
note. In other songs there is a special closing refrain.
Another type of antiphonal collaboration between leader and chorus is
the solo and chorused refrain Nketia . In songs of this pattern
there is not the same balanced alternation between the two parts. Instead
the soloist merely introduces the song. The cantor might sing the entire
verse of the song right through once, and this is then repeated by the chorus.
An example of this is the simple but effective Ghanaian song:
I sleep long and soundly

Suddenly the door creaks.
I open my eyes confused,
And find my love standing by.
Mother Adu, I am dying.
Adu, kinsman of Odurowa,
What matters death to me? Nketia a 21
In the Ewe nyayito dance songs, in which new words are continually being
composed, the first cantor sings the whole song through unaccompanied.
”y singing in a dramatic tone he can encourage people to join the dance
Jones . In other cases, the cantor sings only a short introductory
phrase, and the chorus then sings the main song. The form is highly flexible:
When the cantor has sung through, he may sing a short leading phrase
before the chorus comes in. This leading phrase may also be added to a
cantor’s introduction. Further, the main chorus refrain can be interrupted by
a cantor at appropriate points . . . Furthermore a number of cantors may take
turns at leading the chorus. Either of them may sing an introductory phrase
before the chorus comes in, or they may take turns at leading each new
verse. Sometimes cantors singing in twos are encountered. All these show
that this form is flexible, and that there is room for building up complex
sectional patterns on the basis of the singing roles taken by the participants.
Nketia
There are other possible variants. There are various combinations of the
two main types described, including songs like the well-known Adangme
klama, which open with an introductory section by the cantor sung in
free rhythm, followed by a section in strict tempo with a solo lead and
chorus refrain (or overlapping solo and chorus parts), repeated three or
21 The emotion of love is, as often in Akan poetry likened to that of suffering and death.
9. Lyric 255
more times each new stanza can then be treated in much the same way
as the song proceeds Nketia a: 28). Sometimes basically solo songs in
declamatory style are supplemented by a chorus or instrumental addition
Nketia . In other songs the antiphony is between two soloists
rather than solo and chorus. Thus the Kassena-Nankani of northern Ghana
have a special type of song in which a young man who wishes to sing the
praises of a girl conventionally asks the assistance of a friend: this results in
a kind of duet by the two men accompanied by gourd percussion (Nketia
1962: 27). Alternatively the antiphony may be between two choruses. This
is the common pattern, for instance, in the Limba women’s song which
accompanies the boys’ gbondokale dance and involves almost endless
repetition of only a few phrases. Another example is the Zulu wedding
song where, after the leader has stated the theme, it is taken up first by
the chorus of women, and then by the men who answer with a contrasting
theme, overlapping with the women s singing Cope .
It is clear that the antiphonal form provides scope for far more flexibility,
rich elaboration, and varied interpretation than is immediately apparent
from the bald statement that this is the characteristic structure of African
songs. It is also a most suitable form for the purposes to which it is put.
It makes possible both the exploitation of an expert and creative leader,
and popular participation by all those who wish or are expected to join in.
The repetition and lack of demand on the chorus also make it particularly
appropriate for dancing. Finally the balanced antiphony both gives the
poem a clear structure and adds to its musical attractiveness.
We must not, however, exaggerate the significance of this very common
antiphonal type of song and thus overlook the fact that some songs are
primarily for soloists only. Thus one of the song types recorded from
Zambia, the impango, seems to be designed primarily for solo singing
Jones . Men among the ”ushmen sing personal and plaintive
songs as solos Lomax and certain types of songs such as
lullabies and sometimes love and herding songs—always tend to be sung
by individuals. Such songs can develop the verbal content, unlike the
antiphonal songs that normally seem to involve a lot of repetition. It is
by no means always clear in the sources how far a song is in fact sung by
chorus and leader and how far just by one person, because those taking
down texts tend to avoid repetitious phrases and to transcribe the song as
if it were sung by one person only. The Akan ‘maiden songs’ are a good
example of how one could easily assume that there is only one singer.
Nketia in fact, with characteristic precision, explains that these are sung by
groups of women, each taking it in turns to lead the verses of the song in
the case cited here the last three lines are sung by the chorus. ”ut in most
other sources this explanation would not be added and the words would
have suggested a single singer. The song is in honour of a loved one:
He is coming, he is coming,
Treading along on camel blanket in triumph.
Yes, stranger, we are bestirring ourselves.
Agyei the warrior is drunk,
The green mamba with fearful eyes.
Yes, Agyei the warrior,
He is treading along on camel blanket in triumph,
Make way for him.
He is coming, he is coming.
Treading along on sandals (i.e. on men).
Yes, stranger, we are bestirring ourselves.
Adum Agyei is drunk.
The Green Mamba, Afaafa Adu.
Yes, Agyei the warrior,
He is treading along on camel blanket in triumph, Make way for him.
Nketia b see also Nketia b
The musical side of these lyrics, unlike spoken or semi-chanted poetry, is

of vital importance. The verbal expression and the melody of the song are
interdependent. So much is clear—but beyond this there are many areas
of uncertainty. For one thing, the relative weight given to melody and to
verbal content seems to vary in different areas and between different genres
of song. For instance, the work songs designed to accompany and lighten
rhythmic labour lay little stress on the words, and much more on the
melody and rhythm, while in love songs the words take on greater interest.
Further, there seems to be no firm agreement among musicologists about
how far, when discussing African lyrics, one can generalize about such
matters as scale, melody structure, rhythm, and harmony 22 few detailed
studies have been published for particular areas.
One point of interest is the question of the exact connection between
spoken and sung tone, especially in the highly tonal languages characteristic
of parts of Africa. Again, there is some controversy on this score, but it
22 For recent general discussions, see Merriam , Jones , Ch. Rouget

Tracey “dande Nketia .
Though see Tracey 1948a Chopi Jones , Zambia , Ewe Nketia
Ghana ”randel Central “frica also further references in Merriam and
Gaskin .
9. Lyric 257
seems clear that there is often a relationship between the tones of speech
and the melody, so that the melodic pattern is influenced by linguistic
considerations. This is well documented for some West African languages.
The relationship seems to be flexible, with the possibility of variation and
tone modifications. Nketia sums up the position for the several Ghanaian
tone languages:
What the intonation of a song text provides . . . are tone patterns or
syllable relationships and not the actual melodic notes that are to be
employed. We would not, in traditional Ghanaian music, expect a high
tone always to be sung in the upper or middle compass, or a low tone in the
middle or lower compass. Within each compass we would only expect the
melodic working-out of high, mid and low tone relationships. The verbal
intonation would not provide us with the beginning or ending tone, but
it may guide the immediate direction of movement from the beginning
tone or movement towards the ending tone . . . The tonal relationship
between words and melody is not rigid. It is flexible. While it is important
to take the intonation curve into account so that the words of a song may
be readily recognised, it must be emphasised that the ‘art’ of the song lies
in the departures that are made from this guide where appropriate, on
purely melodic grounds. Thus the use of ascending interlocking patterns
or pendular movement where the intonation shows a descending trend,
or the use of rising seconds where intonation is level belongs to the ‘art’
of the song. However, it would be as wrong to assume rigid relationship
as it would be to conclude that because such deviations occur, the tones
of words are unimportant in the construction of melodies (Nketia 1962:
.24 Thus, although tone/melody relationships in these languages allow a
certain degree of freedom, the link between the two is a complex one, and
composition and extemporization demand a high degree of skill.
A further vexed question is that of rhythm. The fundamental importance
of rhythm in vocal as in other African music is widely accepted, but there
is little agreement as to its exact structure. One helpful distinction is
between songs in ‘free’ and those in relatively ‘strict’ rhythm (Ibid. 64). In
the former songs (or portions of songs) the singing is not co-ordinated with
any bodily rhythmic activity such as work or dancing. The very common
24 Similar points have been made by other writers: e.g. on Ewe ‘tone and tune’ see Jones
i, , Ch. Igbo, Green , Wescott Yoruba, King ff. ”antu
generally, Westphal West “frica, Schneider Chopi, Tracey a Ngala,
Carrington 1966/7 (reference in Africa , also general discussion in Wangler
.
songs to strict time, however, have a beat that is articulated with dancing,
rhythmic movement, percussion by instruments, or hand-clapping, all of
which contribute to the form and attractiveness of the song. These rhythms
are worked out in many different ways in various types of song, but one
commonly recurring musical feature seems to be the simultaneous use of
more than one metre at a time, as a way of heightening the rhythmic tension.
The accompaniment takes many different forms, depending, among
other things, on the geographical area and its resources,26 on the genius of
the particular people, and on the different genres within a single culture.
It is common, for instance, to find some types of songs regularly without
accompaniment, others with just clapping and/or dancing, others again
with many different kinds of instrumental accompaniment, conventionally
graded according to the song, the singers, or the occasion.
When we come to the verbal style of these poems, it is almost impossible
to generalize. As would be expected in poetry, there is a tendency to
use a language somewhat different from that of everyday speech. This
is particularly evident in the case of sung lyrics, where the melodic line
imposes its own requirements, and in tonal languages, where there is
the additional complication of the relationship between tune and tone.
Connected with the importance attached to the musical aspect in these
relatively short, sung lyrics is the frequent occurrence of meaningless words
and onomatopoeic sounds which fill in the line, add length to the song
as actually performed, and are used especially in chorus responses. Some
songs, too, tend to be verbally fragmentary rather than fully developed
poems as far as the words are concerned, though the fragments themselves
may have a terse poetic interest e.g. the examples in Nketia b .
”ut there are many variations between different types of songs, each with
its own style and diction, and, indeed, in contrast to comments on the
subject-matter and contexts of songs, there is relatively little published
work available.27
IV
How far can these lyrics be said to be truly personal expressions of
experience? This raises the difficult question of composition—difficult
mainly because so little interest seems to have been shown in this aspect of
On rhythm, see Merriam and further references given there .

26 See Tracey a: 8–9, on the effect of the environment on the choice of instruments.
27 One exception is the consideration of the Somali balwo in Andrzejewski 1967.
9. Lyric 259
African poetry. Many commentators, even when they try to take this into
account, content themselves with labelling specific songs as ‘traditional’
or ‘improvised’ without considering in what senses these words are used.
”ut even this is better than the other still common approach of apparently
explaining away the problem by classifying the lyrics as ‘folk-songs’ which
can, it is then assumed, be happily attributed to ‘the folk’, so that the
question of composition does not arise at all.
It is certainly clear that some songs retain their popularity for many
years. This may happen less to incidental and recreational songs (like
most of the lyrics described here) than to songs definitely tied to particular
solemn occasions such as initiation or religious ritual. A common pattern—
demanding further research—may be for the music to remain basically the
same while the words change.28 ”ut even with light-hearted dance songs
it does seem that some (words as well as music) remain popular for so
long that they might with some justice be termed ‘traditional’. Others,
however—and this is much more commonly mentioned in recent sources—
are ephemeral only. The Ibo, for instance, are said to create impromptu
poems all the time and forget them (Green 1948: 842). Again, among the
Kamba most songs are ‘improvised’ (with the exception of circumcision
songs, which reappear in the same form again and again), and with dance
songs the leader of the singing and dancing must make a new one when
the old one is worn out about every month or so Lindblom iii,
40). Similar comments have been made about songs among many African
peoples.
Even with a familiar song there is room for variations on words or tune
in actual delivery so that each performance in a sense may be a ‘new’ song.
It must be remembered that these variations on a basic theme are more
likely in societies that do not share our stress on the fixing nature of the
written word, the concept of a single ‘correct’ form attributed to a single
author. Even such obvious points as the number of repetitions used by a
particular leader, the order of the verses, the variations by instruments in
an accompanied song, and the varied movements of dancers—all these
contribute to the finished work of art as a unique performance of which the
verbal text of the song is only one element.
28 In Tanganyika, for example, the poet seldom composes the time, but is free in his choice
of the text thus it is rare for a tune to be associated with one text only Koritschoner
. I noticed a similar pattern with certain types of songs, particularly dance
songs in Limba see also Helser ”ura , “ndrezejewski Somali .
There is one further aspect. The leader of the song adds new verses
arising from the basic themes recognized by him and the chorus. Tracey
describes this process in Southern Rhodesia. The chorus parts of a song
are expected to remain the same, but the soloist (mushauri) introduces the
song and is allowed full scope for originality during its performance. If he
is not able to compose his new verse swiftly enough to keep his initiative,
he either repeats the last verse several times to allow himself time for
thought or, if necessary, yodels the tune, and finally sings to his neighbour
to replace him in the lead (Tracey 1929: 97). This pattern by which the
antiphonal form is exploited through improvisation by the leader and
relatively unvaried support by the chorus seems to be very common
indeed. Unless there are definite reasons for retaining sanctioned words,
it seems generally rather rare for such songs to be repeated exactly from
performance to performance—there is always scope for some variation by
the leader (this is apparently also sometimes extended to the improvised
performance of quite ‘new’ songs in terms of the melody and the form of
the words. At least in some cases, choruses are quick to pick up the melody
and words, often after having heard them just once or twice from the
leader, and to sing them enthusiastically even though they were previously
unknown to them).
”ut one must not be so impressed by the excellences of “frican
improvisation that everything is attributed to spontaneous creation.
There is, first, the obvious point that improvisation takes place within
certain conventional artistic forms known both to the soloist and also,
perhaps equally important, to the chorus. More significantly, certain
commentators make it clear that serious and conscious composition also
takes place.
One of the more detailed accounts of such composition is given by
Tracey in his description of musical composition among the Chopi. The
Chopi ngodo is an orchestral dance in nine to eleven movements that certain
skilled and known musicians compose anew every two years or so. The
stress is on the music and its elaboration. It is worth quoting his description
at some length here, for this dependence of the words on the music is by no
means unparalleled:
A description of how Katini and Gumukomu set about composing a new

orchestral dance will show how musically advanced these men are. ”oth of
them say that the first thing they do is to find appropriate words for their
9. Lyric 261
song and compose the verses of the lyric before the music.29 The subject-
matter may be gay, sad, or purely documentary. In every case it is highly
topical and appropriate to the locality, so much so, in fact, that most of the
allusions would be caught only by those in close touch with the villagers
and the district.
To return to the composer: when he has decided upon the words of his
poem, or, in the case of a long poem, the opening verse, he must now find his
melody. Chichopi, in common with other ”antu languages, is a tone language,
and the sounds of the words themselves almost suggest a melodic flow of
tones. This is developed rhythmically, as Gilbert and Sullivan did in their
light operas, in one or other of the well-defined patterns which characterize
their national verse, with clever use of repetition and offset phrases. The
verses are not always metrically alike, as one would naturally expect of a
tone language, but all bear a family relationship to the prototype lines. As
often as not, the final verse sung to the coda is a repeat of the statement or
first line of the poem. In this they follow a well-recognised trick of the trade
which is exploited so frequently in our own popular songs . . .
The verse and the leitmotive now fixed in the composer’s mind, he sits
at his instrument [xylophone], over which his hands wander with expert
deftness, and picks out the melody . . . After a while, during which his right
hand becomes accustomed to the new tune, his left will begin to fill in the
harmonies or contra-melody with 1 well-understood sequences, punctuated
with rhythmic surprises suggested by the ebb and flow of the words. Now
the right hand will wander away from the melody, mapsui, into a variation,
kuhambana, and as he sings the words over to himself the contrapuntal
accompaniment will begin to form under his hands . . .
They now have the primary melodic line of the poem—the subject or
leitmotive—and the secondary melodic accompaniment—the orchestral
sentence—which fits the words contrapuntally, with a number of variations
and sequences . . . (Tracey 1948a
Though the lyrics and their music are topical and relatively ephemeral,
they are certainly not totally impromptu in describing the process of their
creation we can more suitably speak of artistic inspiration coupled with
studied technique than of ‘improvisation’.
Something of the same process occurs with several song types in Zambia
Jones . “mong the Ila and Tonga there is commonly an interest in the
personal ownership of songs: individuals are often expected to sing one
of their own songs—a young man on the day of his marriage, for instance,
a young girl on the day she is allowed to wear adult dress. Among their
29 This is not necessarily the most common method of procedure. Contrast, for instance,
Ngoni composition where ‘it is always a single inspiration which leads the composer
to find the right words and the right music Read .
many types of songs are those called impango. These are sung by women
only, at beer drinks or at work, and each woman must have her own
personal repertoire of impango songs to sing as solos. One woman stands
up at a time and sings her song in a very high and fast style. Meanwhile
her intimate friends or her relatives may get up from time to time and
interrupt the song with praise and small gifts. Impango composition is
known to be difficult, and in every village there are a few women who are
especially skilled in this art. What happens when a woman wants to make
an impango is that she first thinks out the rather lengthy words—it may
be praise of herself, her lover, or her husband—and then calls in some of
her women friends to help her. Together they go to a well-known maker
of impango songs. After hearing the woman’s ideas, she then, often over
a period of several days, composes the complete tune for the whole song.
She calls a party of women to practise it each evening after supper, and
they continue until the impango is complete and has been mastered by the
whole party. The group is then disbanded and the woman who ‘owns’ the
song continues to sing it on her own, knowing that if she forgets at any
point she can ask one of the practice party to help her. She is now fully
mistress of her impango and proud of her accomplishment. Whenever she
is invited to a festival she keeps ‘singing it in her heart’ until it is finally
time for her to stand up and sing it in public Jones .
The composition of another type of song, the inyimbo, is a simpler
matter. The same sort of procedure is followed, but as these songs are
shorter and simpler, the process is quicker. There are three main forms of
this type of song, and the correct one must be used. The typical occasion
of performance is for people to gather and sit down, and then start
clapping or beating with sticks. A man or woman then stands up and
dances and as the owner of the song sings it right through, people pick
it up and then sing it through themselves several times, followed by the
owner again, then back to the group. There are also other types of song:
the mapobolo song is characterized by brief words and a short tune that a
woman first composes herself (working out at least the words or the tune),
her friends then helping her to complete it before the actual performance
in antiphonal form while the zitengulo or women’s mourning songs are
composed completely by the individual, with no help from others she
starts to sing little by little and gradually adds the words and melody
until the song is complete Ibid. .
9. Lyric 263
There are, then, many different forms of song among the Ila and Tonga,
and each has its own recognized mode of composition. What is striking
is the emphasis on the care involved in composition and on the idea of
personal ownership.
Song composition in non-literate cultures almost necessarily involves
co-operation, particularly where there is an accompaniment by chorus,
instruments, or dancing, and where, as so often in African lyrics, there is an
emphasis both on performance and on participation by the audience. ”ut
that there can also be a purely personal element of the greatest significance
in moulding the song is clear from the Chopi and Zambian examples.
How far this personal contribution is recognized by the people themselves
seems to vary even within one group certain songs may be regarded as
the property of named individuals, while others are not. ”ut it is quite
possible that further investigation of a topic that has hitherto been ignored
will show that many other African peoples besides those mentioned engage
not only in the art of improvisation but also in a process of long-considered
and reflective individual creation.
Cf. also the Luo nyatiti songs mentioned in Ch. 4: 90ff., and the Somali poets who spend
hours or days composing their works “ndrzejewski and Lewis .
E.g. Hurutsche Merwe . For some other discussions of the process of
composition and attitudes to it see ”abalola ff. Yoruba de Dampierre
ff. Nzakara Read Ngoni Nettl b, general .
10. Topical and Political Songs
Topical and local poetry. Songs of political parties and movements: Mau
Mau hymns; Guinea R.D.A. songs; Northern Rhodesian party songs.
It has been well said that oral poetry takes the place of newspapers among
non-literate peoples. Songs can be used to report and comment on current
affairs, for political pressure, for propaganda, and to reflect and mould
public opinion. This political and topical function can be an aspect of
many of the types of poetry already discussed—work songs, lyric, praise
poetry, even at times something as simple as a lullaby—but it is singled
out for special discussion in this chapter. It is of particular importance to
draw attention to this and to give a number of examples because of the
common tendency in studies of African verbal art to concentrate mainly on
the ‘traditional’—whether in romanticizing or in deprecating tone—and to
overlook its topical functions, especially its significance in contemporary
situations. There have been a few admirable exceptions to this attitude
to African oral literature, notably Tracey and others associated with the
African Music Society (see esp. Rhodes 1962). Other references are given
throughout this chapter.1
The political role of poetry is not just of recent origin in Africa. It is true
that the present widespread occurrence of political songs directly associated
with modern political parties and national politics did not antedate the
founding of such organizations and their relevance in the contemporary
political scene. ”ut it would be a very narrow view of politics that would
confine it only to the affairs of political parties or the formal institutions of
modern nation states. In the wider sense it is certain that there were many
political songs and poems in the past. Panegyric is an obvious example,
1 For a useful general account and bibliography, not specifically related to Africa, see
Denisoff 1966.
involving propaganda and support for the authorities, taking its extreme
form in the mouth of the official court poet responsible for propagating the
versions of historical events authorized by the rulers. Poetry can also be
used to pressurize those in authority or to comment on local politics. Songs
of insult, challenge, or satirical comment also have a long history, and
can function not only on a personal level but also as politically effective
weapons.2
Though such satirical and topical poems will be treated separately from
party political songs here, it would be a mistake to assume too easily that
there is necessarily a complete break in continuity between ‘traditional’
political poetry and that of ‘modern politics’. It would be more accurate to
say that the long-standing interests in oral literature and in politics have,
not surprisingly, proved adaptable to the particular political circumstances
of the mid-twentieth century.
I
At a local level public singing can take the place of the press, radio, and
publication as a way of expressing public opinion and bringing pressure
to bear on individuals. This has been particularly well documented of the
Chopi people of Portuguese East “frica Tracey , a). Tracey speaks
of the ‘democratic purpose’ of their poetry and the way ‘poetic justice’ can
be said to be achieved through public singing. Established chiefs can be
criticized in this way—the medium of song being used for what cannot be
said directly:
You, Chugela, you are proud of your position, yet you are only a chief made
by the white man.
Oh, the chieftainship of Nyaligolana and Chugela!
Oh, the chieftainship of Nyaligolana and Chugela!
It is a shame that should be hidden from Wani.
Chugela is always asking presents from his brother.
Sitiki is excluded from the council. They say they don’t know him.
The country of Mawewana is full of troubles. (Tracey 1948a: 68)
The lines are from a poem attacking the young chief Chugela who, though
only of the junior branch of the family, was being supported by the
2 For an interesting description of Swahili political songs and lampoons in the nineteenth
century see Hinawy ff.
Paramount chief of the district.
10. Topical and Political Songs 267
authorities after their deposition of previous (senior) chiefs. The poet is

also seeking to publicize the view that Sitiki, the best brain of the district
and so by rights a councillor, is being ignored by Chugela (as interpreted
in Tracey .
Another Chopi poem is designed to put an ambitious man in his
place, an instance of mild political propaganda. Fambanyane had tried to
throw his weight around and exaggerate his claims to the chiefship. He
was regarded as a public nuisance because of his threats against the other
candidate, Manjengwe, and was eventually arrested:
We are saying,
We have reason to say we believe
Fambanyane would have liked to be Chief.
Fambanyane was brought before the judge,
So now he can’t threaten Manjengwe.
He has lost his chance of wearing chief s uniform.
We are saying,
We have reason to say we believe
Fambanyane would have liked to be Chief. (Tracey 1948a)
The Chopi are not alone in the use they make of song to attack unpopular
public figures. Among many other instances one can quote the effective
Somali poem addressed to a sultan who was ignoring the clan assembly
and trying to assume dictatorial powers. The sultan—no match for the
poet—was deposed:
The vicissitudes of the world, oh ‘Olaad, are like the clouds of the seasons
Autumn weather and spring weather come after each other in turn
Into an encampment abandoned by one family, another family moves
If a man is killed, one of his relatives will marry his widow
Last night you were hungry and alone, but tonight people will feast you as a guest
When fortune places a man even on the mere hem of her robe, he quickly
becomes proud and overbearing.
A small milking vessel, when filled to the brim, soon overflows.
“ndrzejewski
Pressure on those with or aspiring to positions of power can also be offered

in the guise of flattery. Some instances of this have already been noticed in
Chapter on panegyric. “gain, one could cite the piece of Yoruba advice to
a pretender to the Alafin’s throne:
”e the king at once my lord,

Cease acting like a king ”eier
or, in a rather different context, a poem praising Olorum Nimbe, then

Mayor of Lagos. Cast in the form of a piece of popular dance music, it yet
proffered advice and instruction:
I am greeting you, Mayor of Lagos,

Mayor of Lagos, Olorum Nimbe,
Look after Lagos carefully.
As we pick up a yam pounder with care,
As we pick up a grinding stone with care,
As we pick up a child with care,
So may you handle Lagos with care. ”eier
This indirect means of communicating with someone in power through the

artistic medium of a song is a way by which the singers hope to influence
while at the same time avoiding the open danger of speaking directly. The
conventionality of the song makes it possible to indicate publicly what could
not be said privately or directly to a man’s face. To take only one example:
when Merriam was collecting song texts among the Shi of the Kivu area in
the Congo some were sung to him while he was with a plantation owner. It
turned out that the girls working on the plantation were using these songs
to express their dissatisfaction with the owner. They felt it impossible to
raise this directly with him, but were seizing the opportunity to convey it
indirectly. They sang, for instance, of the way the employer had recently
stopped giving them salt and oil:
We have finished our work. ”efore, we used to get oil now we don t get it.
Why has ”wana stopped giving us oil? We don t understand. If he doesn t
give us oil, we will all leave and go to work for the Catholic Fathers. There
we can do little work and have plenty of oil. So we are waiting now to see
whether ”wana X will give oil. ”e careful! If we don t get oil, we won t work
here. Merriam
Not all criticisms of superiors are equally indirect. One could mention the
increasingly harsh and direct innuendo of the unsatisfied Hausa praise
singer above Ch. or Hahn s description of the Hottentots in the
nineteenth century. He reports how unpopular chiefs were lectured by
women in sarcastic ‘reed-songs’ (a habit ruefully commented on in the
Hottentot proverb about women They cannot be as long quiet as it takes
sweet milk to get sour’) and describes one occasion when the young girls
sang into the chief’s face telling him
that he was a hungry hyena and a roguish jackal that he was the brown
vulture who is not only satisfied with tearing the flesh from the bones, but
also feasted on the intestines. Hahn
In all these cases the oblique and limited nature of the attack is maintained
by its limitation to a medium with its own artistic conventions or to
specially privileged singers, sometimes allowed to perform only on
particular occasions.
Songs are also directed against opposing groups or individuals. These
can take many forms. There are, for instance, the half-joking ‘moqueries de
villages’ among the Dogon, exchanged between individuals of the same
age, between villages, or between different quarters of the same village.
Some of these are only short phrases, but there are also longer texts, and,
within the conventional form, l imagination fertile et l ironie acérée des
Dogon ne se font pas faute d’inventer sans cesse de nouvelles plaisanteries’
Calame-Griaule b . The faults and customs of others are ironically
commented on or their accents parodied and ridiculed. Of a more serious
and poetic nature are the songs reported from the Ewe of Ghana. There,
when two villages quarrel, they compose abusive songs against each other,
usually directed against the offending elder of the opposing village. Some
of these are very elaborate and can last, without repetition, for as long as
half an hour Gbeho 62).
Similar self-assertive songs by groups can equally take place in an urban
environment. Mitchell has analysed the songs of kalela dance teams on the
Copperbelt in the early s Mitchell . Each team boasts of its own
distinctiveness as against other tribes and jokingly derides the customs
and languages of others, Yet the content of the songs themselves not only
reflects the preoccupations, events, even language of life in the towns, but
also, paradoxically, by its very attacks on other ethnic groups recognizes
their significance for the singers (for a parallel with the kalela dance see
Lambert a).
Again, songs can be used to assert the unity of trade union groups. The
following examples from Tanganyika bring out the distinction between
employer and employee:
We regret that the employers should trifle with us,

We are deprived of our rights, indeed we know nowhere to eat.
We do their work, bring them in their money,

Clothes sprout on them through the efforts of the workers.
Give the workers’ organisations freedom

We don’t want the law to break our Unions
In a free Tanganyika may the Unions be strong
We don’t want to be despised
So let us unite and triumph over the employers. (Whiteley 1964: 221)
Lampoons are not only used between groups but can also be a means
of communicating and expressing personal enmity between hostile
individuals. We hear of Galla abusive poems, for instance (Chadwicks
iii, while among the Yoruba when two women have quarrelled
they sometimes vent their enmity by singing at each other, especially
in situations—like the laundry place—when other women will hear
Mabogunje . “busive songs against ordinary individuals are also
sometimes directly used as a means of social pressure, enforcing the will of
public opinion. Among the Chopi, for instance, we hear of a verse directed
against a young man who was trying to seduce a very young girl:
We see you!
We know you are leading that child astray.
Katini (the composer) sees you but keeps quiet.
Although he knows it all right he keeps quiet,
Katini, the leader of Timbilas4
We know you! (Tracey 1948a: 29)
“ group of Hottentots took the same line against an old man who married
a young girl: her friends sang ‘The first wife is dismissed, his only great
thought is the second wife Hahn .
Such songs can even be said on occasion to form part of semi-judicial
proceedings against individuals. This is particularly clear in the case of the
Ibo. For instance, in one area (Umuahia) oro songs are sung at night by
groups of young men and women who go to the houses of those they agree
have offended, and sing against them as well as causing physical damage
to their possessions. A notoriously lazy man is lampooned:
Ibejimato, Ibejimato, it is time now. Woman asks you to wrestle with her but
you carry your cutlass and walk about it is time now. Madumere
Ibejimato is so lazy and fearful that he does not even dare to fight a woman
in fact they remind him that when he did once get involved in a quarrel
with a woman, he actually ran away, his cutlass on his shoulder. The song
is to make him realize his laziness, and make him feel ashamed and turn
over a new leaf—and is supplemented by damage to his possessions. On
another occasion abusive songs by women formed part of the procedure
of collecting a fine already imposed on a woman for false accusation—’the
execution of justice’ (Green 1964: 200). The women went in a body to the
house of the offender to sing and dance against her. ”oth songs and dances
4 Local xylophone.
were quite explicitly obscene and the episode had the effect of making the
victim undertake to pay her fine Green .
It is possible to exaggerate the functional aspect of such lampoons. Sheer
enjoyment plays a part too. As Green writes of the episode just mentioned:
As for the women, I never saw them so spirited. They were having a night
out and they were heartily enjoying it and there was a speed and energy
about everything they did that gave a distinctive quality to the episode.
It was also the only occasion in the village that struck one as obscene in
the intention of the people themselves. Mixed with what seemed genuine
amusement there was much uncontrolled, abandoned laughter. There was
a suggestion of consciously kicking over the traces about the whole affair.
Green
Even without the extra appeal of unaccustomed obscenity as in these

derisive Ibo songs, this enjoyment may be just as significant as social
control. Thus the Hottentots sing satirically but with humour of a childless
couple:
We love each other as the goats that have no kids love

We love each other as the goats that have no kids love. Stopa
and in Tanganyika the Asu nyimbo za kugana, songs sung in huts just before
sleep, provide an opportunity for improvisation and humour as well as
attack. One man starts up the song, then others reply in solo or chorus—for
example, in address to a grumbler:
Ndi-ndi! Ndi-ndi! [expletives used in complaining]

Grandfather of Mruma,
He hasn t a cow,
He hasn t a goat,
He hasn t a chicken,
No not even a rat in his house . ”ull
—and so on, continued at great length, with plenty of scope for humour,
until almost every conceivable possession has been named, while the chorus
reply in unison ndi-ndi! after each line. Similar enjoyment is evident in the
public dances and singing in “bomey Dahomey witnessed by Herskovits,
when unpopular individuals are ridiculed and attacked in songs. Though
no names are mentioned, everyone knows who is meant and rejoices in the
occasion. For example:
Woman, thy soul is misshapen.

In haste was it made, in haste.
So fleshless a face speaks, telling
Thy soul was formed without care.

The ancestral clay for thy making
Was moulded in haste, in haste. A thing of no beauty art thou,
Thy face unsuited to be a face,
Thy feet unsuited for feet. Herskovits
These derisive songs directed against specified individuals or groups shade

into topical and satirical songs in general. Thus the Tiv, among many others,
sing about the events of the year: they comment on the present position of
chiefs or express their reactions to a recent deposition or this season’s road
work. They also improvise about recent incidents and people—like the
song about selling their soya beans to only one of the rival firms:
We are not going to sell our soya beans to Mallam Dama
we are going to sell them to “lhaji Sali. Lane see also Phillips
Domestic affairs also come into such songs. The Ndau dancer comments
ruefully on his father’s new wife:
My father, he married
A crocodile wife,
That bites, that bites.
-ya, I-ya-wo-ye! Curtis
While a ”aule woman sings lightly

Je commettrai volontiers l’adultère. Les maris de mes camarades seront tour
à tour mes amants. Mais qui d’entre elles aura l’audace de se plaindre?
Effimbra
These topical songs often give a vivid personal picture of a general situation
and the attitude to it, as well as of the specific events they comment on.
Thus in Malawi, in the late s, the wives of men detained for opposition
to government showed their pride in their ‘Prison Graduate’ husbands,
and used to sing as they pounded their maize:
My husband is a man:
He s away in Kanjedza.
The men who are here
“re women like us. Sanger
Again an Acholi girl married to a soldier sings effectively of their separation:

they can write letters—but what can letters do?
Writing writing writing so many letters.
Those letters can they be changed into a child?
Wives of soldiers are barren [have to wait for years before they get a child].
Wives of soldiers are truly barren. Okot
Or a Chewa woman thinks about her husband who is away working in the
copper mines:
When I get a letter from Masula

I read it with all my heart. Tracey
The same experience—from the man’s viewpoint—is touched on in a Sotho

dance song in the country areas:
”asutoland is my fatherland,
“t ”ushman s Nek, near Machacha, in the mountains.
I joined up for work on the mines,
”ut when I arrived I found myself in trouble.
I was with Molelekoa, son of Smith.
So I crossed the Vaal very early in the morning
That was when I was nearly swept down with the river.
Perhaps it was because I was running away,
Running away and leaving my passes on the veld.
I left mine in the western Transvaal,
I left both my pass and my tax receipt! (Afr. Music . ,
The urban experiences of Africans in the towns of South Africa are

commented on in many of the Zulu songs about police and passes recorded
by Tracey. These can be illustrated from three of his examples. In the first,
the scene is the pass office where all male Africans had to go to get their
Registration Certificates, involving a wait of hours, even days, before being
interviewed:
Take off your hat.

What is your home name?
Who is your father?
Who is your chief?
Where do you pay your tax?
What river do you drink?
We mourn for our country. Tracey
Arrest by the police for not having the correct papers, and imprisonment
in ”lue Sky , the popular name of the gaol at ”oksburg near Johannesburg,
are the themes of the next two songs:
There comes the big van.

All over the country
They call it the Pick-up Van.
There is the Pick-up. There, there is the big van.
‘Where’s your pass?’
‘Where’s your tax?’ (Tracey 1948b
They caught him!

They caught him and handcuffed him!
They sent him to ”lue Sky . Tracey b
The last type of topical song to be mentioned here comprises those that
particularly express the aspirations and self-appreciation of groups, songs
that often have at least some political relevance. These merge into the songs
already discussed, and also recall some of the military poems that reflect
and reinforce the militant unity of a given group. An example would be the
Akan hunting song which asserts the power of the hunter’s group against
that of the chief:
Nketia b see full song in Ch. above
and the trade union and kalela dance, songs could be seen to be fulfilling
something of the same function. So too in the Congo the followers of the
prophet Matswa expressed their protest and their allegiance in song:
Nous autres qui n’avons pas de soutien.
Nous autres qui n avons pas de défenseur.
Dieu le Père-tout-puissant, veille sur nous.
Père Congo, Père, qui pensera à nous?
A nous autres, qui y pensera?
Matswa, Père-tout-puissant, veille sur nous.
Matswa, Père-tout-puissant, envoie-nous un défenseur.
”alandier
Even in South Africa a certain amount of fairly explicit political protest

seems to be expressed through song if we can assume that certain of the
‘South African freedom songs’ were of wide circulation. In one, for instance,
the singers appeal to Chief Luthuli (President of the African National
Congress) in conjunction with Dr. G. M. Naicker (President of the Indian
Congress):
God, save the volunteers,
God, save Africans.
God, save the volunteers,
God, save Africans.
We say yes, yes, Chief Lut’huli,
And you, Doctor Naicker, liberate us.
”ass voices Daliga chek.
We say yes, yes, Chief Lut’huli,
Folkways Records “lbum EPC- , New York, quoted Rhodes .

And you, Doctor Naicker, liberate us.

”ass voices Daliga chek. (Rhodes 1962: 18–19)
In certain circumstances hymns can have similar overtones. Some of the

religious verses of the South African separatist churches founded by Shembe
express political aspirations and ideals that are difficult to communicate
through more formal political channels—the idea of Africa for the Africans,
or of the value, despite the contemporary political situation, of African
customs and leadership:
Africa, rise!
and seek thy Saviour.
Today our sons and daughters
are slaves. (Sundkler 1961: 196)
More explicitly political are some of the performances of the originally

Methodist-inspired hymn Nkosi Sikele’ iAfrica . . .(‘God bless Africa . . .’),
which is used as a political song in meetings of the African National
Congress and other political contexts (Rhodes 1962: 16–17), the Mau
May ‘hymns’ discussed in the next section, and the way in which, during
Nkrumah’s imprisonment by the colonial authorities, political protest was
expressed by the singing of Christian hymns like ‘Lead kindly light, amid
the encircling gloom’ (Ibid.: 16).
Figure 18. New and old in Africa. ‘Funky Freddy’ of The Jungle Leaders, playing hip-
hop political songs and banned from Radio Sierra Leone for their protest lyrics (http://
www.myspace.com/jungleleaders/photos) with the expert Yoruba oriki (praise) singer
Sangowemi in the background photo courtesy Karin ”arber .
The social functions of the various types of songs mentioned here are
particularly obvious, more strikingly so than most of those discussed in
earlier chapters. They can be a way of exerting pressure on others, whether
equals or superiors of expressing often indirectly or in a limited and
conventional manner, what could not be said directly, or through a different
medium, or on just any occasion of upholding or suggesting certain values
and interests that cannot be expressed in other ways, particularly when
there is no direct access to political activity. Like Dogon villagers of kalela
dancers, the singers may both assert the solidarity of their own group and at
the same time recognize their close relationship with others. The songs may
even as Herskovits and his followers remind us provide a means for the
psychological release of otherwise repressed enmities and tensions through
a socially permissible form. ”ut besides these obvious social functions we
can point equally to the related literary roles of these songs—to the way in
which such socially sanctioned occasions are used for artistic purposes, to the
humour and enjoyment expressed, to the satirical, meditative, or resigned
comment on the circumstances of life, and, finally, to the way in which even
enmity or social pressure can be viewed with a certain detachment through
the artistic and conventional medium of the song.6
II
It is perhaps not generally recognized how widely political songs are used
in Africa. Songs are now accepted by African political parties as a vehicle
for communication, propaganda, political pressure, and political education.
Their exact nature and purpose vary, but they have in common the fact
of being oral rather than visual propaganda. It is true that some of these
songs at times appear in writing, even print, and written collections of
party songs circulate in some areas nonetheless their propagation among
the largely non-literate masses is almost purely oral. As such they are a
powerful and flexible weapon in many types of political activity.
One of the advantages songs may have as vehicles of political expression
is their apparently innocuous nature. This is particularly true of those songs
used at a relatively early stage in African nationalist movements when
concealment of organized political activity was felt desirable. In a colonial
situation in which political power was ultimately in the hands of foreigners,
For other instances of topical songs see D. C. Simmons J. Roberts Ogunba

(1967).
many of whom could not speak the local language, songs and poems had
the double advantage of being ostensibly nothing to do with politics at
all (unlike, say, newspapers) and of being unintelligible to many of those
in authority. Rhodes cites an early example of this from West Africa, in a
drum poem used by the “shanti after their submission to ”ritish rule in .
When the Governor appeared at a public gathering, he was ceremonially,
and apparently honorifically, greeted with drum music what the drums
were repeating, however, were the words of an old war song, ‘slowly but
surely we shall kill “dinkra while the local audience understood quite
clearly that by “dinkra the drums meant the ”ritish, it is doubtful if the
Governor was aware of any political significance at all, let alone a hostile one
Rhodes , based on a personal communication by J. H. Nketia .
Somali love poems, or apparent love poems, have been used in the same
way. They could safely be performed in public or even on the government-
controlled radio, the obscurity of their language concealing their meaning for
the independence struggle, except from their intended audiences (the people
in the independence movement “ndrzejewski . “gain, there was
the occasion of the Queen s ”irthday Festivities in Nyasaland as it was then
called in the early s, when official policy was to encourage the idea of
federation against local opposition. The school-children marched innocently
past the presiding District Commissioner singing anti-federation songs
taught them by their schoolteacher—and the District Commissioner did not
understand a word Tracey a .
One of the best examples of the use of songs for secret propaganda is
the hymns used by the Mau Mau movement in Kenya in the early s.7
This movement, part political, part religious, was banned by government,
and yet, largely by means of these songs, was able to carry out active and
widespread propaganda among the masses in Kenya. Leakey describes
vividly how this could be done:
The leaders of the Mau Mau movement . . . were quick to realise the very
great opportunity which the Kikuyu love of hymn singing offered for
propaganda purposes. In the first place propaganda in ‘hymn’ form and
set to well-known tunes would be speedily learned by heart and sung over
again and again and thus provide a most effective method of spreading the
new ideas. The fact that such ‘hymns’ would be learned by heart, by those
who could read them, and then taught to others, meant that they would
The present account is taken from the description in L. S. ”. Leakey, Defeating Mau Mau,
London , esp. Ch. .
soon also become well known to the illiterate members of the tribe. This was
very important, for there were many who could not be reached by ordinary
printed propaganda methods.
More important still, these propaganda messages could safely be sung
in the presence of all but a few Europeans, since the vast majority could
not understand a word of Kikuyu and if they had a large, or small, group
singing to the tune of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, ‘Abide with me’, or any
other well-known hymn, they were hardly likely to suspect that propaganda
against themselves was going on under their very noses. They would be
more likely to consider that a Christian revival was on its way . . .
There is no doubt at all that these hymns, which were being sung at
K.A.U. [Kenya African Union] meetings, at Independent Schools and
Churches, in the homes of thousands in the Kikuyu Reserve, in squatter
villages on European farms, and even in the staff quarters and kitchens of
European homes, were one of the most powerful propaganda weapons of
the whole Mau Mau movement. Leakey
Some examples of these Mau Mau hymns (in English translation) will
illustrate these points more clearly. The first is praise of Jomo Kenyatta,
who is represented as the great leader and saviour, the focus of unity and
loyalty:
God makes his covenant shrine until it is brighter than the sun, that neither
hill nor darkness can prevent him coming to fulfil it, for God is known as
the Conqueror.
He told Kenyatta in a vision You shall multiply as the stars of heaven,
nations will be blessed because of you’. And Kenyatta believed him and God
swore to it by his mighty power . . .
Kenyatta made a Covenant with the Kikuyu saying he would devote his
life to them, and would go to Europe to search for the power to rule, so as
to be a judge over the House of Mumbi. I ask myself Will we ever come out
of this state of slavery?’
He went, he arrived there and he came back. He promised the Kikuyu,
‘When I return M—shall go in order to arrange for the return of our land’.
May God have mercy upon us.
When the day for his return comes he will come with the decisions
about our land and the building which he said he would come to erect at
Githunguri ya Wairera shall be the one in which our rule shall be established.
Ibid.
The next two vividly express and encourage hatred of Europeans for their
actions and presence in Kenya, particularly their control of land:
There is great wailing in the land of the black people because of land hunger,
you fools and wise people alike, is there any among you who is not aware of
the overcrowding in our land.
You Europeans you are nothing but robbers, though you pretended you
came to lead us. Go away, go away you Europeans, the years that are past
have been more than enough for us . . .
You of Kikuyu and Mumbi8 fight hard, that we may be given self-
government, that our land may be given back to us. The corn is ripe for
harvest, if we are late the harvest will be lost . . .
Long ago the Europeans came upon us with weapons of war and they
drove us out and took our land. Go away, go away you Europeans . . .
Leakey
When the Europeans came from Europe they said they came to give us
learning and we accepted them gladly, but woe upon us, they really came
to oppress us.
Those who hate the house of Mumbi and say they prefer the Europeans,
will have great trouble in Kikuyu land when we achieve self-government.
When the house of Mumbi meets in order to recruit others to the house of
Mumbi there are some who side with the enemy and are like Judas of old.9
You house of Mumbi even if you are oppressed, do not be afraid in your
hearts, a Kikuyu proverb says ‘God help those who help themselves’.
You who side with Europeans when they go back to Europe, you will
kneel down before us and weep, claiming that you did not realise what you
were doing.
When the Europeans return to Europe you who sell the land of the
house of Mumbi we will answer you, by saying, ‘We disown you even as
you disowned us’.
When Kenyatta came back from Europe he came with a spear and sword
and shield and a war helmet on his head as a sign for the Kikuyu.
M—will return with spear and shield to uplift the house of Mumbi and
avenge the oppression which they have suffered from the Europeans.
Let those who go and report on our doings be accursed by their reports
and if they get pay for what they do, let the pay be a curse upon them too.
Oh, house of Mumbi let us exert ourselves to get our land returned,
the land which was ours and stolen from us by the deceitful Europeans.
Ibid.
Many other similar threats were expressed against Kikuyu ‘loyalists’ who
supported the government. The effect was a direct incitement to violence,
which resulted in the deaths of many of these suspected traitors:
As for you who side with the Europeans, on the day when God hears us, you
will be wiped out.
8 The traditional ‘Eve’ of the Kikuyu.

9 This means that when members of Mau Mau (who always refer to themselves as the
house of Mumbi) meet for an oath ceremony at which others are formally enlisted into
the movement, there are some who go and report to the police and take on themselves
the role of traitor.
Let every man ask himself, let everyone ask himself, How do I stand with
the black races?’ for the time is soon coming like the days of long ago when
the evil people will be burned. Leakey 10
These hymns appeared in books as well as in oral form and were frequently
distributed through the offices of the K.A.U. (which operated as a front
organization for Mau Mau). Little notice was taken by the authorities of
these publications. This was in contrast to the Kikuyu newspapers, which
were closely scrutinized by the Intelligence ”ranch of the police and
thought to be potentially subversive by European employers. The hymn-
books appeared safe from such suspicion, and those in charge were able
to become bolder and more blatant in their incitements to violence. One
of their triumphs was the setting of new words to the tune of the ”ritish
National Anthem—calling, in various versions, for blessing on the land of
the Kikuyu, on Jomo Kenyatta, and on those agitating for self-government.
This ploy was immediately successful. Supporters of Mau Mau were seen
enthusiastically standing up for the National Anthem, in reality praying for
the return of their own land to them while Europeans merely remarked on
the apparent increase among the Kikuyu of loyalty to the Crown (Leakey
. Calls to violence against Europeans as well as Kikuyu traitors
could also become more open. Thus, to the tune of Here we suffer grief
and pain’:
Here we suffer thumb-printing and grass planting. T won t be so when the

land is ours.
The warrior hut is set up, one brave leader is already here, the other is on his
way.
Let the Europeans exert themselves now for the time has come to separate
what is theirs and what belongs to others.
Those who were our friends, but who have become spies will be cast into the
sea.
What is making you hesitate when you hear the call to prepare? You were
born to be warriors.
Their ears are shut, their hearts are shut, Now let us march to war.
Support your just words with strong deeds that you fall not by the wayside.
(Ibid.: 68)
The results of these hymns as propaganda can be seen in the spread

and tenacity of Mau Mau as a political movement. ”ecause the ideas
expressed were considered subversive by the government they could not
10 Many loyalists were in fact burned alive.

be publicized openly. ”ut the hymns could speak quite explicitly to the
audience for whom they were intended. Hymns had the further advantages
that they were felt to be a specially effective and personal way of reaching
the people’s hearts, and could be claimed to result from a special revelation,
giving them a religious as well as a political sanction.
Although basic to the Mau Mau situation, secrecy is not always necessary.
In other circumstances in fact songs can form a part of a political movement
that expressly intends to publicize its aims. A good example of this is given
in Schachter’s description of the confrontation between the R.D.A. and the
local French administration in French Guinea as it was then in
Schachter .
The R.D.“. Rassemblement Démocratique “fricain had the support of
a large majority of people in French Guinea, and was led locally by Sékou
Touré. This leader had succeeded in capturing both the support and the
imagination of his followers. Many myths were woven around him, and in
songs and poems he, the R.D.A., and its symbol ‘Sily’ (the elephant) stood
as symbols of the political aspirations of the people:
Sily is too strong.

He does not retreat
When he is provoked. Ibid.
One of the main weapons used by the R.D.A. was political songs praising
Sékou Touré and attacking or advising his opponents. Unlike Mau Mau
hymns, these do not ever seem to have appeared in written form, but
they nevertheless became popular throughout Guinea, mostly in the Susu
language. Where less than ten per cent of the population could read or
write the French language taught in schools, the effectiveness of these
orally transmitted songs as political propaganda is obvious. It was further
strengthened by the linking of Sékou Touré and the R.D.“. with Islam, the
main religion in Guinea.
The political songs played an important part in the incidents of .
“ deputy for Guinea to the French National “ssembly died in and new
elections were held. Sékou Touré, the R.D.“. candidate, was supported
by the urban workers and many of the farmers, but his opponent, ”arry
Diawadou, was backed not only by the officially appointed chiefs but by
the French administration. So, when Diawadou was declared elected, the
popular belief was that the results had been falsified by the administration
to secure the election of their own candidate. Diawadou was abused in

song for his opposition to the elephant (the R.D.A.):
Diawadou you are a thief.

You stole not only from Yacine,11
You stole from the people.
There will be a fatal reckoning
When you face your God.
You, Diawadou!
You stole from the elephant.
You stole a voice.
One of those voices sings.
You cannot steal a voice.
You will pay.
The elephant is the strongest. Schachter
People continued to believe that Sékou Touré was the rightful deputy, their
real chief, and when he travelled round the country he was given a hero’s
welcome and greeted in songs of praise:
You came into your land.

You came into your capital.
You chose your hour for coming.
A chief commands.
He speaks his will.
Lift up your head!
Look at the sea of faces.
It is your world.
It is your people:
Which sits
When you say sit
Which rises
When you say rise.
You are a new chief.

You are chosen as chief.
The people is with you.
The barriers are cut.
We must follow,
For all will follow.
You are a new chief.

Lift up your head!
11 The previous deputy.

Look at the sea of faces,

That answers when you call. Schachter
The official declaration that Sékou Touré had been defeated thus led to
general anger in both Conakry and the interior, and there were many
demonstrations, riots, and protest meetings in which songs played their
part. This mass indignation was used by the R.D.A. leaders to demonstrate
their following to the French administration and local political opponents.
The following shows how the R.D.A. militants preached unity and solidarity
to the people they must stand united, for even Sékou Touré can do nothing
alone against the authorities. The opponents of R.D.A. are called on too:
they should accept the chiefship of Sékou Touré and the French National
Assembly should refuse to validate the election:
Listen to the story of Sékou.

Sékou alone can do nothing,
Just as no one can act alone.
All the councillors are against him,
As are all their henchmen.
All the important people hate him.
Listen carefully,
The elections are not yet validated.
If you want the trouble to end,
Give the chiefdom to him who merits it.
So that the trouble ends.

For the trouble has long antennae
Which will cross your path
When least you expect them. Ibid.
The local French administration attempted to hold the situation. Repressive

measures were tried, among them the expulsion of many unemployed in
Conakry who were thought responsible for some of the recent incidents.
The results of this, however, were not altogether as expected. Schachter
describes the removal of these ‘vagrants’: ‘They were piled into trucks, and
sent back to the villages. R.D.A. militants tell of their delight at these free
rides. The overloaded open trucks carried many R.D.A. supporters on
impromptu propaganda tours. This is what they chanted on their trip:
They say that the elephant does not exist.

”ut here is the elephant,
The elephant no one can beat’. (Idem)
The French National Assembly’s acceptance of the election results added

further fuel to the movement. Throughout the land Sékou Touré and his
policies were praised in many contexts—in religious terminology:
God is great.
It is hard
To bring unbelievers
Into the brotherhood of believers.
”ut we need the die-hards
To spur us on
To make life complete. Schachter
or in compositions by the women:

Here is the light
Of the chieftaincy of Sékou Touré.
It rises,
Inextinguishable,
Immeasurable,
Glorious.
Those who are of good faith
Speak in our way.
Those who are of bad faith
Qualify what they say.
One single thing is true.
When the sun rises
The palm of the hand
Cannot hide its light.
It is visible
It is gigantic.
You cannot stand its heat.
Even in a shaded place.
It is like the light
Of Sékou s chieftaincy. Ibid.
So effective was this R.D.A. mass opposition that the administration was
forced to reconsider its policy and the French Colonial Minister came out
to explore the possibility of a different approach. The R.D.A. seized the
opportunity to demonstrate its wide support and turned out huge crowds
in welcome. R.D.A. militants took charge of public order, giant placards
were paraded, and R.D.A. songs were performed all the way along the
route from the airport to the town.
This visit marked the turning point. Though popular protests continued,
the R.D.A. considered it a confession of their success and of the metropolitan
French government’s repudiation of the local administration’s policy.

More elections were finally held in January and yet more songs were
composed . The R.D.“. s candidates, including Sékou Touré, won two of
the three Guinea seats to the French National Assembly. This final triumph
was summed up in their songs of triumph over their now powerless
opponents. They sang:
You prepare food,

The most exquisite food to be found.
You are ready with your spoon
To spoon out the first spoonful.
And lo! a drop of violent poison
Falls into the food.
The water is dirtied
It becomes undrinkable.
All is finished.
“ll is over. Schachter
The campaign had finally been successful and the propaganda had fulfilled
its purpose.
”y the late s and early s political songs in “frica seem to
have become a standard accompaniment of recognized political parties
and the election campaigns that were by now becoming more and more
a feature of political activity in African colonies and ex-colonies. Songs
formed part of election campaigns in, for example, Sierra Leone and
Senegal in , Nyasaland in , and Northern Rhodesia in .
Some politicians managed to exploit oral propaganda even further and,
like the Western Nigerian leader Adelabu, organized the circulation of
gramophone records of songs supporting them Sklar .12
Altogether there is still great reliance on oral means of propaganda—
speeches, mass meetings, and songs—in keeping with the still largely
non-literate or semi-literate mass electorate for whom the written word is
of relatively lesser significance.
Northern Rhodesia (later Zambia) seems to have been particularly
rich in organized political songs in the vernacular, sometimes specially
composed and written for the party, and often sung by official mass choirs.
Several have been published among those written for the African National
12 See also the detailed description of such songs in electioneering at a local level in
Western Nigeria in ”eier .
Congress “.N.C. in the late s. One, cast in the form of a praise song,
honouring Nkumbula, President of the A.N.C., had the familiar purpose of
attempting to project a leader’s image to the mass of followers:
Mr. Nkumbula, we praise you.
You have done a good work.
Look today, we sing praising you,
For you have done a good work.
We praise, too, all your cabinet
And all your Action Group.
You have done good work. (Rhodes 1962: 18)
Two other songs can be quoted that were used to promote the A.N.C.’s
policies and to educate as well as incite the masses. Ill-defined popular
grievances are taken up and focused into definite political aims associated
with the party programme. The first is in the form of a meditation with
chorus, suitable for the whole audience to echo:
One day, I stood by the road side.
I saw cars passing by.
As I looked inside the cars
I saw only white faces in them.
These were European settlers.
Following the cars were cyclists
With black faces.
They were poor Africans.
Refrain. The Africans say,
Give us, give us cars, too,
Give us, give us our land
That we may rule ourselves.
I stood still but thinking

How and why it is that white faces
Travel by car while black faces travel by cycle.
At last I found out that it was that house,
The Parliamentary House that is composed of Europeans,
In other words, because this country is ruled by
White faces, these white faces do not want
Anything good for black faces. (Ibid.: 19)
Sharp political comment and demand can also be conveyed:

When talking about democracy [the English word]
We must teach these Europeans
”ecause they do not know.
See here in Africa they bring their clothes
”ut leave democracy in Europe.
Refrain. Go back, go back and

”ring true democracy.
We are no longer asleep

We are up and about democracy
We have known for a long time.
We are the majority and we demand
A majority in the Legislative Council. (Rhodes 1962: 20)
How far removed these songs are from the Mau Mau emphasis on secrecy
can be seen from the fact that a few of these A.N.C. songs are in fact in
English—a way of applying pressure on Europeans.
The open and public nature of Northern Rhodesian party songs also
comes out in the election campaign fought in . Songs, usually in ”emba,
were a recognized part of mass meetings. Mulford describes a typical rally:
Thousands were packed in an enormous semi-circle around the large
official platform constructed by the youth brigade on one of the huge ant
hills. Other ant hills nearby swarmed with observers seeking a better view of
the speakers. Hundreds of small flags in UNIP s colours were strung above
the crowd. Youth brigade members, known as ‘Zambia policemen’ and
wearing lion skin hats, acted as stewards and controlled the crowds when
party officials arrived or departed. UNIP’S jazz band played an occasional
calypso or jive tune, and between each speech, small choirs sang political
songs praising UNIP and its leaders.
Kaunda will politically get Africans freed from the English,
Who treat us unfairly and beat us daily.
UNIP as an organization does not stay in one place.
It moves to various kinds of places and peoples,
Letting them know the difficulties with which we are faced.
These whites are only paving the way for us,
So that we come and rule ourselves smoothly. Mulford
These UNIP songs were not confined to statements of policy and aspiration
(‘These whites are only paving the way for us . . .’), but also sometimes gave
precise instructions for the actual voting, a matter of great importance in
campaigns among an inexperienced electorate. One particularly infectious
calypso sung in English gave the necessary instructions:
Upper roll voting papers will be green.
Lower roll voting papers will be pink.
Chorus. Green paper goes in green box.
Pink paper goes in pink box. Ibid.
These three examples of the use of political songs, drawn from very different
political situations, show something of the flexibility of this particular
medium. Songs can be used to veil a political message from opponents,

to publicize it yet further, to whip up popular support, or to pressurize
its enemies. In different contexts, songs can have the effect of intensifying
factional differences, or of encouraging national unity. They can focus
interest on the image of the leader (or of the opponent) and on the specific
political aims of the party. Their effectiveness in reaching mass audiences
in countries without a tradition of written communication cannot be
exaggerated. Songs can be picked up and learnt by heart, transmitted orally
from group to group, form a real and a symbolic link between educated
leader and uneducated masses—in short, perform all the familiar functions
of political propaganda and comment.
Figure 19. ‘The Most Wonderful Mende Musician with his

Accordion’: Mr Salla Koroma, Sierra Leone.
See Nurse Sachs , also, on Ugandan rebel songs in the context of an

independent African state, K. Alnaes (unpublished).
Little has been written about the literary quality and form of these political
songs most of them have been collected by those interested primarily in
their political content. ”ut it does not necessarily follow that, just because
they have a clear political function, there are therefore no artistic conventions
observed by composer or singers, or that they can necessarily be dismissed
as of no serious artistic interest. It seems that in some cases the songs are
based on traditional literary forms of one kind or another. Praise of political
leaders fits with the traditional interest in panegyric14 and among some
peoples (e.g. Kikuyu or Ndebele) old war songs are sometimes used in new
contexts for political pressure or intimidation Leakey Afr. Music
2.4, 1961: 117) while among the Somali the traditional and serious gabay
form is now commonly used for political propaganda (Andrzejewski and
Lewis 1964: 48). In other cases one of the dominant models would seem
to be that of the Christian hymn, an influence apparent not only in the
case of Mau Mau but also, among others, with the C.P.P. in Ghana or the
Nigerian N.C.N.C. see e.g. Hodgkin . ”ut how far the artistic
conventions of the originals are carried over into the political adaptations
is by no means clear.
What does appear certain is that there will remain plenty of opportunity
to study the literary quality of the songs, for they show no signs of
dying out. Indeed their contemporary relevance is demonstrated—if
demonstration is needed—in the action of the Nigerian military rulers in
1966 in banning political songs as part of their attempt to curb political
activity, or the Tanzanian government’s appeal to musicians in 1967 to
help to spread its new policies of socialism and self-reliance to the people
through song. It is too easy to assume that this means of oral propaganda
is bound to disappear with increasing literacy and ‘modernization’, as if
newspapers and written communications were somehow the only ‘natural’
and ‘modern’ way of conducting political propaganda. On the contrary it
is possible that the spread of the transistor radio may in fact add fresh
impetus to political songs.
14 Cf. the Shona praise poems with modern political overtones (Fortune 1964: 108) and
the use of griots for electioneering in Senegambia Gamble .
Figure 20. Radio. Topical and political songs, already strong in Africa,
receive yet further encouragement by the ubiquitous presence of local
radio (courtesy of Morag Grant).
11. Children’s Songs and Rhymes
Lullabies and nursery rhymes. Children’s games and verses; Southern

Sudanese action songs.
Little systematic interest has been taken in children’s verse in Africa, and
though isolated instances have been recorded this has been done without
any discussion of context or local significance.1 On the published evidence
it is not clear, for instance, how far the previous lack of a distinct body
of schoolchildren in most African societies affected the specificity of
children’s verse as distinct from that of other groups, or how far the oral
compositions now current in the increasing number of schools parallel
similar phenomena recorded elsewhere. Nevertheless, some remarks
on what is known to occur in Africa may be relevant here, not least if its
shortcomings provoke further research or synthesis.2 I shall discuss first
lullabies (and other songs designed for children but primarily transmitted
by adults) and secondly the rhymes and songs that tend to be for a slightly
older age-group and are regarded as belonging to the children themselves
in their own play.
Though see Tucker Griaule a “dam Gbadamosi and

”eier ”éart ”lacking .
2 Further material can almost certainly be found which so far has achieved only local
circulation, e.g. ”eier and Gbadamosi, Ibadan, n.d. Yoruba children s poems , and
collections made by local teachers and others. Children’s songs are also sometimes
included on recordings published by the International Library of African Music (e.g.
five Tswana children’s singing games TR III).
I
Lullabies provide a good example of the way in which what might be
expected to be a simple, ‘natural’, and spontaneous expression of feeling
in all societies—a mother singing to her child—is in fact governed by
convention and affected by the particular constitution of the society.
One major factor is the question of who has the main responsibility for
looking after a child. Among the Ngoni, for instance, a kind of upper-class
group in Malawi, there were few lullabies: most Ngoni women employed
nurse-maids from other groups to look after their children. Something
similar was true among the rank-conscious Nyoro of Uganda. There,
however, the nurses commonly sang their own lullabies to their charges,
expressing their feelings about the mothers’ attitude:
Ha! that mother, who takes her food alone.

Ha! that mother, before she has eaten.
Ha! that mother she says, Lull the children for me .
Ha! that mother when she has finished to eat.
Ha! that mother she says Give the child to me . ”ansisa
One of the main raisons d’être of such lullabies among Nyoro nurses would
in fact seem to be, not primarily the lulling of the child at all, but an indirect
comment on their own position, ‘for they were afraid of making direct
requests to their masters and therefore they always expressed what they
wanted in lullabies . ”ansisa
Other African lullabies fit more easily into our common picture of a
mother concentrated on the needs of her child but even in these the
tone and purpose may vary. Some lay the greatest emphasis on the idea
of rocking the child to sleep, often brought out by the rhythm and liquid
vowel sounds of the original. Here, for instance, is the first verse of a long
Swahili lullaby:
Lululu, mwana (wa) lilanji,

Luluhi, mwana (wa) kanda!
Luluhi, mwana (wa) lilanji,
Lululu, mwana (wa) kanda!
(Lululu, Kindchen, warum weinst du?

Lululu, verwöhntes kleines Kind!
Lululu, Kindchen, warum weinst du?
Lululu, verwöhntes kleines Kind! Von Tiling
11. Children’s Songs and Rhymes 293
and the same soothing repetitive sounds come in one of the commonest
Zulu lullabies:
Thula, thula, thula, mntanami,

Ukhalelani na?
Ushaywa ubani?
Thula mntanami, umam’akekho
(Peace, peace, peace, my child,

Why weepest thou?
Who annoys?
Peace, child, mother is not home). (Dhlomo 1947: 7)
Other songs seem to represent more the mother’s delight in playing with
her child than a desire to soothe it,4 or a detached and good-humoured
comment as in the lullaby a Dogon mother sings to the child on her back:
Où est partie la mère du petit?

Partie puiser de l’eau.
Pas revenue de puiser l’eau.
Partie piler la feuille de baobab
Pas revenue de piler la feuille
Partie préparer les plats
Pas revenue de préparer les plats
Sur la falaise, sur la falaise, un oeuf de poule est suspendu!
where the last line vividly pictures the way the little child’s bottom is
perched like an egg on his mother s steep back Griaule a: 226). The
Kamba mother also pictures her own absorption in her child and her
neglect of other things for his sake, viewing her own attitude with a certain
detachment:
Mother, mother of the child, leave off crying, poverty!

You have come, you have surpassed me in crying.6
And even if it is the rain which rains,
See also slightly different versions in Curtis Vilakazi . The reference

to the mother’s absence may be just a conventional part of the song, or may, if taken
literally, indicate that this lullaby too was much sung by nurses. Some other Zulu
lullabies (isihlabelelo) are made up specially by the mother for individual children with
whom they are intimately connected, so that each individual has his isihlabelelo, ‘the
song of his childhood, regarded as something essentially his own Krige .
4 E.g. the Swahili song given by Von Tiling 1927: 290.
Kamba children are often called mother by their own mothers
6 i.e. I am glad that you came to me, but I never cried so much when I was a baby.
I put away the tree,7 I shall call my mother.

And even if it is the Masai,8
Who carries spear and shield, I put away the tree.
I shall call you, I shall lull to sleep on my arm, mother.
I shall not hear the goats who are bleating. Lindblom iii,
Like many other lullabies, those of the Rundi are characterized by rhythm
and cadence as well as the use of onomatopoeic words. ”ut they also seem
notably meditative in tone. The mother expresses and comments on her
own feelings and on her expectations of the attitudes of others:
O ce qui me donne du travail, je t’aime.

Demain de bonne heure nous causerons.
De très bonne heure, des qu’il fera clair.
Viens que je te caresse (en te donnant de petits coups).
Endors-toi, mets fin à ma solitude.
Ecoutons s’il y a des ennemis.
Mon roi, mon roi.
Tranquille! que je te frotte d odoriférants
Qui t’accompagnent chez le roi (qui te font arriver jusque chez le roi).
Tranquille! sommeille sur le dos.
Ta belle-mère est stérile.
Elle te donnerait du tabac (au lieu de nourriture).
Même si la bouillie ne manque pas. Zuure
There are also rhymes or songs for grown-ups to recite to children, distinct
both from lullabies and from ordinary adult songs. The Zulu are said to
have many ‘nursery songs’ in both rural and urban areas, among them one
made up of an amusing combination of clicks to teach children the correct
pronunciation (Qhuweqha weqhuweqha, / Qhingqilithi qh! etc.) (Vilakazi
. Several examples of these rhymes for children are included in
Griaule’s comprehensive study Jeux dogons. One is for finger play:
Le petit doigt a dit oncle j ai faim

L’annulaire a dit: nous allons recevoir (à manger)
Le majeur a dit: demandons
L’index a dit: volons
Le pouce a dit: je n’en suis pas (pour voler).
Depuis ce temps, le pouce s est ecarte des autres doigts. Griaule a: 224)
7 i.e. digging stick. Women are usually very busy in their gardens at the start of the rainy
season, but this mother is thinking only of her child.
8 For some further references to lullabies, besides those already mentioned, see e.g. Nketia
b “kan de Rop Coupez ”éart ff. various lullabies from West
“frica Sempebwa Ganda “nya-Noa ”elinga ff.
The next song is to stop a small child crying by tickling up his arm:
Singe noir
Dans la main de mon fils
“i mis un pélyé [fruit] cassé
L a enlevé puis l a mangé
Puis ça, puis ça, puis ça.
Ça, gêrgêrgêr . . . Griaule a
There does not seem to be evidence of a large body of specialized nursery

rhymes in any African society to the same extent as in English tradition, for
example. However, it is hard to believe that it is only in Zulu and Dogon
two of the most comprehensively studied African cultures—that rhymes of
the kind quoted can be found, and it is very possible that further research
will reveal similar nursery-rhyme forms in many other African societies.9
II
Like children elsewhere, African children seem to have the familiar range
of games and verse for their own play—nonsense songs, singing games,
catch rhymes, and so on. They also engage in riddle-asking and in other
games and dances that cannot be treated here see Ch. .
”efore quoting instances of such children s verses, one has to sound a
note of caution. Obviously, what is to count as ‘children’s verse’ in a given
society depends on the local classification of ‘children’, and one cannot
necessarily assume that the ‘children’s songs’ of another society are directly
comparable with those of one’s own. In English society, for example, the
contemporary concept of ‘a child’ is closely connected with the idea of a
school population, a partly separate community of school children with
their conventions and lore to some extent opposed to those of adults. It was
suitable therefore that the main sources for the Opies classic work
on children s verse should have been the schools. ”ut this close association
of children and formal schools does not hold true in all areas of Africa—
and was even less true in the past—and one cannot necessarily assume
the same clear-cut separation between the interests and orientations of
children and those of adults.
9 They are sometimes mentioned in passing for other peoples, e.g. Tracey 1929: 97
nursery rhymes among Kalanga, Southern Rhodesia ”éart , Ch. West “frica
“dali-Mortti nursery rhymes among the Ewe and other West “frican peoples
Hillelson “rabic Simmons Efik Lambert .
This is not to say that there are no local or traditional ways of marking
off the age-group of children from that of the adult world, merely that
these do not necessarily parallel those of Western Europe. It is common
for a ceremonial initiation to mark a clear dividing-line between childhood
and maturity, often taking place at around the age of puberty, but in some
societies (or with some individuals) this may be much earlier or much later.
In some cases, initiation may be as young as, say, seven or eight years old,
and the special initiation songs that are so often a feature of this ceremony
might seem to parallel songs sung by similar age-groups in other societies.
In fact they may be quite different in intention they are to be sung by the
children qua initiates (i.e. officially no longer children) and are often taught
them by their elders. They cannot then be regarded as children’s songs in the
sense we are using the term here. In some African societies, again, there is
strong pressure from children, as they get older, to prove themselves ready
to enter the adult world. This means that, besides having their own verse
and games, they are likely to try to master certain of the songs and other
activities regarded as suitable for adults, and, indeed, may be encouraged
to do so. Among the Ila and Tonga of Zambia, for instance, ziyabilo songs
in praise of cattle and other possessions are sung by grown-up men but
many of these adult ziyabilo were in fact composed by their singers when
they were still young boys minding their father’s cattle in the bush. The
child thus models himself and his verse on his father and other adult men
rather than concentrating on a special type appropriate to children (Jones
.
One way in which children are often separated from other groups is in
the kind of work they are expected to do, and there are sometimes special
songs associated with such tasks. These include the light-hearted songs
sung by the young Limba boys who spend long weeks in the rainy seasons
in farm shelters scaring away the birds and animals from the ripening rice,
or the children’s song among the Dogon, sung to discourage various birds
from plundering the millet:
Oiseau, sors!
goro sors!
bandey sors!
Pour vous le mil n’est pas mûr.
II n’est pas l’heure de manger le mil vert
Diarrhée du ventre.
Où il est parti le guérisseur de la diarrhée?
II est parti à ”anan10
10 A nearby village.
II est parti à ”anan ce n est pas le moment de venir.

Oiseau sors!
Tourterelle sors!
Pigeon sors. Griaule a: 220)
If the exact nature of ‘children’s verse’ must be seen as depending partly on

the particular ideas of each society about age structure, assignment of tasks,
and behaviour expected of the various age-groups, it does nevertheless seem
that in most African societies children do to some extent separate themselves
off from adults in at least some play activities and have at least some rhymes
and songs of their own. This is encouraged by the fact that many of them live
in large family groupings, with much time spent outside their own homes
in the open air rather than in small, enclosed family circles. Nowadays, too,
there is the additional factor of the increasing number of schools.
Nonsense songs, tongue-twisting rhymes, and trick verses are all
documented. Ibo girls, for instance, sing a nonsense rhyme which could be
translated as ‘Oh, oh, oh, oh, / girls agree / tall girl, Iruka / koko yams, / sour,
sour koko yams, / he goat sour’,11 and tongue-twisters are recorded among
the Mbete of West Central Africa and others:
Kusa le podi kudi — Le liseron enlace le poteau.
Kudi le podi kusa — Le poteau enlace le liseron
and
Mva o kwadi nama — Le chien attrapa l’animal.
nama o txwi mva — L animal mordit le chien. “dam
The nonsense frequently takes the form of a kind of follow-up or progressive

rhyme, usually in dialogue. In one form or another, this type of verbal play
has been recorded from several parts of the continent.12 The sequences may
be just for fun or may also include a definite competitive content making
up a kind of game. This is true of the Moru of the Southern Sudan where
the children divide into two sides, one of which asks the questions. The
answer depends on remembering the right sequence of words quickly
enough, and those who get it wrong are ridiculed:
A. A’di ru doro maro ni ya? Who has taken my bowl?
B. Kumu au. Kumu has.
11 Iyoo, o / Abo, kwekwe, / ihwu, Iruka / ede / bwaloka, okabwalede, / nkpi bwaloka Thomas
iii .
12 E.g. the West “frican Dogon Griaule a: 212–14) and possibly Fulani (if the
examples of chain-rhymes cited by “rnott ff. are intended for children, which
seems not improbable), as well as the instances from the Swazi (South Africa), Mbete
(West Central Africa), and Moru (Southern Sudan) mentioned below. Cf. also Gamble
Wolof, Mandingo, and Fula , ”lacking Venda and
catchword compositions for adults in Malawi Macdonald ,i .
A. Kumu a’di? Who’s Kumu?

B. Kumu Ngeri. Kumu son of Ngeri.
A. Ngeri a’di? Who’s Ngeri?
B. Ngeri Koko. Ngeri son of Koko.
A. Koko a’di? Who’s Koko?
B. Koko Lire. Koko son of Lire.
A. Lire a’di? Who’s Lire?
B. Lire Kide. Lire son of Kide.
A. Kide a’di? Who’s Kide?
B. Kide Langba. Kide son of Langba.
A. Langba a’di? Who’s Langba?
B. Langba Kutu. Langba son of Kutu.
A. Kutu a’di? Who’s Kutu?
(ending up fortissimo)
B. Kutu temele cowa Kutu’s a sheep in the forest
Dango udute nyorli. The bulls are fast asleep. (Mynors 1941: 206)
Sometimes the verbal parallelism is less exact, as in the Swazi ‘children’s

part-song’ in which the children are divided into two groups that take turns
in singing a line, then join together at the end. It is not an action rhyme, but
depends on the words and tune alone for its attraction:
A. Ye woman beyond the river!
B. We! (responding to the call)
A. What are you dusting?
B. I am dusting a skin petticoat.
A. What is a skin petticoat?
B. It is Mgamulafecele.
A. What have they killed?
B. They have killed a skunk.
A. Where did they take it?
B. To Gojogojane.
A. Who is Gojogojane?
B. He-who-eats-cowdung-when-hungry.
A. For whom would he leave (some of) it?
B. He would leave some for Shishane.
A. and B.
Shishane is not to blame,
The blame is for Foloza,
He who says he alone is handsome.
The hoes of Mbandzeni
They go knocking against him,
The knocker of Njikeni.
Magagula, Magagula keep the clod of earth tightly squeezed in your—
given as quoted in Englebrecht
A more complicated form is quoted from the Mbete where the rhyme builds
up in a cumulative way. Two children take part:
A. Sedi a nde? La gazelle où est-elle?
B. Sedi miye nkwi. La gazelle est allée au bois.
A. Omo a nde? La première où est-elle?
B. Omo milono sedi o nkwi. La première a suivi la gazelle au bois.
A. Oywole a nde? La deuxième où est-eslle?
B. Oywole milono omo, La deuxième a suivi la première,
Omo milono sedi o nkwi. La première a suivi la gazelle au bois.
A. Otadi a nde? La troisième où est-elle?
B. Otadi milono oywole, La troisième a suivi la deuxième,
Oywole milono omo, La deuxième a suivi la première,
Omo milono sedi o nkwi . . . La première a suivi la gazelle au bois . . .
and so on up to the tenth which involves the answerer repeating the whole
sequence “dam .
Other types of rhymes and songs are also recorded. There is the kind of
catch rhyme exemplified by the Yoruba:
Who has blood? Chorus. ”lood, blood.

Has a goat blood? „ ”lood, blood.
Has a sheep blood? „ ”lood, blood.
Has a horse blood? „ ”lood, blood.
Has a stone blood? „ ——
in which the point of the game is to try to get some child to say ‘blood’ after
an inanimate object. A mistake results in laughter and sometimes a friendly
beating Gbadamosi and ”eier . There also seem to be plenty of
songs enjoyed for their own sakes or for their usefulness in mocking other
children. A Dogon child with his head recently shaved will be greeted with
Crâne nu, lonlaire!
Viens manger un plat de riz,
Viens manger un plat de potasse,
Viens manger un plat de mil. Griaule a 14
while a Ganda child who has not washed may hear
Mr. Dirty-face passed here

And Mr. Dirtier-face followed (Sempebwa 1948: 20)
Or again, a kind of general comment may be made as in the humorous and

rueful song by a Yoruba child
Adam also gives an example where the response directly echoes the second half of the
query .
14 Some of these are in the ‘chain-rhyme’ form.
Hunger is beating me.

The soapseller hawks her goods about.
”ut if I cannot wash my inside,
How can I wash my outside? Gbadamosi and ”eier
So far we have concentrated on rhymes and songs that are mainly valued
for their words or music rather than their relation to action. ”ut there are
also many examples of songs sung to accompany games or dances, or
forming an integral part of them. A minor example would be the counting-
out rhymes of the Dogon where those partaking are gradually eliminated
according to whose leg the last syllable falls on at each subsequent
repetition.2 Yoruba children similarly use a rhyme as part of a hide-and-
seek game. The searcher faces the wall singing his nonsense song while the
others hide. When he reaches the question part of the song the others must
reply in chorus, giving him a clue to their hiding-places:
Now we are playing hide and seek.

Let us play hide and seek.
Hey, tobacco seller,
This is your mother here,
Whom I am wrapping up in those leaves.
I opened the soup pot
And caught her right inside
Stealing meat!
Who nails the root?
Chorus. The carpenter.
Who sews the dress?
Chorus. The tailor. etc. Gbadamosi and ”eier
Other action songs are more complicated in that they are based on imitation
or on definite set dance patterns. Shona children, for instance, have an
imitative song in which they circle round and round imitating an eagle
catching small chickens Taylor . “gain, there are the Hottentot
action songs based on the common principles of a ring or of two rows
facing each other Stopa .
A more detailed account of action songs is given by Tucker, drawing
on his observation of children at mission schools in the Sudan in the
s Tucker . His conclusion is that the songs and games were not
introduced by the missionaries themselves (or at least not consciously), but
whatever the truth of this, it is in any case suitable to end by quoting from
this account in some detail. Schools are becoming increasingly important
in the lives of more and more children in Africa, and it is likely that similar
singing games—from whatever source—are now widespread (and thus

accessible to study) among school groups.
The children whose round games were studied were mostly boys
from various Southern Sudanese peoples Nuer, Shilluk, Dinka, ”ari, and
Lotuko). The games are played on a moonlit night in the dry season and
the singing, mostly in strophe and antistrophe, is led by one of the boys
and accompanied by hand-clapping, foot-thumping, or the action of the
game. Often the words themselves count for little. Sometimes the meaning
is almost slurred out of recognition, and in this ‘the Shilluks and Nuers
are the greatest offenders, some of their songs consisting of mere nonsense
syllables, which they themselves do not pretend to understand. (In such
cases they usually give out that the words are Dinka Tucker .
The translations are therefore rather free.
Most of the singing games are based on the principle of a ring, the
players squatting or standing in a circle. In one, the equivalent of Hunt
the slipper’, the players sit in a circle with their feet under them. The
leader in the middle of the ring has to find a bracelet which is being passed
surreptitiously round the ring. He sings, answered by the others as they
slap their knees in time to the song:
Leader. ”racelet of my son s wife,

Chorus. I want I want now, bracelet of poor ”ana,
It is lost
repeated over and over until the leader successfully challenges one of the
circle who, if caught with the bracelet, has to take the leader’s place in
the centre. (Ibid.: 166–7) Another action song based on a ring is a type of
counting-out game:
The boys sit in a circle, or, it might be, at right-angle, with their feet stuck out
straight in front of them. An elder boy squats on his haunches before them
and chants a queer formula, much longer than any European equivalent,
tapping the feet as he chants, till the last word is said. The foot last touched
is out and the owner must sit on it. He goes on in this way till everybody
is sitting on both his feet, i.e. practically kneeling. He then begins with the
first boy of the line. There is a formula and response, and then he bows
down in front of the boy with his eyes shut and his head almost touching
the boy’s knees. The boy has to stand up without touching the man’s head
with his knees. He may use his hands to help himself, if he wishes. If the
man hears the boy’s knees creak as he rises, the boy is made to stand on one
side. If his knees do not creak, he stands somewhere else. Soon we have two
groups—creaky and non-creaky knees. (Of course, the longer one is forced
to sit on one’s feet, the greater the likelihood of creaky knees!) . . . The game
ends with the non-creaky knees pursuing the creaky knees and punishing
them Tucker
Another ring game is the Lotuko one in which a boy in the centre, ‘the ape’,
has to try to grab the leg of one of the boys dancing round him in a ring and
to upset him. If he succeeds, they change places:
Here he goes around to steal

”reak away
Bad ape.
”reak away
Bad ape. (Ibid.: 170)
There are also a number of games based on the idea of the arch or the line.
In one the boys line up in two opposing ranks and one line advances slowly
towards the other, which retreats, both sides singing:
The foreigner
Chin of a goat
The foreigner comes striding haughtily
With his red skin.
This is repeated several times, the two lines taking it in turn to advance.
Suddenly the pace and verse change. Those advancing now run stiff-legged
and try to kick the others’ shins, again singing over and over:
Why does the stranger hurry so?

Ha! ha! hurry so.
Why does the stranger hurry so?
Ha! ha! hurry so. Ibid.
Tucker comments that ‘this game is definitely a hit at the white man. The
chin of a goat in the first song refers to the beards of the R.C. missionaries
beards being considered unseemly among the Nilotic tribes while the
kicking in the second song is thought to be a skit on the average official’s
use of his boots when angry or impatient Tucker .
Chasing and following games also take place to sung words. In the
Acholi version of ‘Follow my leader’ the boys stand in single file, holding
each other’s waists, and the leader takes them in a closing circle to the
words of the song ‘close in’, then worms his way out again, singing ‘open
out’. The words of the song form the background. The verse ‘A dula dul
dula na dula dul. A dula ye. Dula na dula dul. A dula kuk! Dula na dula
dul. A dula ye’ means ‘close in’, while the same tune, with gonya instead of
dula, means ‘open out’ (Ibid.: 179).
Finally there are imitations of animals. Some of these occur in chasing

games like the Shilluk ‘Lion and sheep’, but in others the imitations seem
to be taken more seriously. In one a boy doubles himself up to represent a
frog and tries to jump backwards in a circle without falling over, in time to
his companions’ song:
Jump up and down,

Up and down.
Jump up and down,
Up and down.
I shall jump again,
Up and down.
I shall jump again,
Up and down? Tucker
In ”ush-buck in a trap the success of the game depends on the exactness

of the leader’s imitation of the animal:
The boys stand in a ring, holding hands. One boy is in the middle, and
he is Gbodi , the bush-buck. He sings suiting his actions to the words, and
the others reply, copying him.
Thus, for example:
Gbodi shake your head, Gbodi shake your head.

Kango.
Gbodi crouch down, Gbodi crouch down.
Kango.
Gbodi scratch your ear, Gbodi scratch your ear.
Kango.
Gbodi stamp your foot, Gbodi stamp your foot.
Kango.
Gbodi snort and snuffle, Gbodi snort and snuffle.
Kango.
Gbodi break away now, Gbodi break away now.
Kango.
At the words ‘Gbodi break away now’, he makes a wild dash for safety,
and tries to break through the circle. If he fails, he has to act ‘Gbodi’ again
(Ibid.: 184).
These are only a few of the singing games recorded by Tucker, and he
himself claims to give only a random selection. ”ut even this, he considers,
‘picked up casually from different corners of the Southern Sudan, and
He gives twenty-four in all, fully illustrated with the music, original, and usually
translation.
covering primitive races with mutually unintelligible languages, should

serve to show the main foundations on which the great majority of
children’s singing games are built . . . These foundations are, to all intents
and purposes, identical with those that underlie the forms of European
children’s games, viz. the ring, the arch and the line Tucker .
It seems clear that many such singing games and other types of children’s
songs remain to be collected or analysed.16 At the moment little can be said
about the distribution of different types, the transmission of these forms
among the children themselves, the degree of individual originality as
against conventional forms,17 or the incidence of topical or other comment.
What does seem certain is that the growing numbers of school children in
contemporary Africa are likely more and more to develop their own distinct
and conventional songs and games—increasingly it is in the schools that
these can most easily and fruitfully be studied.
16 They are mentioned or, in a few cases, described for e.g. Kamba Mbiti
Ganda Sempebwa Ewe Jones “shanti Nketia Tswana
Mpama-”akutu Windels children in Leopoldville Comhaire-
Sylvain , Ibo Nettl a Efik Simmons Hausa Krieger .
17 The Dogon examples collected by Griaule suggest the same kind of variations on a
single theme for some of the verses as is evident in the many variants of the ‘same’
rhyme in the Opies’ collection of English school children’s rhymes
III. PROSE
12. Prose Narratives
I. Problems and Theories
Introductory. Evolutionist interpretations. Historical-geographical school.

Classification and typologies. Structural-functional approach. Conclusion.
The existence of stories in Africa is well known. One of the first things
students of African oral literature or of comparative literature generally
discover about Africa is the great number of so-called ‘folktales’. They will
hear above all of the many animal tales that so vividly and humorously
portray the tricks of the spider, the little hare, or the antelope, or exhibit
the discomfiture of the heavy and powerful members of the animal world
through the wiles of their tiny adversaries. Less well known, but still
familiar, are the many African tales set in the human world, about, say, the
trials of a young man wooing a wife, the self-sacrifice of two friends for
each other, or the triumph of the youngest, despised member of a family
and the famous ‘myths’ of the various African peoples about such subjects
as the origin of death, of mankind, or of authority.
In fact, all this is if anything too well known. So much has been published
of and about this one literary form that its relative importance in the general
field of African oral literature has been radically misjudged. Far from being
‘the great form’ in African literature, as even the author of a recent and
well-informed work on “frica has asserted ”ohannan , tales
and other prose narratives in fact generally appear to be markedly less
important than the majority of poetic forms, in terms of complexity, of the
relatively lesser specialism of their composers, and of the assessment of the
people themselves. This, however, is seldom recognized. Owing to a series
of secondary characteristics like the greater ease with which prose can
be recorded and the way the nature of the tales (particularly those about
animals) seemed to fit certain preconceptions about African mentality,
these stories have been published in large numbers and have caught the
public eye to the almost total exclusion of the often more intrinsically
interesting poetry.
So much, indeed, has been published in this field that it would be easy to
write not a chapter but a book surveying the present state of knowledge of
this form of “frican literature. ”ut to include too lengthy a description here
of this single form of verbal art would inevitably present an unbalanced
picture of African literature. These two chapters therefore will give only
a brief summary of what is known about African prose narratives and
the problems of analysis, and will concentrate on pointing to gaps in our
knowledge rather than repeating what is already known.1
”ecause so much has been written and published over many years,
this field of study has been particularly subject to the vicissitudes of
anthropological theories and has reflected only too faithfully the rise and
fall of fashions in interpretations of African (and ‘primitive’) cultures. As a
result there are considerably more misconceptions and misunderstandings
to clear away in the case of African prose than with poetry. Indeed, when
one considers the vast amount published it is surprising how poor much
of it is. Poor, that is, in the sense that so much is based on unquestioned
assumptions and so little is said about many topics in which a student
of literature would naturally be interested, like, for instance, the art or
1 Most of the general accounts of African oral literature devote much or most of their
space to a consideration of prose narratives, e. g. Herskovits ”ascom which
includes a most useful list of collections of “frican stories ”erry ”alandier .
Of the large and varied number of general anthologies of African stories, one could
mention Seidel ”asset Cendrars Meinhof Frobenius
vols. Radin “rnott Whiteley . Special studies of various aspects
of “frican stories include Klipple and Herskovits comparative study of
motifs Mofokeng Von Sicard Tegnaeus “brahamsson studies
mainly in the Scandinavian tradition Werner , surveys content of stories,
including myths). Of the innumerable collections of stories from single societies or
areas, the following are of interest either because of the collection itself or (more often)
because of the accompanying discussion Roger Wolof Theal Xhosa
Chatelain Kimbundu Cronise and Ward Temne Jacottet Sotho
Junod ii, ff Thonga Tremearne Hausa Equilbecq vols.
West “frica Smith and Dale ii, , ch. Ila Torrend Zambia Travelé
”ambara Doke , Lamba Lindblom Kamba Rattray “kan
Herskovits Fon Stappers Luba Hulstaert Mongo Mbiti
Kamba Finnegan Limba Evans-Pritchard Zande . See also the excellent
article by Crowley (1967) which, though specifically about the Congo, is of wider
relevance. For further references see General ”ibliography and the useful analysis of
collections plus bibliography in ”ascom many of the recent collections often very
much in popular form) are by no means improvements on earlier collections from the
same peoples.
. Prose Narratives I. Problems and Theories 309
originality of the individual composer, the nature of the audiences reached,

the local assessment of the relative worth or seriousness of stories against
other forms, or the position of the story-teller himself. So for all these
reasons—the ready accessibility of some aspects, the misunderstandings
or gaps in other respects—this section, unlike most others in the central
part of this book, will tend to be argumentative and critical rather than
descriptive and illustrative.
I
Something has already been said in Chapter 2 about some of the many
different approaches to the study of African oral art. These will not all
be recapitulated here, but, even at the cost of some repetition, something
further must be said about the special case of prose narratives it is in
this field—sometimes regarded as ‘folklore’ par excellence—that these
various theories have found their most fluent and extreme expression. The
end result has too often been to play down or explain away any literary
dimension.
One of the most influential of these theories, dating from the nineteenth
century but casting a shadow even today, is the type of evolutionist
interpretation of human history and society put forward, in various forms,
by writers like Morgan, Tylor, or Frazer. ”esides their application to the
supposed unilinear evolution of institutions such as religion or marriage,
these speculative historical generalizations could also be brought to bear on
the nature and history of literature. In this field the word ‘folklore’ became
popular as a term to describe the supposed customs, beliefs, and culture
of both ‘early’ man and his presumed equivalents today: contemporary
‘primitive’ peoples and the modern peasant, i.e. the ‘folk’ among whom
could still, supposedly, be found traces of the earlier stages of unilinear
human evolution. When apparently similar customs or beliefs could be
detected in societies otherwise considered ‘advanced’ (in the opinion of the
analyst), then they could be explained as ‘survivals’, remnants of the cruder,
barbaric stages of the past. ‘Folklore’ even came to be defined as ‘the study
of survivals’, with the implication that its subject-matter (which included
‘folktales’) was basically crude, primitive, ‘early’, and, in many cases, due
to old ideas passed on from previous generations. It was thus—to quote
Frazer’s words—’due to the collective action of the multitude and cannot
be traced to the individual influence of great men’). (Frazer 1919 i: vii)
The implication of these approaches for the study of oral literature is

plain. Any type of oral prose narrative from whatever society could be, and
was, referred to as ‘folktale’ and thus treated as a kind of ‘survival’ from an
earlier and even more primitive state. In this way, the aspect of individual
originality and authorship could be played down—or rather, the question of
authorship not even raised for once the word folktale was used, collective
tradition could be assumed and no question about individual creation could
arise. A further relevant assumption was the still commonly mentioned ‘fact’
that all ‘folktales’ (and thus all oral narratives) have been handed down
through generations from the remote past, most probably in a word-perfect
form. Again, this questionable assumption drew attention away from
problems of authorship or of contemporary relevance and variations, and
from questions about the actual situations in which these stories are actually
told. Moreover, because the tales could be treated as ‘survivals’, there was
felt to be no need to apply to them the normal procedures of literary criticism
or to relate them to the contemporary social and literary background, for
this, it was assumed, was often alien to the real content of the stories. This
approach also lent encouragement to the amateur collection and publication
of isolated unrelated snippets of tales and proverbs for when the whole
idea of the subject of ‘folklore’ was that these ‘folktales’ were only scraps
(survivals), there was no inducement to try to collect them systematically. So
it is that, even recently, the journals are full of such articles as Four ”abongo
proverbs’, or ‘Two riddles and a folktale from the Ping Pong natives’, with
no attempt to relate the specimens to any background whatsoever or even to
have collected anything more than the barest synopsis of the plot.
”y now the evolutionist framework from which these approaches
sprang has been rejected in professional anthropological circles. Yet in spite
of this, these assumptions about oral narratives still linger on. We read, for
instance, in a recent collection of Hausa stories of the callousness or . . .
macabre type of humour’ in some stories being ‘residues from the past’, or
how their ‘animal and fairy stories are probably as old as the language and
perhaps even older Johnston xxxi, xxxix many similar instances
could be cited.
That these attitudes should still be attractive is not altogether surprising.
The hidden implications of the term ‘folktale’ lead one astray at the outset—
good reason for giving up this otherwise quite useful word. It is also
pleasant enough to be able to concentrate on confident assertions about
the great age of certain stories without needing to produce evidence (the
bland ‘probably’ of the statement just quoted is typical here). This whole
approach absolves one from any systematic treatment of the more difficult
and interesting problems.
In fact the question of originality in oral literature is by no means a closed
one. Contrary to the assumptions of many writers, the likelihood of stories
having been handed down from generation to generation in a word-perfect
form is in practice very remote. This whole concept, in fact, is much more
plausible in the case of written than of oral literature. As already remarked
in an earlier chapter, one of the main characteristics of oral literature is its
verbal flexibility (even more marked, perhaps, with prose than with some
types of verse). So that even if the basic plot did, in a given case, turn out
really to date back centuries or millennia—and in one sense it is a truism
that all stories (written or unwritten) have already been told—this would
be only a very minor element in the finished work of art produced in the
actual telling. The verbal elaboration, the drama of the performance itself,
everything in fact which makes it a truly aesthetic product comes from the
contemporary teller and his audience and not from the remote past.
In any case, how significant is it if some of the content is old or derivative?
Does this tempt us to ignore the literary significance of, say, Shakespeare’s
Othello or Joyce’s Ulysses? The explaining away in terms of origin of subject-
matter has really no more justification for oral than for written literature.
To suppose otherwise is to assume that in non-literate cultures people
inevitably accept passively the content in the narratives told them and are
not tempted to add or embroider or twist—an assumption which, as will
be clear already, there is no evidence to support.
II
Evolutionist approaches, then, with their accompanying assumptions
about the nature of oral prose narratives, both drew away attention from
significant aspects of oral literature (including its literary value) and
at the same time disseminated unfounded ideas about authorship and
transmission. The second group of approaches to be discussed here has
done no more than focus attention on certain questions to the exclusion
of other equally interesting ones. These are the problems treated by the
so-called historical-geographical or diffusionist school that originated in
Finland but which also has much influence in America and elsewhere.
This school asks questions about the exact historical and geographical
origins of a particular story with the idea of tracing its journeys from one
area to another. Unlike the evolutionists, these scholars take little interest
in generalized questions about origin, or in the relative primitiveness of

different categories of tales. They aim to reconstruct the ‘entire life history
of the tale’, working back to the first local forms, hence to the ultimate
archetype from which they were all originally derived, in much the same
way as literary scholars trace back a series of manuscript traditions to
their first original. As an aid to the more effective carrying out of this aim,
various classifications have been made to facilitate the recognition of the
‘same’ tale in many areas so that its biography can more easily be plotted
(see particularly Thompson 1961). Various classifications and indexes
have been compiled, the best-known being Stith Thompson’s monumental
Motif-index of Folk-literature in which the various ‘motifs’ of ‘folktales’ are
listed for easy reference and comparison Thompson .2
This general emphasis on questions about the life history of specific
tales has been one of the dominating influences in the recent study of
oral prose narratives (most often referred to by this school as ‘folktales’).
Many interesting similarities have been discovered in the plots of stories
to be found in Africa and elsewhere—in Europe, in Arabia (notably in
the Arabian Nights), in India, and, finally, in the New World, where they
probably travelled with African slaves. Attempts have also been made,
following this approach, to trace the historical and geographical origin
of tales found in Africa. Certain plots, it has been concluded, can be
reckoned as being indigenous to Africa. An example of this is the famous
tale based on the idea of a tug of war in which two large animals (often
the hippopotamus and the elephant) are induced by a smaller animal to
pull against each other believing that their opponent was really the small
weak animal, which had thus tricked them. Another allegedly African
motif is that of ‘death’ from a false message, in which the wrong message
is given to mankind so that they have to undergo death instead of living
forever Klipple ff, also “brahamsson . Other motifs, it has
been argued, come from outside Africa. The path of one of these—the ‘root
motif in which a crocodile is misled into releasing his victim’s foot when
2 ‘Motifs’ include plots, subject-matter, types of character and action, etc. A fairly wide
definition is taken of ‘folk literature’ to cover folktales, myths, ballads, fables, medieval
romances, fabliaux, exempla, local traditions, but not riddles or proverbs. Some African
material is included. Similar works primarily concerned with Africa (though conceived
on a much smaller scale include Herskovits Klipple Clarke see also
references in Ch. , p. , also for collections with comparative material along these
lines, Lindblom vols. and Von Sicard .
K in Thompson s classification Thompson . “ full comparative treatment of
this motif using the historical-geographical method is given in Mofokeng .
told it is a root—has been traced through India and Europe by various

South African writers.4 Other African motifs have been given a polygenetic
origin or still remain to be analysed. In fact, in spite of the general influence
of this approach, not many systematic studies of the life history of motifs in
African tales have yet been completed. Yet plenty of preliminary material
has been collected in that many editors of collections of African stories
have said something about comparable motifs in Africa or elsewhere.
The fascination of this approach, however, has sometimes blinded
commentators to the significance of other aspects of African prose
narratives. There has again been a tendency to play down the significance
of the contemporary verbalization and performance of the story as a
whole in favour of an attempt to trace back the detailed history of certain
elements of its subject-matter. Local artistry, inventiveness, and meaning
are minimized, and the concentration focused on external origins.
The unbalanced nature of this approach can be illustrated by a specific
example. This is a story taken from the Limba of Sierra Leone. It is quite
obvious to any reader that the basic plot is a biblical one in fact the outline
plot was told to the narrator only a few years earlier. It is the tale of Adam
and Eve, and even the names of the characters in Limba have remained
more or less the same. Yet in its interpretation and telling by a Limba story-
teller, the tale has become in almost every sense a truly Limba one.
This is the story as told by Karanke Dema, a skilful Limba narrator, in
. He opens by asking a friend, as well as myself, to reply to him that
is to lead the audience participation that is so essential a part of the whole
process of Limba story-telling.
Adamu and Ifu

Suri—reply to me. I am going to tell a story, about when the earth came out,
how after long we were brought out, we Limba, how after long we came to
do work, how we lived. I am going to tell it this evening. You Yenkeni [R. F.],
by your grace, you are to reply to me.
You see—Kami Masala (God), he was once up above. In the whole
world then there were no people. So Kanu Masala thought he said, I will
take people to there’. What he brought out were two human beings—one
See Mofokeng , following up the D.Litt. thesis by S. C. H. Rautenbach not

seen reference in Mofokeng . Unfortunately most of this detailed analysis of
African material by scholars working at the University of Witwatersrand apparently
remains as yet unpublished.
man one woman. What were their names? The man he was “damu. The
woman—she was Ifu. (Ifu.) Ifu.
When he had brought them out, they came and lived [here]. They spent
two days and nights—but they found nothing to eat. So they went to Kanu
Masala then.
‘We have come here to you’.
Kanu asked ‘Any trouble?’
‘No. We—the reason we have come is this: you brought us out, you went and
put us on the earth here but we hunger! Nothing for us to eat. Will we not
die tomorrow?’
Then Kanu said, I will give you food . Kanu came down. He came and
showed them the trees in fruit. He showed them every tree in fruit for them
to eat.
This is your food . He showed them one Don t eat this one oh! It was
like an orange when it is in fruit it is red. Don t eat this one oh! This is a
prohibited one. You are not to eat it’.
Adamu said ‘All right’.
They lived there for long—they ate from those trees. They did no work.
They did nothing except just live there, except that when they were hungry
they went and ate.
Then a snake got up there. He came and made love with the woman, Ifu.
They travelled far in that love.
Then the snake came near, the bangkiboro snake.6 He came and said to
the woman, Ifu,
‘Do you never eat from this tree?’
Ifu said, ‘No. We do not eat it. We were told before that we should not
eat it, it is prohibited’.
Then the snake said, ‘Oh you! That tree—eat from it’. Ifu said, ‘We do
not eat it’.
‘Eat it! Would I lie to you? We share in love you and I. Just eat it. There is
nothing wrong about it’.
Ifu said, ‘We do not eat it. If we eat it we are doing something wrong’.
The snake said, ‘Not at all. Just eat’.
Ifu said, ‘All right.
He picked it, he the snake. He went and gave it to Ifu. Ifu said, You eat first .
Suri, one of the listeners, repeats the name.

6 A very long, red, and spotted fatal snake.
He the snake he ate. Ifu took it. She ate one. The other one she kept for
Adamu.
When Adamu came, she came and gave it to him.
Adamu said, ‘I will not eat this oh! We were told before that we should
not eat it’.
‘Not at all’, said Ifu.
‘Just eat it. There is nothing wrong about it’. Adamu refused. She
implored him there. Adamu took the fruit, he ate the fruit.
Now Kanu Masala he saw this. He knew. Those people have broken
the prohibition I gave them’.
When they had eaten it, Adamu—his heart trembled. ‘When Kanu
Masala comes here tomorrow, this means we have done something wrong’.
When Kanu Masala came down, Adamu was hiding now when he saw
Kanu coming. He hid himself. ”oth of them were by now hiding themselves
(seeing Kanu Masala) [another interjection by Suri]. When Kanu arrived he
came and called, calling the man.
‘Adamu! Adamu!’
Now “damu was afraid to reply for he had eaten from the tree. He
called him again.
‘Adamu! Adamu!’
He was just a bit afraid to reply.
He called Ifu! Ifu!
”oth of them were afraid to reply.
He called “damu again. “damu replied. “damu came. He came and
asked him—
‘Adamu’.
‘Yes?’
‘What made you eat from that tree really? I told you you were not to eat
it. You took, you ate it just the same. What made you eat it?’
Then Adamu said, ‘Ah, my father. It was not me. It was the woman. She
came and gave it to me Ifu. I said, I do not eat this . She said, Just eat it .
She has brought me into trouble’.
Then Kanu called Ifu.
‘Ifu! Ifu!
Ifu replied, ‘Yes?’
‘Come here’.
Ifu came near.
He asked her, What made you give him from that tree for him to eat?
Then Ifu said, It was not me, my father it was the serpent who came and
gave me from the tree. He said Eat it. It is food . I refused for long oh! He
said Just eat it. There is nothing wrong about it . I ate it. What I left I came
and gave to Adamu’.
He called the serpent, the bangkiboro snake. The bangkiboro snake came.
When he had come, he asked him.
‘What made you give those people from that tree for them to eat?’
The bangkiboro snake said, I gave it to them, yes there was nothing
wrong about it at all’.
Then Kanu said, ‘For you, you have not done well. I told them they were
not to eat from this tree. You came and gave it to them. You do not want
them to prosper (lit. ‘do not like their life’). It looks as if you—you will be
parted from them. You will go into the bush once and for all. You will never
again come out [to live] among human beings (Limba). When you meet a
human, you will be killed. For you have not done well’.
Since the bangkiboro snake went off into the bush—if you see a bangkiboro
snake now with human beings, whenever they see each other, they kill him.
That is why they hate each other.
When the bangkiboro snake had gone into the bush, then Kanu Masala
said,
‘Ifu’
‘Yes?’
‘You, because you were lied to today and agreed to it, and I told you
before that you were not to have suffering but you did not agree to this—
now you, you will have suffering. You will now stay behind Adamu. All
you women now, when you are married to a man, you will live in his power.
That is what I say. When you give birth, when you do that, you will have
suffering. That is what I say. When you work now, after the man has cleared
and hoed, you will weed. The rain will beat on you there. The sun will burn
you there—as you think about your husband’s sauce.7 For that is what you
chose. That is what you will do’.
Then he said,
‘Adamu’.
‘Yes?’
”ecause you were lied to by the woman and you agreed to it, you will
begin to work. You will work now. When you want to get a wife you will
have to woo her. Every man will have to give wealth for long to get her.
When you have married several [wives] you will look for a house—you
must build, you the man. You will have to get a farm for them to go to. That
is what I give you. For you refused to live in the good fortune you had’.
If you see now we Limba we live now to work the sun burns us the
rain soaks us ha! we endure that suffering if you want to get something
7 The wife has the responsibility of growing or gathering the vegetables for the ‘sauce’.
to eat you have to struggle for long—that began from the serpent, the
bangkiboro snake. If you see that we hate each other, him and us—that is the
only reason. Now the bangkiboro snake, when he sees a human, says, ‘That
man is coming to kill me and if you do not strengthen yourself, you the
human, he will catch you, biting you. For he was driven out from among us.
If you see how we live, we Limba, working—that was where it began.
That is it, it is finished.8
To explain in detail how typical a Limba story this now is would involve a
lengthy description of the types of content, style, and expression characteristic
of the genre of oral literature the Limba call mboro (see Finnegan 1967:
. We can only note one or two points here. There is the way in which
the relationship between the snake and Eve is assumed to be that of love: as
in so many other Limba stories a wife betrays her husband for the sake of
her lover and brings disaster both to him and to mankind as a whole. This
idea is by no means confined to the Limba, it is true. ”ut the characteristic
way in which it is expressed and appreciated and fits with Limba literary
conventions is so very interesting that it seems dull to spend much time on
the question of where the content first came from. The same could be said
of other characteristically Limba points in the story the use of dialogue
the expression of the action through a series of parallel episodes the way
in which, as so often in Limba stories, a character is at first too fearful to
emerge from hiding the stock description of human beings left by Kanu on
earth without food and having to go and ask him for help and, finally, the
reference at the end to the present hard fate of the Limba, about which (in
certain moods) they are much preoccupied—the way they have to labour
long hours in the fields, season after season, in sun or in rain, to produce the
rice which is their basic sustenance. All these points, bare as they may seem
on the surface, are in fact of profound meaning to the Limba who hear and
tell the story, and possess a whole range of connotations and allusions which
would be unintelligible to one unacquainted with their culture.
If this point can be made about a story based on a plot introduced as
recently as only two years ago, how much more is this likely to be true
of plots and motifs which have supposedly spread in the more remote
past. Whatever interest the diffusionists’ investigations of origins may
have—and they are at least more verifiable than generalized evolutionary
theories—it is clear that too great a preoccupation with this can lead, and
8 Recorded on tape from the Limba narrator (Karanke Dema) in February 1964, and
published in translation in Finnegan .
indeed has led, to a neglect of other equally interesting questions about the
present literary and social significance of this genre of oral literature.
III
Another aspect of the historical-geographical school of ‘folklorists’ has
been the interest in classification. The original motive of this is obvious.
Until the various elements in folktales are classified for easy reference, it
will not be possible to collect and analyse comparatively the data necessary
for tracing the life history of the various plots and motifs in question. Other
influences from anthropology and sociology generally have increased this
desire for classification, so that those now preoccupied with this are not all
necessarily outright adherents of the Scandinavian school.
This approach is excellent up to a point. Every subject needs some
general agreement about terminology, not least the study of oral prose
narratives. Clarification of the general-terms here can be most helpful, for
instance the recent article by ”ascom b) directed towards a definition
of ‘myth’, ‘legend’, and ‘folktale’ as sub-types of the single category ‘prose
narrative’. Other classifications are more detailed, and include such ‘types’
as, say, ‘dilemma tale’, ‘aetiological tale’, and so on, many of these deriving
ultimately from Stith Thompson’s categorization.9 Such typologies have
helped to focus our attention on certain facets of prose narratives, to make
comparisons and contrasts, and generally to become more aware of the
potential differences in structure, content, or outlook in various kinds of
stories.
However this can have its dangers. One point is that, in the case of the
African material, it may be rather too early to produce helpful typologies of
the more detailed kind. This at first sight seems ridiculous when so much
has been published in the field of African prose narratives. In fact, however,
much of this published material is of questionable quality. Often we are
given summaries or synopses of the plot or structure, the texts themselves
have frequently been written down by schoolboys or others with little
skill in the actual artistry of the genre, and the final versions have often
appeared in none too dependable translations with no comment at all on
local classifications or attitudes. None of this suggests that classifications
based on such data are likely to be very precise or helpful. Too often, indeed,
the collections that appear to illustrate particular classifications have
9 Though he himself was not trying to establish a typology.

themselves been recorded and presented by collectors who have assumed

in advance that these categories have universal and ‘natural’ validity.
One simple example of this is the general category of ‘myth’. In most
European cultures, it seems natural to assume a distinction between ‘myths’
(narratives, believed in some sense or other to be true, and concerned with
the origins of things or the activities of deities) and ‘folktales’ or ordinary
stories (fictional narratives, taken much less seriously). This rough
classification also applies, more or less, to the narratives of certain non-
European peoples. ”ut and this is the point there are also societies in
which this distinction between ‘myth’ and ‘folktale’ is not observed. The
local people themselves may not recognize this classification but rather, as
in the case of several African peoples, regard both as belonging to the same
general genre of oral literature. In some of these cases, one may be able to
detect some such general distinction, even though the people themselves
are not conscious of it, even deny it. ”ut in others, even that basis for
categorization is lacking’, and it is not possible to find any local or empirical
distinction between different groups of narratives. Yet European students
often insist that there must be some such distinction, and impose their own
categories by assuming without question that they can group together all
those stories which have any superficial resemblance to what they have
been brought up to regard as ‘myth’. This sort of naive assumption is not
made by the leading scholars in the field indeed, writers like Thompson
and ”ascom have specifically warned against it. ”ut many more popular
adherents of this approach have been swayed by a combination of this kind
of typology, and of their own cultural traditions, so that they do not stop to
ask even whether there is any local basis at all for such a distinction from
other narratives. There may be—but there just as well may not be. When
facile assumptions about classification take the place of actual investigation
(about, for instance, such questions as the attitudes of teller and audience
to the narration, or the detailed subject-matter of the different ‘types’ of
stories and how they compare), we have reached the point where easy
classification should be replaced by more modest research into the facts.
A further point about too much dependence on typologies here is that
this under-emphasizes one of the most striking characteristics of much oral
literature—its flexible and unfixed quality. This applies particularly in the
case of prose. In the actual narration of stories—and the actual narration is
what matters in oral literature—there is very often no fixed wording, and
the narrator is free to bind together the various episodes, motifs, characters,
and forms at his disposal into his own unique creation, suited to the
audience, the occasion, or the whim of the moment. The same point has
been well made by Ruth ”enedict in the context of “merican Indian Zuni
stories when she speaks of the need for more intensive studies:
The usual library-trained comparative student works with standard

versions from each locality in primitive cultures, usually one from a tribe.
This version arbitrarily becomes ‘the’ tribal tale, and is minutely compared
with equally arbitrary standard tales from other tribes. ”ut in such a body of
mythology as that of Zuni, many different variants coexist, and the different
forms these variants take cannot be ascribed to different historical levels, or
even in large measure to particular tribal contacts, but are different literary
combinations of incidents in different plot sequences. The comparative
student may well learn from intensive studies not to point an argument that
would be invalidated if half a dozen quite different versions from the same
tribe were placed on record. ”enedict i xiii
It is true that many collections of African stories give the impression of

fixity just because they have been written down and printed. ”ut in fact,
in most African cases that have been fully examined, this variability of
tales according to the teller and the occasion is one of their most apparent
characteristics.10 There is no one correct version or form. What on one
occasion looks like, say, a ‘dilemma tale’ or a moralizing parable (to
mention two well-known types) may on another, though otherwise similar
in subject-matter, look like an aetiological explanation or just a humorous
joke. Form, plot, and character may all equally, therefore, provide only a
shifting and impermanent foundation for classification, and any attempt
at making typologies on this basis can only result in misconceptions about
the nature of the stories as actually told.
Altogether, then, the current interest in classification can give a rather
one-sided view of the significance of many prose narratives in Africa.
This is particularly true when, as so often, they are based on what turns
out to be only superficially analysed material. Largely owing to the past
preoccupations of evolutionists, of linguists,11 of educationalists, and of
diffusionists, an amazingly large number of these collections have appeared
without any rigorous commentary to elucidate their contemporary and
local meaning, being presented as just bare ‘texts’, often no more than
synopses of the outline plots. Detailed studies in depth of the literary and
10 See e.g. Stappers Luba Theal vii-viii Xhosa Finnegan

Limba Evans-Pritchard ff “zande Junod ii ff Thonga .
11 Who have in the past been naturally more interested in the provision of texts for
grammatical and syntactical analysis than in the variations of the spoken versions
social significance of the various stories in any one society are notably
lacking. It is time more attention was focused on these aspects, and less on
the comparative classification of stories, the tracing of the history of their
plots, or the enumeration, however impressive in itself, of the quantities of
texts that have so far been collected.
IV
The approaches discussed so far have mainly been those of recent American
and Scandinavian scholarship, or the earlier ”ritish approach. The
emphasis in more recent ”ritish work is very different. If the diffusionist
and evolutionist schools concentrated on a few limited elements in their
studies of “frican stories, the recent approach in ”ritain has been to ignore
such stories altogether as an independent field of study. The ‘structural-
functional approach of Radcliffe-”rown and others, which has until very
recently dominated ”ritish social anthropology, is interested in local
narratives only in so far as they can be seen to have a clear ‘social function’.
Various functions have been stated or assumed. Stories, for instance,
are told to educate and socialize children, or, by drawing a moral, to
warn people not to break the norms of the society. Other narratives—in
this connection always persuasively called ‘myths’—are ‘charters’ which
serve to uphold the present structure of society in general, and the position
of the rulers in particular. Others again are said to fulfil the function of
providing a model through which people can verbalize the relationships
and constitution of their society. Throughout, it is the utilitarian aspect
of oral narratives that is brought to the fore, and little or nothing is said,
even in passing, about verbal or artistic aspects. The prime concern is with
the functioning of society, the narrations are assumed to be of no serious
interest in themselves.
We owe to this school an awareness of the social significance of certain
stories. And we are also rightly reminded of a point overlooked by
evolutionist and diffusionist writers: that the stories should be seen as part
of their own social context and not just as survivals. ”ut for someone also
interested in the stories in themselves, particularly in their literary impact,
such an approach in practice offers little further insight.
Obviously a literary critic is interested in social function. ”ut this,
paradoxically, is not made much clearer for us by the strict functional
interpretations adopted by many recent scholars. In such writings we are
seldom told much about, say, how widely known certain ‘myths’ really are,
when they are told, how far (if at all) they differ in tone, context, or telling
from the more ‘fictional’ tales, how far people themselves regard stories as
educative, what opinions are held by the tellers on the relative importance
of the utilitarian purpose, the attractiveness of subject-matter, and skill in
delivery, etc.
In fact the functionalists stress the utilitarian aspect so much but, when
one comes down to it, with so little detailed evidence that one begins
to wonder whether their confident assertions about a given narration’s
function have in fact much evidence behind them. Doubtless certain of
these functions of educating, upholding, mirroring, etc., are fulfilled by
African stories at times (just as they are, directly or indirectly, by many
other types of literature but what is needed now is further study of the
detailed ways in which these functions in some cases are, and in others
presumably are not, fulfilled (with an awareness that there may well be
other aspects to stories besides the utilitarian one).
On the one hand, then, this functional approach has not been very
illuminating for many aspects of African stories.. It can also, on the other, be
positively misleading. For one thing it implicitly insinuates the assumption
that, to put it crudely, ‘primitive peoples’ (i.e. Africans) have no idea of
the aesthetic, and therefore the only possible explanation of an apparent
work of art, like a story, is that it must somehow be useful. And, of course,
an assumption of this sort usually turns out to be self-verifying when the
evidence is collected and analysed according to it. As will be clear from the
whole tone of this book, I believe the evidence can be interpreted differently.
Again, the functional approach focuses attention on the stable and
stabilizing nature of both the stories and the society in which they occur.
This emphasis on the status quo has been a common criticism of the
‘structure and function’ school, and it is obviously particularly unsuited to
an analysis of the living and creative art of the story-teller.
Furthermore, the functionalist publications have tended to perpetuate
the kind of misconception discussed earlier—the assumption that it is
always possible to make a clear-cut distinction between ‘myths’ and other
tales. These writers tend to assume that any story that looks at all as if it
could be interpreted as a charter for society can be labelled a myth the
impression is thereby neatly given to the reader that this story is widely
known, deeply believed, held different from other stories, and, perhaps,
part of some systematic and coherent mythology. In fact, it is possible in
a given case that none of this may be true at all but just by using the little
word ‘myth’ these connotations can be conveyed without being stated—or,
therefore, questioned by either reader or writer.
Let me give an example from my own fieldwork to illustrate this point.

When I first heard a Limba story about how in the old days Kanu (God)
lived with mankind but then withdrew in impatience to the sky, I at first
automatically classed this in my mind as a ‘myth’. It was easy to see its
function (explaining and justifying the present state of things) and, like
other ‘myths’, it was presumably well known and taken seriously. This
was, it seemed, the Limba myth which could be treated as the basis of their
religious philosophy just as similar ‘myths’ have been elsewhere. It was
only after recording several dozen more Limba stories that I realized that
this particular story was no different in style, outlook, or occasion of telling
from the clearly ‘fictional’ and light-hearted narratives about, say, a man
wooing a wife or a cat plotting to eat a group of rats. Far from being widely
known and believed, I only, in fact, ever heard it told by one man, who
was using it as a setting (like other stories) for his own idiosyncratic tricks
of style and content other people did not know it or treat it particularly
seriously on the occasions they did hear it. The story still, of course, has
its own significance. ”ut it certainly has not the clear-cut separate status
that I had wrongly assigned to it before I had a more thorough knowledge
of Limba oral literature. One wonders how many of the narratives so
easily referred to as ‘myths’ have in fact been misclassified owing to too
superficial an assessment of the data.12
The same point could also be made about analyses using a similar
approach, though without recourse to the favourite term ‘myth’. Take,
for instance, ”eidelman s interpretations of Kaguru stories as Kaguru
representations of social reality, a kind of sociological model of their
society through the medium of a story. One tale describes how Rabbit (or
Hare tricks Hyena, and is interpreted, at first sight plausibly, as a Kaguru
representation of matrilineal relationships. This may be so—but we are
in fact given no solid evidence. As far as plot goes, much the same story
occurs among other African peoples, so that for this interpretation to stand
up we need to be given some discussion about, say, the indigenous and
conscious interpretation of the story itself, the Kaguru attitude to this story
(and stories in general), the contexts in which it is told, and perhaps some
assessment of its relations to the general corpus of Kaguru oral literature.
No attempt whatsoever is made to provide this information and it is fairly
clear that ”eidelman felt no need to consider these points. ”ecause of the
12 See Ch. for some further discussion of the applicability of the term myth to “frican
narratives.
”eidelman also a series of other articles on similar lines by the same author.
general attractiveness of the neat structural-functional framework (of

which this is just one variety) the limitations and naivety of this and similar
approaches have been overlooked.
The predominance of this approach in ”ritish social anthropology is
passing. Scholars are now realizing that, quite apart from the actual mistakes
disseminated by this school, a concentration on just social functions and
alleged contributions to social structure means treating only one limited
aspect of oral narratives. Prose narratives (and oral literature generally) are
once again becoming a field of interest in their own right. The influence
of the older approach still lingers, however. For many years in ”ritain it
was social anthropologists with this interest who appeared to hold the
monopoly in the academic assessment of the role of oral narrative in Africa,
and, as so often happens, their views are gaining popular acceptance just
as they are becoming less influential in professional circles. It is partly to
this influence that we owe the proliferation of collections of stories with the
emphasis on bare synopsis or the moralizing element, and on references
to, rather than full statements of, the ‘myths’ and ‘legends’ which stabilize
society.
To end this discussion of the various approaches of the past to the study
of oral narratives, there is one general point that can be made. This is, that
all these approaches seem to have in common an implicit assumption that
oral narratives in Africa (and other non-literate cultures) can be treated in
a fundamentally different way from the literature of more familiar peoples.
The normal questions asked by literary critics in the case of written literature
are brushed to one side in favour of pursuing historical reconstructions or
assumptions about utility. No evidence is given that such narratives are
fundamentally different from literary narratives elsewhere—this is just
assumed and the assumption made to look plausible because it is dealing
with the literature of unfamiliar cultures. And yet, amazingly, the crucial
way in which such narratives in fact really are different—their oral quality—
is scarcely taken serious account of at all.
In conclusion, it is clear that many of the earlier approaches to the study
of oral narrative in Africa have in fact obscured many points of interest. In
addition they have popularized various misconceptions about their nature
or role. This has been done to such good effect that unproven or totally
false speculations have been taken as truisms. There is still too general
an acceptance of such questionable concepts as verbal fixity, dominating
significance of subject-matter, lack of native imagination or inventiveness,

handing down narratives unchanged through the generations, or the
basically pragmatic role of African stories. It is because of the wide
prevalence of such misleading but often implicit theories that this rather
destructive chapter has seemed a necessary prelude to any direct discussion
of African narratives.
13. Prose Narratives
II. Content and Form
What is known: content and plot; main characters. Types of tales: animal
tales; stories about people; ‘myths’; ‘legends’ and historical narratives. What
demands further study: occasions; role of narrators; purpose and function;
literary conventions; performance; originality and authorship. Conclusion.
Against this background of earlier theoretical speculations and

misunderstandings, we can now survey the present position in the study
of oral prose narration in Africa. What points have been established so far?
And what aspects now need further investigation?
I
First, the basic material. Of actual texts, synopses, and translations of
“frican narratives we have a vast amount. ”ascom, in his indispensable
survey ”ascom , lists forty-one peoples for whom collections of fifty
or more tales with vernacular texts had been published by . He adds
a further list of forty-nine groups for which collections of at least fifty
tales have appeared in translation (with fewer African texts), and further
collections are appearing-all the time.1
1 The question of the total number of African stories is sometimes canvassed. Numbers
like , , , , or for unrecorded as well as recorded tales even , have been
mentioned Herskovits . ”ut this is hardly a fruitful question it is not
even in principle possible to count up items of oral art when it is the actual narration
that matters and there are thus an infinite number of ways in which the ‘same’ plot can
be presented and varied to become a ‘new’ and unique narration. Similarly, those who
aim at the complete recording of all the oral literature of a given people—’every little
bit of this vernacular , as Mbiti for one hopes Mbiti are setting themselves
an impossible goal.
These collections are of very variable quality. It is often not made clear
how they were recorded—on tape, from dictation, by the tellers themselves,
or even written by hired schoolboys who are often unskilled in the local
arts of story-telling and certainly not experienced in the near impossible
task of transforming the oral art form into the medium of the written word.
The resulting texts are often little more than abstracts or summaries of the
plots—a perfectly adequate source when all one wants to consider is the
origin of the plot or its relevance for social structure or education, but clearly
quite inadequate for analysis in depth. When only translations are given,
there are additional difficulties. The problems involved in any translation,
let alone from a totally unfamiliar culture, are of course notorious—not
that this has deterred some collectors from going through a double process
of translation prior to the publication of their collections.2 ”ut quite apart
from this there is the added point that when none of the original texts is
provided it is not possible even for someone who knows the language to
check the basic trustworthiness of the translation in the most literal terms.
It is often quite impossible to assess how close these translations are to the
original texts or whether, as perhaps happens rather often, they are only
paraphrases or even touched-up and rewritten versions. What is really
needed by now is less emphasis on collecting more and more texts and
much more on rigorous and explicit standards in recording and translating.
Using these many available texts, however, it has at least been possible
for scholars to establish the very great similarities in African stories from
all parts of the continent. This includes similarity in plots, in motifs, and
to some extent in characters. Only a few instances can be quoted, but these
can be followed up in general works on African stories.4
As far as the outline of the plot goes, many of the resemblances are
striking. ”eyond this, however, there are many differences both of detail
and of general treatment. Thus one of the most common plots is the tug of
war into which a small animal induces two larger ones to enter in the belief
that they are pulling against him. The small animal involved, however, is
E.g. Herskovits s Dahomean stories that were apparently first translated during the
actual flow of the story) from Fon into French by local interpreters, taken down on
typewriters by the Herskovitses, and finally published in English see Herskovits
. How much of the indefinable literary qualities of the stories could survive such
treatment can be left to the reader to imagine.
“nd not just from ”antu “frica as sometimes suggested.
E.g. ”erry Lindblom see comparative notes in vols, i and ii Herskovits
and Herskovits Wright a short and specialized but useful
article Werner ”antu . “lso unpublished Mofokeng Klipple Clarke
.
. Prose Narratives II. Content and Form 329
not everywhere the same. It may be—to mention only a few instances—a
hare e.g. Ila, Shona, ”emba, and many other peoples of Central “frica , a
spider (Limba, Temne, and others in parts of West Africa), a mouse (Tetela
in Congo), a tortoise, (Mpongwe and others in West Equatorial Africa and
coastal areas of West “frica , or, in the related “merican version, ”rer Rabbit.
The two large animals who are tricked are most commonly an elephant and
a hippopotamus, but a rhinoceros is also sometimes mentioned. Another
common plot describes the aggressor out-tricked: an animal tries to kill his
rescuer but is outdone by a third character who persuades him to re-enter
the trap as a demonstration of the truth of the story, and leaves or kills
him there. Among the various characters involved are: for the aggressor—a
snake, leopard, or crocodile for the rescuer the potential victim a child,
baboon, gazelle, water antelope, rat, or white man for the wily character
who foils the aggressor—a jackal, hare, pygmy antelope, or spider. Similar
points could be made with many other plots, by no means all of them to do
with animals. There is the story also familiar from the Arabian Nights: three
men co-operate to revive the girl they all love, each with magic objects
to help them in the various versions these include, for instance, a casket
of dreams, a mirror, or a telescope to see her danger from afar a magic
arrow, a skin, or a hammock to travel instantly to her side and a snuffbox,
switch, or magic medicine to bring her back to life.6 Again, there are the
many tales about the origin of death that centre round the message sent by
God endowing mankind with life, the right messenger being superseded
or outstripped, and a second messenger bringing the wrong message—that
of death. ”ut the actual messengers named, the title of God, and even the
exact framework take different forms in different areas.7 Another common
a build-up story in that the hero, sometimes a young boy, sometimes an
animal, gradually acquires more and more valuable objects by, say, trading,
exchange, or refusal to fight unless given his wish. Finally he reaches the
pinnacle of any man’s desires, in some versions followed by the anti-climax
of losing the precious object and being back where he started.8
The actual instances cited are from the Hottentot, Kgatla, Yao, Tetela, Limba, and
Ghana—i.e. from South, Central and West Africa respectively. For further instances
see Klipple pp. ff.
On the distribution of this plot see e.g. Werner ”erry Klipple
490ff.
See among other sources “brahamsson , esp. Ch. Klipple ff.
Klipple ff. Examples and discussion of other variants of the accumulation or
ritornelle story in “frica are given in Werner cf also ”erry .
Rather than prolonging this list indefinitely, two versions of the ‘same’
plot may be quoted to illustrate how much they may in fact differ in tone
and character even when the subject-matter seems very close. The plot offers
explanations for the way birds of prey swoop down and carry off chickens
from the mother hen. According to the story, this is in return for a debt the
hen owes from the old days. In both cases the version given is chosen for its
brevity many longer stories have been recorded from each society.
First, a version from the Kikuyu of East Africa, recorded by Cagnolo
who had spent many years in the area.
The Vulture and the Hen

Long ago the hen and the vulture used to live on excellent terms, helping
each other at any time they needed a hand to procure their domestic
necessities.
One day the hen thought of borrowing a razor from the vulture, to shave
the little ones. The shaving was already much overdue, but it couldn’t be
helped, because she had no razor, and was depending on the kindness of
her neighbours. So the hen went to see the vulture and said: ‘Dear vulture, I
should like to borrow your razor mine was lost months ago. My little ones
are looking very ugly, and also very untidy, with their long unkempt hair
overgrown’.
The vulture listened to the hen with great concern and, after a short
silence, said: ‘Dear hen, I cannot refuse you this favour. To-morrow perhaps
I might need your help as well, and we must help each other. However, you
must remember one thing. You know what that razor means to me. I have
no other income except the rent of that razor that is to say, that razor is my
field, whence I get my daily food. I do not intend to ask you any fee as I do
with others but please be careful to return it to me, as soon as you have
finished your shaving’.
‘Thank you, brother vulture, I quite understand what you say, and I am
very grateful to you. I’ll bring it back very soon’.
The hen was very glad of the favour, and as soon as she arrived home,
made arrangements to be shaved by another woman. The following morning
she also shaved her two little ones, so that the whole family was now shining
like the moon. The work over, instead of immediately returning the razor to
the owner, she put it in a leather purse, which was hanging in a corner of
the hut.
The days passed, and passed away like the water under the bridge, but
the hen never thought again of returning the razor to the vulture. She forgot
it completely. The vulture grew impatient, and deeply resented in his heart
the unkindness, nay, the ingratitude of the hen. Pressed by necessity, he
decided to go personally to the hen and demand his razor.
‘Oh dear vulture’, said the hen with confusion and great regret, ‘forgive
me I am so sorry for this my negligence. I really intended to return your
razor very soon, but I put it in my leather bag, and forgot it completely. Let
me go and take it you will have it in half a minute .
Yes, I know you are a forgetful creature but look at the damage you have
caused me. You have deprived me of my sustenance for many days. Mind
you, if you have lost it, you will pay for it and very dearly’, said the vulture.
The hen rushed into the hut to fetch the razor. She plunged her hand into
the leather bag, but alas! it was empty there was no razor in it. She was very
shocked at the unpleasant discovery. She started searching on the floor to
see if by chance it had dropped from the bag, but there was no finding it. She
looked under the children s bed, near the fire stones, in the store but there
was no sign of it. Tired and defeated, she came out and, imploring, said: ‘O
dear friend and master, I can t find it. Have mercy on me! I will search better
I am ready to demolish my hut altogether, and search diligently until I find
it and return it to you’.
‘I told you to be very careful, and I repeat it again: I want my razor back!
”ut mind, I want the very one I gave you, and no substitute .
The poor hen spent all the day searching and searching, but nothing
came to light. She demolished her hut, and started searching in the roof-
grass, among the rabble of the walls, between the poles, in the ashes, and
even in the rubbish pit but nothing was found.
The following day the vulture came to see the results of the searching.
He found the hen still scratching the ground among a heap of dry grass and
ox dung but no razor was yet discovered.
‘I am very sorry, dear hen’, said the vulture, ‘but now I cannot wait
any longer without compensation for my razor. For to-day you must give
me a chicken. To-morrow I will return and see what has happened in the
meantime’.
So the vulture flew away with a chicken gripped within his talons under
its breast. The following day he returned to the hen. She was still scratching
the ground but she could not see any razor. “nother chicken went with the
vulture. And the same happened in the following days until to-day. That
is the reason why the hen is always scratching the ground, and the vulture
swooping on chickens even in our days. The hen is still searching for the razor,
and the vulture compensating himself for its loss. Cagnolo
The second instance is one of the stories I recorded among the Limba of
Sierra Leone.9
9 Recorded on tape from the public telling of the story in February 1961 and given here
in a fairly close translation. The original text is given in R. Finnegan, The Limba of Sierra
Leone, D.Phil, thesis, University of Oxford, , iii .
The Finch, the Eagle, and the Hen

The finch, a small bird, once borrowed money from the eagle’s grandfather.
He borrowed that money.
Now the eagle he died leaving his children alone. ”ut he left a
message with them: ‘Your grandfather had money borrowed from him by
the father of the finch’.
Since he (i.e. his family) had lent the money, the (young) eagle spent a
long time looking for the finch. He looked and looked but he could not find
him.
One day he went and sat down where they pound the rice. He was sitting
there. When he saw the hen standing there, eating the rice, he asked her:
‘Oh, hen’.
‘Yes?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I am getting my food’.
Do you know whereabouts the finch is? He s the one I m looking for. He
made use of my father’s property. I want him to return it . . .10 Do you think
I will be able to find the finch?’
‘Yes, you can find him’.
‘Well, how can I find him?’
‘When people get up to go and pound the rice, if you go there and you
hide you will find the finch there’.11
The eagle got there. He went and hid. The finch alighted and began to
pick at the ground, searching for his food. The eagle swooped down.
‘Ah! you! What a long time I have spent looking for you. Now here you
are today. Today you will have to give me back the property your family
took’.
‘What?’ asked the finch. ‘Eagle?’
‘Yes?’
‘Who told you where I was?’
‘The hen’.
‘It was the hen that told you?’
‘Yes’.
‘Oh! dear!’ (said the finch) ‘We have both been having trouble then. I—
ha! I have been looking for the hen here but could not find her. And all the
time you have been looking for me and could not find me! Since the hen
was the reason you found me, that’s why I am going to give her to you now’.
10 The speaker, apparently by mistake, interpolated a few sentences about the hen which
should clearly have come later and are omitted. This particular narrator was by no
means distinguished as a story-teller.
11 The finch, like the hen earlier, goes to pick among the grain.
(The eagle did not believe the finch.)12

Haven t you seen my house then ?
He still did not believe.
‘Eagle’ (said the finch).
‘Yes?’
‘Come on’.
They went. They went and stood near the wall (where the finch lived).
Here is where you can tell that my grandfathers owned her the hen as a
slave. As for the hen-family—just look here at where my children sleep. You
can’t find any leaves there, can you, only feathers’.
When they got there the eagle went and looked. He saw the hen s feathers.
He turned them over and over and over. He could only see feathers.
‘Yes, finch. You spoke the truth. Well then let there be no quarrel between
us (two)’.
‘I will give you the hen-family, my slaves’.
That is why hens are carried off by eagles. That is the story. It is finished.14
The difference between the two stories is more than merely a matter of
translator s style. ”oth tales give an aetiological explanation of the present
misfortunes of chickens and trace this back to a debt (or alleged debt) by the
hen but the framework, the detailed course of the plot, even the implied
evaluations of the characters are very different. The subject-matter and
literary structure of each story can only be fully appreciated (as distinct from
appearing as a catalogue item) with a detailed knowledge of the social and
literary experience from which it springs. Indeed, the treatment and impact
of stories based on the ‘same’ plot or motif can vary considerably, even in
the same society, if told by a different individual or even, in some cases, by
the same individual on different occasions. All this, too, is not to mention
the aspect of actual performance which, it is worth repeating, cannot come
across at all in a written version, but may appear on the actual occasion of
telling as the most noticeable distinguishing characteristic of the story.
Even if the great similarity in plots gives a slightly misleading impression
of the degree of cultural uniformity actually involved, this information
12 This was clear in the actual narration, though not in the words.
The finch ‘proves’ that the hen is his property by showing that his nest is lined with
hen’s feathers for his children to sleep on.
14 The same general framework is used in several other Limba stories, e.g. two included
in Finnegan .
See e.g. Finnegan ff. and ff, for instances of the effects of different narrators
and occasions among the Limba and Evans-Pritchard for versions of the same
story among the Azande.
does throw some light of a limited kind on the sorts of plots that have wide
popularity and the continually recurring situations that are the subjects of
so many African stories throughout the continent.16
Characters of African stories also recur throughout the continent. Most
familiar of all are the animals, particularly the wily hare, tortoise, spider,
and their larger dupes. ”ut there are also many stories about people,
ordinary and extraordinary, some about legendary heroes or ancestors,
and a few which recount the actions of various supernatural beings. They
are also occasionally woven round other personified objects like, say, the
parts of the body, vegetables, minerals, the heavenly bodies, or abstractions
like hunger, death, or truth. These various characters do not usually appear
in strictly separate cycles, but in many cases are depicted as interacting
among themselves: thus a story mainly about animals may introduce a
human being or even God as one of the figures, or a human hero can be
shown as succeeding through his magical powers in speaking with and
enrolling the help of various animals. The same general plots may be
centred round different types of characters in different areas, or even on
different occasions in the same society. In Lamba stories, to cite just one
instance, ‘the exploits of the little-hare and of a curious little human being,
Kantanga . . . are very much the same Doke . In other cases it
may be rather ambiguous whether the central figure is really animal or
really human, and it may appear in different guises on different occasions.
The Kikuyu Wakahare, for instance, appears sometimes as a squirrel,
sometimes as a human, the Zande trickster is called ‘spider’ but envisaged
as a man, while the famous Zulu equivalent of Tom Thumb and Jack the
Giant Killer rolled into one, uHlakanyana, is usually a tiny clever boy, but in
other contexts appears as a weasel.17
In spite of such overlap between the appearance of these various characters,
it is convenient to discuss the various types of stories by differentiating
them roughly in terms of their main characters. We will thus discuss in turn
stories based mainly on animal characters, on human characters, and finally
on historical and on supernatural beings of one kind or another (‘myths’).
That it is not possible to regard these general types as clear-cut categories
will be clear both from the way the characters overlap and from the general
16 For further references see p. n. . On plots in ”antu stories, see especially Werner
.
17 Cagnolo Evans-Pritchard and cf. Kronenberg , on characters
in Nilotic tales Krige cf. Jacottet xxvii .
remarks in the previous chapter on the difficulties of producing clear

typologies in the case of such flexible and variable material. This indeed is
why the material has been presented in a single chapter here rather than
as separate chapters under the popularly acceptable headings of ‘animal
stories , myths , legends , etc. However, in view of the nature of the sources
available and for mere convenience of discussion, we can speak of animal
tales, tales about people, and so on, at the same time insisting that in view
of the overlapping and impermanence of any given story, these must not be
regarded as categories in any generally valid typology of African narratives.
II
When we consider the many animal tales that have been collected from
Africa, the main factor that has struck most observers is the great emphasis
on animal tricksters—small, wily, and tricky animals who cheat and outdo
the larger and more powerful beasts. They trick them in a pretended tug
of war, cheat them in a race, deceive them into killing themselves or their
own relations, gobble up their opponents’ food in pretended innocence,
divert the punishment for their own misdeeds on to innocent parties, and
perform a host of other ingenious tricks.
The actual author of these exploits varies in different areas. Among
most of the ”antu peoples it is the little hare, an animal that also occurs
as a main character in some of the savannah areas of West “frica as ”rer
Rabbit’ he also appears in similar stories in the New World.18 The spider19 is
the main character in most of the forest regions of West Africa, particularly
in the westerly parts including Ghana, Ivory Coast, and Sierra Leone he
also comes into Hausa stories to the north, Luo and Zande tales in Central
Africa, and corresponds to ‘Annancy’ in the West Indies, a name that directly
recalls the Ghanaian Ananse, the Akan spider. The tortoise predominates in
the easterly regions of the west coast, in an area extending at least from
the Yoruba of Nigeria across to the Fang and others of West Equatorial
“frica. The tortoise also comes into other areas in a lesser way among the
Ila of Zambia, to give one example, the main cycle of tales are about Sulwe,
the hare, but there are also a number about Fulwe, the tortoise. There are
also a few other favourite trickster characters who occur often enough in
18 On the hare, see Frobenius .

19 On the distribution of spider stories see, among other accounts, V. Maes, ‘De Spin’,
Aequatoria , .
stories but without any clear-cut geographical domain: the little antelope,
often portrayed as innocently ingenious the squirrel e.g. in many Limba,
Kikuyu, and Luba stories the wren in Luba tales and a few with more
purely local reference: the small weasel who appears among the Zulu and
Xhosa, most often apparently personified as a small boy and the jackal
trickster in Hottentot animal stories, as well as in some Zulu, Xhosa, and
Sotho tales.20
Though all these trickster figures tend to get up to the same kinds of
tricks in story after story, they cannot altogether be assimilated to each
other. The spider, for instance, though often wily, is also, in some areas
at least, depicted as stupid, gluttonous, boastful, and ineffective, not
infrequently outdone by his own wife. There are also instances of the
same image being applied to the tortoise.21 On the other hand, the sly
effectiveness of the hare is what we notice in most ”antu tales. “ll these
tricksters, however, are adaptable. They are able to turn any situation, old
or new, to their advantage. The tortoise now aspires to white collar status
in Southern Nigeria and attends adult education classes, ”erry
while the spider Ananse referees football matches among the Ashanti in
Ghana. Nketia d: 21)
”esides the leading animal figures, there are also many others who come
into the tales in secondary roles. Some of the stock characters associated
with them are common to many areas: the lion, strong and powerful but
not particularly bright the elephant, heavy, ponderous, and rather slow
the hyena, the type of brute force and stupidity, constantly duped by the
little quick animals the leopard, untrustworthy and vicious, often tricked
in spite of his cunning the little antelope, harmless and often clever the
larger deer, stupid and slow—and so on. (Not all these occur in all regions
or all stories in exactly the same way.) Surprisingly, other animals—the
zebra, buck, or crocodile—seldom occur, or, if they do, tend to come in
just as animals and not as the personified characters presented by those
already mentioned.22 One final and rather different animal character that
20 On the jackal, see ”leek , part I Jacottet , p. xxvii. The jackal may also occur
in stories in some northerly areas of Africa, but the older assumptions, which saw
this as part of a wider scheme in which the jackal was the typical trickster among the
so-called Hamites supposed to cover Hottentots as well as certain North “fricans ,
are no longer tenable, and the significance of the jackal in the north may have been
exaggerated to fit the theory.
21 E.g. among the Kalahari. See the analysis of this in Horton .
22 This is pointed out by W. James in her unpublished ”.Litt. thesis, Animal Representations
and their Social Significance, with Special Reference to Reptiles and Carnivores among Peoples
of Eastern Africa, Oxford, .
must be mentioned is the mantis in ”ushman tales. He is the favourite

hero in ”ushman narratives, and though he shares some of the qualities
sometimes attributed to tricksters (powerful and foolish, mischievous and
kind), his supernatural associations and the unusual type of action in these
stories set him rather apart from leading animal characters in narratives
elsewhere in Africa.
With few exceptions, these animals are portrayed as thinking and acting
like human beings, in a human setting. This is sometimes brought out by
the terminology, like the personal prefix used in Sotho to turn the ordinary
form of, say, lion (tau) into a personal form (motau—Mr. Lion) (Smith and
Dale ii, , or the class of honorific plural in Lamba which makes
an ordinary animal term into a personal name Mr. ”lue-Snake Doke
. In other cases no grammatical change is or needs to be made. The
animals act like human characters, experiencing human emotions. And yet
the fact that they are also animals is not altogether lost sight of. This can be
exploited either through grammatical forms, like the alternation in Zande
stories between animal and personal pronouns, (Evans-Pritchard 1967:
26) or through allusions to the animal’s characteristic cry, appearance, or
behaviour to add to the wit or incongruity of the presentation. In a Limba
tale, for instance, a spider is shown taking off his cap, gown, and trousers
in a vain attempt to placate his magic pot in the story he is unquestionably
like a man—albeit an absurdly foolish man—with a house, wife, and
human garb, but the fact that he is, nevertheless, a spider struggling with
all these clothes adds just the extra understated touch in the telling which
makes the whole story very funny.
Many of these stories are light-hearted, even satirical, and centre round
the tricks and competitions of the hare, spider, or their friends, set in a wide
range of adaptable and adapting situations. ”ut there are also more serious
themes. One common form is a story ending up with a kind of moral,
sometimes in the form of a well-known proverb. The listeners are told that
they can learn a lesson from the experiences of the animals in the tale—that,
say, one should not be rude to one’s mother-in-law, that men’s words are
more weighty than women’s, that strangers should be treated well, that it
is ill-advised to oppress the weak, or even that determination sometimes
triumphs over virtue. In some places too, Christian morals are specifically
introduced, e.g. among the Luba. (Stappers 1962: 14) In such narrations the
moral element sometimes seems to form the core of the story, so that we
could appropriately term it a parable rather than a straightforward story.
”ut in other cases, sometimes even those from the same area or teller, the
moral seems no more than a kind of afterthought, appended to give the

narration a neat ending.
Another very common framework is that in which an explanation is given
for some present behaviour seen in the world, or a known characteristic of
some animal or bird. For example, to cite a few titles at random from one
society (Ila of Zambia), we have stones about how the Ringdove came by
its ring, how Ringdove got her name, how Squirrel robbed Coney of his tail,
how Squirrel and Jackal became distinct, how Skunk came to be a helper of
man, why Duiker has a fine coat and particoloured tail, why Zebra has no
horns, why there are cracks in Tortoise’s shell—and so on (Smith and Dale
ii, 1920: Ch. 28). These aetiological themes are not just confined to animal
stories but can occur in all types of “frican tales. However, they seem
to be a particularly popular and fertile theme when the main characters
are animals, and some striking animal characteristic, well known to the
listeners from their own observation, can be wittily ‘explained’ in the story.
Not all the aetiological tales are equally humorous and light-hearted. A few
explain more serious matters: in these cases the animals are often depicted
as interacting with humans or with God as well as with other animals they
explain, for instance, the origin of murder, of death, or of chiefship.
An explanatory ending, in fact, can apparently be tacked on to almost
any plot as a pleasing framework and conclusion fitting in with current
literary conventions—once again, we see that animal trickster stories,
aetiological tales, or even ‘myths’ are not mutually exclusive types but
merely favourite themes which may or may not be combined in any one
story. An example of the nonessential nature of the aetiological conclusion
can be seen from the following Kikuyu tale where the explanation at the
end sounds very much like an afterthought.
The Hyena, Wakahare, and the Crow

One day a Hyena went together with Wakahare to collect honey in the forest,
where men used to hang their beehives from the trees. Wakahare climbed
the tree, extracted big lumps of combs full of honey from a beehive, and
when he was satiated, said to the Hyena Open your mouth and I will drop
some honey into it . The Hyena did so and swallowed the honey with great
pleasure several times, until she was also satisfied. Then Wakahare left the
tree and returned to the ground. He asked the Hyena How did you enjoy
the honey?’
‘Very, very much, what bliss, my dear friend’.
”ut remember , said Wakahare, this is a kind of sweetness that must not
be evacuated from your body’.
Yes, I think it must be so but how can one prevent it from going out?
‘I’ll tell you what to do. I will stitch your orifice together with your tail
and you may be sure that no sweetness will come out’.
‘Good, my friend, do it for me, please’. Wakahare fetched a few sharp
thorns and stitched the orifice with the tail of the Hyena and went off. “fter
some time the Hyena felt a terrible urge to evacuate. She looked around for
help, but nobody was to be found. At last a Jackal happened to pass thereat.
Oh, dear friend Jackal , said the Hyena, come please, and help me .
‘What can I do for you, dear friend?’
‘Please, release a little bit the stitches which are at the neck of my tail. I
cannot bear it any longer’.
‘Sorry, my friend, I am unable to do that. I know you have diarrhoea
habitually, and don’t want to be splashed with a discharge of that kind’.
And so saying, he went on. After some time a Serval arrived on his way to
the forest. The Hyena beseeched him for help.
Sorry, Mrs. Hyena, you are very prone to discharge violently , said the
Serval, I don t want to be buried under your excrements . He too went his
way without looking back. Later on a Hare passed by. The Hyena asked
again for help, but to no avail.
I am very sorry , the Hare said, don t you see how clean I am? I am
going to a feast. I don’t want to soil my dress and get untidy for your dirty
business . He too went his way leaving the Hyena groaning and tossing on
the ground on account of the pain she was suffering. At last, a Crow perched
on a tree nearby. Looking down at the Hyena lying still on the grass, he
thought she was dead, and began to foretaste a good meal: but as he was
planning what to do next, the Hyena opened her eyes and seeing the Crow
on the tree, said: ‘Oh dear Crow, dear friend of mine, help! help! please’.
The Crow left the tree and approached the Hyena. What is the matter with
you?’ he asked.
‘Oh please, release a bit the stitches in my tail. I am dying of the urge of
my body and I cannot evacuate’.
You say dying dying?
‘Yes, help me please’.
”ut you see, I am only a bird with no paws. How can I help you with
that business?’
‘Oh dear, try as much as you can and you will succeed’.
‘I doubt very much, and besides that I am very hungry. I have no strength
to do any work’.
‘O nonsense! My belly is full of meat. You will eat to-day, to-morrow,
and the day after to-morrow and be satiated’. On hearing that, the Crow set
himself to think and after a little while decided to see what he could do. With
his strong bill he succeeded in extracting the first thorn, and truly, two small
pieces of meat fell on the ground. The bird devoured them very greedily,
and encouraged by the success, began to tackle the job seriously. After great
effort he succeeded in extracting the second thorn, but alas! a burst of white
excrement gushed forth with such vehemence, that the poor Crow was cast
back ten feet and was buried head and all under a heap of very unpleasant
matter. The shock was so great, that he remained buried for two days, until
a great shower of rain washed the ground, freeing the Crow of the burden.
He remained a full day basking in the sun and regaining strength. He was
so weak that he could not fly. The Crow was washed by the heavy rain, but
his neck remained white. That is the reason why crows to-day have a white
collar in their plumage. The Crow very much resented the alteration of his
plumage and decided in his heart to take revenge.
One day he heard that the hyenas had arranged for a great dance in a
thicket he knew very well. He cleaned himself with great care in the morning
dew, put on a beautiful string made of scented roots and proceeded to the
meeting place. On his arrival he was greeted by the hyenas and several of
them asked him to give them some of those little pieces of meat he wore
around his body. They took his ornamental beads to be meat. He refused to
give any of the beads away, but rising on his feet with an air of dignity, he
said: ‘My dear friends, forgive me this time, I cannot give away this kind of
meat, which is specially reserved for our kinship, but I promise you a great
quantity of good meat and fat if you follow me to the place I am going to
show you’.
‘Where is it?’ they asked very anxiously.
‘You see, we birds fly in the air and our deposits of food are not on earth,
but on high for safety’s sake. Look up at the sky and see how many white
heaps of fat we usually store there. That’s where you will find meat and fat
in great quantity . The hyenas gazed up to the sky and asked ”ut how can
we get there?’
‘Will show you. You can reach there very easily. Now, let us make an
appointment. The day after to-morrow we will meet here again. Tell your
people, old and young, men and women to come here with baskets and bags
there will be meat and fat for all’. On the day appointed the hyenas came in
great numbers. I think the whole population was there. The Crow arrived
in due time. He started by congratulating the crowd on their punctuality,
and with great poise said: ‘My dear friends, listen now how we are going to
perform the journey to the place of meat and plenty. You must grapple one
another by the tail, so as to form a long chain. The first of the chain will hold
fast to my tail’.
There was a general bustle among the hyenas, but after a few moments
all were in order. At a given sign, the Crow began to fly, lifting the hyenas
one by one till they looked like a long black chain waving in the air. After
some time he asked: ‘Is there anybody still touching ground?’ The hyenas
answered No, we are all in the air . He flew and flew up into the sky for a
long time and asked again: ‘What do you see on earth? Do you see the trees,
the huts, the rivers?’
We see nothing but darkness , they answered. He flew again for another
while and then said to the hyenas nearby: ‘Now, release for a while, that I
may readjust my ornaments’.
”ut dear friend, how can we do it? We will surely fall down and die .
‘I can’t help it. If you don’t release me, I will let go my tail, I am sure the
feathers will grow again’.
‘Oh dear friend, don’t, please don’t for your mother’s sake, we would
die, all of us . The Crow would not listen at all. He thought the time had
come for his revenge. With a sharp jerk he turned to the right. The feathers
of his tail tore out, and with them the long chain of hyenas. They fell heavily
on the ground and died. One of them escaped with a broken leg. She was
pregnant and so saved the kinship from total destruction. That is the reason
why hyenas these days limp when they walk Cagnolo .
One of the obvious points in these stories is just the sheer entertainment
afforded by the description of the amusing antics of various animals, and
they are often told to audiences of children. The fact that most of the animals
portrayed are well known to the audience—their appearance, their behaviour,
their calls, so often amusingly imitated by the narrator—adds definite wit
and significance that is lost when rendered for readers unfamiliar with this
background. The gentle, shy demeanour of the gazelle, the ponderous tread
of an elephant, the chameleon’s protuberant eyes, or the spider’s long-legged
steps are all effectively conveyed and provide a vivid and often humorous
picture for those present. It is true that the imagery associated with the animal
figures in tales hardly matches that implied in other contexts (praise songs
for instance, as pointed out in James . ”ut on a straightforward and
humorous level the animals that appear in the stories can be appreciated and
enjoyed for their amusing antics or their vivid portrayal by the narrator.
”ut there is more to be said than this. On another level, what is often
involved in the animal stories is a comment, even a satire, on human society
and behaviour. In a sense, when the narrators speak of the actions and
characters of animals they are also representing human faults and virtues,
somewhat removed and detached from reality through being presented in
the guise of animals, but nevertheless with an indirect relation to observed
human action. “s Smith writes of the Ha, in words that can be applied far
more widely:
In sketching these animals, not Sulwe and Fulwe [Hare and Tortoise] only,
but all the animals in these tales, the ”a-ila are sketching themselves. The
Even clearer instances of the sometimes peripheral nature of aetiological conclusions

is provided by Limba stories where, even in the ‘same’ plot, an explanation sometimes
appears, sometimes not.
virtues they esteem, the vices they condemn, the follies they ridicule—all
are here in the animals. It is a picture of ”a-ila drawn by ”a-ila, albeit
unconsciously. . . Smith and Dale ii,
There is no need to try to explain the occurrence of animal stories by

invoking outdated theories about totemism or the unfounded notion that
‘primitive man’ could somehow not clearly distinguish between himself
and animals. Nor need we refer to literalistic interpretations of the stories,
and assume that in each case they present clear-cut moral messages, like
the protest of weakness against strength, or a direct one-to-one reflection
of human or local society, or specific references to definite individuals—
though there are occasional instances of the last category.24 Rather we
can see these animal stories as a medium through which, in a subtle and
complex way, the social and literary experience of narrators and listeners
can be presented. The foibles and weaknesses, virtues and strengths,
ridiculous and appealing qualities known to all those present are touched
on, indirectly, in the telling of stories and are what make them meaningful
and effective in the actual narration. In contexts in which literary expression
is neither veiled by being expressed through the written word nor (usually)
voiced by narrators removed from the close-knit village group, comment
on human and social affairs can be expressed less rawly, less directly by
being enmasked in animal characters.
Some of the plots and explanations in the stories may appear puerile and
naive—and so no doubt they are when stripped of the social understanding
and dramatic narration that give them meaning. ”ut the background to, say,
some little story about a competition between two animals for chiefship, or
a race between two birds to the colonial secretariat for the prize of local
government office, renders it meaningful to an audience fully aware of
the lengths to which political rivalry and ambition can lead men. If we
cannot say that such events are represented directly in the stories, we can at
least see how the tales strike a responsive chord in their audience. In a way
common to many forms of literature, but doubly removed from reality in
being set among animals, the animal tales reflect, mould, and interpret the
social and literary experience of which they form part.
There is a further point about some of the animal stories. This is the
effective use that can be made of the image of the trickster (usually but not
24 E.g. in Acholi and Lango tales where the story is ostensibly about, say, the hare, or ‘a
certain man’, and set in the past, but is in fact designed to ridicule someone who is
present Okot .
invariably an animal). This figure can be adapted to express the idea of

opposition to the normal world or of the distortion of accepted human and
social values. This applies particularly when the trickster figure is made
not only wily but also in some way inordinate and outrageous—gluttonous,
uninhibited, stupid, unscrupulous, constantly overreaching himself. Here,
the trickster is being presented as a kind of mirror-image of respectable
human society, reflecting the opposite of the normally approved or
expected character and behaviour. Again, the trickster can be used to
represent traits or personalities which people both recognize and fear. This
aspect has been particularly well described for Ikaki, the tortoise trickster
figure among the Kalahari. He appears in both masquerade and story as
the amoral, psychopathic confidence trickster—the type who accepts society

only in order to prey upon it . . . the intelligent plausible psychopath, that
universal threat to the fabric of the community. Horton
More than this. Not only does the trickster figure stand for what is feared,
his representation in literature also helps to deal with these fears. In the
first place, he is represented in animal guise which allows narrator and
listener to stand back, as it were, and contemplate the type in tranquillity.
Further, by portraying him in stories, people can show the trickster as
himself outwitted and overreached, often enough by his own wife. Again,
by exaggerating and caricaturing him to the point of absurdity, they in a
sense ‘tame’ him. In these various ways
the disturbing real-life experience of plausible psychopaths is controlled,

confined, and cut down to size. People laugh from out of their depths at
the ravening forest beast, because for once they have got him behind bars.
Horton
These animal tales have been the most popular and well-known type of
African narrative among many European collectors and readers. The stories
are often amusing in themselves, they fitted in with certain preconceptions
about, say, totemism or the supposed ‘childlike mentality’ of Africans, and
they provided pleasing parallels to the Uncle Remus stories of America
which they had ultimately fathered.26 The result is that many more animal
stories have been published than those about other characters, and the
A point brought out in Evans-Pritchard’s account of the Zande trickster (Evans-

Pritchard .
26 Or so it is usually assumed it is not in fact certain that all the Uncle Remus tales came
directly from Africa via the slaves.
impression has often been given that animal tales form the main type of
prose narrative in Africa or even of oral literature altogether. This in fact
is far from being the case. The proportion of animal stories seems to have
been much exaggerated, and in some areas at least stories mainly about
people or supernatural beings seem to be preferred or to be more elaborate,
lengthy, or serious. It is not easy to work out the numerical and qualitative
relationship between animal and other stories in different areas. One or two
suggestions have been made along these lines—postulating, for example,
that animal tales are the most popular form in Central and East Africa, but
not at all conspicuous in parts of South Africa.27 ”ut the evidence is hard
to assess. Quite apart from the overlapping between animal and other tales,
one does not usually know what principles of selection have been adopted
in any given collection of tales: even commentators working in the same
areas at the same date may differ widely about the relative significance of
different types of tales. Perhaps all that can be concluded for the moment at
least is that, for all their popularity in Europe, animal tales are not the only
or even the most important type of African oral narratives.
Stories about people are, in some areas at least, probably the most
important group of narratives. These stories are of many kinds. Some are
concerned with marvellous events and personages, some exhibit marked
Arabic influence (particularly in the long-established Islamic areas),
some deal with everyday events in village life, some with a combination
of all these. Like animal stories, some stories contain an aetiological
aspect or a moralizing conclusion, others centre round a series of tricks
or a competition. There is a definite overlapping in subject and structure,
both between various categories of stories about people and, as already
remarked, between all these stories and animal tales as a whole.
Less need be said about narratives set in the human world than those
about animals. This is not because they are less important, but because,
being less well known, they have been less theorized over and confused
by Western scholars. It is obvious to most readers that these narratives can
be treated as a form of literature comparable to the more familiar types of
written fiction rather than analysed as some strange product of a totemistic
or as yet childish mentality. After some brief comments on the range of
these stories, the narratives can be left to speak for themselves as self-
evidently a form of literature.
27 See eg. Jacottet s remarks on this xxvi . The once mooted idea of ”leek s that
animal tales did not occur among the ”antu is now recognized to be untenable.
Many of these stories are about everyday events and characters. They
concern such well-known problems as the relations of two co-wives and
how these affect their children or their husband wooing a wife jealousy
between two equals or between chief and subject the extremes of friendship
and affection shown by two companions or a series of clever tricks by
some outrageous but in essence recognizably human character. ”ut even
more often, it seems, the story is set back a little further from reality by
the introduction of some marvellous element in setting, event, or character.
The man who goes to woo a woman, for instance, may have to undergo a
series of far-fetched or even magical tests before he can win her—perhaps
sowing and harvesting some crop in a single day, or guessing his beloved’s
closely guarded and amazing secret, or avoiding death only through the
magical help of animals or spirits. Similarly the cunning of the central
character may rest on enchanted powers and lead the listener into some
far-away world of fantasy. The imagination of both teller and audience
can rove freely and the exploits of the hero become the more romantic and
exciting for being enacted against this imaginary background.
Other stories could be called thrillers. The hero struggles against ogres
and monsters who are trying to devour him. These fearsome ogres are
stock characters in many stories in ”antu “frica. There are the one-legged,
two-mouthed cannibalistic ogres of East African tales, for instance, the
Di-kishi cannibal of Angolan stories (sometimes appearing as a named
hero , Dikithi Larson with his one eye and a single leg made of
beeswax, or the half-man, half-animal monsters of some tales in Malawi or
the Congo.28 We also meet various powerful monsters, giants, and spirits
in West African stories, many of them man-eating but apparently less often
physically deformed a number of them are clearly closely related either to
animals29 or to the djinns and genies familiar from Islamic sources. In all
these cases, the basically non-human and asocial character of these figures
comes through clearly either by reason of their deformities or through their
association with non-human creatures.
28 It has been suggested by Posselt that the emphasis on ogres and cannibals
is rare among Central African groups compared to the warlike South African peoples
Zulu, Sotho, etc. . However, even if this is so with the Shona it certainly does not
apply to other Central African peoples: we hear, for instance, of ogres in Lamba stories,
cannibalistic goblins in Nyanja, Thonga ogre stories, etc. On the various related ”antu
terms for these ogres in stories see A. Werner’s review of Lindblom’s Kamba Folklore
and Werner ff.
29 Cf. the half-man, half-animal figure that occurs in many West African stories discussed
in Calame-Griaule and Ligers 1961.
Even without the appearance of exotic characters and settings, an

element of fantasy is often apparent. In one Sierra Leonean story, to give
just one instance, a pregnant woman’s belly grew ‘as big as Sierra Leone
and Great ”ritain put together Innes . “ll over the continent kings
are represented as possessing exaggerated wealth and power, heroes are
revived from death, girls are wooed by hundreds and thousands of suitors,
young men win whole kingdoms for themselves by force of arms or politic
love, or hunters kill and capture fabulous beasts who bring them all their
desires. In the areas strongly influenced by Islam, particularly on the East
Coast, we also hear of sultans with wealthy and glittering entourages and
of the miraculous assistance given to a hero by genies.
The actual way in which the storyteller’s imagination can combine
fantastic elements with his knowledge of the real varies not only from
society to society but also from narrator to narrator. Each has his own
contribution to make of wit, satire, elegance, or moralizing. It is too simple
to pick on just one element, like ‘realism and lack of sentimentality’ or
‘placid serenity’, and extrapolate this to apply to African narratives in
general. Some are realistic some very definitely are not unless by
‘realism’ one merely means that a narrator builds on his own experience of
reality to add point and vividness to his literary inspiration, in which case
assertions about ‘realism’ become meaningless. Similarly some stories may
give an impression of serenity others most definitely do not. It is better to
say that the opportunities for various kinds of literary effect are exploited
differently in different contexts, and that even when some of the themes
are the same, the actual tone and impact of the story itself may vary in
different areas and according to different narrations.
Two brief stories can illustrate this point. In both there is an element
of fantasy and a concentration on human action—but the stories are very
different in tone.
One Cannot Help an Unlucky Man Hausa

There was a certain Man, a Pauper, he had nothing but husks for himself and
his Wife to eat. There was another Man who had many Wives and Slaves
and Children, and the two Men had farms close together.
One day a Very-Rich-Man who was richer than either came, and was
going to pass by on the road. He had put on a ragged coat and torn trousers,
and a holey cap, and the People did not know that he was rich, they thought
“s e.g. Johnston xli Dadie .

that he was a ”eggar. Now when he had come up close, he said to the Rich-
Man Hail to you in your work , but when he had said Hail , the Rich-Man
said ‘What do you mean by speaking to me, you may be a Leper for all we
know! So he went on, and came to the Poor-Man s farm, and said Hail to
you in your work’. And the Poor-Man replied ‘Um hum’, and said to his
Wife ‘Quick, mix some husks and water, and give him to drink’. So she took
it to him, and knelt, and said ‘See, here is some of that which we have to
drink’. So he said ‘Good, thanks be to God’, and he put out his lips as if he
were going to drink, but he did not really do so, he gave it back to her, and
said ‘I thank you’.
So he went home and said ‘Now, that Man who was kind to me I must
reward’. So he had a calabash washed well with white earth, and filled up
to the top with dollars, and a new mat was brought to close it. Then the
Very-Rich-Man sent his Daughter, who carried the calabash, in front, and
when they had arrived at the edge of the bush he said ‘Do you see that
crowd of People over there working? “nd she replied Yes, I see them . He
said ‘Good, now do you see one Man over there working with his Wife?’
And she replied ‘Yes’. ‘Good’, he said, ‘to him must you take this calabash’.
Then she said ‘Very well’, and she passed on, and came to where the Poor-
Man was, and said Hail , and continued I have been sent to you, see this
calabash, I was told to bring it to you’.
Now the Poor-Man did not open it to see what was inside, his poverty
prevented him, and he said ‘Take it to Malam Abba, and tell him to take as
much flour as he wants from it, and to give us the rest . ”ut when it had been
taken to Malam Abba, he saw the dollars inside, and he put them into his
pockets, and brought guinea-corn flour and pressed it down in the calabash,
and said ‘Carry it to him, I have taken some’. And the Poor-Man [when he
saw that there was some flour left] said ‘Good, thanks be to God, pour it into
our calabash, and depart, I thank you’.
Now the Very-Rich-Man had been watching from a distance, and
[when he saw what had happened] he was overcome with rage, and
said ‘Truly if you put an unlucky Man into a jar of oil he would emerge
quite dry. I wanted him to have some luck, but God has made him thus’.
Tremearne
The correct reply, the intonation making it a sound of pleasure and not merely a rude
grunt.
A woman always kneels when handing food to a man.
This can be used like whitewash, and the calabashes are coated outside. Here a mark of
favour.
Little round grass mats which act as covers or lids.
The farms are the only clearing in many parts where the population is not too plentiful.
He was so hungry that he would have been unable to resist eating the whole, for he
thought it contained food.
So that she could take her own away again.
A proverb, meaning that whatever you do for a man who is fated to be unlucky he will
not profit by it.
Wacici and Her Friends Kikuyu

Wacici was a very beautiful girl, admired by many people for her elegance
and charm. Her girl friends were very jealous of her and always ill-treated
her.
One day her friends were going to visit a mwehani to have their teeth
filed, spaced, and beautified as girls used to do. Wacici joined them. He was
a man of great fame who was highly reputed for his skill. They all had their
teeth well done and the girls looked very attractive and charming, but no one
looked as pretty as Wacici. The expert praised Wacici’s teeth and beauty and
added that she had natural beauty and charm in everything. This annoyed
her girl friends very much.
On their way home they stopped and talked to young men from time to
time. They laughed as they spoke to the boys, ‘Aha-aaa! Uuuuuu! Eia!’ This is
the most romantic laughter which was artificially employed by Gikuyu girls
specially when speaking to boys. ‘Aha-aaa! Uuuuuu! Eia!’ They continued
to laugh repeatedly as they spoke to young men and the boys would admire
their teeth and their charm and sense of humour.
‘You have been to the tooth expert, have you not?’ the boys inquired.
‘Aha-aaa! Uuuuuu! Eia!’ The girls continued to laugh.
‘Wacici is looking most attractive (i.e. an expert in beautifying teeth), one
boy remarked kindly, ‘she is really gorgeous and wonderful’. And all the
boys agreed and repeated this remark to Wacici. This infuriated the girls,
who were very jealous of Wacici’s beauty and many of them wanted her out
of their company.
The girls continued their journey towards their homes and on the way
they all conspired to bury Wacici alive in a porcupine hole which was
somewhere in the forest near the road.
It was suggested that they should all enter the forest and gather some
firewood to take back home as it was the custom that girls should return
to their homes with some firewood after a day’s outing. They all agreed to
do this and Wacici particularly was very eager to take home some firewood.
She was not only a beauty but also a very good girl who upheld the respect
expected of Gikuyu girls, and her mother loved her dearly.
When the girls reached the porcupine hole in the forest, they grabbed
Wacici and pushed her down the hole and quickly buried her alive. She
was taken by surprise and she did not have a chance to scream as she
thought that they were playing with her. They did not beat her or do
anything harmful to her body. They sealed the hole very carefully on top,
quickly left the forest and returned to their homes they did not speak to
anybody about Wacici.
An expert in beautifying teeth.

That evening Wacici did not return home. Her parents waited and waited.
When she did not come they went about asking Wacici’s friends if they had
been with her that day or whether they had seen her anywhere. They all
denied having been with her or seeing her anywhere that day. All this time
Wacici was crying in the bottom of the porcupine hole in the forest while her
parents were wandering all over the villages looking for her.
‘Where has she gone to?’ her mother asked. ‘Could a young man have
eloped with her? Her disappearance caused so much concern that her father
had to go to consult witch-doctors and seers and ask what had become of
his daughter.
Next morning Wacici’s father met somebody who had seen his daughter
in company of the other village girls going to the tooth expert. He reported
this to his wife and without wasting any time he went to see the dentist
in order to verify this information. The dentist confirmed that Wacici and
her friends had been to see him and that he had done their teeth on the
day she was reported missing. Also on his way home Wacici’s father met
some young men who had seen and spoken to his daughter with the other
village girls. He returned home and reported to his wife and the family all
the information he had gathered.
Wacici’s brother, who knew most of the girls who were said to have been
seen with his sister, had known for some time that most of the girls had been
jealous, and hated Wacici. He suspected foul play.
He left home quickly and tracked the route through which the girls had
returned from the expert. He knew that if they gathered some firewood,
they must have entered the forest on the way. He went into the forest to
check if his sister had been killed there.
When he came near the porcupine hole he noticed that it was freshly
covered and that there were many footmarks which suggested that many
people had been there. He examined them very carefully. He also saw a
bundle of firewood which had been abandoned. This time Wacici could hear
some noise and footsteps above her. She was crying and singing and calling
her brother’s name.
Cinji! Cinji! Cinji! Cinji!

Nondakwirire-i! Cinji, I already told you, Cinji,
Nothiganagwo-i! Cinji; I have been hated and spied on, Cinji
Cinji! Cinji! Cinji! Cinji!
When he listened carefully he heard the voice of Wacici clearly and he had
no doubt that she had been buried there by her girl friends who were jealous
of her beauty.
He called out, Wacici-i! Wacici! Wacici heard him and she felt so happy
that he had come to liberate her. She answered quickly, ‘Yuu-uuu!’
“t once her brother started digging and removing the soil. He dug and
dug until he came to where she was sitting and crying. He carried her to
the surface and examined her: she was in good shape except that she had
weakened because of hunger and fear. He took her home and her parents
were so happy to see her again. She was given a good bath and a lamb was
slaughtered to offer thanksgiving to Mwene-Nyaga who had preserved her
life.
Wacici reported what her friends had done to her. The following
morning the evil girls were arrested and sent to a trial before the elders in a
tribunal court and their fathers were heavily fined. They had to pay many
heads of cattle and many rams and bulls were slaughtered and a lot of beer
had to be brewed for the judges and the elders to eat and drink. The bad
girls were exposed and they were all shunned in society and were unable
to get husbands for a long time. Wacici was widely respected and she got
married and became a mother of many children and lived happily ever after.
(Njururi 1966: 86–9)
The characters in these tales are sometimes given names. Some societies
have their own favourite named heroes, often of a trickster type, for instance
the Lamba Kantanga (a little mischievous fellow), the Zanda Ture or Tule
(an amusing rogue), the Zulu Uthlakanyana when appearing as a human
(a deceitful and cunning little dwarf), the Fon Yo (a glutton with various
supernatural powers), and so on. As with animal tales it would be misleading
to assume that all these stories about named characters fall into clear-cut
cycles in an attempt to give an overall and in principle unitary history of the
hero. In some cases at least there seems to be no attempt at consistency or
chronology, the stories are told as short independent narrations on different
occasions, and their inclusion into one united narrative may represent the
outlook of the Western systematizing scholar rather than the intentions of
the narrators.40 Other characters in African stories are named but totally
independent in that they occur in only isolated stories. The names are merely
taken, it seems, from everyday names in current use and given to a character
for ease of reference. Or, alternatively, the name itself has meaning and
contributes to the effect of the story, though without necessarily carrying on
into other similar stories, like the Zande ‘Man-killer’ and ‘One-leg’, or the
Limba brothers ‘Daring’ and ‘Fearful’.
In very many cases, however, the characters are not given names. They
appear just as ‘a certain woman’, ‘a chief, ‘a small boy’, ‘a hunter’, ‘two
twins’, and so on. Each literary culture has its own stock figures whose
characteristics are immediately brought into the listeners’ minds by their
40 E.g. Callaway’s presentation of the Zulu tales about Uthlakanyana (Callaway 1868).
mere mention. Thus the Ila are particularly fond of stories about fools
(Smith and Dale ii 1920: 404ff), the Kamba especially like tales about
those ‘chosen from the extreme bracket of society’ like the one-eyed, sickly,
orphan, widow, very poor or despised Mbiti and the Hausa,
among others, make great play with the theme of the unfaithful wife. Some
stock characters have wide application and appear in various contexts
in the stories of many African peoples. We often hear of the actions of a
jealous husband, a boaster, a skilful hunter, an absurdly stupid person,
a despised youngster making good, a wise old woman, an oppressive
ruler, twins, good and bad daughters, or young lovers. The basic human
dilemmas implied by so many of these figures have clearly brought
inspiration to hundreds of story-tellers practising their otherwise diverse
skills throughout the continent.
When we come to consider the types of African stories usually termed
‘myths’ we run into some difficulty. This is partly because ‘mythology’ is
sometimes loosely used to cover all kinds of prose narratives, including
ordinary animal tales and stories about people.41 More important, however,
is the point that if we accept either the popular or the scholarly distinction
of myth from fictional narrative this does not seem to fit much of the
African material. As it is not possible to touch on every single case it may
be helpful to make some rather general comments about the problem of
delimiting and discussing African ‘myths’. This will involve recapitulating
several points touched on earlier.
One recent account of what is meant by ‘myth’ is that put forward by
”ascom, based among other things on his assessment of how this term
has been used by students of oral literature. This provides a convenient
starting-point. He writes
Myths are prose narratives which, in the society in which they are told are considered
to be truthful accounts of what happened in the remote past. They are accepted
on faith they are taught to be believed and they can be cited as authority
in answer to ignorance, doubt, or disbelief. Myths are the embodiment of
dogma they are usually sacred and they are often associated with theology
and ritual. Their main characters are . . . animals, deities, or culture heroes,
whose actions are set in an earlier world, when the earth was different from
what it is today, or in another world such as the sky or underworld . . .
”ascom b: 4)42
41 As in e.g. Werner’s African Mythology, which includes chapters on Hare and Jackal
Stories’, ‘Tortoise Stories’, etc., or Arnott’s African Myths and Legends (1962) in which
the largest single group consists of animal stories.
42 The whole of this passage, and the article as a whole, is worth consulting.
This account fits well with the everyday connotations of the term ‘myth’ in
terms of the content, the authoritative nature of these narratives, the way
in which they are believed, and their special context and characters, often
consciously distinguished from other less serious narratives.
When this sense of the term is taken, it seems evident that myths in the
strict sense are by no means common in African oral literature. This is in
spite of the narratives presented as myths in many popular collections. It
is true that many of these have an aetiological element, refer to supernatural
beings, or are concerned with events set in some remote time in the past.
”ut they do not necessarily possess the other attributes of myths their
authoritative nature and the way in which they are accepted as serious
and truthful accounts. It is seldom, also, that we seem to find narratives
depicting the activities of deities or other supernatural beings alone or
even as the central subject44 much more frequently the interest seems to
be centred on human or animal characters with supernatural beings only
appearing in secondary roles. Radin s remark in that cosmological
myths are rare in Africa compared to their significance among, say, the
Polynesians or “merican Indians Radin has not been invalidated
by evidence produced since then. And one could go further and say that
myths in any strict sense do not seem, on the evidence we have, to be a
characteristic African form at all.
It is worth pointing out the actual classifications made in several
African societies between different types of narrative. Though these may
not amount to a distinctive category of myth, they do provide a somewhat
analogous though less marked contrast between more fictional tales and
those said in some sense to be ‘true’. This can be illustrated from three or
four of the better-studied African cultures.
First, the Fon of Dahomey. They generally distinguish in terminology
between hwenoho and heho, a distinction only at first sight corresponding to
‘myth’ as against ‘fiction’. Hwenoho is literally ‘time-old-story’ and includes,
to use Herskovits s terms, myths stories of the deities and the peopling
of the earth), ‘clan myth-chronicles’ (telling of the origin and adventures
of the powerful families), and ‘verse-sequences’ (sung by professional
poets to memorize genealogies and events incorporated into ritual or law).
E.g. ”eier a. It is highly doubtful whether these stories were really locally regarded
as ‘myths’ in any full sense of the term.
44 There are some exceptions to this in West Africa, where religious ideas sometimes find
expression in a belief in pantheons of deities.
Herskovits These narratives are not presented with the same art
and dramatization as more fictional tales, and tend to be told by specialists
(priests, diviners, etc.) or within a small family group, particularly a
family council. The elements of entertainment and of conscious artistry
seem relatively unimportant. The second group of Fon narratives, the
heho, covers more light-hearted stories. There are tales about various
supernatural, human, and animal characters: about hunters, women, twins,
orphans, or children-born-to-die about the trickster-deity Legba or the
mythical Yo with his gross appetites and various kinds of explanatory and
moralizing tales. All these latter stories are normally told at night. Some
of them also occur in the context of divination where they may appear
on the surface to be obviously ‘myths’—yet they are locally classified as
heho. In fact, as Herskovits points out , the classifications are
not absolutely clear-cut ones there is overlap between them in terms of
symbolic characterization, plot, motif, and function.
In these and some other West African cases the local classifications bear
some resemblance to the general distinction between ‘folktale’ (or ordinary
fictional narrative) on the one hand and a blend of myth-legend on the
other.46 In other cases, however, either no such distinction is made at all,
or else what there is makes rather different, sometimes more complicated
groupings. The Kimbundu classifications, for example, divide narratives
into three main groups (excluding the closely related proverbs, jisabu). There
are, first, the stories regarded as fictitious, misoso, arising from imagination.
‘Their object’, writes Chatelain, ‘is less to instruct than to entertain, and
to satisfy the aspirations of the mind for liberty from the chains of space
and time, and from the laws of matter’ (Chatelain 1894: 21). This class
includes animal tales and stories about the marvellous and supernatural.
Secondly there are the maka, reputedly true stories or anecdotes. These are
instructive as well as entertaining, and are socially didactic, concerned with
how to live and act. Finally there are the ‘historical narratives’—malunda or
misendu—the chronicles of the tribe and nation transmitted by headmen
or elders. They are considered to be state secrets and ‘plebeians get only a
few scraps from the sacred treasure of the ruling class’ (Chatelain 1894: 21).
Another local classification that does not exactly fit the standard
folktale/myth/legend typology is that of the Dogon. Their oral literature
The Fa or Ifa divination system is described in Ch. 7.

46 For some further examples see ”ascom b.
is divided into several categories.47 There is, first, so nanay, ‘true saying’.
This includes the genealogies, back to the supposed time when all Dogon
descended from the three sons of a common ancestor. It also includes
accounts—how far appearing in narrative sequence it is not clear—about
the deeds of the first ancestor and his descendants, and about the ancestors
of each clan and the founding of the various contemporary villages. Then
there are the tanye or tanye nanay (literally impossible or unbelievable but
true). These are the ‘true’ fantastic tales, which are believed by the teller
to have happened they took place, he holds, in the ancient times when
things could happen that would now be impossible. These include what
Lifchitz calls ‘myths’—i.e. tales about, say, the origin of death or stories
explaining the origin of various animal characteristics and so on. She goes
on to point out, however, that it is only when told by elders or adult men,
usually to educate the young, that these tales can really be called myths
or true if they are told by the young among themselves they become just
ordinary stories (elume). ‘Untrue’ fantastic tales are termed tanye nanay
la, i.e. incredible things that are not true. These are tales about events
that not only could not but in fact, according even to the teller, never did
take place, and take the form of fantastic stories often ending up with
a dilemma. Distinct from all these are the stories (elme or elume) told to
entertain children, often by the children themselves. These include stories
about animals and can, at will, always be transformed into aetiological
narratives by changing just one or two phrases and adding some such
conclusion as ‘and since then people have done that’. These tales are not
usually told by adults but by young people while in the fields or during
their time as herders.
Other instances of complex indigenous classifications could also be
cited. All of them make it difficult to draw any clear distinction between a
‘myth’ and a ‘folktale’ if this is to have any basis in local terminology.
There are also many cases in which no distinctions at all in the
terminology seem normally to be made between different types of narrative.
The West African Limba, for instance, mostly use the single term mboro
to cover all kinds of narratives, the Yao of Malawi similarly use ndano of
tales in general (Macdonald 1882: 48), the Azande have no distinct term
for myth Evans-Pritchard , while for the Hunde of the eastern
Congo migani equally covers contes, fables, légendes Viaene .
47 This follows Lifchitz’s account in Africa , . See also Calame-Griaule ff.

What light does this discussion of terminology throw on the occurrence

or nature of ‘myths’ in African oral literature? Amid the variety of
classifications a few general points emerge.
First there is the frequent absence of any specific term that would exactly
translate our term ‘myth’. It is true that the absence of the word need not
imply the non-occurrence of the thing. ”ut it is certainly suggestive if the
local terminology either makes no distinction at all within narratives or a
distinction on different lines from those of the foreign theorist.
Then there are the cases where there are local distinctions analogous
to the familiar one between folktale and myth (or perhaps more often
between folktale and myth-legend . Here it often appears that the crucial
differentiating factors are not so much the content or the characters of the
narratives but the context in which they are told. Thus among the Fon and
the Ashanti the serious and ‘true’ narratives, the ‘myths’, are told within
circumscribed groups or are limited to a select group of elders who guard
them with care. They are used in serious discussion during the day, as
distinct from the entertaining stories of the evenings. Certain of the same
factors recur in the otherwise rather different cases of the Kimbundu and
the Dogon. Among the former the malunda (historical narratives that might
by more superficial commentators have been classed as ‘myths’) are secret,
known only to the politically influential and the Dogon tanye nanay are
regarded as ‘myths’ when told in one type of context and merely as stories
in another.
It emerges that in trying to distinguish different categories of African
oral narrations, in particular potential ‘myths’, it may be more fruitful to
look not primarily at subject-matter but at context. Questions about the
circumstances in which the narrations take place, their purpose and tone,
the type of narrator and audience, the publicity or secrecy of the event,
and, finally, even the style of narration may be more crucial than questions
about content and characters. Unfortunately it is precisely about these
former factors that we are often least well informed: subject-matter is so
much more easily observed than the more significant and more subtle
aspects of narrations. We know, for instance, of the many aetiological tales
or of those including references to certain supernatural beings or events.
”ut without also being informed about the context of narration, there is
no justification for glibly assigning them to the class of ‘myths’. Indeed, all
we do know about the contextual aspect leads to the impression that these
are probably ordinary stories, not authoritative myths. The point is that we
cannot decide by subject alone, we must know about context.
A further point that stands out is that with the probable exception
of certain West African narratives, religious beliefs seem often not to be
regularly enshrined in narrative sequence at all. This emerges partly from
the local terminologies which, in East, South, and Central Africa, seldom
have a word to cover the literary formulation of these beliefs. The published
narratives apparently relating to religious phenomena seem (in the cases
where they are not just ordinary stories) to be elicited narratives: it is
not clear that they would have been expressed in narrative and literary
form, were it not for the request of the collector. If, however, we knew
more about the contexts and circumstances of narration in general, this
assessment might in fact turn out to be mistaken. ”ut it is noticeable that it
is particularly among those collectors who have had the closest knowledge
of the peoples they are writing about that we find a telling absence of any
reference to or inclusion of religious narratives, or even an explicit denial
that these play any significant role at all in the local oral literature.48
It is probably possible to find some exceptions to this general lack of
literary expression of religious ideas in much of “frica. The ”ushmen
may perhaps provide one instance of this, and the Pygmies or some of
the Nilotic or West African peoples may provide others. It is possible that
other exceptions may also emerge, particularly when more is known of the
contexts in which religious beliefs are expressed. ”ut at the moment the
general impression remains of the lack of formulated religious narratives
among most “frican peoples. Herskovits summed this up well in
(though, because of his preconceptions, it led him to the different conclusion
that the commentators had just inexplicably failed to record the religious
narratives that he presumed must have existed . He observed
Except for West Africa, narrative myth sequences appear only rarely in
the literature . . . From the point of view of the student who approaches
mythology as a literary phenomenon, what is lacking is the presentation
of the narrative sequences, as told by natives, of events in the supernatural
world that are believed to have brought about the situations described . . .
Herskovits
Publications since the time of his remark give no cause to revise that general
statement.
This lengthy discussion has been necessary because of the way it is
presumed that myths must exist and play a part in African oral literature,
48 E.g. Lindblom and Mbiti (Kamba), Doke (Lamba), Junod (Thonga and Ronga), Cagnolo
Kikuyu , Chatelain Kimbundu , Theal Xhosa , Jacottet Sotho .
and the consequent inclusion in many collections of stories that are claimed
to be myths. However, with a few exceptions there is an absence of any solid
evidence for myth as a developed literary form in most areas of Africa. It is
possible that further research, particularly into the local classifications and
the contextual background of oral narratives, may reverse this conclusion.
”ut from what has been published to date it seems clear that myth in the
full sense of the term has not developed as a typical art form in African oral
literature.
This discussion leads us on naturally to the question of legends and
historical narratives generally in African oral literature. The two terms are
really synonymous in their denotation, although ‘legends’ seems to have
become the commoner term when describing oral historical narratives or,
sometimes, those in whose truth the commentator himself has little faith.
This general class of narratives covers those which are regarded locally as
true, particularly by the narrator himself and his immediate audience, but
differ from ‘myths’ in being set in a much less remote period when the
world was much as it is today. They depict the deeds of human rather than
supernatural heroes and deal with, or allude to, events such as migrations,
wars, or the establishment of ruling dynasties.49
In discussing this group of narrations, some of the same points should
be made as were made earlier about myths. The local classifications, for
one thing, do not always coincide with our analytical distinction between
historical and fictional narratives. Again, the degree of ‘belief’ in a particular
narrative is one of the hardest of things to assess. Even in a familiar society
this is notoriously difficult—but it is even more difficult in unfamiliar
cultures it is made more difficult still in that investigators have taken
very little interest in this question. It is clear that the recorded words by
themselves or the mere description of the deeds of various human heroes
often give us no inkling about the authority or lack of authority locally
49 See the definition of legend in ”ascom b , from which the above account is
largely drawn. My discussion here is not concerned with the large question of the
historical accuracy of legends and oral narratives in general and thus leaves aside the
much discussed problem of the dependability of oral traditions for historical research
on which see e.g. Vansina and references given there I might add, however, that
in view of the inherent variability of oral expression and the significance of the literary
aspect, I am rather doubtful how far we can regard oral literary forms as providing
much evidence for actual events in earlier periods.
There is a good discussion of this in Evans-Pritchard 1967: 24ff. Cf. also Lindblom’s
comment on the difficulty of deciding whether Kamba explanatory tales are serious or
humorous Lindblom ii, iii .
attached to these descriptions. Questions about the context, circumstances,

purpose, and personnel involved, all of which could throw more light
on the problem of credence, are usually all ignored. Finally, one must
repeat the point already made that well-known and agreed beliefs need
not necessarily find their expression in narrative or literary form at all.
Genealogies, origins, lines of succession, the famous deeds of past rulers—
all these can be known and recognized in a society without necessarily
being found in any literary genre. Or, if they do find literary expression,
this may take the common African form of panegyric poetry rather than
prose narrative.
It has been necessary to sound this note of caution because of the
facile assumptions on which so many collections and references in this
field are based. We are not infrequently given examples of ‘legends’ in
published collections without any evidence about whether the narratives
are regarded as true in any sense. Sometimes even the minimum formal
requirements for classifying a tale as a ‘legend’ are lacking. Again, it
is too often assumed that any knowledge of the past must always find
expression in literary form. The result is that the content of ‘oral traditions’
is constantly referred to, without evidence, as being expressed in sustained
literary form, or such traditions are elicited and recorded by the historian
or anthropologist in narrative form without any consideration for whether
this is an indigenous type of formulation, and, if so, in what contexts and
forms it spontaneously appears. We are, in short, so often given either just
the narrative with no reference to its context, or else just a reference to the
context and content without any indication of how far this knowledge is
crystallized in narrative form, that one is sometimes tempted to wonder
whether historical narrative is in fact anything like as important as is
usually assumed as a form of oral literature in the non-Islamic areas of
Africa.
This said, we can go on to consider the real instances of legends and
historical narratives (or, at least, the clear elements of this form that appear
in association with other literary genres). There seems generally to be far
E.g. K. “rnott Werner J. Maes, Mythes et légendes sur rallume-feu , Africa 9,

Congo Vanneste “lur Werner de Clercq , John-Parsons
Terrisse .
E.g. Turnbull s collection entitled Legends of the ”aMbuti in. which, even on his
own account, the great majority are ordinary imaginative stories about people, animals,
spirits, and the various tricks used among them. The same applies to Ogumefu’s Yoruba
Legend , the legends of the tortoise in Werner , and many other similar
references.
more literary interest in historical narrative—in the deeds of historical

heroes in the not so remote past—than in myths (in the sense of the actions
of deities in the furthest past or of cosmological speculations)..
It is particularly in the areas deeply influenced by Arabic cultural
traditions that historical narrative seems to emerge most clearly as a
sharply differentiated and distinctive art form, sometimes even referred
to by a term derived from the Arabic. ”ut in other areas too more serious
narrations concerned with historical events may be distinguished as a
separate literary form.
Thus we have the Yoruba iton (or itan), which refers mainly to historical
narratives and seems to include both creation stories (which are sometimes
classed as ‘myths’) and conquest legends about how Oduduwa, the
legendary ancestor of the Yoruba, and his descendants spread out through
the various contemporary kingdoms, towns, and lineages of the Yoruba.
These histories, it appears, were told among those most closely concerned—
the people of the particular town or lineage—and were not presented in as
formalized or detailed a form as the corresponding praise poems (Lloyd
. ”ut they do seem to have had a fairly clear literary framework,
which is exploited by the fashion for published Yoruba histories of towns
in written form.
Strong historical traditions that are expressed in narrative form are
also of marked importance among many of the inter-lacustrine ”antu
kingdoms of East Africa. Again, this tradition has flowered recently with
many versions of such historical chronicles now appearing in vernacular
written forms.
The narratives of the Congolese Nkundo about the life and exploits
of their national hero, Lianja, are remarkable for their length and detail.
In fact, the sustained forms in which these Nkundo narrations have been
published probably give a misleading impression: collectors have pieced
together many different tales to make up one written ‘epic’ account, and
it is highly doubtful whether in fact these tales were really narrated and
E.g. the habaru and gisa forms of the North Cameroons Fulani Mohamadou .
See e.g. Lloyd mainly a discussion of what would normally be classed as legends
”eier Wyndham Johnson , Chaps. and , and passim.
E.g. Kagwa a and the chronicles associated with various kingdoms and places
published in several issues of the Uganda Journal and elsewhere.
“mong the large literature on various aspects of this epic see e.g. ”oelaert ,
de Rop and for discussion of a written version based on it de Rop . See also
discussion in the Note on Epic (Ch. 4).
conceived as part of one vast design. The degree of belief involved is also
not very clear. Still, there are indications that these narrations were fairly
frequent and that the occasions on which they were told were dramatic
ones, the main narrator being helped by a chorus. The narrative relates
the deeds of Lianja’s parents, his mother’s pregnancy, and the birth of
the hero and his sister Nsongo, Lianja’s battles with his father’s murderer,
his wanderings in search of a place for his people and his settlement of
them there (a section very subject to variation and endless, often fantastic
elaboration), and, finally, his ascent into the sky. A brief extract can
illustrate the type of narration involved:
Un jour, au temps de Wai, sa femme, ”oluka devient enceinte . . . Et voilà que

la grossesse de ”oluka dépasse le terme accoucher, elle ne le peut grossir,
elle ne le fait elle reste comme avant. Les gens ne font que se moquer d elle.
Un jour ”oluka prend des calebasses et va puiser de l eau au ruisseau.
Pendant qu’elle y va elle ne cesse de pleurer:
Depuis que Wai est parti, ma

ma que fait cette grossesse, ma
ma qui n’avance pas. ma
Et pendant qu elle puise comme ça de l eau au ruisseau elle entend comme
si un homme bougeait dans les herbes. Elle s’effraie et dit: ‘Qui est là?’ Elle
voit une vieille femme. La vieille dit: ‘Ne fuis pas. Car je viens chez toi parce
que tu pleures sur ta grossesse et que tu n’accouches pas. Viens que je te
touche au ventre . ”oluka s approche d elle la femme touche son ventre et
un oeuf est la, comme un oeuf de perroquet. La vieille dit ”oluka, regarde,
ta grossesse c était cet ceuf. Donne-le moi, que je le garde pour toi, et demain
matin apporte-moi à manger . ”oluka lui donne l oeuf.
Le lendemain ”oluka prépare des vivres, les prend et vient à la place
convenue elle voit la vieille arriver avec un très bel enfant, Elle dit ”oluka,
voici ton enfant . ”oluka le prend et lui donne le sein. La vieille dit Donne-
moi l’enfant, cherche ton manioc et pars’. Quand la mère a sorti le manioc de
l eau, elle dit Donne-moi l enfant . La vieille Non, non, l enfant doit rester
toi, retourne et viens encore ici demain avec vivres’.
”oluka retourne, prépare des vivres et les porte à l enfant et à la vieille,
là-bas au ruisseau. L enfant qui n était qu un nourrisson hier est devenu un
grand garcon. ”oelaert
Finally, one must mention the clear historical interest that has evidently
characterized many of the legends and narratives of kingdoms of the Western
Sudan. Here there is a tradition of “rabic culture and of written historical
chronicles in either Arabic or local languages—a tradition that has affected
oral literary forms. The examples given so far have mainly been drawn
from the powerful kingdoms of traditional Africa. This is no coincidence. It
is evident that it is in these kingdoms in particular that there are manifest
political advantages in propagating certain historical interpretations of the
past whether in the form of ‘myths’ or of ‘legends’. Narratives purporting
to recount, for instance, how the ancestors of the present ruling houses first
came to the area as saviours, or first settlers, or even victorious conquerors
(all common themes) provide a justification for the continued position and
power of these houses in the present. The ‘mythical charter’ thus given by the
stories can be an important support for the existing distribution of political
power, and it is not surprising that in these conditions there is a marked
emphasis on history. However, even here, panegyric poetry seems often in
fact to have surpassed prose history in both literary specialism and political
propaganda see Ch. , also Whiteley .
In the uncentralized societies of Africa, even if historical narratives are
less conspicuous they certainly exist. Even in egalitarian communities it
is common for various families and villages to have stories about their
origins and ancestors, and sometimes these are expressed in narrative form.
Among the Lugbara of Uganda, for instance, historical narratives (termed
‘myths’ by Middleton) justify not the position of ruling houses but present-
day social relationships between families and groups Middleton .
Sometimes such historical tales are told not so much for their sanctioning
effect as for their sheer entertainment value.
All in all there certainly are instances of historical narratives that play a
more significant part in African literature than do the ‘myths’ we explored
earlier. ”ut when we look closely at the evidence we have to admit the
surprising fact that it hardly sustains the generally accepted view of the great
importance of this form as a specialized literary type in non-Islamic Africa.
In many cases these narratives appear only as elements in other narrations,
or they appear as elicited or pieced-together recordings by foreign collectors
rather than as spontaneous art forms. Altogether much more research needs
to be done on the indigenous contexts, tone, and classifications of ‘historical
narratives’ before we can make assertions about them.
E.g. to cite just a few instances, Delafosse , Wade Wolof East “damawa
Fulani “dam “rnett Sölken . For various translations or
paraphrases of “rabic chronicles see e.g. Houdas and Delafosse on the Songhai
empire Delafosse and Gaden “rnett .
“s pointed out e.g. by Whiteley see also the references given in Vansina
ff.
III
So far we have been considering the conclusions that, with all their
problems and uncertainties, we can still make from the many published
collections of African narratives—about their distribution, subject-matter,
and, to some extent, literary types. This final section will, in contrast, be
devoted to a brief consideration of questions that so far have been hardly
explored in published sources.
The first point is an obvious one. In the case of oral literature the actual
occasions, performers, and purpose of the narrations are obviously of vital
importance. As far as the occasions go, we do know a certain amount. It
has been made clear in many publications that a very common context for
telling stories is in the evening when the day’s work is over. In some cases,
this general pattern is even expressed as a definite rule. Some imagined
sanction is suggested to frighten those tempted to break it—like the Zulu
or Transvaal Ndebele threat that anyone who tells stories in the day-time
will grow horns, or the parallel assertion among the Kamba that their cattle
would perish if tales were told in the day. In other cases the limitation
to the evening hours seems to be made merely from convenience, not
compulsion. In certain circumstances stories are also told during the day—
for instance, when people have to spend long hours on long-drawn-out
but not very exacting tasks like herding, mending fishing-nets, or guarding
crops from birds and animals.
The normal pattern seems to be for a number of relatively short, self-
contained stories to be told during an evening story-telling session. ”ut
there are also occasional instances of serial stories. We hear of Mende
‘endless stories’ (Innes 1964: 16–17) or the Kalabari practice of carrying
on with the ‘same’ story—albeit one without a very tight plot or over-
all view night after night, often stopping at an exciting point Horton,
personal communication).
Occasionally we hear of story-telling sessions of a highly specialized kind
like the Tuareg evening parties, presided over by some woman famous for
her wit, in which story-telling, music, and cultivated conversation all play
their part in creating popular and highly valued occasions (Chadwiks iii
1940: 666). Most are less formal, however. They are very frequently started
off by the asking of riddles, usually by children. As the evening wears
How seriously these statements are taken, at least by adults, is not at all clear, however.
on these are followed by stories delivered with more art and, relatively,
more seriousness. Finally people lose interest or are too sleepy to continue.
However, not very many detailed accounts have been produced about
these and other occasions for story-telling.
The stories are told according to the local conventions about the
suitable personnel and order—sometimes by just a few outstanding
narrators, sometimes according to a rotation round each participant in
turn, sometimes by whoever has the story ‘thrown on to him’ by the last
teller. ‘Myths’ and ‘legends’ are more often told during the day, often in
the course of solemn discussions or gatherings about serious matters. ”ut
in these cases in particular, details about such occasions are usually lacking.
For all types of narrative, in fact, further investigation of their contexts is
needed.
The position of the story-teller himself is central to any discussion of the
context or purpose of the various narrations. ”ut here very little is said by
collectors—even less than about the occasions on which they are told. Most
editors, indeed, do not even include the names of those who told them the
stories, far less give details about their background or position in the local
community.60
The degree of specialism conventionally expected of story-tellers is often
unclear. In some societies, we are told, there are at least a few ‘professional’
story-tellers who travel from one village to another, and, presumably, live
on their art this has been asserted of, among others, the Temne, Hausa,
and Yoruba of West “frica, Yao of East “frica, and the ”ulu, Rwanda, and
possibly the Pygmies of Central and West Equatorial Africa.61 It might
perhaps be questioned how far all these men were really professionals in
the sense of gaining their livelihood purely from literary activity or, even
so, whether this referred merely to the telling of prose stories. Often the
references are no more than brief assertions in passing.
What is certain, however, is that story-telling is usually practised by
non-professionals. Leading story-tellers like the Limba Karanke Dema for
instance are recognized as possessing a certain degree of specialist skill, but
60 Among the few exceptions to this one can mention Chatelain 1894, Steere 1906,
Equilbecq , Hulstaert , Dijkmans , Finnegan .
61 See, respectively, Cronise and Ward Temne Johnston xxx Leith-Ross
Hausa Ellis Yoruba and Ewe Whiteley Yao Krug
Hurel Trilles Pygmies cf. also the mention of an official story-
teller to the king among the Luba, according to Donohugh and ”erry .
this is a spare-time skill only. In most instances there is no evidence that

any material reward accrues to the story-teller, however great his expertise.
Though some individuals are clearly regarded as more expert than others,
story-telling typically tends to be a popular rather than a specialist art.
All, it appears, are potentially expert in story-telling and are, with some
limitations, prepared to take part in the evening occasions when stories
are being told and exchanged in social gatherings. There is thus no African
parallel to the specialist privileged class of narrators to be found, say, in
Polynesia Radin .
The limitations on this general mastery of the art of storytelling arise from
local conventions about the age and sex of the narrators. In some societies,
it appears, these are quite free in others there is a definite emphasis on one
or another category as being the most suitable one for a story-teller. In some
areas it is the women, often the old women, who tend to be the most gifted,
even when the stories themselves are universally known.62 Elsewhere it is
men who tend to be the more expert e.g. Limba, Hausa, Fang, Pygmies ,
and this applies particularly to the more serious types of narration (myths
and legends). In other cases again, certain stories (perhaps particularly
animal stories) are felt to be the preserve of children and to be most suitably
told by and to them even though adults know them and sometimes join
in (e.g. Ibo, Dogon, Galla). Tales told by and for children can scarcely be
judged on a par with those by adults, and the particular preoccupations of
certain narrations might well be elucidated if we knew whether, say, they
were typically narrated by women.64
The same point arises from the question of the audiences for whom these
stories are intended. In some cases at least it is clear that certain categories
of stories are designed primarily for children and are told to them either by
other children or by the old women see the instances cited above . ”ut in
other instances either this is not known or the collector has not thought it
worth while to describe the audience. Such topics, which could be crucial
for an assessment of the social and literary significance of the texts, are
most often left to the reader’s uninformed imagination.
62 This is a common southern African pattern, e.g. among the Thonga, Ronga, Zulu, and
Xhosa it is also mentioned for the Fjort and, in the case of certain types of tales at least,
for the Cameroons Fulani.
Cf. also the special case of stories introduced into the Yoruba Ifa divination process (Ch.
7) which are delivered by fully professional diviners (male).
64 See the treatment of this in Kilson 1961.
This leads directly to the question of the functions and purpose of

stories and of the various types of narrations. Since it was argued earlier
that under the influence of functionalist anthropology (see Ch. 12, p.
ff. , too much attention has been paid to this question, it might seem
contradictory to include it here in a discussion of topics which need more
investigation. ”ut the earlier assertions about utilitarian function often
depended on very doubtful assumptions. While it is true that the moral,
sanctioning, and justifying functions do sometimes form one aspect of the
stories which we might otherwise have missed, many questions remain. In
studying the oral literature of any particular people, we want to know, for
instance, about the views of the people themselves (or, sometimes more
significantly, about the views of different groups among them) concerning
the purpose and functions of their narrations about local classifications
of different types of narrations and whether these have any relevance for
native assessments of their aims and nature about how far individuals, or
people in general, are prepared to verbalize their attitude to their stories
about the consistency or otherwise of their stated views (as well as that
of the actual narrations, audiences, and contexts involved and about the
relative weighting they would give, perhaps varying in different contexts or
at different periods, to the various elements involved such as entertainment,
imagination, education, practice in public speaking, recording, humour,
elegance, ridicule, obscenity, moralizing, etc. Of course, even then we
need to remember that, as in the case of written literature, there can be no
final definition of the purpose and use of oral literature.
Amid all the theorizing about the possible functions of stories there is
one point which, it seems, is too often overlooked. This is the likelihood
that within a culture stories are likely to have many functions. They will
probably vary with the content and tone—compare, for instance, the three
different Kikuyu stories quoted in this chapter. Even more important are
the details of the occasion on which a story is told—including the audience,
the narrator’s state of mind, and recent events in the locality. Again,
intentions affect the possible functions of stories. We could illustrate this
with the way in which some Christians now try to turn stories in the Congo
into Christian allegories (Stappers 1962: 14), or the political purposes to
which origin stories have recently been put in Gabon (Fernandez 1962), or
Western Nigeria. This point about varying functions is an obvious one, but
For useful general discussions of various possible functions of African stories see
”ascom a Fisher E. W. Smith, The function of folktales , Afr. Affairs , .
it has often been neglected. It is only too tempting to pick on just one aspect
or one transient function and try to extrapolate it to apply to all stories on
all occasions.
The idea that African stories are above all designed to convey morals
has caught the imagination not only of functionalist anthropologists but
also of some of the Négritude writers e.g. Thiam Dadié Colin
“dewa . This assumption is made so often that it is worth
challenging it in detail. Certainly some stories do end with a moral or a
proverb (though in some cases this does not seem an integral part of the
tale). Also stories are sometimes told to educate or admonish children,
and this class of tales may even have a special local term.66 ”ut there is
no evidence at all to suggest that this is the only or the primary aim of
the stories—and plenty of evidence that many African tales contain neither
direct nor indirect moralizing. This single Hausa story is merely one of
innumerable examples of this. Here a realistic appraisal of the ways of the
world outshadows, even ridicules, any attempt to moralize.
Falsehood is More Profitable than Truth

Hausa
This is about certain Men, the King of Falsehood and the King of Truth,67
who started off on a journey together, and the King of Lies said to the King
of Truth that he [the latter] should get food for them on the first day. They
went on, and slept in a town, but they did not get anything to eat, and next
morning when they had started again on the road, the King of Truth said to
the King of Lies ‘In the town where we shall sleep to-night you must get our
food’, and the King of Lies said ‘Agreed’.
They went on, and came to a large city, and lo, the Mother of the King of
this city had just died, and the whole city was mourning, and saying ‘The
Mother of the King of this city has died’. Then the King of Lies said ‘What
is making you cry?’ And they replied ‘The King’s Mother is dead’. Then
he said ‘You go and tell the King that his Mother shall arise’. [So they went
and told the King, and] he said ‘Where are these Strangers?’ And the People
replied ‘See them here’. So they were taken to a large house, and it was given
to them to stay in.
66 E.g. the Ila kashimi (byword) stories which, unlike other Ila stories, have a definite
didactic aim Smith and Dale ii, .
67 These titles do not refer to the powers of good and evil, much less to God and Satan.
King or chief is merely a title, and corresponds somewhat to our captain.
In the evening, the King of Lies went and caught a Wasp, the kind of
Insect which makes a noise like ‘Kurururu’, and he came back, and put it in
a small tin, and said ‘Let them go and show him the grave’. When he had
arrived, he examined the grave, and then he said ‘Let everyone go away’. No
sooner had they gone, than he opened the mouth of the grave slightly, he
brought the Wasp and put it in, and then closed the mouth as before. Then
he sent for the King, and said that he was to come and put his ear to the
grave—meanwhile this Insect was buzzing—and when the King of the city
had come, the King of Lies said ‘Do you hear your Mother talking?’ Then
the King arose he chose a Horse and gave it to the King of Lies he brought
Women and gave them to him and the whole city began to rejoice because
the King’s Mother was going to rise again.
Then the King of Lies asked the King of the city if it was true that his
Father was dead also, and the King replied ‘Yes, he is dead’. So the King of
Lies said Well, your Father is holding your Mother down in the grave they
are quarrelling’, and he continued ‘Your Father, if he comes out, will take
away the chieftainship from you’, and he said that his Father would also kill
him. When the King had told the Townspeople this, they piled up stones on
the grave,68 and the King said Here, King of Lies, go away I give you these
horses’, and he continued that so far as his Mother was concerned, he did
not want her to appear either.
Certainly falsehood is more profitable than truth in this world.
Tremearne
Other aspects that could be further explored are the various literary
conventions in the narrations of particular cultures. ”y this I mean not so
much the larger questions like plot or character, though these too deserve
more study, but points like phraseology, stock treatment of certain minor
episodes, favourite allusions, and the kind of openings and conclusions
that are found satisfying or attractive in a particular culture.
The type of language used often seems to be simple and straightforward.
This is, however, at times rendered less prosaic by various devices, including
a more frequent use of ideophones, dramatic delivery and dialogues, and
the interruption of the prose exposition by songs. The language of the
stories shows little of the allusive and obscure quality of some African
poetry except in the interpolated songs . ”ut on this whole subject we
have so far merely impressions much further detailed investigation of the
language of narratives as actually delivered is still required.69
68 So as to keep the father in.

69 There is a good description of style in Mende story-telling in Innes see also Jones
and Carter 1967.
About opening and closing formulas we do know a great deal. In

various forms these are common in all areas of Africa (though it is
not always clear how far they are obligatory for all tellers rather than
idiosyncratic to particular informants): they occur too frequently to need
detailed references.70 Thus among the Kamba tellers end their stories with
various stylized forms, usually a wish for narrator and audience to the
former’s advantage: ‘May you become rich in vermin in your provision-
shed, but I in cows in my cattle-kraal May your cattle eat earth and
mud, but mine the good grass or, finally, You d better swing with the
tail of a panther while I swing with that of a sheep’—in other words the
teller is to be better off than his listeners (a sheep’s tail is fat and edible)
and the audience had better learn to tell stories themselves (Lindblom
i, xi Mbiti . Other closing formulas include the Nigerian
”ura Do not take my life, take the life of a crocodile notorious for its
long life), the Swahili ‘If this is good, its goodness belongs to us all, and if
it is bad, its badness belongs to that one alone who made this story’, the
Angolan Kimbundu ‘I have told my little story, whether good or bad’, the
Hausa Off with the rat s head , or the “kan This my story, which I have
related, if it be sweet, (or) if it be not sweet, take some elsewhere, and let
some come back to me’.71 In these closing formulas the narrator hands
over, as it were, to the audience, as well as making it clear that his story
is concluded.
Conversely the opening formulas serve to rouse the interest of the
audience, sometimes eliciting a formal response from them as well as
setting the mood for the start of the narration. Among the Fjort of West
Equatorial “frica the narrator opens with Let us tell another story let
us be off! the narrator repeats Let us be off the audience replies Pull
away! and the narrator can then embark on the story itself Dennett
. Similarly, among the West “frican Ewe, where a narrator is usually
accompanied by a drum, a few beats are first played to call attention and
then the narrator announces his subject My story is of so-and-so the
audience replies ‘We hear’ or ‘We take it up’ and the recital begins (Ellis
1890: 269). Many other formal introductory phrases could be mentioned:
70 Possibly they are not so frequent in southern Africa, but this impression may be due to
lack of interest by local collectors or because I have missed this point in the sources.
71 Helser Steere Chatelain , , Rattray i, , etc.
and cf. the long closing Housa form given in Tremearne etc.
the Hausa “ story, a story. Let it go, let it come or See her the spider ,
see her there with the reply Let her come, and let us hear the Central
“frican Nilyamba “ story. How does it go? or the famous “kan We do
not really mean, we do not really mean [that what we are going to say
is true’].72 All such phrases serve to involve the audience directly in the
narration and to mark the formal opening or close of the story.
There are also other less obvious phrases that are worth study. These
are, so to speak, the internal formulas by which the story is begun
and ended. Thus all Limba stories tend to open (after the introductory
formulas) with a phrase setting them firmly in the fairly remote past
(rather like our ‘Once upon a time’)—‘A woman once came out (on the
earth)’, ‘A spider once got up and . . .’, ‘A chief once married a wife . . .’,
and so on. “ Kamba tale often opens with the more dramatic How did
it happen . . .’ (Lindblom I, 1928: x), the Kimbundu with the generalizing
‘I often tell of . . .’ (Chatelain 1894:: 21 etc.), while the Luba employ what
is perhaps a favourite device for bringing the protagonists directly and
vividly on to the stage by an opening like ‘That which did—leopard and
bushbuck or whoever the main actors are ”urton . The
stock endings, in both phraseology and situation, are also interesting.
There is the common Hausa conclusion they remained the Limba return
home, marriage, or formal reporting to some authority of the adventures
undergone by the hero or the frequent conclusion in Ila fool stories about
how the events have now become a byword, as ‘And to this day it is put
on record. When a person looks for a thing he has got, they say You are
like yon man who looked for the axe that was on his shoulder Smith
and Dale ii, 1920: 407). These may seem very trivial points, but in fact the
study of them, in the context of a large collection of narratives from one
area, can throw light both on the conventional elements involved—the
phraseology and presentation thought suitable—and also on the attitude
of the narrator himself to the story he is telling.
On a slightly higher level, in studies of stories the literary conventions
peculiar to a culture about the treatment of certain motifs and situations
could often be more emphasized. Thus when one sees a relatively large
selection of Kamba stories, it emerges that one of the stock climaxes is for
the monster, about to die, to tell his conqueror to cut off his little finger
72 Rattray etc. Tremearne Johnson etc. Rattray , etc.

when this is done, all the people and the cattle devoured in the course
of the story come to life again (Lindblom I, 1928: ix). Similarly, in Zulu
stories a stock way of killing an enemy is to give him a bag of snakes and
scorpions to open Krige , while the deus ex machina in Luba
stories is usually a little dirty old woman who lives in the woods and who
appears at the critical moment (Stappers 1962: 17). Similarly we can find
many other cases of stereotyped and yet, through that very fact, markedly
allusive and meaningful treatments of particular episodes. There is the
pregnant but outwardly simple Limba comment in a story ‘he sharpened
his sword’, which at once hints at drama and danger to come, or their
economical indication of the horror, finality, and shock of finding a dead
body lying on the floor by a brief reference to the flies buzzing round the
corpse. ”oth these motifs occur in several narrations yet their full impact
would not emerge were they not known to be common and yet allusive
literary stereotypes.
Even more important than the points mentioned so far is the need for
further study of the delivery and dramatic performance of African stories.
Since these narratives are oral ones, to ignore this aspect is to miss one of
their most significant features. The vividness, subtlety, and drama with
which stories are often delivered have often been noted in general terms
by those who know a lot about the literature they present (as distinct from
collectors who merely reproduce texts written for them by employees).
One of the best single descriptions of African stories, for example, allied
to a full appreciation of the social context, is that of Smith and Dale on
Ila stories when they come to pointing to the difficulties encountered by
foreign readers in fully appreciating the literary value of the tales, they
concentrate, significantly, on precisely this:
We have to reconcile ourselves to the fact that for us, at least, it is
impossible to do justice to these tales, and we doubt if the most skilful
hand could reproduce in a translation the quaintness, the liveliness, and
humour of the original . . . They gradually lose flavour as they pass from
the African’s telling, first into writing and then into a foreign idiom.
It would need a combination of phonograph and kinematograph to
reproduce a tale as it is told. One listens to a clever story-teller, as was our
old friend Mungalo, from whom we derived many of these tales. Speak of
eloquence! Here was no lip mumbling, but every muscle of face and body
spoke, a swift gesture often supplying the place of a whole sentence. He
would have made a fortune as a raconteur upon the English stage. The
animals spoke each in its own tone: the deep rumbling voice of Momba,
the ground hornbill, for example, contrasting vividly with the piping
accents of Sulwe, the hare. It was all good to listen to—impossible to put
on paper. Ask him now to repeat the story slowly so that you may write
it. You will, with patience, get the gist of it, but the unnaturalness of the
circumstance disconcerts him, your repeated request for the repetition
of a phrase, the absence of the encouragement of his friends, and, above
all, the hampering slowness of your pen, all combine to kill the spirit of
story-telling. Hence we have to be content with far less than the tales as
they are told. And the tales need effort of imagination to place readers in
the stead of the original listeners Smith and Dale ii, .
Junod too, in describing the stories of the Thonga and of the Southern
”antu in general, stresses the same fact. The storytellers live and act the
tales rather than just telling them. No written version, however accurate
in language or translation, could hope to reproduce the real atmosphere
of the actual narration Junod . A similar description is given by
Doke of the art of the Lamba story-teller:
To reproduce such stories with any measure of success, a gramophone

record together with a cinematograph picture would be necessary. The story
suffers from being put into cold print . . . (Doke 1927: xiii)
In my own study of Limba stories, the single characteristic that I found

both most striking and most incommunicable in writing was just this—
the way narrators could add subtlety and drama, pathos or humour,
characterization or detached comment by the way they spoke as much as
by the words themselves.
In the majority of published collections of African tales not even a
token reference is made to this fact. Detailed studies tend to be lacking.
We are practically never told, for instance, about the accepted stylistic
devices through which the performer makes his narrations more effective,
or of individual differences between various narrators in respect of this
skill. I have tried to treat these questions in a preliminary way for Limba
story-tellers. Since this account is easily accessible (Finnegan 1967). I
will here merely mention some of the general factors often involved in
delivery.
For some other good descriptions of the narrator s art see e.g. Roger ff. Wolof
Trilles , Pygmies Tremearne .
Figure 21. Sites of many Limba fictional narratives: a) entrance to a hill top Limba
village, often the gentle and satisfying close to a story (more frequent than any
attempt at introducing a moral Kakarima photo Ruth Finnegan b start of the
bush and the bush paths where wild beasts and the devils of story roam free, 1961
First there is the way in which stories are dramatized, the narrator taking
on the personalities of the various characters, acting out their dialogue,
their facial expressions, even their gestures and reactions. This point is
worth remembering when one is tempted to complain of the shadowy or
crude characterization of many personalities in African stories—it is not
necessary to formulate all this in words when a good narrator can present
it much more economically and subtly in performance. The narrator does
not enact the actions of the characters in the full sense: this is dramatized
narrative and not actually drama. ”ut even from his seat or when, as
happens occasionally, he stands or moves within the circle of listeners, he
can vividly suggest the acts and feelings of his characters by the use of
dramatic dialogue or through expressions on his face or gestures of hand
or body.
Actual mimicry of a humorous and satirical kind seems most common
in the case of animal characters. Some attempt at copying the cries and
sounds of birds or animals in a stylized form is frequently mentioned as a
characteristic of story-tellers. In Hausa stories, for instance, special words
are used to imitate the sounds of dogs quarrelling and barking, the wildcat’s
call, and the crow of the rooster, with the words intoned to resemble the
animal sounds. Speeches by animal characters are often sung, sometimes in
falsetto, and always with a nasal twang Tremearne . The ”ushmen
have a specialized form of this in the speech conventionally attributed to
certain animals and the moon in stories the ”lue Crane, for instance,
adds tt to the first syllable of almost every word, whereas the tortoise’s
lisping makes him change all the clicks and other initial consonants into
labials see especially ”leek . Though not so complex as the ”ushman
example, similar stylized and imitative speech attributed to animals occurs
widely in African narrations.
The actual delivery and treatment of the words themselves is also
relevant. Even when he does not choose to elaborate any extremes of
dramatization, the narrator can and does create vivid effects by variations
and exaggerations of speed, volume, and tone. He can use abrupt breaks,
pregnant pauses, parentheses, rhetorical questions as he watches the
audience’s reactions and exploits his freedom to choose his words as well
as his mode of delivery.
A form of onomatopoeia is often used to add elegance and vividness
to the narration. A style plentifully embroidered with ideophones is one
of the striking characteristics of an effective storyteller. We can actually
hear the sound of a Limba boy leaping into a lake (tirin!), the noise of the
Akan spider hitting the ceiling (kado!), the Luba onomatopoeic expression
of a chase (kwata-kwata-kwata), or the tortoise swimming (seki seki seki) and
pheasant fluttering its wings (fufufu) in Mabale tales. In this way the action
is dramatized by a skilful teller.
In all this the participation of the audience is essential. It is common
for its members to be expected to make verbal contributions—spontaneous
exclamations, actual questions, echoing of the speaker’s words, emotional
reaction to the development of yet another parallel and repetitious
episode. Further, the audience contributes the choruses of the songs so
often introduced into the narration, and without which, in many cases, the
stories would be only a bare framework of words.
Songs are characteristic of African tales all over the continent. They
do not occur in every story, and in some cases there are local distinctions
between prose and choric stories e.g. Lamba Doke . ”ut
songs are infinitely more common than would appear from a cursory
reading of the published collections. Since the songs are almost always
so much more difficult to record than prose, they are usually omitted in
published versions even when they are included, the extent to which they
are repeated and the proportion of time they occupy compared to spoken
narration is often not made clear. Yet the singing can at times become the
main element of the story—’So much so that in many tales the narrative is
to it no more than a frame is to a picture Torrend . Or, as Steere
writes of the Swahili:
Frequently the skeleton of the story seems to be contained in these snatches

of singing, which the story-teller connects by an extemporized account of
the intervening history. (Steere 1906: vii)
Similar comments could be made on narrations from many areas in

Africa, though the emphasis on singing varies not only with the type of
tale involved but also, in some cases, with the individual teller. Among
the Limba, for instance, I found that certain individuals were particularly
fond of songs so that the singing, with much repetition of the choruses,
took up more time than the words, and the plot and verbal element were
little developed other narrators on the other hand only introduced songs
or recitative rarely, and then merely as an ornament. ”ut in spite of these
variations, it is safe to say that singing is an element that is worth looking
for in tales of all kinds (except, probably, specialized historical narratives)
all over Africa.
These songs fulfil various functions in the narrative. They often mark
the structure of the story in a clear and attractive way. Thus, if the hero
is presented as going through a series of tests or adventures, the parallel
presentation of episode after episode is often cut into by the singing of a
song by narrator and audience. Further, the occurrence of songs adds a
musical aspect—an extra dimension of both enjoyment and skill. In some
areas (particularly parts of West and West Equatorial Africa) this musical
element is further enhanced by drum or instrumental accompaniment or
prelude to the narration.74 The songs also provide a formalized means for
audience participation. The common pattern is for the words of the song,
whether familiar or new, to be introduced by the narrator, who then acts as
leader and soloist while the audience provide the chorus.
Having discussed the significance of the actual performance of stories,
we can raise the question of the individual contributions of the various
narrators. Even if there are conventionally recognized ways of enhancing
delivery, the narrator can exploit these and, in the last analysis, is responsible
for all the aspects of performance already mentioned. It is evident then that
one way of discovering the extent of the individual artistry involved in
the narration of African stories is through the investigation of individual
narrators’ relevant skills and idiosyncrasies.
Composition as well as performance is involved. The narrator of a story
is likely to introduce his own favourite tricks of verbal style and presentation
and to be influenced in his wording by the audience and occasion thus he
will produce linguistic variations on the basic theme different from those of
his fellows or even from his own on a different occasion. In addition to this,
there is the individual treatment of the various incidents, characters, and
motifs these do not emerge when only one version of the story appears in
published form. Finally, there are the occasions when, in a sense, a ‘new’
story is created. Episodes, motifs, conventional characters, stylistic devices
which are already part of the conventional literary background on which
the individual artist can draw are bound together and presented in an
original and individual way.
This real originality, as it appears to the foreigner, is really only a
difference in degree, for there is seldom any concept of a ‘correct’ version.
74 E.g. Yoruba, Ewe, ex-French Equatorial “frica, ”ulu Ellis Nassau

Krug . For further points on songs in stories including some
examples and the common modes of antiphony see Ch. . See also Innes ”elinga
ff.
In all respects the narrator is free to choose his own treatment and most
stories arise from the combination and recombination of motifs and
episodes with which the individual is free to build. Stories are thus capable
of infinite expansion, variation, and embroidery by narrators, as they are
sewn together in one man’s imagination. The subject-matter too on which
such artists draw is by no means fixed, and the common picture of a strict
adherence to ‘traditional’ and unchanging themes is quite false. Not only are
there multiple references to obviously recent material introductions—like
guns, money, books, lorries, horse-racing, new buildings—but the whole
plot of a story can centre round an episode like an imaginary race to the
Secretariat building in a colonial capital to gain government recognition for
an official position (Limba), a man going off to get work in Johannesburg
and leaving his wife to get into trouble at home (Thonga), or a young hero
winning the football pools (Nigeria). The occupations and preoccupations
of both present and past, the background of local and changing literary
conventions, and the current interests of both teller and listeners—all these
make up the material on which the gifted narrator can draw and subject to
the originality of his own inspiration.
The question of the originality of the individual teller, whether in
performance or composition, is one of the most neglected aspects of
African oral narratives. That so obvious a point of interest should have been
overlooked can be related to various constricting theoretical presuppositions
about African oral art that have been dominant in the past: the assumption
about the significance of the collective aspect, i.e. the contribution by ‘the
folk or the masses rather than the individual the desire to find and record
the traditional tribal story, with no interest in variant or individual forms
and, finally, the prejudice in favour of the ‘traditional’, with its resultant
picture of African oral art as static and unchanging through the years and
the consequent explicit avoidance of ‘new’ or ‘intrusive’ stories. It is worth
stressing here yet again that the neglect of this kind of point, one which
seems so self-evidently a question to pursue in the case of any genre of
literature, is not primarily due to any basis in the facts or to any proven lack
of originality by African literary artists, but to this theoretical background
of by now very dubious assumptions. Now that the dominance of many of
For further comments on this aspect see e.g. Theal vii ff. Finnegan ff.
Junod ii, ff. Stappers ff. Cf. also Propp s interesting analysis of the
‘functions’ or stable and constant elements in (Russian) folktales—though his approach
seems a little too formalistic for direct application to the “frican field Propp .
these theories is passing, at least in some circles, it is to be trusted that far

more attention will be paid to this question of authorship and originality in
African oral literature.
Figure 22. ‘Great Zimbabwe’, the spectacular ruins in the south of the modern
Zimbabwe, 1964 (photo David Murray). The ruins were believed by earlier European
settlers and scholars to have been built by the Phoenicians, Carthaginians, or lost tribe
of Israel anyone other than “fricans or, by more comparatively-minded historians
to parallel the “thenian acropolis by more recent historians held to have been
constructed during the African kingdoms of the eleventh to fourteenth centuries. In
one version or another is now incorporated into established African mythology (for
further comment see wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Zimbabwe).
This final section on the various aspects of oral prose narratives which,
hitherto neglected, now demand further emphasis has had one underlying
theme. That is, that the many questions that we would normally expect to
pursue in the analysis of any literary genre should also be followed up in
the case of these African stories. That this obvious approach has tended to
be obscured is largely due to the limiting theoretical assumptions of the
past that were discussed earlier. The stories are in fact far more flexible,
adaptable, and subtle than would appear from the many traditionally-
orientated published collections and accounts if certain types and themes
are dying out, others are arising, with new contexts and themes that
provide a fruitful field of study. Once we can free our appreciation of past
speculations, we can see these stories as literary forms in their own right.
While some of the questions such as the significance of occasion, of delivery,
or of audience participation, arise from their oral nature, others, such as the
literary and social conventions of a particular literary form, its purpose
and functions, and the varying interpretations of individual artists, are the
traditional questions of literary analysis. These aspects concern both the
literary scholar and the sociologist who want to understand the at once
subtle and significant role of literature in a given society, and their study
would seem to provide the greatest potential for further advance in our
knowledge of African oral prose narratives.
Figure . Karanke Dema, master story-teller, drummer, musician and smith

Kakarima, 1961 (photo Ruth Finnegan).
14. Proverbs
The significance and concept of the proverb. Form and style. Content.
Occasions and functions. Specific examples: Jabo; Zulu; Azande. Conclusion.
I
Proverbs seem to occur almost everywhere in Africa, in apparent contrast
with other areas of the world such as aboriginal America and Polynesia.
Relatively easy to record, they have been exceedingly popular with
collectors. Particularly well represented are proverbs from the ”antu area
especially the Southern ”antu the Congo and West “frica have also
provided many extensive collections. It is notable, however, that there are
apparently few or no proverbs among the ”ushmen of southern “frica
and the Nilotic peoples Doke Evans-Pritchard b: 109), and
few seem to have been recorded in Nilo-Hamitic languages. In other areas
proverbs seem universal and in some African languages occur in rich
profusion. , have been published in Rundi, for instance, about , in
Nkundo, and roughly , in Luba and Hausa. In addition ”ascom lists
about thirty other “frican peoples for whom or more proverbs have
been recorded ”ascom Doke Whitting . “lso
many editors say that they doubt whether their collections are complete.
The literary relevance of these short sayings is clear. Proverbs are a rich
source of imagery and succinct expression on which more elaborate forms
can draw. As Nketia puts it in his comment on Ghanaian proverbs
The value of the proverb to us in modern Ghana does not lie only in what
it reveals of the thoughts of the past. For the poet today or indeed for the
speaker who is some sort of an artist in the use of words, the proverb is a
model of compressed or forceful language. In addition to drawing on it for
its words of wisdom, therefore, he takes interest in its verbal techniques—

its selection of words, its use of comparison as a method of statement, and
so on. Familiarity with its techniques enables him to create, as it were, his
own proverbs. This enables him to avoid hackneyed expressions and give a
certain amount of freshness to his speech.
This . . . approach to proverbs which is evident in the speech of people
who are regarded as accomplished speakers or poets of a sort makes the
proverbs not only a body of short statements built up over the years and
which reflect the thought and insight of Ghanaians into problems of life, but
also a technique of verbal expression, which is greatly appreciated by the
Ghanaian. It is no wonder therefore that the use of proverbs has continued
to be a living tradition in Ghana Nketia
In many African cultures a feeling for language, for imagery, and for the
expression of abstract ideas through compressed and allusive phraseology
comes out particularly clearly in proverbs. The figurative quality of
proverbs is especially striking one of their most noticeable characteristics
is their allusive wording, usually in metaphorical form. This also emerges
in many of the native words translated as ‘proverb’ and in the general
stress often laid on the significance of speaking in symbolic terms. Indeed,
this type of figurative expression is sometimes taken so far as to be almost
a whole mode of speech in its own right. The Fulani term mallol for instance,
means not only a proverb but also allusion in general, and is especially
used when there is some deep hidden meaning in a proverb different from
the obvious one Gaden vi . Similarly with the Kamba term ndimo.
This does not exactly correspond to our term ‘proverb’ but is its nearest
equivalent, and really means a ‘dark saying’ or ‘metaphorical wording’, a
sort of secret and allusive language Lindblom iii, .
The literary significance of proverbs in Africa is also brought out
by their close connection with other forms of oral literature. This is
sometimes apparent in the local terminology, for proverbs are not always
distinguished by a special term from other categories of verbal art. The
Nyanja mwambi, for instance, refers to story, riddle, or proverb, the
Ganda olugero means, among other things, a saying, a story, a proverb,
and a parable (Doke 1947: 102) and the Mongo bokolo is used of all poetic
expression including fable, proverb, poetry and allegory Hulstaert
. This overlap in terms is fairly common in ”antu languages and also
sometimes occurs in West Africa too: the Limba mboro refers to story,
riddle, and parable as well as to sayings which we might term proverbs,
while the Fulani tindol can mean not only a popular moral story but also
a proverb or maxim Gaden vi .
14. Proverbs 381
In some languages (such as Yoruba or Zulu) a distinction does exist in

terminology between proverbs and other types of literary expression.1 ”ut
even here there is often a practical connection between proverbs and other
forms of oral literature. Chatelain pointed out that Kimbundu proverbs
are closely related to anecdotes, so much so that anecdotes are sometimes
just illustrations of a proverb, while a proverb is frequently an anecdote in
a nutshell (Chatelain 1894: 21). Again, the Nyanja proverb ‘Pity killed the
francolin’ is a direct allusion to the story in which the francolin came to
the help of a python and was in return eaten by it (Gray 1944: 102). Similar
connections between story and proverb are mentioned for the Azande,
Zulu, Ashanti, and many others, and a moralizing story may end with,
or imply, a proverb to drive home its point. As well, proverbs frequently
appear in songs and poems. The drum proverbs of Ghana or Dahomey
are particularly striking examples here. Among other instances we could
mention the Nguni saying ‘The earth does not get fat’ (i.e. however many
dead it receives the earth is never satiated) which also appears as the
central theme and chorus in an impressive Ngoni lament (in Ch. 7 above)
and the Swahili poem about silence based on the proverb ‘Much silence has
a mighty noise’ (‘Still waters run deep’) but elaborated and drawn out in
the verses arising from it Taylor . Written forms too sometimes
make use of traditional proverbs, as in Muyaka’s Swahili poems, and these
in turn may give further currency to new or old proverbs (Doke 1947:
. Proverbs are also sometimes connected with riddles e.g. the “nang
proverb-riddles discussed below, p. or, as among the Liberian Jabo,
with praise names Herzog . They also frequently occur in general
conversation and in oratory to embellish, conceal, or hint. Proverbs, in
short, are closely interwoven with other aspects of linguistic and literary
behaviour.
As well as these obvious and common ways in which proverbs overlap
with other kinds of verbal art, they also appear in certain specialized forms.
Their use in the form of ‘proverb names’ is one. Among the Ovimbundu, to
give one example, the woman’s name Simbovala is a shortened form of the
proverb ‘While you mark out a field, Death marks you out in life’—in life
you are in the midst of death Ennis on names in general see Ch. .
Another connection is with bird lore, a form particularly popular among
the Southern ”antu. The cries attributed to certain birds can be expressed
1 There are also several cases where there are both a general term, covering both
proverbs and other types of verbal art, and, in addition, a more precise term referring
to proverbs only.
as a proverb or a song. The hammerkop, for instance, can be referred to

as a symbol of vanity either in a brief proverb or in the full song in which
he is represented as praising himself at length Meeussen the
songs here are thus inextricably linked with the proverbs. Proverbs are
also sometimes connected with other artistic media: they can be drummed
(a characteristic form in some West African societies), sung, as with Lega
judicial proverbs, or can appear on the flags of military companies, as
among the Fante Christensen . Most striking of all is the way
the Ashanti associate a certain proverb with one or other of their many
‘gold-weights’—small brass figures and images originally used to weigh
gold dust and worked with great skill and humour. Thus a snake catching
a bird represents the proverb ‘The snake lies upon the ground, but God has
given him the hornbill’ (that flies in the sky). Another weight depicts two
crocodiles with only a single stomach between them, representing ”ellies
mixed up, crocodiles mixed up, we have between us only one belly, but if
we get anything to eat it passes down our respective gullets’—a famous
proverb often cited when one individual in a family tries to seize for himself
rather than sharing Rattray also Paulme Plass .
Certain of the direct associations between proverbs and other artistic
forms such as metalwork or drumming may be peculiar to certain
African societies, but the general association of proverbs and other forms
of literature is not after all very surprising. These close connections are
perhaps particularly characteristic of an oral literature without a clear-cut
distinction between written and unwritten forms, but the sort of way in
which proverbial expression and other types of literary art (including the
art of conversation) mutually enrich and act upon each other is something
that is presumably a quality of most cultures. In this sense, then, proverbs
in Africa are not so very different from those in any literate culture, in both
of which their main impact seems, in fact, to be in an oral rather than a
written form. In neither case should they be regarded as isolated sayings
to be collected in hundreds or thousands on their own, but rather as just
one aspect of artistic expression within a whole social and literary context.
The close connection of proverbs with other literary forms raises a
difficulty. How, particularly in an oral culture, can we distinguish proverbs
from other forms of oral art? or indeed, from ordinary clichés and idioms,
and from such related but different forms as maxims and apophthegms?
Most of the published collections ignore this point of definition and by
merely entitling their works ‘Proverbs’ often give the misleading impression
14. Proverbs 383
that these sayings are clearly differentiated from other expressions or that
they are in all ways equivalent to our idea of proverbs. Some of the best
collections, such as those of Hulstaert, Nyembezi, Doke, or Chatelain,
specifically point out this difficulty, but most have little or no discussion
of this point.
The exact definition of ‘proverb’ is no easy matter. There is, however,
some general agreement as to what constitutes a proverb. It is a saying
in more or less fixed form marked by ‘shortness, sense, and salt’ and
distinguished by the popular acceptance of the truth tersely expressed in
it. Even so general a picture as this contains some useful pointers for the
analysis of African proverbs.
First, their form. They are picked out first and most obviously as being
short and secondly by the fact that even where the wording itself is not
absolutely fixed, at least the main structural pattern is accepted in the
society concerned as an appropriate one for this purpose. This question
of form has been well noted by collectors and is pursued further in the
following section. It will emerge that, in addition to terseness and relative
fixity, most sayings classed as proverbs are also marked by some kind of
poetic quality in style or sense, and are in this way set apart in form from
more straightforward maxims.
The question of ‘popular acceptance’ is, however, a more difficult one. If
one of the marks of a true proverb is its general acceptance as the popular
expression of some truth, we are seldom given the data to decide how far this
is indeed a characteristic of the sayings included in collections of ‘proverbs’.
In many cases presumably the sayings included are proverbs in this full
sense. ”ut we have in fact no way of telling whether some of the proverbs
included are not just the sententious utterances of a single individual on a
single occasion, which happened to appeal to the investigator.
The sort of terminology involved can sometimes provide a clue to
the local attitude to ‘proverbs’. As we have seen, there is sometimes a
specialized term, sometimes not. This is not always made clear by collectors.
Even more serious is the frequent failure to consider when, how, and by or
among whom common proverbs are used.2 Even where something about
the general context is given we are practically never told in detail how a
given single proverb was actually used (for some exceptions see below).
Yet, as will emerge, this may in fact determine its significance, the way in
which it is appreciated locally, even its meaning. This aspect is often crucial,
“ point well made in “rewa and Dundes see also Evans-Pritchard a.

if whether or not some attractive saying is really a ‘proverb’ depends on the

local evaluation of it. This question is made more difficult because proverbs
often have no specialized occasions for their use. Unlike such forms as
riddles and stories they are not normally set apart as suitable for relaxation
after, say, the end of the day’s work, but are closely involved with speech
and action on every sort of occasion (including general conversation).
Therefore to differentiate those sayings which are merely idiomatic from
those that the people concerned consider to have that special flavour which
makes it correct to call them proverbs, we need more precise information
about context and attitude than we are usually given.
This said, we can in a general way accept most of the published sayings
as falling, more or less, within the general category of proverb. ”ut it is
worth making these points about the difficulties inherent in differentiating
proverbs if it helps to deter yet more facile collections and to encourage
more consideration of their context. In the case of proverbs above all, an
understanding of this is essential.
II
In discussing the style and structure of African proverbs one of the first
things one notices is the poetic form in which many are expressed. This,
allied to their figurative mode of expression, serves to some degree to set
them apart from everyday speech. This point often does not emerge in
collections of translated examples. A more detailed discussion of form in
African proverbs is therefore needed here to show these two characteristics
more clearly.
The general truth touched on in a proverb can be conveyed in several
ways: more or less literally, through a simile, or (most commonly) through
a metaphor.
The relatively literal forms of proverbs often contain some allusion
or a picturesque form of speech, and among certain peoples at least are
marked by some poetic quality such as rhythm. Examples of this type are
fairly common. ‘The dying of the heart is a thing unshared’, ‘If the chief
speaks, the people make silent their ears’, and the humorous description
of a drunkard, He devoured the Kaffir-beer and it devoured him , are
instances from South “frica McLaren . Comments on
what is considered to be the real nature of people or things often occur in
this form, as in the Thonga The White man has no kin. His kin is money ,
the Xhosa description of Europeans as The people who rescue and kill i.e.
14. Proverbs 385
they protect with one hand, destroy with the other Junod Theal
1886: 199), or the witty Akan comment that ‘An ancient name cannot be
cooked and eaten after all, money is the thing Rattray . General
advice is also often tendered in this sort of form, as in the Thonga ‘Dis du
mal du chef quand tu quittes son pays’ or the humorous Ila injunction to
hospitality in the form of ‘The rump of a visitor is made to sit upon’ (Junod:
, no. Smith and Dale ii, . It is true that several of these and
similar) proverbs may also conceal deeper meanings as well as picturesque
language, but in explicit form, in contrast to the clearly figurative, they
present the thought in a simple and straightforward way.
More often the proverbs are figurative in one way or another. Direct
similes occur fairly often. The Hausa, for example, say that “ chief is
like a dust-heap where everyone comes with his rubbish (complaint) and
deposits it Tremearne . “mong the Southern ”antu the likening of
something to dew melting away in the sun appears in many forms: the Zulu
suggest that something is only a passing phase by asserting that ‘This thing
is like the dew which showers down’, and the comparison often appears
in a more direct and concise form, as with the Thonga ‘Wealth is dew’ or
Ndebele Kingship is dew Stuart and Malcolm Junod
Leaver and Nyembezi . Wealth is another stock comparison, as in
the Swahili ‘Wits (are) wealth’, or the vivid saying of the Thonga and others
that ‘To bear children is wealth, to dress oneself is (nothing but) colours’
Taylor Junod and Jaques , no. . Many other examples of
these direct comparisons could be cited the Southern ”antu To look at a
man as at a snake’ (i.e. with deadly hatred), or ‘To marry is to put a snake in
one s handbag McLaren Junod the “shanti proverbs
‘Family names are like flowers, they blossom in clusters’ or ‘A wife is like
a blanket when you cover yourself with it, it irritates you, and yet if you
cast it aside you feel cold Rattray , and the Xhosa He is ripe
inside, like a water-melon’, describing a man who has come to a resolution
without yet expressing it publicly (one cannot tell if a water-melon is ripe
from the outside) (Theal 1886: 194).
Most frequent of all, however, and the most adaptable are the proverbs
where comparison is evoked metaphorically. In this form proverbs about
In these straightforward forms the veiling or allusiveness characteristic of so much

proverbial expression is sometimes in fact achieved by devices other than direct
imagery. “bbreviation is one common way e.g. in the Ovimbundu proverb-names
another is to express the proverb in some medium other than verbal utterance, with
drums, for instance, or through gold-weights (Ashanti).
animals and birds are very common indeed (perhaps particularly in the
”antu areas here, as in the tales about animals and in certain praise names,
a comment is often being made about human life and action through
reference to non-human activity. Egotism, for instance, is commented on
and satirized in the Sotho I and my rhinoceros said the tick bird or the
Ndau The worm in the cattle kraal says I am an ox , and among the
Ila it is said of squanderers ‘The prodigal cow threw away her own tail.4
Similarly, generalizations about animal imply a comment on human affairs.
Thus the Thonga The strength of the crocodile is in the water Junod
47) can comment in various ways, implying from one point of view that a
man is strong when his kinsmen help him, from another that a man should
stick to his own place and not interfere with others. The importance of
self-help is stressed in No fly catches for another McLaren ,
while the Zulu generalization ‘No polecat ever smelt its own stink’ alludes
picturesquely to man s blindness and self-satisfaction Mayr ..
Though proverbs about animals are particularly common,
generalizations about other everyday things are also used to suggest some
related idea about people. The Zulu observe that man is able to manage
his own affairs through the metaphor that ‘There is no grinding stone that
got the better of the miller’, and the Ndebele remind one that ‘The maker
of a song does not spoil it’ when wishing to warn that it is not right to
interfere with someone who understands his own business (Stuart and
Malcolm Jones . The Lamba Metal that is already welded
together, how can one unweld it?’ can be used in the same sort of way as
our ‘Don’t cry over spilt milk’, while the Thonga ‘The nape of the neck
does not see’ alludes to the way people get out of control when the master
of the village is away Doke Junod and Jaques no. .
Perhaps even more common than the metaphorical generalization is the
form in which a general or abstract idea is conveyed not through any direct
generalization at all but through a single concrete situation which provides
only one example of the general point. Thus the Thonga ‘The one who
says Elephant die! I want to eat! I am on the way alludes to the way in
which some people are over-impatient instead of taking the time to do the
job properly, while a different point of view is suggested in the specific
Hausa statement that The man with deepest eyes can t see the moon till
it is fifteen days old’—in other words is so narrowly concentrated that the
obvious escapes him Junod and Jaques , no. Whitting p. .
McLaren , p. Smith and Dale ii, , p. .

14. Proverbs 387
The Zulu express the general idea that people reap the fruit of their own
folly by mentioning specific situations He ate food and it killed him and
The won t-be-told man sees by the bloodstain Ripp Dunning .
The frequent effects of over-confidence and officious advice are alluded
to in the pointed Nyanja saying Mr. Had-it-been-I caused the baboons
belonging to someone else to escape’, while they comment on fools from
the specific case of ‘Mr. Didn’t-know’ who ‘took shelter from the rain in
the pond Gray . Fools are similarly alluded to in the Ewe
‘If a boy says he wants to tie water with a string, ask him if he means the
water in the pot or the water in the lagoon’ (Ellis 1890: 260). This hinting at
a general or abstract idea through one concrete case, either direct or itself
metaphorical, is a common proverbial form throughout the continent.
Hyperbole and exaggeration are also frequent motifs, often in addition to
some of the forms mentioned above. Many instances could be cited, among
them the common ”antu saying that If you are patient, you will see the
eyes of the snail’, or ‘The monitor has gone dry’, which alludes to the fact
that even the monitor, famed for I Werner McLaren .
There is the Fulani proverb ‘You will not see an elephant moving on your
own head, only the louse moving on another s and the Zulu description
of an unblushing and flagrant liar, He milks also the cows heavy with
calf—he would actually go as far as saying he could milk cows before
they had calved Whitting Nyembezi . Paradox is also
occasionally used with the same kind of effect, as in the Hausa comment
on the effects of idleness (‘The want of work to do makes a man get up
early to salute his enemy , or the cynical Ila remark He has the kindness
of a witch Whitting Smith and Dale ii, . The quality
of being far-fetched and humorous is used for similar effect in the Zulu
reference to impossibility ‘A goat may beget an ox and a white man sew on
a [native] head ring , the Yoruba He who waits to see a crab wink will tarry
long upon the shore’, the Nyanja ‘Little by little the tortoise arrived at the
Indian Ocean’, or the exaggerated Yoruba equivalent of our idea that one
reaps as one sows—’One who excretes on the road, will find flies when he
returns Stuhardt Ellis Gray Gbadamosi and
”eier .
The allusions of proverbs in the various collections are often not obvious.
This is frequently due to our ignorance of the culture, particularly with
proverbs that allude to some well-known story or famous individual. A
knowledge of the situations in which proverbs are cited may also be an
essential part of understanding their implications, and this is complicated
further by the fact that the same proverb may often be used, according to the
context, to suggest a variety of different truths, or different facets of the same
truth, or even its opposite. Some proverbs, furthermore, are obscure even
to local individuals or groups. We cannot, then, expect African proverbs to
be crystal-clear or to be able to grasp in each case the modes through which
they figuratively or picturesquely suggest certain truths. However, it does
seem that the main ways in which these are expressed are the ones already
mentioned by a straight, relatively literal statement by similes by various
types of metaphor (often comparisons with animals or with one particular
case suggesting a generalization and by hyperbole and paradox.
Having considered some of the general forms in which proverbs appear
we can now look at the detailed stylistic devices which these mainly
figurative sayings employ to make their points effectively. Unlike stories
and songs, the performance does not generally seem to be of importance.
Rather, proverbs rely for their effect on the aptness with which they are
used in a particular situation and—the point considered here—on the style
and form of words in which they appear.
Proverbs are generally marked by terseness of expression, by a form
different from that of ordinary speech, and by a figurative mode of
expression abounding in metaphor. The first two characteristics can be
treated together here with illustrations from the ”antu group of languages.
There are no general rules for the formation of ”antu proverbs and particular
peoples have their own favourite forms, but certain common patterns are
apparent. Pithiness and economy are always noticeable in proverbs, but in
the ”antu languages this can be achieved particularly effectively through
the system of concord. The subject noun, for example, can be omitted as in
‘It is worked while still fresh’ (i.e. ‘Make hay while the sun shines’), where
the concord makes clear that ‘it’ refers to ‘clay’ (Doke 1947: 106). Economy
of wording is also often achieved through elision: not only are whole
words left out (often for the sake of rhythm) but vowels are frequently
elided, especially the final vowel of a word Nyembezi . The
terse expression grammatically possible in ”antu can be illustrated from a
Tswana proverb, ‘Young birds will always open their mouths, even to those
who come to kill them’, which in the original is only three words (Werner
. Furthermore, proverbs are often quoted in abbreviated forms
in ”antu languages these are almost always preferred to more drawn-out
forms Doke .
On form and style the best discussion is that by Doke on ”antu proverbs, and his
account is followed closely here.
14. Proverbs 389
The actual wording may take the form of a simple positive or negative
proposition, as in the Swahili ‘The goat-eater pays a cow’ (i.e. sow the
wind and reap the whirlwind , or the Zulu He has no chest he can t keep
secrets), or of various types of simple rhythmic balanced propositions (e.g.
the Lamba munganda yacitala, ubwalwa wulasasa, ‘In the house of wrangling,
beer becomes bitter’, where there is exact balance in the two parts, each
with three followed by four syllables). Double propositions in which the
second portion is explanatory are also common, as in the Lamba ‘A male
is a millipede, he is not driven away with one driving (only)’ (a man does
not take a single refusal from a girl). Negative axioms also occur and are
a particularly popular form in Xhosa and Zulu There is no elephant
burdened with its own trunk’ (a comparison which occurs widely with
various connotations, among them the idea that a mother does not feel her
baby’s weight), ‘There is no partridge (that) scratches for another’ (everyone
for himself), ‘There is no sun (which) sets without its affairs’ (every day
has its own troubles). Contrast propositions are a particularly striking
and economical form and may be presented in either of two ways: by a
direct parallel between the two portions of the proverb, as in the Lamba
‘The body went, the heart did not go’ (umuwili waya, umutima tawile), or by
cross parallelism (chiasmus), as in the Lamba proverb ‘One morsel of food
does not break a company, what breaks a company is the mouth’ (akalyo
kamo takotowa—citenje, icitowe citenje kanwa). Another common form is
reduplication, with repeated words or syllables. This usually comes at the
beginning, as in the Swahili Hurry, hurry, has no blessing haraka, haraka,
haina bar oka) or the Ganda ‘Splutter, splutter isn’t fire’ (bugu-bugu simuliro)
(examples from Doke 1947: 106–10).
“mong the ”antu, as elsewhere, the use of quoted words attributed
to some actual or fictional person is another device for giving point and
sometimes authority to a proverbial saying, the form sometimes known
as ‘wellerism’.6 This may be humorous as with the Ganda I ll die for
a big thing , says the biting ant on the big toe (Doke 1947: 110), but is
usually more serious. There are also miscellaneous patterns of fairly
frequent occurrence such as the widespread ‘If . . . then . . .’ formula,
the proverbs opening with ‘It is better’, particularly popular among the
Thonga, the frequent Lamba form ‘As for you . . .’, the Zulu negative
axioms opening ‘There is no . . .’ or ‘There is not . . .’, the Nyanja use of
special diminutive prefixes (ka- and ti) (Gray 1944: 102), and the ‘slang’
For some non-”antu wellerisms see Dundes .

form in Tumbuka-Kamanga proverbs of cha-, referring to the typical

behaviour of some animal or thing Young . “nother form that
occurs occasionally is the rhetorical question, as in the Karanga ‘The
swallower of old cows, is he choked with the bone of a calf?’ (a chief
who settles big cases is not likely to be overcome by a small one ”isset
. Although not mentioned by Doke, a further formal element in the
proverbs of certain peoples is that of tones (e.g. in Luba proverbs (Von
“vermaet ff. and rhyme, in parts of East “frica.7
The wording of ”antu proverbs seems to be relatively fixed in outline
so that these general patterns are maintained, or recalled, in their various
citations. Minor variations, however, not infrequently occur. A proverb
may appear in the singular or plural, with various verb tenses, or in
the first, second, or third persons.8 The forms also sometimes vary from
place to place. Two sets of Ndebele proverbs, for instance, collected about
a hundred miles from each other, differed slightly in form though they
were clearly the same proverbs ”enzies and Jackson Taylor and
Jones and over wider areas there may be similar variations due to
differences in dialect Hulstaert . “s mentioned already there are
sometimes two forms, the full and the abbreviated, the second being the
one normally cited. Sometimes the saying is cut down even further and
merely referred to in one word, a phenomenon particularly common in
one-word personal names. Thus among the Ovimbundu a woman may
be called Suknapanga God willed from the proverb God willed Death
unwilled’ (Suku wapanga; Kulunga wapangulula), or Mbunduimm a proverb
about customs differing: ‘The mist of the coast (is) the rain of the upland’
(Ombundu yokombaka ombelayokona.n Ennis . “ similar tendency
is noted among the Ganda, who often prefer to leave a proverb to be
completed by the hearer: names are sometimes the first word of a proverb,
and even the title of a book appears as just ‘Atanayita’ (from the proverb
Atanayita atenda nyina okufumba—‘The untravelled man praises his mother’s
cooking Snoxall Nsimbi . Thus on any particular
occasion the actual form of a proverb may vary according to whether
it is abbreviated, merely referred to, or cast in one or other of various
grammatical forms. ”ut the basic patterns which mark ”antu proverbs tend
to recur and be recalled in their various citations.
7 See e.g. Knappert: 1966a for some non-”antu rhyming proverbs see Jackson .
8 This, incidentally, makes the alphabetical classification adopted by some collectors an
unsatisfactory one.
14. Proverbs 391
”antu proverbs, then, are noted for special patterns which in many cases
give a poetic flavour to the saying. They use various devices to express the
thought succinctly and sometimes rhythmically, or even in what Chatelain
calls ‘blank versification’ (1894: 22). The effectiveness is heightened by the
fact that often, though not always, there are archaic or unusual words and
picturesque phrasing.
Similar tendencies probably also occur in many non-”antu proverbs,
although no such detailed synthesis as Doke’s has been published for
any other language group. There is widespread evidence of balanced
propositions. Yoruba proverbs, for instance, are said often to come in
couplets with antithesis between the two lines, noun answering to noun
and verb to verb Ordinary people are as common as grass, / ”ut good
people are dearer than the eye’, or ‘Today is the elder brother of tomorrow,
/ And a heavy dew is the elder brother of rain’, while repetition also occurs
effectively in the form ‘Quick loving a woman means quick not loving a
woman’.1 Parallelism and chiasmus also occur as in the ”aule praise of
mutual help, Gauche lave droite, droite lave gauche Effimbra
and rhythm may also be evident. Fulani proverbs use assonance, special
grammatical forms such as subjectless verbs or the subjunctive without
specific time reference, and parallel phrasing as in ‘An old man does
what men don’t like, but he does not do what men don’t know’ (i.e. his
actions may be unpopular, but they cannot be unnoticed “rnott
. Related forms sometimes employ elaborate and studied expression
particularly good examples of these are the neat Fulani epigrams cited by
“rnott or the long and complex “kan drum proverbs Nketia c see
also Ch. 17, pp. 488ff.).
In proverbs the actual performance as distinct from apt citation and
picturesque form is not usually significant. Nevertheless, it is sometimes
of interest, perhaps particularly where the words themselves are not so
elaborately stylized as in ”antu proverbs. Thus in Limba, where proverbs
are not highly developed in any fixed form and there is little stress on
rhythm or balance, I was told that in the saying mocking unjustified self-
importance (‘Do not walk like a European while wearing a loin-cloth’),
part of its attractiveness lay in the way it was said, with a pause before the
last word and the emphasizing of the idea of the loin-cloth by the long-
drawn-out way in which it was pronounced. Herzog says of the Jabo that
proverbs are uttered in a much more rhythmic way than would be the case
with the corresponding words in ordinary speech Herzog . “lso a
more studied and rhetorical utterance is likely when, as so often in West

African societies, proverbs are used in formal speeches before law courts. It
is possible then that where the poetic quality of a proverb is not so evident
in its verbal content, this is sometimes compensated for by the manner or
the context in which it is said.
The question, therefore, of the actual style of proverbs appears to
demand further research. Whatever the details, however, it is clear that
some sort of heightened speech, in one form or another, is commonly used
in proverbs: and that this serves to set them apart from ordinary speech.
III
Since proverbs can refer to practically any situation, it would be impossible
to give any comprehensive account of the content of African proverbs.
Something of their variety can be gathered from the headings under which
they are classed in many collections (in terms either of explicit content or
implied allusion), for these headings include every aspect of human affairs.
Categories of the manifest content include such headings as ‘Animals’
subdivided into, for instance, dangerous , game , and domestic , ”irds ,
‘Insects’, ‘Mice, rats, and others’, ‘Strangers, Europeans, and Europe’, ‘War,
fighting, guns, and weapons , and innumerable others while classifications
in terms of the latent reference range from ‘Man and woman’, ‘Efficiency
and its conditions , Home life , Life and death , and Passage of time to
‘Conceit’, ‘Power’, ‘Cunning’, and, of course, ‘Miscellaneous’.
Since the actual import depends on the context of use, it is in fact
impossible to give any definitive treatment of the allusive content of
proverbs without a study of their situations this material is not usually
included in the published collections. A few general points, however, may
be worth mentioning briefly and tentatively.
It could perhaps be said that though abstractions in the sense of
generalizations are an essential aspect of proverbs, abstract notions are
little considered in their own right (except perhaps in some of the more
religiously orientated sayings of the Islamic peoples). The stress is rather
on comments about human affairs thus the Thonga The heart of a man
is a sea’ and the picturesque Yoruba saying about the mind confronted
with a difficult problem (‘As the leper’s hand struggles to grip the needle’)
exemplify the exception rather than the rule Junod and Jaques no.
Gbadamosi and ”eier . It is noteworthy also that in most
”antu proverbs there are few references to religion this contrasts with
14. Proverbs 393
West Africa where this topic is fairly frequent, particularly among Muslim
peoples such as the Hausa and Fulani. This may perhaps be connected with
the significance of the ancestor cult in many ”antu societies, so that the
equivalent of this sort of allusion is made in terms of human experience
and activity without reference to a transcendent god or specialist religious
activity.
There are very many proverbs about authority, government oppression,
or the burden of power. Some examples are the Akan suggestion that a
king’s sons do not need to be taught violence (‘No one teaches a leopard’s
cub how to spring’), or the frequent reminders that even power must bow
sometimes, which the Hausa express by Even the Niger has an island
and the Yoruba by ‘The river carries away an elderly person who does
not know his weight Rattray Whitting Gbadamosi and
”eier . The Thonga saying The centipede s legs are strengthened
by a hundred rings’ alludes to the chief’s dependence on the number of
his subjects, while through ‘Authority is the tail of a water-rat’ they bring
out the way power can slip away from its possessor Junod and Jaques
no. many other comments on the nature and consequences of
power could be cited. Death is another favourite topic, for ‘Death has
many petticoats’ and ‘There is no hillside without a grave’ (McLaren 1917:
. The inexorability of death is often stressed There is no ragwort that
blooms and does not wither’ and ‘Death has the key to open the miser’s
chest’—and resignation and the fact that no one after all is indispensable
are also brought out: ‘Even there where no cock is crowing, it becomes light’
McLaren Rattray Ripp . The conflicts inherent
in marriage are very frequently satirized (‘Two wives are two pots full of
poison’, according to the Kikuyu), and self-importance is often picked on—
as in the Kikuyu ‘Knowing too much is like being ignorant’, the Southern
”antu No cleverest fellow ever licked his own back , or the Nyanja Watch
me was carried off by a crocodile the man plunged in vaingloriously
instead of patiently waiting for the boat ”arra , McLaren
Gray . ”ut a list of popular topics could be prolonged almost
indefinitely.
Something has already been said about the sorts of comparisons that
appear explicitly in the proverbs. Very often these are to animals or birds,
not because Africans have some mystical closeness to nature but because
many live in relatively rural and sparsely populated areas where the
animal world impinges closely on their lives. ”ut in fact almost anything
of which people have experience—not excluding problems of modern
government—can appear directly in their proverbs. It is often impossible

to grasp the point or attraction of a given proverb without some knowledge
of the cultural background and of what the thing mentioned means to
those who utter it. Thus the effectiveness of the Zulu saying that ‘No proud
girl ever had the better of the skin-skirt’ is lost to us unless we know that
it is customary for only married women to wear skin-skirts and that the
proverb therefore refers to the tonic effect of marriage on ‘proud cheeky
girls Nyembezi . Similarly the image in the Xhosa likening of
a woman to ‘a mimosa tree that yields gum all day long’ arises from the
Xhosa fondness for chewing gum, and the picture in the Mongo proverb
‘La marche pendant les eaux hautes, c’est celui qui marche devant qui est
intelligent’ fits their swampy surroundings where the one in front warns
those behind of holes and obstacles underwater McLaren
Hulstaert . “mong pastoral people as preoccupied with cattle as
are many of the Southern and Eastern ”antu it is not surprising to find very
many proverbs referring to cattle. There is, for example, the warning ‘Don’t
throw away the milk-pails’ (your last hope), the common description of a
liar He milks even cows which are in calf , and the comment on people s
sensitivity and interdependence in terms of cattle, ‘It licks the one which
licks it, it kicks the one which kicks it Ripp , Nyembezi . The
interests of each society tend to be reflected in the sort of images through
which their proverbs are expressed—like the Ashanti experience of gold
(‘Wisdom is not gold-dust that it should be tied up and put away’), or the
Fulani interest in rank in ‘Les vêtements cachent le corps mais ne cachent
pas la généalogie even a rich and well-dressed man of servile origin will
still only be a slave appearances are not everything Rattray ,
Gaden .
Similar comparisons sometimes occur over a wide area, often in nearly
the same words. This may be partly due to cultural contact between peoples
in the present or past. Many Hausa and Fulani proverbs, for instance, are
near identical in overt meaning and translation, and the same applies to the
Kru and Jabo of Southern Liberia and many others. The ”antu languages
provide many examples of this, the more striking owing to their similarity
in language as well as sentiment. Thus very similar proverbs are mentioned
in many collections from different ”antu societies The eye crosses a full
river’ (usually referring to man’s ambition), ‘The buttocks rubbing together
do not lack sweat’ (friction between those who live together), and ‘The
sweat of a dog ends in its hair’ (a poor man must swallow his wrath or,
alternatively, hard work and effort are not always appreciated). Doke gives
14. Proverbs 395
a detailed example of the way a proverb can take slightly different forms in
the many languages in which it occurs (this one is the equivalent of our pot
calling the kettle black): the Ila ‘The baboons laughed about one another’s
overhanging brows Tswana “ monkey doesn t see its own hollow eyes
Kimbundu The monkey does not notice his tail Nyanja ”aboons laugh
at one another s buttocks Swahili The ape sees not his own hinder parts,
he sees his neighbour s Doke . The comparisons, then, are close.
”ut the actual application and interpretation may vary from society to
society, whatever the wording.
The range of comparisons and applications, then, is enormous.
References to the animal world seem particularly frequent everywhere,
but they are by no means the only analogies. These include everything
with which a given people is preoccupied, and the extent to which any
single sphere is stressed depends, as one would expect, on the culture and
experience of a particular society.
IV
So far we have been considering the content and formal characteristics
of proverbs in “frica. However, it is particularly true of proverbs whose
use and application depends so crucially on their context that no full
understanding can be reached without some knowledge of the occasions
and purposes of their actual use. To consider the myriad different occasions
(and hence meanings) would manifestly be impossible—as a Fante elder
put it, ‘There is no proverb without the situation’9—but some comments
should be made about the main contexts of proverbs and the functions
they fulfil.
There are two themes that one encounters particularly in any discussion
of the uses and contexts of proverbs. First, there is the sense of detachment
and generalization inherent in proverbs. The speaker stands back, as it
were, from the heat of the actual situation and draws attention, for himself
or others, to its wider implications. And secondly, there is the oblique and
allusive nature of expression through proverbs that makes it possible to
use them in a variety of effective ways.
Perhaps most often mentioned is their use in oratory, particularly in
law cases or disputes. In this situation proverbs are often used by one or
Christensen see also the story about the “kan attitude to proverbs cited in
Evans-Pritchard .
other of the parties to get at his opponent or try to make out a good case for
himself by drawing some analogy through the image in a proverb. Among
the Anang Ibibio, for instance, proverbs are often skilfully introduced into
speeches at the crucial moment and are influential in the actual decisions
reached Messenger . In one Anang law case, the plaintiff managed
to stir up antagonism towards the accused (a chronic thief) by alluding
to his past record and untrustworthy reputation. He did this by quoting
the proverb ‘If a dog plucks palm fruits from a cluster, he does not fear a
porcupine’: if a dog can deal with the sharp needles of the palm fruit, he is
likely to be able to face even the porcupine s prickles similarly a thief will
not be afraid to steal again. In this case, however, the thief’s guilt was not
in fact clear. As part of his defence he on his side used a proverb which was
influential in winning over the judge to acquit him, hinting at the way in
which he alone had no sympathizers and supporters—’A single partridge
flying through the bush leaves no path Messenger .
Counsellors and judges also use proverbs to comment obliquely on the
conduct of those involved, often with implied advice or rebuke. A number
of these have been recorded among the Nyanja, for whom the court is the
place for the use of proverbial wit and wisdom and who often refer to such
cases in metaphors drawn from hunting. “s they put it, Quietly quietly
doesn t kill game that which kills game is there it is! there it is unless,
that is, those who bring the case explain what it is all about, they cannot
expect to win any more than a hunt can be successful without noisy beaters
driving the game into the net what is more, the judge should be quiet
and listen like the guard at the net. People are rebuked for their wrong
behaviour in court and reminded allusively that what they are doing falls
into some general category they too disapprove of. Telling lies, for instance,
only makes matters worse: an animal caught in a net only entangles itself
further with wild struggles, and so a man is told in court that ‘It is patience
which gets you out of the net’. Again, those who try to excuse themselves
before the court by saying that what they did was only a small thing may
be reminded that ‘The thing which upsets the porridge-pot is a small piece
of tsekera grass Gray .
In court and elsewhere there are also frequent occasions for using
a proverb to smooth over a disagreement or bring a dispute to a close.
According to the Yoruba proverb, ‘A counsellor who understands proverbs
soon sets matters right’ (Ellis 1894: 218), and a difficult law case is often
ended by the public citation of an apt proverb that performs much the same
14. Proverbs 397
generalizing function as citing legal precedents in other societies. Some of

these might be classed as juridical axioms and maxims, but many in fact
succeed just because the attempt at reconciliation is oblique and through
an analogy rather than a straightforward injunction. The contenders are
not only brought to view the dispute in a wider perspective (and thus be
more ready to come to terms), but this is conveyed in a tactful and allusive
way. Among the Limba, for instance, an elder in court tries to persuade one
party to a dispute not to be angry with someone younger by reminding
them that one does not shoot the chimpanzee for its ugliness i.e. one
should not go to extremes in punishing a child, however bad, any more
than one actually kills a chimpanzee because it is ugly. In pronouncing his
decision the president of an Anang court frequently uses the proverb ‘If
you visit the home of the toads, stoop’ to remind those involved that one
should conform to the divine moral law, and the Yoruba make the similar
point that once a dispute has been brought to an end it should then be
regarded as finally settled—’When the face is washed you finish at the chin’
Messenger Ellis . In a less formal context, the Kikuyu
bring an interminable and profitless discussion to an end by asking the
question, agreed to be unanswerable, ‘When new clothes are sewn, where
do the old ones go?’10
More or less formalized law cases, then, provide many opportunities
for proverbs. However, they also occur in less formal situations for giving
ordinary advice. Here too their oblique and tactful nature makes them
particularly effective. Many examples of this could be given. In Lamba
culture, for instance, the young are warned in such terms as ‘Your mouth
will turn into a knife and cut off your lips’ or ‘You will let the mouse rot in the
trap i.e. let the opportunity pass Doke , and among the Tetela
the proverb ‘The palm-tree grows in the tall grass’ may be used as a gentle
hint to parents that it is best to leave a child alone and to let him play and get
dirty he will grow up Stilz . The Oron miser who, with some polite
excuse, refuses a request, particularly for money, is told obliquely that the
asker knows quite well that he does not really want to do it: ‘The child who
refuses to go an errand says he does not know the way’ (Simmons 1960b
slightly expanded to make the literal English translation clear).
This function of proverbs to advise, rebuke, or shame another into
complaisance has been particularly well described for the Ila of Zambia (Smith
10 Stevenson on judicial proverbs, see also Meeussen Van Goethem,

Schapera 1966.
and Dale ii, ff. . “ man may be reminded that, as we would put it,
Rome was not built in a day—’One day is not sufficient to rot an elephant’—
or that pride and contempt of authority are not admired since ‘We do not like
the pride of a hen’s egg’: eggs in a nest are all equal, so one of them should
not be proud. Practical as well as ethical advice is given: ‘If you eat with one
chief only, it is because you have no feet’, for you should get what you can
out of all of them. Ridicule and mockery in proverbs are also effective. As
Smith writes of Ila proverbs, wit has a utilitarian aim laughter is never far
away, and because of their susceptibility to ridicule the Ila, like many others,
can sometimes be laughed out of a thing more than deterred by argument
or force. Thus Pharisees are mocked as those who ‘spurn effectively the frog
but drink the water’: they are the kind of people who object to finding a
frog in their drinking water but are perfectly happy to drink once the frog
has been removed. Another pressure is through irony, assuming that what
ought to be done is always done the quickest way to gain hospitality among
the Ila is to quote ‘The rump of a visitor is made to sit upon’ (Smith and
Dale ii, . Indeed, any kind of satirical or penetrating comment on
behaviour may be made in the form of a proverb and used to warn or advise
or bring someone to his senses. He is reminded of the general implications of
his action—and the fact that the reminder is cast in apparently innocent and
irrelevant terms may make it all the more effective.
There is another aspect of proverbs that is connected with their use for
comment or persuasion, and which sometimes appears in a specialized and
extreme form. This is their oblique and suggestive character. The speaker
wishes to convey something, but in such a way that later on he can deny
that he actually stated what was implied, or so that only some among his
listeners may understand the point. This type of suggestiveness is developed
to a particularly high degree in the Zande sanza in which a kind of malicious
double-talk is used to convey a meaning other than the obvious sense.
Again, the Nyanja have a special term that can be translated as ‘speaking by
opposites’ by which they make deliberate mis-statements with an esoteric
intention—the older people and cognoscenti can understand, but not other
listeners (Gray 1944: 102). Similarly among the Thonga a proverb may be
used with an apparently clear meaning but in practice a completely different
intention Junod and Jaques foreword , while the Kamba ndimo, ‘dark
saying , is a kind of secret language Lindblom iii, .
Irony or sarcasm as a way of getting at someone is, of course, widespread
in many forms, but the proverb is a particularly good way of conveying
this. This kind of implicit attack on another, already mentioned in the
14. Proverbs 399
context of a formal law case, sometimes takes more unusual forms. An

example is the elliptical language of names. Through this people can refer
to another’s fault while at the same time avoiding any direct commitment.
Thus, among the Karanga, a dog may be called by the proverbial name
‘Things which change from day to day’ in allusion to a capricious wife, or
a flirtatious woman may be called ‘All eyes’ as a reproof since she has eyes
for all personable males similarly a dog s name may be Home-wrecker ,
given him by a suspicious husband to warn off his wife s lover Hunt .
Certain themes seem to be present in the various contexts of proverbs we
have discussed so far. Though proverbs can occur in very many different
kinds of contexts, they seem to be particularly important in situations
where there is both conflict and, at the same time, some obligation that
this conflict should not take on too open and personal a form. Such conflict
can occur in many different ways—there may be competition for scarce
resources, there may be a stress, as among the Zulu or Ibo, on the idea
of personal achievement or, as among the Azande, on the significance of
hierarchy, with the competitiveness for advancement and notice so closely
connected with these in all these situations there may also be an idea that
the conflict involved should not be allowed to become extreme and explicit.
It can be seen how the veiled and metaphorical language of proverbs is
particularly relevant in such contexts.11 Indeed, proverbs may also be
specially suitable even in everyday situations of advice or instruction where
the hidden tensions that are sometimes inherent in such relationships are
controlled through the use of elliptical, proverbial speech. Even in cases
of overt and institutionalized conflict—for example, the law cases in the
more highly organized African states—proverbs play a part in formalizing
and controlling the conflicts involved. In some Western societies, there are
provisions in the legal system for minimizing personal clashes involved in
lawsuits while at the same time making it possible for each side to present
their case effectively by the relative impersonality of the written word, and
by the institution of counsels for each of the two parties who, as well as
forwarding their clients’ interests, impose a kind of veil which prevents
direct confrontation. It seems that in certain non-literate African societies
the use of proverbs may fulfil something of the same function.
11 Proverbs are not, of course, the only way of dealing with such situations and
relationships in non-literate societies. There are also, for instance, witchcraft beliefs and
accusations the use of veiled political and satirical songs or joking relationships. In
this last form, the opposite means is, in a sense, being chosen: proverbs may deal with
conflict by smoothing it over joking resolves it by exaggerating the hostility involved
and thus, in its way, resolving it.
Proverbs, then, may be a particularly suitable form of communication

in situations and relationships of potential or latent conflict. This aspect
may perhaps serve to throw some light on the fact that whereas some
peoples make great use of proverbs, among others, for instance the Nuer,
they seem to be of little or no importance.12 For it may be that it is precisely
those societies in which there is marked latent conflict, or in which there
is particular need to regulate formalized conflicts, that proverbs play an
especially large part.
Collectors and commentators frequently mention the use of proverbs in
education. Although the details are often not made very clear, it seems that
there are several different senses in which proverbs can fulfil educational
functions. Sometimes proverbs (and other verbal forms like riddles) are
used in a quite specific way in societies that lay great stress on initiation
ceremonies. The initiates may be instructed in the proverbs and aphorisms
current in the society, just as they are also often taught dances, songs, and
other skills. Among the Chaga, for instance, proverbs play an important
part in formal instruction during initiation ceremonies and are highly
valued Raum the Chaga , it is said, have four big
possessions: land, cattle, water and proverbs’ (Raum 1940: 217). This sort
of formal instruction may have a certain esoteric intention the members
of the group versed in these proverbs are now, by their very knowledge,
marked off from those who have not yet reached this stage. In addition,
in a non-literate society instruction through proverbs provides a means
for relatively formal education and transmission of cultural traditions.
Proverbs with their implicit generalized import are clearly a suitable and
succinct form in which to verbalize socially prescribed actions and attitudes.
Proverbs, then, are sometimes used quite formally and consciously as
a vehicle to achieve the ends, and in the same sort of contexts, that we
associate with formal education. However, when collectors comment on the
educational function of proverbs they do not necessarily intend to convey
such a specific role as that described above, one which certainly does not
occur in every African society. What they often seem to be describing is
the general educative role of proverbs. Now proverbs often imply some
general comment on the way people do, or should, or should not behave. It
is clear that the conveying of a people’s experience and expectations can be
12 “ point raised by Evans-Pritchard in b and, so far as I know, nowhere

satisfactorily discussed.
14. Proverbs 401
performed in a particularly effective way through the use of proverbs. ”ut

proverbs are in practice cited in a whole variety of situations, and only in
some of them does there seem to be any intentionally educational purpose.
The manifest aim may in fact be to get at an opponent, to defy a superior
in a polite and oblique way, to make an effective and unanswerable point
in a speech, etc.—yet at the same time the latent function is performed of
transmitting a certain view of the world, a way of interpreting and analysing
people and experience, and recognition of certain situations. Among the
Ibo, for instance, proverbs fulfil this aim incidentally even though the
explicit occasion is that of a dance. As the masked dancer progresses, he
has proverbs and aphorisms called out before him, and, as Green writes,
‘the chanting in front of the masked figure of these utterances is a way of
steeping the members of the society in the traditional values of their culture’
(Green 1948: 840). Other quasi-educational results which may come from
the frequent use of proverbs seem only incidental, not really distinguishable
in kind from the general socialization and education undergone by people
just because and in that they are members of a particular society.
In between these two extremes there is the kind of situation in which,
without any specific formal occasion for their use, proverbs are yet
consciously used from time to time with the intention of instructing or of
giving advice. Thus we are told of proverbs in many societies (e.g. Zulu,
Lamba, Ila, Nyanja, Kuanyama Ambo, Fante, Anang Ibibio), that they
are used for ‘instruction’ or ‘child-rearing’. Most authors, however, do
not give details of the actual situations of such usage. It is true that the
generalizations implicit in many proverbs make them suitable vehicles for
this sort of instruction but the occasions we are told about suggest that
what in fact is often being done is to convey the applicability of a proverb
to a particular situation rather than to teach any actual generalization
implied or stated in the proverb. This too is of course a type of education.
”ut it is perhaps not quite that implied by the frequent references to the
‘educational purpose’ of these proverbs.
Straight generalizations and aphorisms are sometimes included in collections of

proverbs and these may be used to instruct in some general sense but further study
may show that several of these satisfy neither the criterion of being a generally accepted
truth, nor that of involving allusive, figurative, or otherwise picturesque expression
they are thus strictly only marginal to the analysis of proverbs and of oral literature in
general.
”esides these relatively utilitarian aspects of proverbs it is clear that

there is also what might be called a purely literary aspect. That this view is
not just that of the outside observer is clear from the overlap in terminology
already mentioned between proverbs and such unquestionably literary
genres as stories, parables, or riddles. In the case of certain peoples, indeed,
their proverbs (sometimes together with their riddles) appear to be the
richest or most interesting part of their oral literature, for example the
Fang Tardy and the “nang Ibibio Messenger . Of the
proverbs in many African societies we are told that they are consciously
used not only to make effective points but also to embellish their speeches
in a way admired and appreciated by their audiences. It is part of the art
of an accomplished orator to adorn his rhetoric with apt and appealing
proverbs. The Anang Ibibio reputation for eloquence largely arises from
their skilful use of proverbs, and a Zulu orator who can quote aptly, readily,
and profusely is particularly admired Messenger Vilakazi
Ch. 10). Proverbs are also used to add colour to everyday conversation. This
aspect seems to be very widespread indeed and in some cases at least to be
an art cultivated to a very high degree. Thus among the Mongo, proverbs
are said to be continually cited among the Zulu, someone who did not
know their proverbs would be lost in the allusiveness of their conversation
while among the ”ambara, proverbs are honoured to such an extent that
they tend to use a proverb every two or three phrases even in everyday
conversation Hulstaert Stuart and Malcolm introduction
Travélé . The “kan allude to the subtlety in proverbs by their
saying ‘When a fool is told a proverb, the meaning of it has to be explained
to him’, and as Nyembezi writes of the Zulu, in words also applicable to
many other African cultures, proverbs are essential to life and language:
‘Without them, the language would be but a skeleton without flesh, a body
without soul Rattray Nyembezi .
This literary use of proverbs in ordinary speech is sometimes taken
further and shades into more elaborate forms like the Akan drum
proverbs, Fulani epigrams, or Zulu bird songs. Unlike many other prose
forms, proverbs are not normally used specifically for entertainment
but are more involved in everyday situations. However, we do hear
occasionally of contests in proverb telling. Among the Fante proverbs are
recited as entertainment both at casual gatherings in the evening and at
ceremonies and celebrations with a panel of judges to decide between
the contestants, while Lestrade writes of the South “frican ”antu that
proverbs are sometimes used in a regular game similar to that of riddle
14. Proverbs 403
asking—interpretations of proverbs are exchanged and the players

‘buy’ a new proverb and its interpretation in exchange for one they
know Christensen Lestrade . In all these contexts
the proverb is a vehicle particularly suited to give depth and elegance
through its allusive, figurative, and poetic mode of expression.
Proverbs, finally, are often said to represent a people’s philosophy. In
proverbs the whole range of human experience can be commented on
and analysed, generalizations and principles expressed in a graphic and
concise form, and the wider implications of specific situations brought to
mind. This aspect has always appealed particularly to collectors. Some
editors have taken it rather far and suggested that proverbs make up ‘tribal
law e.g. ”arra foreword or illustrate every belief and prescribed
piece of behaviour in a direct and literal way. This is to miss the flexibility
and situational aspect that is so striking a characteristic of African proverbs.
As has been pointed out by several authorities, the same proverb may
be used in a whole range of situations with different applications and
meanings. Furthermore, as has frequently been noticed, the occurrence
of contradictory proverbs is widespread thus the Southern ”antu stress
both the unruliness and indispensability of a man’s tongue: ‘The mouth
has no lid to cover it’, yet ‘The tongue is a man’s tail-switch to drive away
the flies McLaren and many other such examples could be
cited. If interpreted as literal injunctions or evaluations, clearly there is
contradiction. Instead they might be regarded as a way of summing up
what is recognized as only one facet of the truth, to be used as and when it
applies or appeals then it is possible to appreciate more fully the flexible
and subtle way in which, through a whole series of overtones and depths
of meaning, proverbs represent ‘the soul of a people’.
In relation to the question of the occasions and functions of proverbs
something should be said about the people who cite or listen to proverbs.
There is not much evidence on this, but clearly the details vary from society
to society. Sometimes the proverbs are potentially known to everyone
and free for all to use on suitable occasions. The actual use, of course,
depends on the occasion: thus where proverbs are most common in law
cases and men are the chief litigants, proverbs are seldom used by women
and proverbs giving advice are most naturally used by elder people. In
other societies there seem to be certain proverbs that are reserved for use
only by older people and would not be cited in the presence of youths
or uncircumcised adults. Sometimes proverbs as tools in argument are
reserved for the elderly alone thus of the Fon Herskovits tells us that one
limiting principle governs their use. The young may not presume to press
a point with their seniors by using proverbs Herskovits . “mong
the Nyanja proverbs are sometimes used with a definitely esoteric intention
(Gray 1944: 102), and we may guess that in societies with a fairly high
degree of specialization, particularly with regard to religious and artistic
affairs, there is likely to be a group who are particularly conversant with
the allusions and possibilities inherent in proverbs. The situation described
of the Mongo is very likely typical of many societies: that whereas some
proverbs are used by the whole population and known very widely, others
are rare or reserved for certain specialists Hulstaert . ”ut this whole
subject is obscure and the evidence scanty.
There is also the question of individual authorship and originality.
Since one of the characteristics of a proverb is that it should be accepted
by the community as a whole, the scope for individual initiative is clearly
limited. However, the fact that there is a certain amount of variation in
form and the great range of varied situations to which proverbs can be
applied with greater or lesser aptness and insight give some opening for
individual contributions. There is a certain amount of evidence about the
way new proverbs are coined by individuals and later taken up by the
community. As Nyembezi points out about the Zulu, there are no special
people with the job of evolving proverbs, but new ones nevertheless
arise through individuals and we are told elsewhere that many Zulu
proverbs were first uttered by famous men or by bards or jesters before
the king or at a beer-drink and were then taken up and popularized by
others Nyembezi xi Ripp . It is common for proverbs to be
attributed to well-known historical personages this is often conventional
but in some cases may be justified. Similarly new proverbs are mentioned
as being taken by individuals from various outside sources, or arising from
individual inventiveness and poetic imagination within the framework of
the conventional forms and functions in any given society cf. Herzog
Hulstaert .
We can, then, sum up the various ways in which proverbs are used in
African societies by saying that they really occur on all occasions when
language is used for communication either as art or as a tool—i.e. on every
sort of occasion imaginable. In particular societies there may be certain
rules or tendencies about the sorts of occasions on which they are most
frequent or suitable, or the classes of people who should use them. Some
peoples may use proverbs in a particularly sophisticated way as the basis
14. Proverbs 405
for more elaborate forms of literature, while others stress the useful aspect
of proverb-citing or their more literary and artistic purpose. ”ut they are
above all used as a form of formalized conflict and its resolution, as an
oblique and allusive way of communication, as a form of expression with
a certain educational relevance, as an artistic activity in its own right, or as
all these at once.
V
So far the discussion has been rather general and comparative. However,
some of the points made may emerge more clearly with a discussion of the
nature and use of proverbs in three specific societies, ones which differ in
language, social organization, and geographical location.
First, the Jabo. These are a Kru-speaking people living in small
independent settlements in south-eastern Liberia. Their proverbs were
collected and studied in the s by Herzog and his native assistant. They
were published in the original and in translation with a full commentary
on their various meanings and situations and an illuminating introduction
Herzog .
Though it is difficult to estimate the number of Jabo proverbs it seems
to be considerable Herzog gives in addition to related sayings and
considers that more could have been collected and that new proverbs were
constantly being made. Jabo proverbs shade into other forms: the ‘sayings’
which are sometimes merely idiomatic expressions the singers words
(or ‘lying words’), that is formalized statements, easily transformed into
proverbs, which singers introduce into their songs of praise and the titles
or honorary addresses for characterization and praise. Proverbs are more or
less distinct from these forms in their style, being more poetic and symbolic
than the ‘sayings’, but considerably less poetic than the other two forms.
The proverb proper is termed dalekpa, a word also used for a parable or
short animal tale rounded out with a proverb which serves as the moral.
The term is also said to be connected with an archaic form meaning ‘old
matters’, and this implies the idea of taking an old situation and applying
it to the present, coping with it by regarding it in the light of something
that has occurred before. It is also connected with the idea of generalization
in idioms like He quotes stingy proverbs i.e. He supports his stinginess
with generalities’), used of someone who by way of excuse evades a request
with stock phrases.
Although the citing of proverbs is not a specialized activity like riddling

or story-telling, and occurs freely and informally in every sort of context,
there are nevertheless certain stock situations where proverbs are especially
frequent. They play an important part in Jabo legal proceedings indeed
at a certain stage the discussion mainly takes place through the quoting
of proverbs. In this way the case can be raised from the particular to the
general and can be classified according to the generalizations inherent
in proverbs. The more proverbs a man can use, the more effective he is
considered to be, and ‘since almost any act has legalistic aspects, there is
hardly a discussion of any consequence (whether or not actually in court) in
which proverbs are not employed Herzog . Proverbs are also very
commonly used to smooth social friction and help individuals to adjust
themselves to their positions there are a very great number of proverbs
implying ‘under the circumstances what did you expect?’ that are used in
these contexts (e.g. ‘The butterfly that flies among the thorns will tear its
wings’ or ‘If you marry a beautiful woman, you marry trouble’, a comment,
among other things, on the dangers attending prosperity). These are often
particularly effective in smoothing dissatisfaction because uttered by an
older person in a society where seniority is taken seriously. ”esides their
general use in legal and social life, both formally and informally, proverbs
also provide the means by which generalizations can be made explicit, and
at times provide an intricate and artistic intellectual exercise for the adept.
The characteristic of proverbs which Herzog brings out most forcefully
is their flexibility. The same proverb may be used as advice, instruction, or
warning, and may be cited in situations that may seem far removed from
the original application, or even in contradictory senses. Thus the saying
‘We watch the bird’s neck while he is talking’ can be used in at least three
situations with different meanings: as a retort when someone weak makes
a threat, meaning that before taking a threat seriously we should look to
see who makes it as an expression of doubt about the truth of what another
is saying and, finally, as an indication that everyone agrees with a speaker
Herzog Jabo proverbs thus have a wide range of applicability,
and the ostensible meaning can in certain situations even shade into its
opposite.
The form of Jabo proverbs is somewhat removed from that of everyday
prose utterance. Many proverbs begin with ‘. . . says: . . .’, as in ‘North
wind says: if you rise, they will know you are there’ (used either to point
out something self-evident or to remind that a man must demand in order
to get his due). The supposed speaker is often either some natural object,
14. Proverbs 407
(sea, plant, etc.), people (e.g. the Kru, white people), or, very often, specific
animals or birds. Such proverbs can be quoted either with or without this
attribution. There are also other introductory formulas used for emphasis
which may or may not appear on a given occasion, such as ‘I say’ or ‘It
is the truth what they say’. Very many proverbs have the patterns ‘If . . .,
then . . .’, ‘Where . . ., there . . .’, or give rule of conduct with the impersonal
pronoun ‘one’. The ideas of contrast and of limitation are also frequently
brought out by the form. Contrast is emphasized in, for instance, ‘When
the spirits are gone, dogs will serve the wine’, a complex proverb which
implies among other things the contrast between mature age (‘spirits’) and
careless impetuous youth dogs and limitation is conveyed by alluding
to the immutability of certain laws in ‘When it rains, the roof always drips
the same way’. Poetic and archaic expressions occur, and the poetic tone
is intensified by the symmetrically balanced structure and occasional
rhythmic swing which is accentuated in actual utterance. In this way,
proverbs are a kind of technical language, with specialized vocabulary,
style, and linguistic and logical constructions.
These proverbs and related sayings, then, are described as playing a
central role in Jabo society. They characterize and evaluate persons, events,
and situations, interpret the particular into general and recognizable
experience, and are ‘the most important verbal instrument for minimizing
friction and effecting adjustment, legal, social, or intellectual . . . they form
a vital and potent element of the culture they interpret Herzog .
The Zulu of South Africa are exceedingly rich in proverbs. These
have been extensively collected and commented on for many years. The
best account is that by Nyembezi who has published over 700 proverbs,
gleaned-both from earlier collections and from his own field-work.14
In Zulu, as in many languages, it is not easy to draw a sharp line between
idioms and proverbs proper, but there seems to be a general distinction in
form and terminology between ‘sayings’ or plain prose usages (izisho), and
izaga, proverbs. Consonant with the general Zulu interest in rhythm, music,
dance, and poetry, their proverbs are often marked by a certain metrical
form which makes a contrast with plain prose. This is often brought out
by balanced structure such that contrasted subjects are governed by one
predicate (thus presenting two opposed ideas), by contrasted predicates
governed by one subject, or by contrast in both subjects and predicates.
14 Nyembezi unattributed references are to this work throughout this section.

Word-order is important so that verb contrasts with verb, adverb with

adverb, and so on, and cross-parallelism also occurs. In some proverbs
the contrast lies in the ideas rather than the words themselves. Economy
of expression is particularly marked in Zulu proverbs, often with elision
of vowels or whole words and the subject suggested only by the concord.
Certain patterns occur frequently and give the proverbs a distinct form even
when, as in some cases, they lack rhythm. There are frequent expressions
in terms of two, three, or four word-groups, and a specially popular form
is that beginning with akukho (or its abbreviation aku), ‘there is no . . .’, as
in ‘No polecat ever smelt its own stink’: people fail to recognize their own
faults. The vocabulary used seems to be the everyday one, but the proverbs
cease to be ordinary not just because of their special forms but because they
are generally accepted as clever and attractive expressions of some truth.
The proverbs gain their significance from the situations in which they
are used. If some of the proverbs appear to have contradictory senses, this
is merely because there are many possible situations and different angles
from which one can look at a problem. ”esides their importance in teaching,
proverbs are also commonly used in lawsuits and arguments to minimize
friction. They are used too in general comment on people and the world,
often humorously. Proverbs can be used to enrich and enliven speech at
every level, whether of formal oratory or of everyday conversation, and are
regarded as essential to the life and language of the Zulu.
The images in terms of which many of the Zulu proverbs are phrased
are primarily drawn from observation of human behaviour, of the ways
of animals, and of other things in the natural environment. As we would
expect of a pastoral people devoted to their livestock, there are very many
proverbs connected with cattle and cattle husbandry. Hunting is another
popular subject birds are often referred to, and the proverbs in fact often
merge into, or appear in, the songs attributed to many well-known birds
(see Dunning 1946). Proverbs may also contain references to historical
events, such as those which speak of the famous Shaka, or they may be
connected with well-known tales, sometimes gaining their effectiveness
through referring to the events in the tale, and sometimes apparently
giving rise to the story.
There are a great number of proverbs about hospitality, and about both
bravery and caution. Change of fortune is another common theme, and
many involve recognition of different types of people, whether within or
outside the family—the good and bad, crafty and cunning, honest and
14. Proverbs 409
truthful, or angry and overbearing—(the last compared to ‘a log with a

centipede in it’). Through all these topics, and many others, the Zulu are
able to comment on and mould their social experience their proverbs are
an important facet of their conversation and literature.
The final example is that of the Azande of Central Africa, a people
characterized by their powerful aristocratic class of princes, their state
organization which gives rise to competition and jealousies among those
at court, an authoritarian model for social relationships, and the tortuous
and suspicious mentality that goes with all this. They have developed a
characteristic mode of speech, ‘sanza’, an oblique and ambiguous form of
expression of which their proverbs form only one example. This double-talk
(including proverbs) has been described by Evans-Pritchard in a series of
articles drawing mainly on his own field-work supplemented by published
collections of proverbs Evans-Pritchard , a, 1964a).
The Zande term sanza means both proverb and spite (or jealousy) and,
in addition, refers to the whole range of circumlocutory expression in
which there is a hidden as well as a manifest meaning, usually malicious.
The Azande have many proverbs and these are marked by the same kind
of characteristics as those of other peoples. Though they do not rhyme or
show much alliteration, there is a certain rhythmic balance between the
two halves of the sentence: ‘Cautious one was grazed by the spear / it went
right through the careless one’, or ‘The little gazelle stood by the fallen tree
/ and said he was bigger than it’. Where this balance is lacking the Azande
tend to supply it with an introductory half-sentence. ”esides the presence
or absence of such prefaces there are also other variations in their verbal
structure, and it is common for the proverb not to be spoken in full but to
be alluded to by only an extract from it.
The content of the proverbs is sometimes derived from Zande folktales
and their meaning depends on a knowledge of these. ”ut the metaphors
seem most frequently to arise from the intimate Zande knowledge of
wildlife, connected with the fact that their traditional form of settlement is
in scattered homesteads with wild life all around them. Very many of the
images are taken from wild creatures, from hunting, and from collecting
activities far fewer are taken from agricultural work and domesticated
plants—a fact which Evans-Pritchard thinks may be explained by the
relatively recent change from hunting and collecting to agriculture.
Evans-Pritchard has documented fully how the situation in which a
proverb is cited affects its import, so that any one proverb may have a wide
range of meanings. So, for example, the saying ‘The wildcat honoured itself
by its cry’ can be variously interpreted as a reference to the respect resulting
from its cry, with the implication that even if someone is not honoured he
can manage for himself to the fact that the wildcat prizes her own cry and
that each person talks after his own fashion and to the idea that as there
is no one who will exalt me I must exalt myself Evans-Pritchard b:
6). Many similar examples are given of differing interpretations of single
proverbs.
Proverbs seem most typically to be used for warning, to bring another to
a sense of proportion, and to comment on or ridicule another’s action. They
are also used, in a connected way, to take the wind out of another’s sails in
a dispute. Thus if, instead of saying bluntly ‘you are bringing trouble on
yourself, you express it as the undeniable fact that ‘the frog brings down
rain on its own head’, you have an unanswerable argument, you come out
of it uppermost, and you manage to sting your opponent while sounding
quite innocent.
”esides its sense of proverb, sanza also refers to ambiguous or hidden
language in a wider sense. Usually this form of speech is used in a
malicious way, often with the intention of speaking at someone while
seemingly making an innocent remark. It is particularly common between
man and wife and between courtiers in jealous competition with each
other at a prince s court, but it enters into all Zande social activities. ”y
using this form of speech, as with the narrower class of proverbs, a man
can get at another while at the same time keeping himself under cover the
sufferer will not be able to make overt trouble, and in any case the insult,
being hidden, can be withdrawn without loss of dignity. This oblique and
veiled form of speech is one which, as Evans-Pritchard shows in some
detail, fits the suspicious and competitive outlook of the Azande, and can
be connected with the authoritarian nature of their relationships and their
dominant fear of witchcraft.
This hidden and oblique form of speech, then, with its overtones of
playing safe and avoiding direct commitment, is one developed to a high
degree among the “zande. However, it seems to be an element in all use
of proverbs, one which comes out particularly in situations of conflict
or uneasy social relationships and where depths of hidden meaning are
sensed or implied.
Proverbs in Africa are effective in a whole range of ways in life and
in literature. This might not be immediately obvious from the manifold,
usually un-annotated, volumes in which African proverbs have been
14. Proverbs 411
collected. Their literary significance emerges not only in the beauty of

words and form, their sense of detachment and generalization, and their
connections with other genres of artistic expression, but also in the aptness
and perceptiveness with which they are used in an actual context. Perhaps
the most interesting point to emerge from the writings of those who have
studied the actual use of proverbs is their situational aspect. Proverbs are
used on particular occasions, by individuals in a particular context, and
their wit, their attractiveness, their insight, even their meaning must be
seen as arising from that context.
Like stories and riddles, proverbs are among the most readily collected items of African
oral art. ”esides references already given here and in the ”ibliography, see the useful
bibliography and list of collections in ”ascom also references in Doke and
the extensive bibliography in the general article by Werner 1961, 1962.
15. Riddles
Riddles and related forms. Style and content. Occasions and uses. Conclusion
It may be surprising to find riddles included in a survey of oral literature.

However, riddles in “frica have regularly been considered to be a type of
art form, albeit often of minor and childish interest, and have long been
included in studies of oral literature. There is some reason for this. As
will be seen, riddles often involve metaphorical or poetic comment. This
indeed was pointed out long ago by Aristotle when he remarked on the
close relation of riddles to metaphorical expression (Rhetoric iii. b)).1
In Africa riddles are common and have been extensively collected. They
are often very closely related to proverbs. Like proverbs they are expressed
briefly and concisely they involve analogy, whether of meaning, sound,
rhythm, or tone and the two forms are sometimes even combined in
the ‘proverb-riddle’. Riddles also sometimes have close connections with
other aspects of literary expression—with such forms as enigmas and
dilemma tales, with stories and epigrams, and with praise names. In spite
of such connections, however, riddles emerge as a distinct type of literary
expression in most African cultures,2 often one considered to be the special
domain of children and, unlike proverbs, to be for entertainment rather
than for serious consideration.
1 ‘Good riddles do, in general, provide us with satisfactory metaphors: for metaphors
imply riddles, and therefore a good riddle can furnish a good metaphor’ (quoted in
Georges and Dundes .
2 The local word for riddle sometimes also covers other forms of literature, e.g. Yoruba
alo (riddle, story), Efik nke (story, riddle, tongue-twister, proverb), but it is common for
there to be a distinct term (sometimes in addition to a more general one), e.g. in Nyanja,
Mbundu, Dogon, Lyele, etc.
I
In a general way ‘riddles’ are readily distinguishable by their question-
and-answer form and by their brevity. However, a preliminary point must
be made here. The popular European or American picture of a riddle is
of an explicit question to which a respondent must try to puzzle out the
correct answer. African riddles are not altogether like this. The ‘question’
is usually not an interrogative at all in form but, outwardly at least, is
a statement. An answer is expected but very often the listeners are not
directly asked to guess but merely faced with an allusive sentence referring
analogously to something else, which they must then try to identify. The
point, furthermore, is normally in some play of images, visual, acoustic, or
situational, rather than, as in many English riddles, in puns or plays on
words.
There are many different forms. Very often the riddle is in the simple
form of a phrase or statement referring to some well-known object in more
or less veiled language. Examples of such simple riddles seem to occur
all over the continent. There is the Tonga ‘Little things that defeat us—
Mosquitoes , Malum Water standing up Sugar-cane , Fulani ”e born
come morning, give birth—Fresh milk’ (because milk is left overnight
before making butter), Shona ‘The little wildcat in the long grass—Scissors’,
or the Lamba ‘The house in which one does not turn round—The grave’
Fell n.d. Harries b “rnott Fortune Doke
. The Nyanja have a characteristic series of riddles in which not only
the answer but the question4 consists of one word only—‘Invisible!—The
wind , Innumerable Grass Gray , for similar or identical
examples see Dewar 1900).
In most of these riddles, what is required is that the answerer should
identify the object indicated in these allusive general statements. In fact
many riddles need a double process to solve them, for the analogy in the
initial statement may not be immediately obvious therefore the solver
must first select the salient features of the object or situation mentioned,
There are a few genuine exceptions to this, but some of the apparently interrogative
forms that are sometimes published seem to be due to the European collector’s
conscious or unconscious imposition of the form more familiar to him. The great
majority of these who have explicitly paid attention to the form of riddles in Africa
are agreed that the typical pattern is not an interrogative one (For some exceptions see
Simmons ”ascom ff. Yoruba .
4 The initial statement that poses the problem will be referred to as question even though
this usage is clearly not strictly accurate.
15. Riddles 415
and then go on to identify a similar object. A good example is the Fulani

riddle ‘I threw a lance, it flew over seven rivers and went and speared the
Chief of Masina’s bull’, where the answer is ‘A vulture’, the salient features
being the fact that it goes far and lands on an animal. Many other examples
of such analogies could be cited—for example, the Karanga riddles ‘My
father’s little hill which is easily destroyed—Porridge’ because of the way
porridge is heaped up on the plate and soon eaten, or ‘A flame in the hill—A
leopard’, and the Zezuru ‘The little chap who plays the typewriter—The
tongue Hunt , Fortune .
In these simple riddles, then, some generalization or some image
is suggested and the answer involves pointing to the particular object
implied. The answer here is the name of the object indicated, often just one
word, and the analogy is one of meaning the respondent must recognize
the similarity of situation, character, or behaviour in the statement and its
answer.
This type seems to be the most common “frican form. ”ut there are
also other cases in which the analogy involved is not of meaning but of
rhythm, sound, or tone, often with a longer reply. These forms must now
be considered.
Sometimes there is a rhythm or balance between question and reply.
Among the Thonga, for example, one riddle runs ‘Over there smoke goes
up, over there smoke goes up’, to which the reply, in balancing structure,
is ‘Over there they mourn over a chief, over there they mourn over a poor
man Junod and Jaques . Junod speaks of many other Thonga riddles
in which there is a kind of rhythm in the syllables so that the questions and
answers are like ‘two little verses, balancing each other in a poetical way’
Junod a form of riddle distinguished in the native terminology from
the one-word-answer type. Similar ‘strophic’ riddles are recorded among
the Transvaal Sotho Endemann cf. Cole-”euchat ,
a form reminiscent of the similarly balanced proverbs so common in the
same areas.
”esides rhythm, the analogy may take the form of tone resemblance
between question and reply. This has been recorded, for instance, from
the Luvale of Zambia White , the Luba of the Congo Van “vermaet
, and the Ibibio-Efik group of Southern Nigeria Simmons , .6
“rnott . This article is one of the best analyses of “frican riddles and is drawn
on largely here.
6 Not all the so-called ‘tone riddles’ he gives are, in fact, characterized by marked
resemblance in tone. Efik tone riddles on Simmons s own showing include
In these riddles, occurring in languages in which tonality is a significant

feature, the question and answer are marked by identical or similar tonal
patterns. The Ibibio tone riddles described by Simmons are characterized
by their erotic content or allusions, practically all containing some reference
to vagina, clitoris, or coition, as in the riddles ”ig ships ”ig clitoris and
‘Sun shines (and) come hits ground (and) splits—Vagina opens (and)
come takes fly (and) chews’, each characterized by exact or nearly exact
tones in each part Simmons . Simmons gives only very literal
translations). Not all tone riddles have this erotic content: Luvale ones, for
instance, do not White . ”ut they all share the characteristic that the
analogy between statement and reply is primarily one of form—tone and
perhaps rhythm—rather than meaning.
So far at least, tone riddles have been infrequently recorded. Other
acoustic images, on the other hand, are very common indeed. Very often
the ‘question’ consists of just one word or phrase to suggest the answer
through its sound alone. This sound may be one that gives a direct
onomatopoeic impression even to foreigners. In the Kamba riddle ‘Seh!’
the answer is ‘A needle stabbed the sand’, for the question imitates the
sound made by a needle dropping point first into the sand (Lindblom iii,
, a riddle not unlike the similar Limba one from the other side of
the continent, ‘Sengsekede’, answered ‘You cannot put a needle on a rock’
(because the sound of sengysekede suggests the sound made by the needle
when it falls over). More often the acoustic analogy implicit in the question
is not immediately obvious, for ideophones conventionally recognized in
one culture are used to convey an acoustic image to members of that culture.
Thus the Makua riddle ‘Eiya eyeya’, an ideophone representing a state of life,
is answered ‘An orphan’, the Fulani ‘Kerbu kerbu njolla’ represents ‘Goats’
feet on hard ground Harries b “rnott ff. , the Thonga
have ‘Shigiligigi shigi’—The rain of early morning’, and the Kamba ‘Aa’ is
answered ‘The old man drank a little milk in the dry season’—the sound
conventionally suggesting the man’s intense thirst and his enjoyment of
the milk Junod and Jaques no. Lindblom iii, . In none of
these is the connection a ‘natural’ one that could be recognized by someone
unacquainted with the culture.
several with ‘dissimilar tones’, so that it may be misleading to overemphasize the tonal
aspect and ignore other possible analogies such as, perhaps, rhythm or similarities in
structure between question and answer.
15. Riddles 417
”esides composing the whole question, there are also ideophones and
nonsense-words suggesting some acoustic image that appear as just one
part. The Mwera riddle, for example, ‘Ndendende the plaiter of a mat’ is
answered by “ hornet the ideophone ndendende suggests the way the
hornet moves its hindquarters rapidly in filling its hole for egg-laying,
just as the leaves shake about when someone makes a mat Harries
24). In Karanga the riddle ‘Magiregede walks as if he were proud’ is solved
by ‘A wagon’ because of the onomatopoeic word imitating the sound of
wagon wheels on a road Hunt , while the process of going to the
spring with an empty pot and coming back with a full one is suggested
by the sounds in ‘To go u, to return i’, where u in Shona represents the
empty sound, i the full one Fortune . Sometimes both acoustic and
visual images are combined in a riddle as in the Fulani example explained
by Arnott ‘Tiisiinii taasaanaa siradel woogana—The gait of a large pigeon in
sand the long-drawn-out words, with a few short syllables in between,
correspond to the image of feet dragging through sand with occasional
hops the high-tone and close vowels of tiisiinii alternating with the low-
tone open vowels of taasaanaa represent the pigeon’s gait, swaying from
side to side “rnott .
The characteristic form of riddles in Africa, then, is for some analogy to
be recognized between question and answer, most frequently an analogy
of meaning or of sound, with simple one-word reply, but also occasionally
longer forms involving tonal and rhythmic correspondence. Though less
fully documented than proverbs, many collections of riddles of this form
have been made from all parts of the continent.
There are, however, certain other specialized forms which appear to
occur only rarely (or else have proved less accessible to collectors) and
often overlap to a larger extent with other forms of oral literature. They
will only be treated very briefly here.
First, among some peoples riddles may be particularly closely connected
with proverbs, so that either the answer or even both parts of the riddle
are sayings accepted in other contexts as proverbs. One group of riddles
recorded from Leopoldville stands out as being integrally connected with
proverbial sayings.7 Thus change of fortune and the mortality of all men
are brought out in the two proverb-riddles ‘La terre tourne—Tu possèdes,
tu seras privé and Toi qui te couches sur un lit et moi qui me couche sur
7 Referred to as devinettes-proverbes by Comhaire-Sylvain (1949b).

une natte—Nous sortirons (de ce monde) par le même chemin’ (Comhaire-

Sylvain . Similar instances have been recorded from Southern
Nigeria. In a number of the Efik ‘tone riddles’ the response is said to be a
proverb Simmons , while the neighbouring “nang Ibibio have
a distinct class of proverb-riddles distinguished from their simple riddles,
which are only to amuse. In these both portions of the riddle consist of a
proverb. One example is The vine grows along the edge of the pit He is
made to speak in public’. This is explained by the fact that the Anang take
a great pride in eloquence and their children are early trained to develop
verbal skills the proverb instructs children to attempt public speaking as
early as possible, but at the same time recognizes that this is difficult for
them: just as a vine has to struggle to grow along the edge of a hole (and not
into it, which would be easier but would cut off the sun), so a child must
struggle to overcome his shyness and endeavour to speak (Messenger 1960:
229).8 Though proverb-riddles have not been widely reported as a distinct
named type, it is possible that proverbs may in fact turn out to occur more
frequently than realized in connection with riddles, either explicitly or
by allusion, so that in a full analysis of the literature of any one people
proverbs and riddles should really be treated in conjunction. Among some
of the Central ”antu, for instance, a common riddle that occurs in various
forms—’Something I threw over to the other side of the river—Eyes’, the
Ila form in Smith and Dale ii, recalls the equally common
proverb ‘The eye crosses a full river’, metaphorically signifying that desire
goes beyond the possible.
A similar overlap of forms is the way in which praise names occasionally
occur in riddles. Thus among the Tlokwa the common praise name for
cattle—’God with a watery nose’—is said also to occur as a riddle, the
answer being “n ox Nakene . The Hausa riddle referring to a
camel is also clearly in the style of a praise term—’Largest of beasts, devilish
property, everyone who loses you has to look for you Merrick .9
Again, this sort of connection may turn out to be widespread.
In South “frica we hear of the bird riddle Jordon . This is
a kind of competitive dialogue between two boys or young men in front of
an audience. Each has to prove he ‘knows the birds’ by making an assertion
about one, then an analogy likening it to a type of person. Each in turn
8 Messenger gives eighteen other examples of these proverb-riddles, with full

explanations of each.
cf. also praise names in Lyele riddling Nicolas and in Efik Simmons .
15. Riddles 419
tries to show that he ‘knows’ more birds than his opponent. In this game
‘freshness of idea, wit and humour count more than just the number of
birds named Jordon . Thus a competitor with the following was
declared the winner with a single attempt:
Challenger. What bird do you know?

Proposer. I know the white-necked raven
Challenger. What about him?
Proposer. That he is a missionary.
Challenger. Why so?
Proposer. ”ecause he wears a white collar and a black cassock, and is
always looking for dead bodies to bury. Jordan
Song-riddles occur among the Makua Harries a), a form said to be

unrecorded elsewhere in “frica though see Raum Chaga
Ghilardi Kikuyu . These riddles ikano) differ from ordinary
ones in that they are in the form of action songs accompanying a dance and
have a didactic purpose closely connected with initiation rituals. An expert
improviser leads the singing, and the solution of some of the song-riddles
are known only to him it is forbidden for initiates who have learnt these
riddles to tell them to the non-initiated. Many of these song-riddles include
sexual references or allusions to the initiation rituals. In ‘The handle of the
hoe is bent, let him be adze-ed—The seed of the baobab tree’, the seed is
compared to a piece of wood which needs to be straightened so that a hoe
can be fixed on a baobab seed is cleft down the middle the parallel is to a
disobedient person who needs to be straightened by initiation rites Harries
1942a . In another, “ woman smoothly seducting ntiya ntiya), by the
grinding, the grinding, the grinding , the answer is “ helmeted shrike
ntiya is an ideophone for the way in which the woman grinds seductively
to attract the man she wants, and she is compared to the helmeted shrike
which knows no fear of people Harries a . “ final example
contains an instruction to initiates to avoid incest—’The sweet stalk of
millet within the boundary however sweet I shan’t break it’, answered by
”lood relationship Harries a: 44).
”esides their occasional connections with songs, praise names, and
proverbs, riddles also sometimes shade into other forms of oral literature.
They have obvious connections with enigmas, puzzles, and dilemma
stories and in some societies the same term refers to all of these. Among
the Ila of Zambia, for instance, there is a series of enigmas with the
same question, ‘You who are (or have grown) so clever!’, with a series
of possible answers. The point is to be ‘a kind of catechism challenging
the self-complacency of men who think they know everything’ (Smith
and Dale ii, . This is brought out in the responses When the
milk of your cows is put together you can’t tell which is which’, ‘You
can’t tie water in a lump’, ‘Can you catch hold of a shadow?’, ‘Can you
follow up a road to where it ends?’, ‘Can you put an ugly person back
into the womb to be reborn handsome? Smith and Dale ii, .
The Ila also have conundrums like, for instance, the puzzle about who
should be the one left to perish of a man, his wife, and their two mothers
when they reach a river across which only three can be ferried each
possible combination having been found unacceptable, the final answer
is that they all had to sit on the bank and die together! (Smith and Dale
ii, Similar puzzles, as well as the longer dilemma stories, are
widespread. Less common are the epigrams that occur among the Fulani
as a form closely connected with both riddles and proverbs. They share
the characteristics of grouping together a number of phenomena that have
some basic similarity or illustrate some general principle in the same way
as riddles. Thus in one example quoted by Arnott a list of similia is given
preceded by a statement of the general principle linking them:
Three exist where three are not:

Commoner exists where there is no king, but a kingdom cannot exist where
there are no commoners
Grass exists where there is nothing that eats grass, but what eats grass cannot
exist where no grass is
Water exists where there is nothing that drinks water, but what drinks water
cannot exist where no water is. “rnott
Several other examples, including a threefold classificatory epigram, are

quoted by Arnott, who points out their similarity in certain respects to both
proverbs and riddles. They recall the striking Hausa saying classified as
a riddle by Fletcher but with much in common with the Fulani epigrams:
‘Three things are like three things but for three things: Sleep is like death
but for breathing marriage is like slavery but for wifely respect a guinea-
fowl is like grey cloth but for being alive Fletcher .10
10 A somewhat similar riddle-type classification is found in the Galla hymn in which six
wonders are listed Chadwicks iii, .
15. Riddles 421
II
These longer and more complex forms are, however, relatively rare,
and most of the remaining discussion about style and language will be
concerned with the more common simple riddle where some analogy
is drawn, usually of sound or sense, between a brief question and often
briefer answer.
There are various approaches to the analysis of style and form in
riddles. Those interested in ‘structural analysis’11 have pointed to certain
basic elements in riddles and the way these are related to one another. In
particular Georges and Dundes pick out the ‘descriptive element’ in the
question, the ‘referent’ of which has to be guessed. Many riddles consist
of more than one such descriptive element for example, It has a head /
but can’t think—Match’ has two elements. These two, in turn, may be in
opposition to each other (as in the common European type such as ‘What
has legs / but cannot walk?—Chair’). Furthermore, the opening question
may be either literal or metaphorical in terms of its solution. This becomes
clear with some examples. A riddle like ‘I know something that sleeps
all day and walks all night “ spider is to be counted as a literal form
whereas ‘Two rows of white horses on a red hill—Teeth’ is metaphorical in
that the solution (teeth) and the subject of the descriptive element (horses)
are different and are only analogous through a metaphor. Following this
analysis one can thus distinguish between different types of riddles in
terms of (i) oppositional / non-oppositional (further divided into three sub-
types), and (2) literal / metaphorical.12
This kind of analysis can be applied to African riddles. It seems in general
that the typical European oppositional type is not nearly so common in
Africa where, if we adopt these ‘structural’ terms, non-oppositional riddles
are by far the most frequent. A metaphorical rather than a literal emphasis
too seems to be to the fore. However, when we reach this point we find
we have to extend some of these structural elements, in the sense that, as
11 Especially Georges and Dundes from whom the following examples are taken
and Gowlett 1966. (For an alternative analysis and critique of Georges and Dundes see
Scott .
12 For further details and elucidation see articles cited and further references given there.
See instances throughout this chapter and the discussion in Gowlett, op. cit. For an
exception to this, see a number of the Yoruba riddles discussed by ”ascom, which
are based on a pattern of ‘two statements which appear to be mutually contradictory,
incongruous or impossible ”ascom . There are also a number of scattered
exceptions, including some of those cited in this chapter.
described earlier, analogies of sound, tone, or rhythm have also to be taken

into account in many African riddles in addition to analogy in terms of
content. This kind of generalized structural analysis, then, can be helpful
up to a point in studying African riddles, but beyond that we have to turn
to more detailed accounts.
When we come to the precise style in which riddles are expressed, it
quickly becomes obvious that this tends to vary from culture to culture
according to the favourite forms current at any particular time. Thus in
parts of West “frica e.g. Hausa, Fulani reference to the number three
is common in both proverbs and riddles among the Makua many of the
simple riddles open with ‘I went to my friend and . . .’, as in ‘I went to
my friend and he gave me a black chain ”lack driver ants Harries
1942b the Kamba have a series opening I was about to . . . the Zulu
apparently like long riddles while the Thonga make frequent use of the
opening tseke-tseke Lindblom iii, Callaway Junod
and Jaques .
However, in spite of this great variation in style, there are certain
typical stylistic patterns that seem to have a very wide distribution. The
initial statement which serves as the ‘question’ is sometimes preceded by
some such phrase as ‘Guess what . . .’ or by some stereotyped formula
introducing a whole session of riddling. Very often, however, the statement
is not itself accompanied by any explicit indication that a solution has to
be found. The answer is typically in the form of a single word, but longer
phrases and sentences occur even in simple riddles. Among the Lamba, for
instance, a characteristic reply is in the form of a question as in their version
of a common ”antu riddle That which has no ending What of the path,
who has ever come to the end of it?’14
Within riddles themselves, there are also some typical patterns. The
thing alluded to in the question is often referred to in terms of some other
specific (and favourite) noun. This will be clear from some examples.
Among the Tlokwa a common form of expression is in terms of cattle,
so that the referent is veiled by being called our cow or cattle ”lack
cattle which stay in a forest—Lice’ and ‘My father’s cow is green outside
and black inside Reed Nakene are only two of many
examples. The Ngala use ‘A chief in a similar way (e.g. ‘Un chef avec
14 Doke . On the different forms of questions and answers in ”antu riddles see
Cole-”euchat .
Names of other animals are contrasting, however, surprisingly uncommon in the
question part of riddles, with their frequent appearance in stories and proverbs.
15. Riddles 423
des boutons sur tout le corps L ananas and the ”ambara ask about Ce
petit homme Comhaire-Sylvain Travelé . Proper
names of people, or sometimes of places, are not uncommon in this context,
occurring, for example, among the Lyele of Upper Volta, the Yoruba of
Nigeria, and the Shona of Southern Rhodesia where a question about ‘The
thing of so-and-so is frequent Fortune . The first person singular
(pronoun or possessive) also constantly appears. Most common of all is
the use of kinship terms in reference. ‘Father’ or ‘My father’ seems to be
the most popular of all (occurring frequently in the riddles of peoples as
far apart as, for example, the Limba, Lyele, and Yoruba of West Africa, the
Fang of West Equatorial Africa, the Ngala of the Congo, and the Shona
and Tlokwa of Central and southern Africa). Other kin, too, frequently
appear—mother, children, grandfather, even affines—as in the Shona ‘Your
staggering, Mr. Son-in-law, where did you drink beer?—The chameleon’
Fortune .
The language of riddles is sometimes said to be archaic and certainly
often contains apparently meaningless words. Puns and word play are
not a significant aspect, but appear occasionally, for instance in Yoruba
riddles ”ascom . “s will already be obvious from examples cited,
the language of riddles is also marked by a frequent use of reduplication,
ideophones, and diminutives (occasionally augmentatives) that take the
form either of special prefixes, as in Nyanja, or of separate adjectives
conveying the idea of small-ness, usually applied to the main noun in the
question.16
In general form riddles seem to represent a relatively fixed type of oral
literature. Their stereotyped brevity offers little opportunity for variation
or elaboration and there is little if any stress on performance. The creative
aspect may in any case be limited, in that simple riddles are so often the
domain of children. However, occasional variant forms have been recorded
between which individuals can choose,17 and several authorities mention
the fact that new riddles are constantly being made, presumably within
the general and particular stereotypes just discussed see eg Schapera
Smith and Dale ii, ”ascom .
In content, riddles can include just about every sphere of natural and
human life, and vary according to the preoccupations and customs of the
16 On linguistic structure see Cole-”euchat ff.

17 E.g. the three versions of the Limba acoustic riddle where the ideophone kikirikokori
suggests the great size of a pregnant woman. Finnegan
society in which they are told. An understanding of the point of a riddle

thus often depends on a knowledge of the ways of a particular society. The
Nuer riddle, for instance, ‘Guess what big man it is near whom they have
the wedding talk but he never makes a remark—It is a barn’ is explained
by the fact that among the Nuer, wedding negotiations commonly take
place near a barn Huffman . Some of the stock comparisons
suggested in the questions have already been mentioned—’my father’, ‘our
cow’, etc.—and the answers, according to which collections of riddles are
often classified, range from the human body, tools and implements, and
domestic life, to examples from the animal and vegetable world, crops,
and natural phenomena like the moon or stars. Many riddles give vivid
visual impressions, particularly those about the natural world, which often
indicate close observation. The Nyanja, for instance, have a riddle about
the fly, ‘The chief from the north when walking says, where I came from is
good, where I go to is good’—because the house-fly’s habit of rubbing its
front and back legs together alternatively suggests to the Nyanja a feeling
of satisfaction Gray . The Kgatla riddle Tell me a green cow
which bears white calves—It is the mimosa tree’ gives a vivid picture of the
white thorns on the green tree, while a Thonga riddle compares the wild
apricot s root to “ red copper bangle Schapera Junod .
There is evidence of more imaginative observation in the Makua riddle
about the moon—’A very beautiful thing which (if you) say to it, Come on,
something inside it refuses Harries b: 276).
There are some stock subjects that occur widely whatever the other
variations. One of the most common is that of the various staple crops—
maize, millet, yams, etc.—in different parts of the continent. Another is that
of the sexual and obscene references which are so common in riddles that
Doke, in his general description of ”antu riddles, can say that many of
them ‘take the place of the lewd joke of other communities’ (Doke 1947:
118). Many examples could be cited of this. The erotic Ibibio riddles have
already been mentioned Simmons . The Lamba too have many
obscene riddles, while the Shona specialize in riddles characterized by their
suggestiveness but to which the real answers are always in fact innocent
Fortune . Others are more outspoken, like the ”ambara Ce petit
homme se mit en colère, dansa longuement jusqu à en vomir lorsqu il eut
vomi, il mourut Le membre viril Travélé . ”esides such stock
topics, certain riddles with the same content but different forms sometimes
have a wide circulation. “mong the ”antu, for instance, Doke notices the
15. Riddles 425
very frequent occurrence, in various versions, of a riddle about an egg (‘A

house without any door’.) and about hair, e.g. ‘I sowed my big field and
reaped it, and my hand was not full’ (Doke 1947: 118).
III
The occasions for the asking of simple riddles are strikingly similar
throughout Africa. There are two main situations in which they occur.
Riddle-asking is often a prelude to the telling of stories, typically by
children in the evening before the rather more serious narrations commence
sometimes, as among the Fang, riddles are asked between stories, partly to
allow the professional story-tellers some respite in their lengthy narrations
Tardy . The other very common occasion is a game of
riddling, usually among children this is conducted according to special
rules and formulas and is often highly competitive. Again it takes place
most typically in the evening.18
Competitive riddling has been extensively described for many of the
”antu-speaking peoples. In southern “frica it not infrequently takes the
form of a contest between two teams. Among the Tlokwa, for instance,
the children are divided into two groups as they sit round the fire in the
winter when it is too cold to be outdoors, and the first group to start goes
on asking until the other side can no longer answer Nakene .
“mong some other ”antu peoples such as the Nyanja the competition is
between individuals, not teams. Schapera describes the game as played
among the Kgatla: if two children are involved, one begins asking the other,
and continues until the other is unable to answer the second then says Let
the buyers come and questions in turn when the other fails he says Tell
me yours’, and there is an exchange of the riddles each had not known.
A similar process is followed when several children are playing, with a
division into sides which ‘buy’ the unknown riddles from each other, the
more skilful side taunting their opponents Schapera . This fiction
of having to ‘pay’ in return for the un-guessed answer is a fairly common
theme. Among the Nyanja in Central Africa the pretended recompense is
cattle We pay up oxen. How many? Such-and-such a number Werner
1906: 214) while in Kenya the one giving up has to name a town (‘Give
me a town Go to Mombasa , etc. Hollis Similarly in West
18 On time and place for riddles in ”antu see especially Cole-”euchat .

Equatorial “frica Mbete children have to pay a village “dam

see also Lukas Kanuri , Calame-Griaule Dogon ,
”erry n. .
Such riddling competitions are often conventionally preceded by
special formulas which are surprisingly alike throughout the ”antu area
in Lamba, for instance, the propounder says tyo (‘guess’) while the other
replies kakesa (‘let it come’) or kamuleta (‘bring it’), and then the riddles
are asked Doke the Nyanja lead off riddle-sessions round the
communal fire with cilape! (‘a riddle!’) answered by nacize! (‘let it come!’)
and a shout of wafa (‘he has died’) when the right answer is given (Gray
and innumerable similar examples could be cited from ”antu-
speaking peoples.19
Elsewhere, in West Africa for instance, riddles are asked before or during
performances of stories or songs. Even where there is apparent similarity to
the ”antu pattern with introductory formulas before riddling sessions, the
practice is very different because of the absence of the competitive element.
Among the Anang Ibibio of Southern Nigeria, for instance, riddle-asking is
preceded by special introductory formulas, posed by an individual, then
answered in unison by the group. The riddles are not told to baffle the
audience or stimulate them to guess, for the answers are all known even
when a new one is invented, the originator adds the reply with the question
instead of asking for a solution. The emphasis is very much on communal
entertainment rather than competition: ‘The enjoyment of a riddle derives
from the sharing of it by members of a group rather than from the challenge
to the imagination it presents’ (Messenger 1960: 226).
Riddles also occasionally occur in other contexts. Among the Lamba,
and perhaps other peoples, riddles are sometimes referred to in speeches
as a striking way of holding people’s attention, and thus contribute to the
literary richness of oratory Doke . In addition to the Makua song-
riddles, even simple riddles sometimes have connections with initiation,
as among the Tlokwa where the special language learnt in the initiation
ceremonies is connected with riddles.20
To some extent riddles also appear in various spheres of everyday
life. Among the Chaga, riddles can be used to influence someone’s action
19 See also Doke Werner in Hollis Cole-”euchat .

20 Nakene . See also the use of riddles in initiation schools in Kenya Lambert
b: 17).
15. Riddles 427
through irony or indirect suggestion, to imply a threat without actually

stating it, or to convey secret information Messenger . This
kind of usage somewhat resembles that of proverbs and seems more usual
with the complex forms than with the more simple riddle mainly used by
children. The Anang proverb-riddles, for example, are used, like proverbs,
by people of both sexes and all ages in a multitude of social situations and
are expected to instruct as well as amuse (Raum 1940: 219), while among the
neighbouring Efik the complex tone riddles, with their proverbial replies
can be used for oblique cursing, humorous greeting, succinct explanation of
an action, and to embarrass women through their erotic content (Simmons
.
However, such everyday usages are relatively rare. Conventionally
riddle-telling is a social pastime, for amusement pure and simple. This
aspect of riddling is brought out by two further points about its occasions.
First, it tends to be a separate and restricted activity. It is very common in all
parts of Africa for there to be a general rule—not always strictly observed,
but a rule nevertheless—that riddle-telling should take place in the evening
and not during the day in East Central “frica there is sometimes the further
limitation that riddling should not take place during certain phases of the
farming year Fortune ten Raa . Riddles are thus, unlike
proverbs, regarded as a kind of marginal activity reserved for special
times rather than a universal aspect of human activity and communication.
Secondly, it is generally children who are expected to take an interest in the
light-hearted asking of riddles. There are some exceptions to this. Among
the Yoruba, for example, both children and adults are said to enjoy riddles
although they are especially popular with young children (Gbadamos
and ”eier ”ascom , while Kamba adults, even more than
children, compete in riddling two outstanding riddle experts are described
as exchanging ‘riddles and answers with a rapidity resembling two skilled
fencers making thrusts and parries Lindblom iii, . However, these
situations are not common. More generally, riddles are associated with
children’s amusement in contrast to the more serious use of proverbs by
their elders.
The explicit purpose of riddles, then, is almost invariably amusement.
Commentators have, however, predictably pointed to many of their
incidental functions as well. ”esides entertainment, riddles are sometimes
claimed to play an indirect educational role by training children in quick
thinking, in intellectual skill, and in classification,21 providing, through

their sexual or comic bias, a release from tensions imposed by the
moral and social code Dupire and Tressan , or leading to a fuller
participation in social life. They are also like proverbs, sometimes used
22
as an indirect means of saying something without the risk involved in

stating it explicitly. These points have been frequently mentioned. Less
common are the incidental functions of the more complex riddles as a form
of communication, an esoteric accomplishment associated with initiation,
and the encouragement of either sharing or competitiveness implicit in
various forms of riddling. In the various societies these indirect functions
of riddle-asking have greater or lesser significance. What all seem to share,
however, is the explicit assumption that riddles, or at least the simple form
of riddles, are primarily for entertainment and, unlike proverbs, not for any
deeper purpose.
IV
Like proverbs, riddles represent a concise form of conventionally
stereotyped expression. Though in some ways riddles can be regarded as
a relatively minor and crude form of art, suitable merely for children, they
nevertheless have some relevance for the general literary background. This
comes out partly through the connections of riddles with literary forms
like proverbs, epigram, praise names, and rhetoric. More significantly, the
imagery and poetic comment of even the simple riddles are clearly part of
the general literary culture. Insight into the nature of people’s behaviour
can be expressed in a poem or a story—or in a riddle. The Kgatla say ‘Tell
me: two civet cats which when they fight are not to be separated—It is
a married couple’, while the Kamba show their insight in ‘Matters of
importance Children s secrets Schapera Lindblom iii,
18). There is the Ila comment on humankind with ‘It is far—And it’s a long
way to God! , and the ”ambara and Lamba express their view of man in
Quelle est la plus rapide de toutes les choses? La pensée , and That which
digs abut in the deserted village—The heart’ (which always turns to think
of the past Smith and Dale ii, Travelé Cole-”euchat
. That paradox too can be conveyed vividly in the brief words of
a riddle can be illustrated from the Hausa “ prince on an old mat “ kola
21 “s in the structural interpretation by Hamnett .

22 For an excellent discussion of this last point see ”lacking .
15. Riddles 429
nut’ in which we are given a vivid picture of the way the beautiful pink or
white kola-nut, so valued a commodity, are exposed for sale in the market
on a piece of old matting Fletcher .
Most of all riddle, however simple, involve a play of images, visual and
acoustic, through which insights and comment can be expressed. In this
way, even this very minor form of art, with its own stylistic peculiarities
in different cultures, has its part to play in the richness of oral literature in
African societies.
Though riddles tend to be recorded in rather smaller numbers than proverbs, there is
still a large number of collections, too many to catalogue here. Useful bibliographies
can be found in Doke , Nicolas , Cole-”euchat , ”ascom . See also
Aranzadi 1962 and, among many others short articles, Jacobs 1962b, du Toit 1966,
Ittmann , ”ynon .
16. Oratory, Formal Speaking,
and other Stylized Forms
Oratory and rhetoric: Burundi; Limba. Prayers, curses, etc. Word play and
verbal formulas. Names.
I
The art of oratory is in West Africa carried to a remarkable pitch of perfection.
At the public palavers each linguist [official spokesman] stands up in turn
and pours forth a flood of speech, the readiness and exuberance of which
strikes the stranger with amazement, and accompanies his words with
gestures so various, graceful, and appropriate that it is a pleasure to look
on, though the matter of the oration cannot be understood. These oratorical
displays appear to afford great enjoyment to the audience, for every African
native is a born orator and a connoisseur of oratory, a fact that becomes very
manifest in the Courts of Justice in the Protectorate, where the witnesses
often address the juries in the most able and unembarrassed manner I have
even seen little boys of eight or ten hold forth to the court with complete
self-possession and with an ease of diction and a grace of gesture that
would have struck envy into the heart of an English member of Parliament
R. “. Freeman on his visit to “shanti in , quoted in Wolfson
This comment on Ashanti rhetoric in the nineteenth century could be

paralleled by similar remarks about the oratorical ability of many African
peoples. Of the ”antu as a whole a linguist writes that they are born orators
they reveal little reticence or difficulty about expression in public. They like
talking. They like hearing themselves in an assembly . . .’ (Doke 1948: 284).
We hear too of the significance of oratory among the un-centralized Anang
Ibibio, Messenger or Ibo of Eastern Nigeria. Of the Ibo,
indeed, Achebe has stated categorically that ‘the finest examples of prose
occur not in those forms [folktales, legends, proverbs, and riddles] but in
oratory and even in the art of good conversation . . . Serious conversation

and oratory . . . call for an original and individual talent and at their best
belong to a higher order’ (Achebe in Whiteley 1964: vii). Similar comments
on the relevance of oratory could be multiplied.1 It is not in fact surprising
that many peoples who do not use the written word for formalized
transactions or artistic expression should have developed the oral skill of
public speaking to perform these functions.
Yet for all the passing references to the significance of oratory, there
seems to be little detailed documentation on the actual practice of public
speaking as a skill in its own right. It is true that oratory, a form in which
oral characteristics are of the essence, does not possess the same easily
recognized ‘literary’ qualifications that can be discerned, in, say, panegyric
poetry or fictional narrative where parallels in literate cultures are easy
to find. Oratory falls between, on the one hand, highly conventional
and recognized literary expression and, on the other, informal everyday
conversation. ”ut even though the line between rhetorical and informal
speech is not easy to draw, oratory in many African societies would seem
to deserve further consideration than it has yet received. The speeches of
classical antiquity have, in one form or another, long been counted as one
form of literary expression with aesthetic as well as purely practical appeal,
and it is not ridiculous to regard these as comparable to some of the oratory
of African societies. Though little detailed material has been published and
the account given here is thus exceedingly thin, it seems worth including
a few points and examples, not least if this leads to further investigation.
In Africa, as in antiquity, one of the commonest contexts for public
speaking is that of a law case, a formalized occasion which allows both
litigants and judges to display their rhetorical skill. Their conscious aims,
doubtless, are clearly functional but aesthetic considerations are also
involved, if only to add to the persuasiveness of the speech. Some of these
speeches are highly sophisticated and skilled. We often hear of the use of
proverbs on such occasions to appeal to the audience or make a point with
extra forcefulness. In the case of the Anang Ibibio their famous eloquence
arises largely from their skilful use of proverbial maxims, particularly in
court. Long speeches are given by plaintiff and defendant to explicate their
cases, lasting as long as an hour each and listened to with rapt attention.
The Ibibio audience is particularly appreciative of a speech that abounds
See e.g. Koelle vii Kanuri Tracey Karanga Rodegem Rundi

“ndrzejewski and Lewis Somali Tew Lele Jones Krio in
election speeches, etc., on public platforms).
16. Oratory, Formal Speaking, and other Stylized Forms 433
in original or unusual proverbs to capture their interest, or that cleverly

introduces an apposite saying at just the crucial moment Messenger
and Ch. above .
Figure . Thronged Limba law court, site of oratory photo Ruth Finnegan .
The formalized and literary aspects of legal rhetoric can even take the
extreme and unusual form of a portion of the speeches being delivered
as song. This is apparently sometimes the case in Mbala litigation in the
Congo. The formal interchange between the opponents is partly conducted
through spoken argument, but this is then followed by a snatch of
allegorical song in which the supporters of each party join with voice and
drum, the two sides drawn up to face each other. An extract from one case
is quoted as follows:
1ST PARTY I was in my house and would have liked to stay. ”ut he
has come and wants to discuss the matter in public. So I
have left my house and that is why you see me here.
(sings) I am like a cricket. I would like to sing, but the wall of
earth that surrounds me prevents me. Someone has
forced me to come out of my hole, so I will sing.
(continues Let us debate the things, but slowly, slowly, otherwise
argument) we will have to go before the tribunal of the white
people. You have forced me to come. When the sun
has set, we shall still be here debating.
(sings). I am like the dog that stays before the door until he
gets a bone.
OPPONENT Nobody goes both ways at the same time. You have
told this and that. One of the two must be wrong. That
is why I am attacking you.
(sings). A thief speaks with another thief. It is because you are
bad that I attack you.2
Political discussions are also obvious occasions for oratory—indeed the two
are often closely related. At the local level at least, there are not infrequently
rules about the order in which such politicians must speak, and accepted
conventions of style, content, and set phraseology which speakers more
or less follow. Such political speeches often shade into other formal and
public occasions involving, say, speeches of welcome, religious injunctions,
sermons, harangues, or solemn marriage transactions.
A few of the orators seem to be real professionals, as in the case of the
Ashanti ‘linguists’ described by Freeman in the quotation given earlier.
These men were the spokesmen of kings and chiefs among the Akan. Not
only were they charged with repeating the words of their patron after him,
acting as a herald to make it clear to all his audience and to add to his
utterances the extra authority of remoteness, but they were also expected,
in the words of Dan-quah, to ‘perfect’ the speech of a chief who was not
sufficiently eloquent, and to elaborate his theme for him. The linguist
should not add any new subject-matter, but
he may extend the phrases and reconstruct the sentences and intersperse the
speech with some of the celebrated witty and philosophical reflections for
which they are justly celebrated to the credit of both himself and his Chief . . .
(Danquah 1928: 42)
In another description:
When the Linguist rises up to speak in public, he leans upon the King’s gold
cane, or a subordinate linguist holds it in front of him. He is going to make
a speech now, and it is sure to be a happy effort. It will sparkle with wit
and humour. He will make use freely of parables to illustrate points in his
speech. He will indulge in epigrams, and all the while he will seem not to
possess any nerves so cool, so collected, so self-complacent! He comes of a
stock used to public speaking and public functions. Hayford
Quoted in ”randel , from Verwilghen .

The literary aspects of some of these conventionalized utterances are discussed in the
following section.
The use of heralds whose sole function is to repeat the words of the speaker
and thus endow them with greater dignity or volume is not without other
parallels in West Africa, and is a practice that has lent itself well to the
situations, under colonial rule at least, where the speeches of administrator
or missionary were transferred, sentence by sentence, through the
intermediary of an interpreter.
Most speeches, however, seem in fact to be made not by professionals
but by experts who acquired their skills in the course of carrying out their
various political, religious, or just good-neighbourly duties in the society.
Such men—like the Limba ‘big men’ described below—are recognized by
others as skilled in speaking, reconciling, and persuading, and it is partly
through such skill that they retain their positions but this is merely one
aspect of their specialized functions as political leaders, judges, or public
figures. There are also those who merely possess a general ability to speak
well—people skilled more in the art of conversation and the use of proverb
and metaphor to enrich their speech than in the more formal arts of public
oratory. There is no general rule about the background and training of
those regarded as particularly eloquent, for this varies according to the
structure of the society in question.
How far oratory varies not only between societies but even in different
groups within one state may be illustrated from the kingdom of ”urundi,
one of the few areas in which some detailed investigation of rhetoric
has been carried out. This can be followed by a brief account of the very
different society of the Limba of Sierra Leone.
Traditional ”urundi for the time described by “lbert , based on
fieldwork . was a highly organized state, marked by an extreme
degree of hierarchy between the various ranks in the community—in
particular between the cattle-keeping lords (the Tutsi) and the farmer-peasant
class the Hutu . The different classes have their own special speech patterns,
and there are also stylized ways of address considered appropriate according
to the status, sex, or age of the speaker, and to the particular personal or
political relationships of those directly involved. The rules of rhetoric can
thus be closely related to the social and political structure.
In ”urundi, eloquence is thought to be of the greatest significance,
both practical and aesthetic, whether it is used in legal cases, political
transactions, petitions, the stylized phrases of polite intercourse, or the art
of elegant conversation:
Speech is explicitly recognised as an important instrument of social life

eloquence is one of the central values of the cultural world-view and the
way of life affords frequent opportunity for its exercise . . . Argument,

debate, and negotiation, as well as elaborate literary forms are built into
the organization of society as means of gaining one’s ends, as social status
symbols, and as skills enjoyable in themselves. “lbert
It is among the upper classes above all that the ideals of oratorical ability are
most stressed. The very concept of good breeding and aristocracy, imfura,
implies ‘speaking well’ as one of its main characteristics. Aristocratic boys
are even given formal education in speech-making from the age of about
ten. Albert describes the content of their training:
Composition of impromptu speeches appropriate in relations with superiors

in age or status formulas for petitioning a superior for a gift composition
of amazina, praise-poems quick-witted, self-defensive rhetoric intended
to deflect, an accusation or the anger of a superior. Correct formulas for
addressing social inferiors, for funeral orations, for rendering judgment in a
dispute, or for serving as an intermediary between an inferior petitioner and
one’s feudal superior are learned in the course of time as, with increasing
age and maturity, each type of activity becomes appropriate. Training
includes mastery of a suitable, elegant vocabulary, of tone of voice and its
modulation, of graceful gestures with hand and spear, of general posture and
appropriate bodily displacements, of control of eye-contacts, especially with
inferiors, and above all, of speedy summoning of appropriate and effective
verbal response in the dynamics of interpersonal relations. Ibid.
As a result of such formal training and unconscious assimilation of the

practice of eloquence, Tutsi men of the upper classes acquire a consciousness
of superior education and elegance of speech. The accepted stereotype,
quite often lived up to in practice, is that the aristocrat possesses grace
and rhetorical ability in speech and bearing, marked particularly by his
characteristic dignity and reserve in public address.
The formal speech of peasants is expected to be rather different. Social
pressures ensure that peasants are aware of the tactlessness of producing
an elegant aristocratic-type speech before a superior. In their own strata,
however, they may speak with equal dignity and ability—for instance, as
judge, in council, or in funeral orations. There are some set differences.
The Hutu use a different accent, and the figures of speech tend to reflect
a peasant rather than an aristocratic background and to be drawn from
agriculture rather than herding or the courtly life. ‘The gestures of the
muscular arms and heavy set body and the facial expressions will not be
like those of the long-limbed, slim-boned . . . ”atutsi herders, but they will
not lack studied grace and dignity (Ibid.: 42).
The recognized stylistics in Rundi oratory, marked particularly in the

case of the aristocrats, are dignity of bearing and speech, enhanced, on
occasion, by effective use of the rhetorical technique of silence. There is
also careful attention to stance, gesture, modulation of the voice, and grace
and elegance of vocabulary according to the criteria of Rundi culture. The
highest ideal of public speaking, in Rundi eyes, is that associated with an
umushingantahe, a recognized elder and judge. He is expected to be
intelligent, in complete command of the arts of logic, a fine speaker—i.e., he

speaks slowly and with dignity, in well-chosen words and figures of speech
he is attentive to all that is said and he is an able analyst of logic and of the
vagaries of the human psyche. “lbert
The position of an umushingantahe depends both on a prolonged experience

of legal cases and on wealth for the expensive initiation party. Others too,
however, can use the same type of rhetorical style. It is one considered
particularly appropriate in political speeches of advice or persuasion before
a superior, or in serious decision-making and problem-solving. On the
other hand, rhetorical fireworks are more to be expected when individuals
are trying to forward their own interests as litigants in a law case, or in
personal petitions to a superior.
A further characteristic of Rundi rhetoric is the premium placed on
elegance and appropriateness rather than on literal truth. This has a
practical value. It is known that a man is more likely to be able to defend
himself on the spot by rapid and plausible falsehood, mixed with a suitable
amount of flattery, than by a careful telling of the truth. ”ut there is also an
aesthetic aspect—graceful appropriate speech is considered attractive in its
own right. Allusiveness, often through figures of speech, is prized in both
speech-making and polite social intercourse. Even a slight request may be
addressed to a superior with stylized formality and oblique allusion. Thus
a petition by a poor man for a trifling gift like a new pair of shoes to replace
his worn-out ones is expressed through circumlocution. ‘One does not hide
one s misfortunes if one tries to hide them they will nevertheless soon be
revealed. Now, I know a poor old man, broken in health and ill there is a
spear stuck in his body and he cannot be saved! ”y this he indicates his old
shoes, so ragged that one is being held together by a safety-pin (the ‘spear’)
Ibid. .
It is not only the style and content that are conventionally laid down for
Rundi speeches, but in some cases the general setting as well. The rules of
precedence are strictly observed, in keeping with a society in which ranked
hierarchy is of such significance. Thus the order in which individuals speak

in a group depends on their seniority:
The senior person will speak first the next in order of rank opens his speech
with a statement to the effect, ‘Yes, I agree with the previous speaker, he is
correct, he is older and knows best, etc’ Then, depending on circumstances
and issues, the second speaker will by degrees or at once express his own
views, and these may well be diametrically opposed to those previously
expressed. No umbrage is taken, the required formula of acknowledgment
of the superior having been used. (Albert 1964: 41)
The situation of making a formal request is also highly stylized. A special

type of bearing is obligatory. If it is a request for a bride or cattle, the normal
form is for the petitioner to
assume a formal stance, often standing during delivery of the formal request.
His speech has probably been carefully composed in advance. To follow the
general formula, one refers to the gift one has brought, usually several pots
of banana beer one expresses love, admiration, and respect for the excellent
qualities, real, imagined, and hoped for, of the superior one expresses the
hope that the affection is reciprocated one again refers to the gift, this time
as a token of affection one promises further gifts in the future one states
one s wish one closes with a repetition of the praise of the superior and an
expression of hope that the wish will be granted. Ibid.
Much remains to be investigated in relation to Rundi oratory. ”ut it is

abundantly clear from Albert’s publications so far that the skills of eloquence
were highly valued and sophisticated in traditional Rundi society, and that
they present a literary sphere which, though perhaps marginal, is clearly
enough related to literature to deserve fuller critical analysis. Such skills
were exhibited in their most extreme form in the elegant formal speeches
of Rundi aristocrats. ”ut that they were recognized in some degree at
all levels of society is evident from the explicit aesthetic interest in these
arts even in their everyday conversation which is near the bottom of the
[aesthetic] scale, elegance of composition and delivery, figures of speech,
and the interpolation of stories and proverbs are normally called for and
employed’. (Ibid.: 49)
A second case where one can observe the significance attached to
oratorical ability is that of the Limba people of northern Sierra Leone.4 These
are a people with a very different culture from that of the highly stratified
Rundi—farmers living in a relatively homogeneous society, without the
The account given here is based on field-work among the Limba in and .
marked differences of wealth and birth characteristic of the Rundi state.

Their speech-making is correspondingly much less sophisticated and
specialized. ”ut they too have their stylized forms of public address, and
oratorical ability is regarded as an art as well as a necessity.
To be able to carry out formal speaking pleasingly is one of the first
essentials of a Limba local chief and of the sub-chiefs and elders who model
themselves on the ideal picture of a chief. There are many occasions when
such formal speeches are obligatory. Most important in Limba eyes are
the continual law cases. The local chief, assisted by his elders or ‘big men’,
must sift the evidence and, after the more junior judges have spoken, must
sum up with an eloquent speech which both analyses the complex rights
and wrongs of the case and in addition ‘pulls the hearts’ of the litigants to
accept his verdict and become reconciled. There are also large gatherings
where local or, occasionally, national political issues are debated. In these,
the leading elders and men of influence, and, increasingly, the younger
men, take it in turn to make long speeches marked by great formality and—
very often—repetition. Meetings called to deal with an election to chiefship
also give opportunity for the candidates to demonstrate their wisdom
and oratorical skill in public. Public and formal speeches are also made to
welcome visitors or returning travellers, exhort juniors, negotiate marriage
arrangements, acknowledge some piece of news formally delivered, and as
well are made during the intervals at dances, at initiations and ceremonies,
and as stylized thanks for a visit, a gift, or a transaction. Formal speech-
making is the characteristic quality of a Limba chief in his role of reconciling
people and thus bringing peace to individuals and to his chiefdom as a
whole. ”ut it is also a desired attribute and activity of anyone with any
pretentions to authority over others—a father can speak formally among
his chilren, a household head between his dependants, a respected senior
wife among her co-wives, even an elder boy among his juniors.
Unlike the Rundi, the Limba do not provide any specialist training in
rhetoric. It is true that chiefs are sometimes said to be instructed how to
‘speak well’ when, as in the case of a few of their number, they go into
several weeks seclusion as part of their installation ceremonies. ”ut this
represents more the explicit significance attached to oratorical ability than
any real attempt at training. In fact all Limba—particularly the men—
gradually assimilate the accepted tricks of speaking as they listen to their
fathers, the local ‘big men’, and the chiefs officiating and settling disputes
on public occasions. The young boys begin by making speeches among
their peers at initiation, farming associations, and play. Then as they grow
up they gradually try to speak in more public contexts and (if of the right
social background) in legal cases and discussions. Finally they may become,
informally but unmistakably, accepted as respected elders, responsible for
speaking at the most important gatherings.
The content of formal Limba speeches varies. ”ut sentiments tend to
recur. This can be illustrated, for example, in marriage negotiations and
legal speeches. To the Limba marriage negotiations are regarded as semi-
public transactions. The suitor—represented by a friend—must do far more
than just undertake to pay the due bride-wealth and carry out his duties he
must also speak pleasingly to win over the hearts of his future in-laws and
impress them with the respect he has for them. The speeches are regarded
as something more than mere etiquette by the Limba participating. Rather,
they are a form of expression that makes those involved feel pleased and
proud and conscious of the deeper meanings in life. The father of the girl too
must reply in graceful words and convince his listeners of the sincerity of
his appreciation. He thanks the messenger who has come, saying perhaps
I thank you. I thank you for coming. Greetings for [undergoing] the journey.
Greetings for the sun. Greetings for the rain. I, the father of the girl, I have
no long words to say. I accept—by grace of the mother who bore the girl.
She says that it is pleasing to her. For me too—it is pleasing to me. I accept.
”ut often the basic content of this is drawn out to very much greater
lengths. Other stages in the marriage follow at intervals, each accompanied
by similar speeches—of thanks, appreciation, implied undertakings for the
future, and tactful moralizing about the nature and obligations of marriage.
In legal speeches the moralizing is often even more explicit as the leaders
try to reconcile contenders and soothe angry feelings. Though the litigants
themselves state their own cases, their speeches seem to be regarded more
as background factual data for the court, whereas the real flowering of
oratory is in the speeches of the judges who, one after the other, address
the court in turn, finally ending with the senior judge (often the chief) who
uses the wisdom given by all (as the Limba put it) to add to the weight of
his own final assessment and persuasion. In political speeches too there is
a certain amount of moralizing as well as excited rhetoric.
The most elaborate and lengthy of all speeches are the long funeral
harangues given on the occasion of memorial rites for some important man
several years after his death. This is one of the most important events in
Limba social life, and hundreds of people gather from many miles around.
One of the highlights is the speeches made by the leading men they speak
in turn, often going on for several hours, and their words are relayed, half-
intoned sentence by sentence, by a herald who is specially engaged for the
occasion. These orations are even more full of moralizing than the legal
and family speeches. They dwell relatively little on the character of the
dead man, and instead reflect on the importance of the dead, the duties
of the living, the function in life of the various groups listening to them,
and the general philosophy and ideals which, they presume, they and their
listeners share. A small portion of one of these speeches, this time on the
subject of mutual interdependence and the dangers of pride, ran something
as follows, with each sentence punctuated by a pause:
If someone has the reputation of being proud then leave him alone. He is
someone who dislikes taking anything from others. He is always working
hard—for himself. [Similarly] if you know a child who does not pay attention
to his parents—does not pay attention to his chief—does not pay attention
to his mother-in-law6—then people will never appoint him as chief, he is not
good. God will help the man who shows respect to the chief [i.e. authority].
With some young people, when they are asked about their behaviour, they
just say: ‘Oh, I took presents to my wife’s mother, but now I’m tired of
giving her things’. Even if someone is a son of a chief, if he doesn’t care to
work, care for his parents, for his mother-in-law—he mustn’t think, even if
he is a chief’s son, that he will ever be made a chief . . .
If someone works hard, perhaps he will gain power. And if a powerful man
opens his hands [i.e. gives gifts freely], then he has gained something. ”ut
if he does not give, then his possessions are worthless. ”lessings come from
children, from the dead people [ancestors], from God. ”ut no one can win a
reputation without working for it . . . If God says goodbye to someone then
he shows him the road he must walk on.7 If you are appointed [to a position
of authority] you must not say that because you have been appointed you
need not do anything you must not say that you won t feed [i.e. give gifts to]
the people who are working for you. If you do that, things won’t grow well
[prosper]. Let no one think that he is a big man, more than his companions.
It is for others to say if you are a big man. You must think well of your
companions . . .
There are recognized conventions about the diction, phraseology, and

form of Limba speeches, although these conventions are not very explicitly
stated. Gestures are much used: elders in particular stride about in the
“ summary paraphrase of a speech on which I made notes in but did not have the
opportunity to record word for word.
6 Someone who above all, in Limba philosophy, should receive respect.
7 i.e. if God disapproves of a man’s behaviour, he may send sickness to kill him.
centre of the listening group, making much play with their long, full-
sleeved gowns, alternating for effect between solemn stance and excited
delivery when the whole body may be used to emphasize a point. They
are masters of variations in volume and speed: they can switch from quiet,
even plaintive utterance to loud yelling and fierce (assumed) anger, only
to break off abruptly with some humorous or ironic comment, an effective
silence, or a moving personal appeal. Among the best legal speakers
figures of speech are common, as well as proverbs, allusions, and rhetorical
questions. These men are admired for their ability to express their points by
‘going a long way round in parables’. There are also many stock formulas
that it is considered both correct and attractive to use in Limba speeches in
addition to the set phrases which introduce and close a formal speech, the
speaker’s words also regularly include an appeal to what the ‘old people’
did, references to what Kanu (God) does or does not like (a convenient
channel for moralizing of which some Limba take frequent, even tedious,
advantage), personal appeals to members of the audience, and the frequent
conventional expression of humility through referring to the grace of those
present, of superiors, and of the ancestors. A good speaker, furthermore,
makes sure of the participation of the audience in a way analogous to
story-telling he expects murmurs of support and agreement, muttered
rejoinders of his rhetorical questions, laughter when he purposely brings
in something amusing or exaggerated, and thanks and acknowledgement
when he has ended.
The whole organization of such speaking is carefully regulated. The
speakers rise in order and are not expected to interrupt another speaker
during his oration with any substantive point beyond the general reactions
of an attentive audience. A man stands up to speak when the last speaker
‘passes the word’ to him by the recognized formula ‘so much (for what I
have to say)’ (tinde), adding the name of the one who is to follow him. The
new speaker must then speak appreciatively of the words of his predecessor
(even if he disagrees with him), acknowledge the leading men present, then
turn to the matter of his speech. Of course, not all live up to these ideals
all the time. ”ut many do, and the Limba are quite clear that someone who
loses his temper or speaks with real and self-interested anger (as distinct
from the occasional assumed anger of rhetoric) cannot be regarded as the
cool and accomplished orator whom the Limba admire so much.
Much of the content and phraseology of these Limba orations may
appear trite to someone from a different tradition. ”ut it is certain that
to the Limba themselves such speeches, when delivered by a recognized
orator, complete with flowing gesture and all the overtones of accustomed
word and sentiment shot through with the fresh insights of the individual
speaker, are an expression, through a beautiful medium, of some of the
most profound truths of their society.
II
There are certain types of formal speech that, without being as lengthy and
elaborate as formal oratory, have a tendency to become stylized. Just as
stylized words in, say, the English ”ook of Common Prayer have a literary
interest of their own, and must have had the same characteristic even
before being crystallized into fixed and written form, so prayers in non-
literate societies sometimes fall into a kind of literary mode they may be
characterized by a conventional form, perhaps marked by greater rhythm
or allusiveness than everyday speech, within which the individual must
cast his thoughts. The same is sometimes true of other forms of stylized
expression—salutations, curses, oaths, petitions, or solemn instructions.
How far such utterances fall into a more or less fixed and formulaic
mode varies according to the conventions of differing cultures. It is always
of interest to inquire into this, not least because of the possibility that the
fixity of such utterances has in the past been overemphasized.
It is clear that, in some cases at least, there can be both a conventionally
recognized over-all form—a literary genre, as it were—and also, within
this, scope for individual variation according to speaker and context. This
can be illustrated, to take just one example, from the conventional mode of
uttering curses among the Limba. (for further details see Finnegan 1964).
In outline these curses are always much the same. The occasion that gives
rise to them is when some unknown criminal is believed to have engaged,
undetected, in any of the three crimes the Limba class together as ‘theft’
(actual physical theft, adultery, and witchcraft). Laying the curse is thought
to stir up the object known as the ‘swear’ which pursues and punishes the
unknown offender by its mystical power. The content of the curse follows
prescribed lines invocation of the swear explanation of the offence
concerned instructions about the fate that the swear should bring on its
victim and, finally, a provision that confession and restitution should be
acceptable, sometimes accompanied by a clause that the innocent receiver
of stolen goods should not suffer. Other details as to time and circumstance
are also laid down.
The style and literary structure of these curses are clearly understood
by speaker and audience. They begin and end with short formulas that
are invariable and have no clear meaning beyond their acceptance as
necessary adjuncts to ritual utterances. The main body of the curse is more
flexible. It is usually spoken in a semi-intoned voice, particularly in the
phrases describing the victim’s expected fate, and is partially expressed
in balanced parallel phrases which, while not possessing a clear enough
over-all rhythm to be classed as poetry, nevertheless from time to time
exhibit a definite beat of their own. The rhythm is further brought out by
the common accompaniment of much of the curse—a rhythmic beat of the
speaker’s stick on the ground next to the ‘swear’, said to arouse it to action
and power. The dignity of the occasion is further brought home by the
singsong voice of the speaker and his controlled and rather sparse use of
gesture. The key-phrases that threaten the victim are repeated in various
slightly differing forms, and this repetition, sometimes repeated yet again
by an assistant, enhances the serious and intense tone of the curse.
Provided these central points are included, the actual curse can be
longer or shorter according to the wishes of the speaker, the heinousness
of the crime, or—in some cases—the magnitude of the fee or the audience.
The possible fates to which the offender is to fall victim may be only
sketched in, or they may be elaborated at great length. The same is true of
the phrases that safeguard the position of the innocent and the repentant.
Provided the speaker includes the set formulas at start and finish plus the
occasional prescribed points within the body of the curse, and covers the
main headings mentioned above, the actual words he uses do not seem to
be a matter of any very great concern.
The kind of form and content characteristic of these curses can best be
illustrated from extracts from two Limba examples. The first concerns the
suspected secret theft of a hen:
Ka harika lontha, ka harika lontha.

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

If it is an animal in the bush, a wildcat, let it be caught
Wherever it goes may it be met by a man with a gun
May it be found by a hunter who does not miss
If it meets a person, may it be killed.
”ut when it is killed, may the one who lulls and eats it [the wildcat] go
free—fo fen.
—If it is an animal [that stole it],
Let it be killed in a trap
Let it be killed going into a hole where it cannot come out.
—If it is a bird,
Let that bird be killed by a hunter or by a trap.
—If it was a person that stole and would not confess,
Let the ‘swear’ catch him.
—If it was a person,
If he stands on the road, let him meet with an accident
If he takes a knife, let him meet with an accident
If he is walking along the road, let him hit his foot on a stone and the
blood not stop coming out
If he begins farming—when he cuts at a tree with his cutlass, let him
miss the tree and cut his hand
If he has a wife and she knows about the hen, or two or three wives
who helped him, let the swear fall on them
—If it is a man,
Let him always walk on a dangerous road, and when danger comes let
him think about the hen he has stolen and confess.
If he does not confess,

Let him spend the whole night weeping [from pain].
When they ask why, let the ‘swear’ answer:

‘I am the one who caught the man, because he stole the fowl of the
stranger’.
”ut if he confesses and says I stole it , and if the case is brought to me [the
speaker] and I perform the ceremony [to release him],
—Let him no longer be ill.
—Quickly, quickly, let him be better—fo feng
If he does not confess,

—Let him suffer long, for he is a thief.
The stolen hen—if someone ate it who did not know [that it was stolen],
let the swear not catch them. ”ut those who ate knowing it was stolen,
let them be caught, for it was the stranger’s hen.
The second example is when a smith speaks over the pile of rice that has
just been threshed and fanned in the farm. His words are intended both
to prevent the rice from being diminished through quarrels and as a curse
against anyone who tries to steal it away through witchcraft. Though much
shorter than the first example, the same kind of framework is evident:
You the [dead] smiths, you the dead.

This is the rice, Sanasi’s rice, that we threshed today.
When we threshed it, it was not much.
When we fanned it, it was not much.
”ut when we gather it together then let it be much!
—If it happens that someone tries to bewitch it as a big bird,8 coming for the
rice—let it be unsuccessful, let him not be able to take it.
—The ones we are warding off, they are no one else but them [i.e. witches].
You the smiths—if any one can say ‘since I was born, I have never needed the
work of the smiths’ [i.e. iron], let that person only [i.e. no one] be able to
bewitch the rice.
—If there is quarrelling in the house,
Let it [the rice] go free, fo fen,
Let it not follow the rice.
Prayers are another very common type of solemn and stylized utterance
that tend to manifest the same kind of characteristics as Limba curses.
There are often accepted forms within which individuals can extemporize
or even develop their own favourite phrases which they then produce on
many occasions. Prayers also very often have their own special mode of
delivery in terms of tone of voice, pitch, speed, gesture, or even occasionally
anti-phonal form. This sets them apart from ordinary speech and can bring
out a rhythm and balance in the central phrases. Very often too there is
intensive use of metaphor, images through which the nature of God or the
plight of the living are picturesquely conveyed.
Consider, for example, this prayer by a Milembwe woman after a child’s
birth, recorded in the Congo:
God almighty creator,

God Mbuuwa Mukungu a Kiayima,
Created trees, created people, created all in the countries,
8 i.e. in the form of one of the birds that consume huge quantities of rice in the fields.
Created the ”een Ekiiye of Kalanda, created the ”eena Mpaaza and
”aaMilembwe,
Created the ”eena Musolo and Muelaayi, created the ”eena Kibeeji of
Muteeba,
Created the white and whitish,
Created the Lomami, created the Luamba Kasseya [two rivers],
Created the land where the sun rises,
Created the fish at Msengye,
Created the eldest and youngest of a twin,
Created the guide who leads (child that opens the womb),
Created the eatable and uneatable ants.
God, thou art the lord,

Who cometh in the roar of the whirlwind,
Out of your dwelling place from where the sun rises.
God creator, thou art father and thou art mother.
Oh God I shouldn t offend You as if You were a man
There is no gratitude for what God bestows upon you,
“lthough He gives you a wife who grinds maize, a woman is a basket
[i.e. she leaves her family on marriage]
A man is a refuge, when rain falls I may enter [i.e. a man remains in the village
and may be a solace for his parents],
God if he hasn t given you a gift, He ll remember when you praise Him,
Honour Him and you arrive at Musengye of the Mulopwe ? .
Everyone isn’t a welcome guest, only a child is a stranger who comes quite
new in our midst.
Oh eldest and youngest of a twin, only a child is welcome as a stranger.
Friend good-day, friend good-day! Stappers b: 6–7)
The prayer makes striking use of repetition, in the form of parallelisms

through which the creative power of God is progressively described, then
his relations with mankind meditated on, and, finally, the newborn child
is welcomed.
The literary effectiveness of such prayers can be illustrated in some
further examples from the Congo. These are taken from one of the largest
published collections of prayers and invocations, that by Theuws in his
Textes Luba Katanga Theuws . These Luba prayers are characterized
by their rich use of figurative language, by their rhythm and balance, and
by the stereotyped clichés recognized as the appropriate and natural
way of praying among the Luba. Luba prayers are said to be particularly
formulaic and fixed, but new ideas and new formulas are assimilated.1 It is
also clear from the following examples that a stereotyped form need not
necessarily imply lack of variety or literary expressiveness:
1. Toi, qui nous a fendu les doigts dans la main,

Toi, Créateur,9
Toi, Kungwa ”anze,
Pourquoi nous as-tu tourné le dos?
2. Ainsi la mort vint parmi nous,

Maintenant nous sommes venus pour t apaiser.
Tu étais fâché sur nous,
“lors nous sommes venus, maintenant nous nous sommes réunis.
. Et vous, pères et mères, qui êtes morts déjà,

De votre côté, tenez vos mains sur nous,
Intercédez pour nous.
4. Toi, qui nous a fendu les doigts dans la main,

Toi, Créateur des montagnes,
Toi, Kungwa ”anze,
Tu nous as tourné le dos.
Fais-nous devenir nombreux, nous tous,
Que notre race soit nombreuse.
. Vous, pères et mères qui êtes morts, Tenez vos mains sur nous,
Nous mourons.10
. O Esprit, Seigneur des Hommes, Seigneur de la terre, Seigneur des arbres

et Seigneur des termitières, Aujourd’hui nous venons nous plaindre de
notre misère.
7. Seigneur de tous les insectes, c’est Toi,

Les légumes nous tuent.11
The last two examples are on a much more personal note: the bitter complaint
of a man who has already lost most of his family and has now suffered
yet another death, and the rather quieter prayer for help in infirmity. ”oth
are marked by a similar structure based on repetition, invocation, and
complaint. ”ut there is far more to each than the mere structure. Colour
is added through imagery drawn from observation of the human and the
natural world. The invocations are in places elaborated to comment on the
9 i.e. created us as men.

10 This is a prayer to appease the Spirit when there have been many deaths.
11 Theuws . This is a prayer by a hunter.
divine in relation to the human order and forcibly bring out the contrast
between the dead (and the Spirit) and the survivor struggling to grasp the
reason for his sufferings. In short, each piece, though in practice a prayer,
is in effect a kind of poem expressing and reflecting on the personal plight
and insights of the speaker:
. Hélas, Toi, Esprit, Tu m as frappé, que ferai-je?

Debout dans le chemin, je ne vois plus par où aller.
2. Je m’agite comme l’oiseau qui erre,

L oiseau même il a son nid,
II revient pour y entrer.
. Moi, ami avec l Esprit.12

Toi, tu es mort, moi, je reste.
Je mange à satiété.
4. L’homme qui t’a pris par ses ruses,

Pars avec lui, ne le laisse pas, du tout.
“lors il n y a pas même d Esprit
Dont ils disent l Esprit existe. Où est-il?
. Lui seul nous tue. Ils crient continuellement Esprit! Esprit!

Nous voudrions le voir.
“ujourd hui, nous mourons simplement comme des moutons.
. La mort a dressé son camp chez moi.

Dans quelle palabre suis-je pris?
Les choses que je possède sont à moi,
Gagnées par mes propres mains.
7. Pleure la misère, pleure la tienne,

Pleure seulement celle de l ami qui restait chez toi.
Pintade de ma mère, assieds-toi sur l arbre,
Regarde les enfants de chez toi,
Comment ils errent partout.
. Salue les défunts de ma part,

”ien qu eux me m envoient pas de salut.
Nous ne sommes sur la terre que pour la mort,
Pour voir des malheurs.
12 i.e. he had not offended the Spirit or deserved his misfortune.

9. Tu es parti,
“lors qui reste pour moi, pour me pleurer et pour conduire le deuil?
Cette mort est aussi la mienne,
Si vous sentez de la pourriture, c est moi qui périt.
Theuws
1. Que ferai-je?
Tous mes amis passent bien portants,
Moi, je suis ici comme un paralysé.
. Toi, Père-Créateur, aide-moi,

Que je marche avec force.
. J étais au milieu de mes amis,
Tu m en as fait sortir
Maintenant, je suis dans le malheur.
. ”ien, je me fâche contre Dieu, je ne me fâche pas contre l homme

qui se moque de moi,
Lui aussi en verra encore.
. Si c est un homme qui m a tendu des pièges,
Maintenant, il n a pas de malheur, mais l avenir est long.

L Esprit m a regardé, Dieu Tout-puissant
Père-Créateur, alors, Tu ne tiens plus Tes mains sur moi?
6. Toi, Père, qui m’aimais ici sur la terre,

Si tu m aimais tant quand tu étais en vie, tu ne me protèges plus
maintenant?
Que je sois avec force.
7. Toi, Père, Père du savoir,

Qui chassais la petite perdrix au collet et y pris une petite gazelle,
Le termite mangea la gazelle ainsi prise.
8. Tu ne me tues pas encore, qui que tu sois?

Celui qui m a jeté le sort
Qu il ne reste pas en vie, qu il meure à son tour,
S il n est pas difforme, qu il le devienne.
. “i-je mangé quelque chose de lui? L ai-je volé?

Lui ai-je jeté le sort? Qu est-ce que je lui ai fait?
On me mutilé comme un voleur. Je ne vole pas.
. Vous m avez mutilé sans plus disant

Qu il ait des malheurs pendant sa vie,
“près la mort, ils ne sont plus sentis.
. Vous m avez brisé par terre,

Je me recroqueville comme fixé dans le sol.
Je ramasse les vers.
12. Qui me tendit ses pièges disant: pourquoi existe-t-il?

Les malheurs ne lui manqueront pas,
Tôt ou tard.
Je suis le cochon qui meurt dans les taros. Theuws
Though surprisingly little work has been done on the literary aspect of
prayers as distinct from their content or function, this is certainly a fruitful
field. There is scope for many studies about the extent of individual variation,
style, and content about the way in which, in pagan, Christian, and Islamic
contexts, prayer may be expressed through conventional literary forms and
about the relationship of prayers to the other literary genres of the language.14
The same could probably be said of other formalized utterances
such as blessings, instructions to a new king or leader, oaths, sermons
see Turner , lengthy salutations, formulaic speeches of thanks or
acknowledgement, and so on. Even so apparently trivial an occasion as that
of a beggar approaching a would-be patron may, in certain communities,
have its own expected clichés and form. “n example of this a standardized
cry by a Hausa beggar can conclude this discussion
The name of God we praise, the merciful one we praise I will praise
Mahamad. “las, alas for the ignorant one! He is doing a sorry thing! He
is letting off the world,16 he knows not that death is approaching. ”oth
morning and evening let him regard the prophets of the great God there are
none in the world save they who follow Isa and Merau and the Creator my
Lord. The believer in the prophet who fasts, who has scared charms, who
gives alms—he will have his reward in this world, and in the next he will not
be without it. (Fletcher 1912: 64)
III
In Africa, as elsewhere, people delight in playing with words and on words.
Tongue-twisters, for example, are sometimes popular with children—or
The frequent use of rhythmic phrases, for example, has more often been associated with
its function in aiding memorization than with its literary effectiveness in heightening
the intensity and tone of the words.
14 For some further examples or discussions of prayers see, for example, ”occassino
Evans-Pritchard Werner Van Caeneghem , de Pelichy ““
. Nketia c Calame-Griaule ff and Dieterlen .
E.g. Akan instructions quoted in Rattray 1929: 82.
16 i.e. not treating it sternly as a temptation.
even adults—and even these represent one type of awareness of the

potentialities of language for more than just conveying information. They
have been recorded in particular in parts of West Africa, though doubtless
examples can be found elsewhere.17 Among the Yoruba, for instance, a
favourite game, according to Ellis, used to be to repeat certain tricky sen-
tences at high speed for example
Iyan mu ire yo iyan ro ire ru.

When there is famine the cricket is fat (that is, considered good enough to
eat when the famine is over the cricket is lean i.e. is rejected .
(Ellis 1894: 241)
and similar instances are recorded from the Fulani and the Hausa. Here are
two Fulani examples from Arnott’s collection:
ngabbu e mbaggu muudum, mbabba maa e mbaggu muudum: ngabbu firlitii fiyi
mbaggu mbabba naa, koo mbabba firlitii fiyi mbaggu ngabbu?
A hippopotamus with his drum, a donkey too with his drum: did the hippo
turn and beat the donkey’s drum, or did the donkey turn and beat the
hippo s drum? “rnott
ngdabbiimi pucca puru purtinoo-giteewu, e ngu aardini kutiiru furdu furtinoo-

giteeru, e ndu aardini nduguire furde furtinoo-giteere nde diwa ndu đunya, ndu
diwa nde dunya, nde diwa ndu dunya, ndu diwa nde dunya, etc., etc . . . .
I mounted a pop-eyed dun horse, he was driving before him a pop-eyed dun
dog, and he was driving a pop-eyed dun duiker she jumped, he ducked, he
jumped, she ducked, she jumped, he ducked, he jumped, she ducked, etc . . ..
Ibid. 18
Puns are another common form of verbal play. These take various forms.
In tonal languages the play is sometimes with words phonetically the
same (or similar) but different tonally. This can be illustrated in the Yoruba
punning sentence:
The rain on the shoes (bata) goes patter, patter, patter (bata-bata-bata), as on
the rock (apata in the street of the chief drummer (ajula-bata), the drum
(bata) is wood, the shoes (bata) are of hide. (Ellis 1894)
There is also the Swahili word game played with reversed symbols, a
special kind of punning Sacleux under kinyume)). Puns can also
be used as the basis of an elaborate game. This is recorded of the Hausa
where the second participant in the long punning series finally turns out
17 See also examples quoted from West Equatorial Africa in Ch. 11.
18 “rnott also discusses the phonetic bases of these tongue-twisters. For Hausa examples
see Fletcher ff. Tremearne . “lso Gowlett Dundes .
to be mere ‘worthless grain’. An extract can illustrate the kind of exchange,

though the subtlety obviously depends on the actual Hausa words which
make it possible for ” to take up each of “ s remarks in a different sense
A. How art thou?

B. Am I sick?
A. Art thou not reclining?
B. I recline? Am I a king?
A. Does not one beat the drum for the king?
B. ”eat the drum for me? “m I a state camel?19
A. Does not the camel carry a load?
B. Carry a load! Am I a donkey? . . .
A. Does not the bow inflict a sting?
B. Sting! Am I a scorpion?
A. Does not the scorpion lie flat against a wall?
B. Flat against a wall! Am I a cockroach?
A. Does not the cockroach go into a calabash?
B. Go into a calabash! Am I milk?
A. Does not one imbibe milk?
B. Imbibe me? Am I tobacco?
A. Tobacco is worthless grain. (Fletcher 1912: 60–1)20
”esides the use of puns for amusement in ordinary talk, punning can also
occur in a quite elaborate, stylized way in cultivated conversation. This
can be taken to such an extent that a man can even become famous—as
in the case of certain Amharic wits—for his linguistic gymnastics and
philosophical punning. It is worth quoting Messing’s comment on this:
The Amharic language lends itself readily to puns and hidden meanings,
since many verbs can have double or triple interpretations due to the
hidden variations in the basic verbal stem and the absence or presence of
gemination of some consonants. The listener must pay close attention. If he
misinterprets the context and fails to discern the pun, he is often made the
butt of the next tricky joke by those who have heard it before. The more a
storyteller and wit masters the sowaso ‘grammar’ of the Amharic language,
the better he can manipulate this humor. Messing
A few other instances of relatively light-hearted sayings also deserve

mention. There is, for instance, the case of Galla humorous prose. This was
the preserve of the professional jesters who used to be maintained at the
19 ”ecause large drums are sometimes carried and played by camel riders in processions.
See also the similar Fulani ‘chain-rhyme’, also based on a series of double meanings,
quoted in “rnott and the simpler examples in Tremearne .
20 See also the similar Fulani ‘chain-rhyme’, also based on a series of double meaning,
quoted in “rnott , and the simpler examples in Tremearne .
small courts among the Galla. The wittiest of their sayings were learnt by
heart and regarded as a distinct literary form—hdsa. One such piece opens:
In the whole world there are three misfortunes. Of these misfortunes one is
wealth when it is great and increases. The second is thy wife. The third is
God, who has created us.
and so on, in expansion and explanation of the same theme (Cerulli 1922:
190–1). Strikingly similar are the various examples of Fulani ‘epigrams’
collected by Arnott, some in a form of verse, others, apparently, in a kind
of rhythmic prose. Some of these resemble a type of extended classificatory
proverb, often based on a threefold principle. Another common form
is for the saying to be opened by a short general statement followed by
trios of particulars in parallel terms. The effectiveness of these epigrams,
marked by repetition of key-words and assonance from recurring suffixes,
is heightened by the structure of the Fulani language with its practice
of concord in nominal classes and the potentialities of verb tenses. Two
types of epigrams, one based on a stated general principle, one a crisp
classificatory form, can be illustrated from Arnott’s material:
Three exist where three are not:
Commoner exists where there is no king,
but a kingdom cannot exist where there are no commoners
Grass exists where there is nothing that eats grass,
but what eats grass cannot exist where no grass is
Water exists where there is nothing that drinks water,
but what drinks water cannot exist where no water is. “rnott
”eards three of fire, three of sun, three of shade.
(These are the nine beards of the world.
Three fire, three sun, three shade.)
Chief, shade,
Teacher, shade,
Tailor, shade
”lacksmith, fire,
Corn-cob, fire [i.e. roasted in ashes],
He-goat, fire [i.e. branded?]
Farm-labourer, sun,
Pedlar, sun, Herdsman, sun
These also are three.
These are all the nine beards of the world. “rnott
There are many other short stereotyped phrases and sentences that, in
varying cultures, may be worthy of literary study. One could mention,
for instance, various short semi-religious formulas such as the Hausa

expressions used after yawning, sneezing, etc., (Fletcher 1912: 68–9) market
cries, Fletcher or the conventionalized calls sometimes attributed
to bird, e.g. among the Yoruba Fletcher .21 Formal salutations can
also have a literary flavour. Thus Hulstaert has collected several hundred
such salutations from the Nkundo, which are used formally to superiors or
(in certain formal situations) to equals. These Nkundo forms to some extent
overlap with proverbs and, particularly the more stereotyped among them,
should in Hulstaert s view be given a place dans le trésor du style oral ,
for they are marked by a certain rhythmic quality, by figurative expression,
and by a use of archaic language Hulstaert , . The salutation Les
écureuils se moquent du python , for instance, is an oblique way of saying
that only a fool provokes the powerful, for this is to risk entanglement,
even death while La terre est un fruit suggests that just as a round fruit
rolls and turns, always showing a different face, so too does human fortune
Hulstaaert , . Few formal greetings, perhaps, approach the
Nkundo figurative elaboration, but further study of this type of formal
wording in other cultures could well be of interest.
IV
I shall end this miscellaneous list of minor literary usages with a brief
account of the significance of names. This is a subject of greater literary
interest than might at first appear. In fact it would be true to say that names
often play an indispensable part in oral literature in Africa. Such names
as ‘One who causes joy all round’ (Yoruba), ‘Its hide is like the dust’ (a
man’s name after his favourite ox whose hide has marks like writing) (Jie),
He who is Full of Fury “nkole , Devouring ”east Venda , God is not
jealous ”ini , or It is children who give fame to a man ”ini can add a
depth even to ordinary talk or a richly figurative intensity to poetry that
can be achieved in no more economical a way.
There have been many different interpretations of these names. They
have ranged from the psychological functions of names, in providing
assurance or working out tensions e. g. ”eattie , Middleton , to
their connection with the structure of society (e.g. Vansina 1964, following
21 E.g. among the Yoruba Ellis , Hausa Fletcher , “zande Evans-

Pritchard , Limba Finnegan, fieldnotes for longer forms built up on such calls,
see instances and references in Ch.9.
Lévi-Strauss , their social function in minimizing friction e.g Wieschhoff

1941: 220), or their usefulness either in expressing the self-image of their
owner or in providing a means of indirect comment when a direct one
is not feasible (see below). As usual, there is some truth in most of these
approaches.
One of the most striking aspects is the way names can be used as a
succinct and oblique way of commenting on their owners or on others.
Junod gives some good examples of this kind of use of nicknames among
the Thonga. One is the instance of an administrator nicknamed ‘Pineapple’
or ‘The one of the Pineapple’. On the surface this was a flattering and easily
explained name. ”ut it also had a deeper meaning. The reference was to
a custom (said to be followed by another tribe) of burying someone they
had killed and planting pineapples on the grave—nothing could be seen
but the leaves, and their crimes were hidden. The administrator’s name,
then, really suggested one who shirked his duty and tried to bury matters
brought to him for judgement—a fitting designation for a man who
avoided responsibility and sought compromise. In another case a woman
missionary was called Hlan-ganyeti—’The one who gathers dry wood for
the fire’. In a way this was polite—it is pleasant to have a fire and wood
gathered ready. ”ut it also implied the idea of gathering wood for another
to kindle, of bringing information to her husband who kindled the fire,
of being someone who never showed anger herself but stirred up others.
Many other similar nicknames were given to Europeans by the Thonga,
an effective and quiet comment on their characters The fury of the bull
Kindness in the eyes only The little bitter lemon The one who walks
alone Junod .
Names can also be used in oblique comment. Thus the Karanga subtly
give names to their dogs as an elliptical way of chiding another. A dog
called ‘The carrier of slanders’ really alludes to a particular woman, ‘A
waste of cattle’ reproves a bad wife, while ‘Others’ and ‘A wife after the
crops are reaped’ are a wife’s complaint that others are more loved than
she, that she is only fed in time of plenty, unlike her co-wives Hunt
.22 Somewhat similarly a parent may choose for his child a name with
an oblique or even open comment on the other parent’s behaviour—like
the Nyoro Bagonzenku, ‘They like firewood’, from the proverb ‘They like
22 Some further Karanga examples are given in Ch. 14. For a similar use of dogs’ names
among the Gbeya of the Central “frican Republic see Samarin b.
firewood who despite the gatherer of it’, a name given by a mother who
has been neglected by the child s father ”eattie .
Names are also often used to express ideas, aspirations, sorrows, or
philosophical comments. Grief and an awareness of the ills of life are
frequent themes ”itterness , They hate me , Daughter born in Death
are Thonga examples Junod , and many other similar names
could be cited expressing suspicion, sorrow, or fear see especially ”eattie
, Middleton . Among the Ovimbundu a mother can lament a
lost child in the more complex form of a name representing an abridged
proverb They borrow a basket and a sieve a face you do not borrow , in
her knowledge that though she may have other children, there will never
be another with that same face Ennis . ”ut names can also express
joyful sentiments, like the Yoruba ‘Joy enters the house’, ‘The God of iron
sent you to console me , I have someone to pet Gbadamosi and ”eier
or a sense of personal aspiration for oneself or others, like the
Dogon name Dogono (from Dogay, ‘It is finished’), which expresses a wish
that the son of a rich man may end life as he began it, in wealth Lifchitz
and Paulme the Fon assertion that the name s owner is not afraid
of his rivals, expressed in the form of an abbreviated proverb ‘Le crocodile
ne craint pas les piquants qui servent de défense aux poissons da Cruz
or the ”ini name The palm-tree does not shed its leaves , which
claims that its holder is invulnerable, cannot be caught unawares, and, like
an old palm-tree, will stand against all opposition (Omijeh 1966: 26)—and
similar examples abound in the many published collections of names.
Names contribute to the literary flavour of formal or informal
conversation, adding a depth or a succinctness through their meanings,
overtones, or metaphors. They can also play a directly literary role. We
have already considered the studied use of names in “kan dirges a
whole series of different forms (day names, by-names, praise names, and
dirge names) together enhance the intensity and high-sounding tone of
the poems. The introduction of names in other forms of literature also—
perhaps particularly in the case of those with a historical cast—can bring a
sense of allusiveness and sonority not easily expressed in other forms. This
is strikingly so in panegyric poetry, a genre that is in Africa so often based
on an elaboration of praise names like He-who-fails-not-to-overthrow-
the-foe’, ‘Transformer-of-peoples’, or ‘Sun-is-shining’. Names also play a
significant part in the drum literature discussed in the following chapter.
In such a passage as
The ruler of Skyere has bestirred himself.

The great Toucan, has bestirred himself . . .
He has bestirred himself, the gracious one.
He has bestirred himself, the mighty one. Nketia b: 148–9)
the names which describe and refer to the person being addressed are
most significant. Names also have a close connection with proverbs many
names are in fact abbreviations or restatements of recognized proverbs and
share some of their stylistic characteristics.
The colourful and often figurative quality of many of these names
should be brought out. There are, of course, many names that are
relatively straightforward, with little overt meaning. Others, however, are
richly allusive. Among these, the most interesting are perhaps the abundant
proverb names already mentioned. In these a proverb is either stated or,
more often, referred to by only one of its words, and all the overtones of
meaning and allusion inherent in the proverb can be found in the name.
Thus we find several Nyoro names that refer to proverbs—like Bitamazire
(a reference to the saying nkaito z’ebigogo bitamazire). ‘The sandals which
were made of banana fibre were inadequate’ (in other words, small children
cannot be expected to survive long), or Ruboija meaning ‘It pecks as a fowl
does’—just as one does not know which exact grain will be picked up next
by a fowl, only that some grain will be attacked, so one cannot tell who
will be struck next by death ”eattie . Many similar cases occur
among the Ganda who are said to have thousands of proverbial names—
among them Nyonyin-tono (from Nyonyintono yekemba byoya). ‘A small bird,
to appear big, must clothe itself in many feathers’, and the female name
Ganya which comes from the saying ‘When a wife begins to disrespect her
husband it shows that she has found another place where she intends to
go and live Nsimbi . In West “frica, ”ini proverbs about wealth
(among other topics) also appear as names in abbreviated forms that recall
the full tone of the proverb. This is so, for instance, in the recommendation
to go prudently about gathering property (‘It is with gentleness one draws
the rope of wealth’, i.e. lest it break), or the satiric comment on the lengths
to which men will go for money (‘If one is seeking wealth, one’s head
would go through a drainage pipe’) (Omijeh 1966: 29).
This is not, however, the place for a detailed description of such questions as who gives
names in various societies, how and when they are conferred, or their varying subject-
matter, important though these points may be for the meaning and use of the name.
Proverb names that are chosen by their bearers, as among, for instance,
the Fon or the Ovimbundu, offer the opportunity for their choosers to
express their own images of themselves. One man may choose the name
Cindele from the saying C est le ”lanc aux cheveux bien coupés qui traverse
la mer’ (Cindele ca ndumba ci njawuka ca kalunga), indicating that he too
would claim to belong to this superior rank in another case the choice
might be Kacipi-luka (from ‘Le soleil ne danse pas, mais le temps change’)
claiming constancy and importance for the name’s owner, or Munda (‘Une
haute montagne ne peut être mesurée qu à l aide des nuages to show his
pride Hauenstein . “s Hauenstein describes it
Le nom est une espèce de condense, de résumé du proverbe . . . Dans la
coutume de okulisapa [assuming a proverbial name] l intéressé, dans une
espèce de dialogue avec lui-même, se dit ce qu’il aimerait être (puissant,
riche, respecté, fort, noble , ou alors se confie à lui-même, si l on peut dire,
sa misère, sa pauvreté, ses malheurs Hauenstein .24
Strings of proverb names can also be used to praise oneself. This is exploited
effectively among the Ibo. When a man takes an ozo title he sings aloud a
list of the names he now wishes to be addressed by. These are usually a
series of proverbs which refer metaphorically to his various exploits and
wealth:
I am:
The Camel that brings wealth,
The Land that breeds the Ngwu tree,
The Performer in the period of youth,
The ”ack that carries its brother,
The Tiger that drives away the elephants,
The Height that is fruitful,
”rotherhood that is mystic,
Cutlass that cuts thick bushes,
The Hoe that is famous,
The Feeder of the soil with yams,
The Charm that crowns with glory
The Forest that towers highest,
The Flood that can’t be impeded,
The Sea that can’t be drained. (Egudu 1967: 10)
Praise names are a category of great interest for the student of oral literature.
This is a convenient term used to cover many honorific appellations and
24 Similar instances a recorded among the Fon of Dahomey da Cruz and the ”ini of
Nigeria (Omijeh 1966).
flattering epithets. These names have already been mentioned in Chapter

as existing both independently and as a basis for praise poetry where they
fulfil something of the same function as Homeric epithets. Thus the Yoruba
oriki, Zulu izibongo, and Hausa kirari are praise terms that occur both as
names and as elements in panegyric, and come in such metaphorical and
evocative forms as, for instance, ‘Fame-spread-abroad’, ‘Thunder-on-earth’,
Father-of-the-people , Light of God upon earth , ”ull Elephant , Weaver-
of-a-wide-basket-he-can-weave-little-ones-and-they-fit-into-one-another’,
He draws red palm oil from the necks of men , or one of several praise
names referring to Rhodes). ‘A powerful bull from overseas’.
The forms that particularly concern us here are the personal praise
names applied to individual people. ”ut their effectiveness cannot be
fully appreciated without noticing the other, related applications of praise
names and epithets. It is not uncommon for these terms to be applied also
to non-human, even non-animate objects, and the succinct summing up in
this form of the referent’s basic characteristics—or, it may be, of just one
facet that catches the imagination—is part of the genius of these languages.
Thus the Hausa have elaborate praise terms for animals or for general
categories of human beings. The hyena, for instance, has its own praise
name O Hyena, O Strong Hyena, O Great Dancer , the eagle s reputed
wisdom is alluded to in ‘O Eagle, you do not settle on the ground without
a reason’ (i.e. without seeing something to eat there), while the general
kirari of wife and husband is ‘O Woman whose deception keeps one upon
tenterhooks (thorns), your mouth though small can still destroy dignity. If
there were none of you there could be no household, if there are too many
of you the household is ruined’.26 Similar types of praise names in various
languages for particular clans, families, villages or regions, trees, deities,
natural phenomena like rain or storms, masks, particular professions, or
even tobacco. Some of these are expressed in short phrases or compounds
only, but others come in fuller form and can be elaborated into a kind
of prose poem, closely related both to praise poetry and to the lengthy
salutations and the prayers mentioned earlier.
Like the generic praise terms for things, individual personal praise
names take various forms, more or less elaborate according to context and
area. ”esides their use as an element in more lengthy literary forms, they
For details about their distribution see ”ascom a de Ganay Lifchitz and
Paulme to which add the za-yil of the Lyele of Upper Volta Nicolas .
26 Tremearne further examples of these Hausa kirari in Ch. .
also appear on many ceremonial occasions—terms of formal address to

superiors, public and ceremonial announcement of the arrival of some
leading personage by the calling or drumming of his praise name (very
common in Nigeria, for instance), honorific pronouncement of a dead
man’s praise name in funeral rituals, or utterance of a praise name as a part
of personal aspiration or encouragement of another to live up to the ideals
inherent in the name.
How elaborate praise names can be among certain “frican peoples is
well illustrated from the Dogon tige of which several accounts have been
published de Ganay Lifszyc Lifchitz and Paulme ff. .
“mong the Dogon, every child is given three ordinary names but in addition
each man has his own individual praise name (tige), a kind of motto. Those
of individual human beings refer less to personal characteristics than to
some general truth Dogon tige thus really blend the characteristics of
praise and of proverb. One man’s name is translated as ‘Parole d’homme
âgé implying the wisdom expected of an old man s words , another Il
est) inutile (de faire) un cadeau (à celui qui ne remercie jamais)’, ‘(Même
si) le plat (est) mauvais, (on peut manger la nourriture qu’il contient)’, (de
Ganay . Femme menteuse aussi rusé qu une femme menteuse ,
or Hogon, chef de la communauté, ventre de Hogon i.e. Les meilleurs
champs appartiennent au Hogon, c est l homme le mieux nourri Lifchitz
and Paulme .
These praise names are used on a variety of occasions. One is on any
rather formal occasion in which polite exchange is expected. They are
shouted out during the ritualized combats that take place in public at a
certain stage in funeral celebrations during other stages of the mortuary
ceremonies it is the dead man’s praise name that is called—he is addressed
by this full title and conjured to leave his people in peace. Praise names are
also much used at a time of physical exertion, especially in the farms. When
a group of young Dogon men join together to work, as custom demands,
in their father-in-law’s fields, they cry out each other’s praise name to
incite them to greater efforts, calling on their amour propre and evoking
the names of the ancestors from whom the names were severally inherited
and of whom each individual must show himself worthy (Lifchitz and
Paulme de Ganay ff . Though the outward contexts for
these names are so different, they have something in common la criée du
tige présente presque toujours un caractère déclamatoire ou solennel qui
diffère nettement de l énoncé du nom et du ton habituel de la conversation
Lifchitz and Paulme . These formally used Dogon titles are

something far more evocative and meaningful than anything we normally
understand from the everyday sense of the term ‘name’. As Lifchitz and
Paulme sum up its uses, it is clear that the Dogon tige has relevance for
their literature and could not easily be dismissed as a mere label for some
individual: ‘il est en même temps formule de politesse, voeu, exhortation,
flatterie, remerciement et moquerie Lifchitz and Paulme .
Praise names in general, then, evoke more than just their individual
referent on a particular occasion. Expressed through a conventionally
recognized artistic form, often marked by elliptical or metaphorical
language, they can bring a range of associations to mind and put the bearer
and utterer of the name in a wider perspective—either placing him within
a whole class of similar beings (in the case of category praise names) or
(with personal names) invoking some proverb of more general application
or referring to some quality which the bearer is believed, or hoped, or
flatteringly imagined to possess.
There remain two other forms of names to mention briefly. First, the
use of names on drums or other instruments . ”y a technique described
in the next chapter, long forms of personal names are very popular items
for transmission on drums. Elaborate forms appear in this context, many
of them very similar to the praise names just discussed. ‘Spitting snake
whose poison does not lose its virulence, sharp harpoon, from the village
of Yatuka’, ‘Chief who takes revenge, who stabs civet-cats, root of the neck
of the elephant, son of him who sets his face to war . . .’, ‘The man who is
to be trusted with palavers, son of him who bears the blame . . . , ”right
light does not enter the forest, elder of the village of Yaatelia’ (Carrington
1949b these are all drum names or portions of drum names
used in various areas of the Congo. In savannah areas it is not drums but
whistles that are used for this kind of transmission. Nicolas has made a
collection of such praise names from the Lyele of Upper Volta, names
which in many respects resemble the Dogon tige but with the difference
that they are thought most effective when whistled. The names bear some
relation to proverbs, though forming a distinct literary genre, and include
such colourful phrases as Les pas du lézard sont sonores dans les feuilles
(sèches)’, ‘Le vent de la tornade ne casse pas la montagne’, ‘Le tambour
de l’orage fait sursauter le monde entier’, or ‘On ne prend pas (a pleine
main la petite vipère Nicolas , , . These names add
to the prestige of chiefs and leaders when they are whistled by those who
surround them or escort them on their journeys.
Secondly, a word about some personal names other than those directly
applied to people. ”esides the generic praise and drum names already
mentioned, personal names are also sometimes attached to certain things
which, for the particular people involved, are of special emotional or
symbolic interest. Among some Congolese peoples, for instance, the
drums themselves have their own names—’Mouthpiece of the village’, ‘In
the morning it does not tell of death’, ‘Drifting about from place to place
(as water in a canoe) it has no father’. (Carrington 1949b , also .
Dogs (see examples above) and occasionally horses (see the noms de guerre
of horses in Griaule 1942) may be given names, and another frequent object
for evocative and metaphorical naming is cattle see e.g. Hauenstein
ff. Ovimbundu Evans-Pritchard Dinka Morris
(Ankole). In some cases these names reflect back, as it were, on human
beings with dogs names this is sometimes with an insulting intention
cattle names are more often used in a laudatory and honorific sense, as, for
example, the ‘ox-names’ given to human beings in many East African areas
see e.g. Gulliver , Evans-Pritchard .
The exact literary value of these names cannot be fully assessed
without further research, particularly on their actual contexts of use
and on the relationship between these forms and other literary genres
in a given culture. ”ut we can certainly find some literary significance
in the occurrence of these condensed, evocative, and often proverbial or
figurative forms of words which appear as personal names in African
languages—sometimes appearing directly as elements in large-scale
creations, sometimes affording scope for imagery, depth, personal
expressiveness, succinct comment, or imaginative overtones in otherwise
non-literary modes of speech.27
In this chapter we have worked our way down the scale from the fuller
forms like oratory or formalized prayer to small-scale phenomena like
puns, tongue-twisters, and, finally, names. It is not claimed that all these
forms necessarily present any very profound or polished instances of oral
literature. Some are of only marginal interest (at least in most cultures) and
are of minor significance compared to the more complex forms discussed in
earlier chapters. However, in some cases they provide recognized literary
genres in their own right, in others they provide the elements out of which
27 For some further discussion and instances of names in addition to references cited in
this chapter and in the ”ibliography see, among many other articles Holas , Houis
Spiess .
more elaborate forms may be built up, in others again they provide the
essential background of a popular interest in words out of which the gifted
artist can mould his own individual work of art. It is not only in non-literate
cultures that these oral forms take on a literary relevance. Even in literate
societies there are such conventions—among them the art of conversation,
of sermons, of ‘extempore’ but stylized witty speeches—that may play
an indispensable, though often unrecognized, part in the flowering of an
accepted literature. ”ut it seems to be above all in cultures without our
current distinction between formal written literature on the one hand and
‘informal’ spoken words on the other that the artistic significance of these
oral forms can most clearly be seen.
IV. SOME SPECIAL FORMS
17. Drum Language and Literature1
Introductory—The Principles of Drum Language. Examples of Drum

Literature: Announcements and Calls; Names; Proverbs; Poetry. Conclusion.
I
A remarkable phenomenon in parts of West and Central Africa is the
literature played on drums and certain other musical instruments. That this
is indeed a form of literature rather than music is clear when the principles of
drum language are understood. Although its literary significance has been
overlooked in general discussions of “frican oral literature, e.g. ”ascom
, a ”erry Herskovits , expression through drums often
forms a not inconsiderable branch of the literature of a number of African
societies.
Communication through drums can be divided into two types. The
first is through a conventional code where pre-arranged signals represent
a given message in this type there is no directly linguistic basis for the
communication. In the second type, the one used for African drum literature
and the form to be considered here, the instruments communicate through
direct representation of the spoken language itself, simulating the tone
and rhythm of actual speech. The instruments themselves are regarded
as speaking and their messages consist of words. Such communication,
unlike that through conventional signals, is intended as a linguistic one it
The description in this chapter is mainly based on Rattray Carrington , a,

b and Nketia b. Nketia s book forms the first part all as yet available of
his detailed analysis of various aspects of “kan drumming the second volume is to
discuss drum poetry in more detail.
can only be fully appreciated by translating it into words, and any musical
effects are purely incidental.
This expression of words through instruments rests on the fact that the
“frican languages involved are highly tonal that is, the meanings of words
are distinguished not only by phonetic elements but by their tones, in some
cases by tone alone. It is the tone patterns of the words that are directly
transmitted, and the drums and other instruments involved are constructed
so as to provide at least two tones for use in this way. The intelligibility
of the message to the hearer is also sometimes increased by the rhythmic
pattern, again directly representing that of the spoken utterance.
It might seem at first sight as if tonal patterns, even when supplemented
by rhythm, might provide but a slight clue to the actual words of the message.
After all, many words in a given language possess the same combination of
tones. However, there are various devices in drum language to overcome
this. There is, of course, the obvious point that there are conventional
occasions and types of communication for transmission on the drum, so
that the listener already has some idea of the range of meanings that are
likely at any given time. More significant are the stereotyped phrases
used in drum communications. These are often longer than the straight-
forward prose of everyday utterance, but the very extra length of the drum
stereotypes or holophrases leads to greater identifiability in rhythmic and
tonal patterning.
The principle can be illustrated from the Kele people of the Stanleyville
area of the Congo, whose drum language has been extensively studied by
Carrington (1944, 1949a, 1949b). In the Kele language the words meaning,
for example, ‘manioc’, ‘plantain’, ‘above’, and ‘forest’ all have identical
tonal and rhythmic patterns. ”y the addition of other words, however, a
stereotyped drum phrase is made up through which complete tonal and
rhythmic differentiation is achieved and the meaning transmitted without
ambiguity. Thus ‘manioc’ is always represented on the drums with the
tonal pattern of ‘the manioc which remains in the fallow ground’, ‘plantain’
with ‘plantain to be propped up’, and so on. Among the Kele there are a
great number of these ‘proverb-like phrases’ to refer to nouns (Carrington
1949a . Money , for instance, is conventionally drummed as the pieces of
metal which arrange palavers’, ‘rain’ as ‘the bad spirit son of spitting cobra
and sunshine’, ‘moon’ or ‘month’ as ‘the moon looks down at the earth’,
‘a white man’ as ‘red as copper, spirit from the forest’ or ‘he enslaves the
people, he enslaves the people who remain in the land’, while ‘war’ always
appears as ‘war watches for opportunities’. Verbs are similarly represented
7. Drum Language and Literature 469
in long stereotyped phrases. Among the Kele these drum phrases have
their own characteristic forms—marked by such attributes as the use of
duplication and repetition, derogatory and diminutive terms, specific tonal
contrasts, and typical structures1 and it is evident that they not only make
for clear differentiation of intended meanings but also, in Carrington’s
words, are often ‘poetical in nature and constitute an important part of the
oral literature of the tribe’ (discussed in detail in Carrington 1949b .
The sort of communication that can be sent using these drum phrases
can be illustrated from the Kele drum representation of a simple message.
It will be noticed how much longer the drum form is, both because of the
repetition necessary to make the meaning clear and the use of the lengthy
stereotyped phrases. The message to be conveyed is: ‘The missionary is
coming up river to our village tomorrow. ”ring water and firewood to his
house’. The drum version runs:
White man spirit from the forest

of the leaf used for roofs2
comes up-river, comes up-river
when to-morrow has risen
on high in the sky
to the town and the village
of us
come, come, come, come
bring water of lokoila vine
bring sticks of firewood
to the house with shingles high up above
of the white man spirit from the forest
of the leaf used for roofs. (Carrington 1949b 4
Expression through drums, once thought so mysterious by visitors who

failed to grasp its principles, thus turns out to be based directly on actual
words and their tones. In a sense drum language fulfils many of the functions
of writing, in a form, furthermore, better suited to tonal languages than an
2 Generic drum name for Europeans. The reference is to the very large leaves used for
roof tiles, compared to the ”ible.
Common drum phrase for house.
4 There are sometimes additional complications in practice: e.g. in Kalabari, a language
with three tones, these are abstracted into a two-tone basis for drumming Horton
n. in Yoruba tonal glides are sometimes represented, sometimes not ”eier
29– in the Congo it is the essential word tones that are transmitted and not the
modifications of these as they would actually be pronounced in a spoken sentence
(Carrington 1949b . ”ut the basic principle of representation of the tones of words
seems to apply throughout.
alphabetical script (a point made in Jahn 1961: 187ff.). Its usefulness too
is undeniable in regions of dense forest where the only possible way of
communicating, apart from actually sending messengers, was by sound.
This type of drum communication is known to occur widely in the
Congo, Cameroons, and West Africa (particularly the coastal areas). The
same principle—that of representing the tones of actual speech through
stereotyped phrases—is also used for ‘spoken’ communication through
other instruments such as horns, flutes, or gongs.6 Among some peoples
such as the Ashanti or the Yoruba, drum language and literature are very
highly developed indeed. In such cases, drumming tends to be a specialized
and often hereditary activity, and expert drummers with a mastery of the
accepted vocabulary of drum language and literature were often attached
to a king’s court. This type of expression is a highly skilled and artistic one
and adds to the verbal resources of the language.
II
The relevance of drum language for oral literature is not confined to
utilitarian messages with a marginally literary flavour. As will emerge
clearly from some further examples, this type of medium can also be used
for specifically literary forms, for proverbs, panegyrics, historical poems,
dirges, and in some cultures practically any kind of poetry. Something of
the range and variety of this literature can be seen in the following examples,
beginning with relatively simple messages, more typical of the Congo area
and going on to some of the complex poetry found most characteristically
in the southern areas of West Africa.
Among the Kele in the Congo, drum communication is used for
formalized announcements. There are drum messages about, for instance,
births, marriages, deaths, and forthcoming hunts or wrestling matches. A
death is publicized on the drum by a special alert signal and the words,
beaten out in drum language,
Drum messages can be heard at a distance of between three to seven miles, according
to Carrington 1949b .
6 Strictly the term ‘gong’ should be used to refer to the hollow wooden ideophones or
slit-gongs typical of the Congo area whereas drum , which I have used in a wide sense
here, should be confined to membranophones such as the Ashanti ‘talking drums’, a
pair of hide-covered drums, one sounding a high, the other a low tone. Other media
mentioned for this type of communication include horns, bells, yodelling of various
types, sticks, a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil, stringed instruments, and whistling.
You will cry, you will cry, you will cry

Tears in the eyes
Wailing in the mouth. (Carrington 1949b
followed by the name and village of the dead man Ibid. . The
announcement of an enemy’s approach is also transmitted by a special
alert and the drummed tones which represent the words
War which watches for opportunities

has come to the town
belonging to us
oday as it has dawned come,
come, come, come. Idem
Another stock communication is the announcement of a dance, again with

the drum speaking in standardized and repetitive phrases:
All of you, all of you

come, come, come, come,
let us dance
in the evening
when the sky has gone down river
down to the ground. (Ibid.: 61–2)
A final Kele message warns that rain is imminent and advises those in the
forest or near the village to take shelter:
Look out, look out, look out, rain,

bad spirit, son of the spitting snake
do not come down, do not come down, do not come down
to the clods, to the earth
for we men of the village
will enter the house
do not come down, do not come down, do not come down.
(Ibid.: 88)
Not all the peoples choose the same topics for these standardized drum
announcements. Among the Akan, for instance, births, ordinary deaths,
and marriages are not normally publicized on drums Nketia b .
However, the use of drums to announce some emergency and, in particular,
to call to arms seems very common indeed. In some cases this takes a very
elaborate and poetic form. Compare, for instance, the simple and relatively
straightforward call to fight among the Tumba of the Congo—
Make the drum strong

strengthen your legs,
spear, shaft and head,
and the noise of moving feet
think not to run away. Clarke
—with the literary and emotional quality typical of the specialized military
drumming of the Akan of Ghana, exemplified in one of their drum calls:
”odyguard as strong as iron,
Fire that devours the nations,
Curved stick of iron,
We have leapt across the sea,
How much more the lagoon?
If any river is big, is it bigger than the sea?
Come ”odyguard, come ”odyguard,
Come in thick numbers,
Locusts in myriads,
When we climb a rock it gives way under our feet.
Locusts in myriads,
When we climb a rock it breaks into two.
Come ”odyguard, come ”odyguard,
In thick numbers. Nketia b: 111–2)
”esides messages and announcements, drum language is also used for

names. This is one of the most common forms of drum expression and occurs
even among people who do not seem to have other more complicated drum
poetry. “mong the Hausa, for instance, praise names and titles of rulers
are poured forth on drums or horns on certain public occasions (Smith
, and the Lyele proverb names surnoms-devises are commonly
performed in the analogous whistle language Nicolas in both
cases this amounts to special praise and flattery of the individuals named.
Personal drum names are usually long and elaborate. In the ”enue-Cross
River area of Nigeria, for instance, they are compounded of references to
a man’s father’s lineage, events in his personal life, and his own personal
name “rmstong . Similarly among the Tumba of the Congo, all-
important men in the village (and sometimes others as well) have drum
names: these are usually made up of a motto emphasizing some individual
characteristic, then the ordinary spoken name thus a ”elgian government
official can be alluded to on the drums as ‘A stinging caterpillar is not good
disturbed Clarke . Carrington describes the Kele drum names
in some detail. Each man has a drum name given him by his father, made
up of three parts first the individual s own name then a portion of his
father s name and finally the name of his mother s village. Thus the full
name of one man runs ‘The spitting cobra whose virulence never abates,
son of the bad spirit with the spear, Yangonde’. Other drum names (i.e. the
individual’s portion) include such comments as ‘The proud man will never
listen to advice’, ‘Owner of the town with the sheathed knife’, ‘The moon
looks down at the earth / son of the younger member of the family’, and,
from the nearby Mba people, ‘You remain in the village, you are ignorant
of affairs’ (Carrington 1949a ff. and b: 87, 107).
These drum names often play a significant part in the societies in which
they occur. Their use in the conveying of messages is quite clear—the
elaborateness of the names in this context has the directly utilitarian function
of differentiating the tonal patterns without the possibility of ambiguity.
They are also frequently used in the context of dances, entertainments,
and festivals: they call on those present to encourage or to praise them
by singling them out. As an Idoma informant told Armstrong, ‘when an
African hears his name drummed, he must jump up for joy even from his
sick bed “rmstrong –1). The literary and poetic quality that may
be associated with names has been discussed earlier (Ch. 16): in the case
of drum names these elements are often especially marked because of the
very elaboration, convention, and publicity necessarily involved in this
particular medium.7
In some areas, particularly much of southern West Africa, drum
literature takes a more highly specialized form. There are drum proverbs,
panegyric, and other poetry for drums, horns, or flutes, and sometimes
state history is transmitted.
First, proverbs. These are commonly performed on drums in West Africa,
sometimes as an accompaniment to dancing. In the Niger-Cross River area
of Nigeria the drums review the philosophy and history of the group at a
big dance: ‘When a dancer or a mask dances to the intoned proverbs and
histories, he may be said to express them with his body. He does so quite
consciously. Education in such matters is necessary for membership in the
men’s societies’.4 Among the Akan almost every ordinary proverb can be
reproduced on drums, and in drum poetry in general there is frequent use
of proverbs to provide encouragement and incitements ”ut there are also
extended proverbs specifically intended for performance on the drums.
Thus the common Akan proverb ‘If a river is big, does it surpass the sea?’
can be played just as it is, or appear in the special drum form:
7 Among the Kele the idea that drum names are part of their oral literature also comes
out in their terminology, if Carrington is right in deriving bombila (drum name) from
the same root as that for story or parable Carrington .
The path has crossed the river,

The river has crossed the path,
Which is the elder?
We made the path and found the river.
The river is from long ago,
From the “ncient Creator of the Universe. Nketia b: 47)
The Akan have a special cycle of proverbs associated with the Akantam
dance and especially constructed for performance on drums. These have
a regular metrical form and are marked by repetition of words, phrases,
and sentences which create metrical and musical effects. In this Akantam
series, each piece contains at least two proverbs. It is preceded by special
introductory rhythms, and the proverbs are then beaten out in unison by
all the heavy drums while the small drums provide the musical ‘ground’.
As the piece proceeds, the proverbs are repeated as a refrain, and the piece
is concluded with special rhythms which merge into the introduction of
the next piece in the cycle Nketia c: 49).
This form can be illustrated from a long example published by Nketia.
It consists of about twenty stanzas interspersed with refrains drawn from
two proverbs. I give only a short extract from the second half:
The great Toucan

I have, bestirred myself,
Let little ones lie low.
But Duiker Adawurampon Kwamena,

Who told the Duiker to get hold of his sword?
The tail of the Duiker is short,
he is able to brush himself with it.
Kurotwamansa, the Leopard, lies in the thicket.

The thicket shakes and trembles in the dark forest.
Duiker Adawurampon Kwamena,

But he is able to brush himself with it.
The antelope lies in its thicket-lair,

The hunter lures him with his call.
The hunter deserves to die. For he will not answer him.

Wild ”ear, “kuampon,

How did it happen that the water buck got tied up in cords?
It is because he could not hold his tongue.

The tall forest palm tree is bent low.

The tall forest palm tree is bent low.
Whether it will fall or not,
The jealous one is mighty anxious, over-anxious, over-anxious
The jealous one is deeply anxious, over-anxious, over-anxious.
Nketia c –2)
Panegyric poetry is a genre to which public and ceremonial performance in

drum language is particularly suited, whether the actual medium happens
to be in fact drums, gongs, or wind instruments. Especially in parts of
West Africa, praise poetry on drums and other instruments may take a
complex and specialized form and is particularly common on public or
state occasions. For Southern Nigeria, for instance, Armstrong quotes the
following praise it is taken from a performance in the royal court of the
chief of Igumale, and is spoken by a flute. Throughout the poem the chief
is praised in the imagery of a leopard:
Akpa killed those who have horses coza loga.8

The leopard in power is no toy!
The mouth of him who goes wrongly and pays a fine is what is guilty!9
Ogo tikpa logwu gokpaawaga!10
When the land is dry (‘strong’) they will wait for the rains!11
When the leopard is on the way, the animals fear.
8 Title of a person present.

9 i.e. keep quiet everyone.
10 Meaning unknown a title?
11 i.e. “ patient person title of someone present.
When the kite calls, it is noon.12

The locusts swarm!
”ig, powerful man cuna zegha.
When there is a lion, there is a leopard!14
The Chief, a full-bodied leopard in the hole!
The horses, here they are!
When the Chief did this, did that, they said it is not fitting. The Chieftaincy
is not a plaything!
When the girls have no husbands, they say they belong to the Chief! The girl
from the corner with shame in her head, let her take shame from her head,
for dancing is no plaything!16
The leopard and the Chief have claws, have claws the leopard and the Chief
are coming today!
When the good thing is coming into public, what will the singer do today?
He who sits on the royal stool, Lion of lions, Chief, it is of him that I worry
the leopard and the Chief are no plaything!
He who is fitted for the kingship, let him be king! It is God who makes the
King! “rmstrong –
Again, one could quote from the elaborate drum praises so freely used
among the Yoruba. The rulers of the old kingdom of Ede, for example,
are still praised on the talking drum every month and in the course of all
important festivals. These eulogies are built up on a series of praise verses.
Thus in the drum praise of Adetoyese Laoye, the eleventh ruler, we have
the building up of praises (mingled, as so often, with admonition) with
the whole poem bound together by both the subject (the king) and the
recurrent image of the tree:
Adetoyese Akanji, mighty elephant.

One can worship you, as one worships his head.17
Son of Moware.
You enter the town like a whirlwind. You, son of Odefunke.
Egungun18 blesses quickly when you worship him.
Orisha19 blesses more quickly when you worship him.
My father Akanji is an orisha.
The more devoutly you worship him
12 i.e. “ precise man title of someone present.

i.e. ‘the people have all come together’.
14 i.e. Here is a chief chiefly praise.
i.e. ‘The royal people have assembled’.
16 i. e. ‘Come on, girls, get out and dance’.
17 Head here stands for the Yoruba ori which means head, good fortune or luck. People
sacrifice to their head as thanksgiving for success, etc.
18 Yoruba spirits.
19 Yoruba spirits.
The greater blessings you receive from Adetoyese Akanji.

”less, and bless me continuously
Akanji, and do not leave me unblessed.
Do not attempt to shake a tree trunk.
One who shakes a tree trunk, shakes himself.
One who tries to undo you, you who are as short as death,
He will only undo himself.
A wine tapper cannot tap wine from a coconut palm.20
An elephant eats up the entire roots of an oro tree.
Do not behead me, I am not among them
I am not among the conspirators.
Conspirators, the hair on whose heads
Is ugly and ruffled.
A serious case may worry one but it will come to an end.
A serious case worries one, as if it will never be settled.
The case will be settled, and the slanderers and gossipers
Will be put to shame.
You met them in front, and you greet and greet them.
You met them behind you, and you greet and greet them
Your being courteous does not please them, like being insolent.
Keep on being insolent to them and their fathers!
It is unusual for one to greet his father’s slave and prostrate.
You Adetoyese Akanji, bend one foot to greet them,
You leave the other unbent!21
You, a notorious confuser! You confused everybody by your appearance!22
Akanji you confused all those
Who tie cloth round their waists, without carrying a child
I beg you in the name of God the great king, confuse me not!
Do not allow me to starve.
The leaves on a tree, do not allow the tree to feel the scorching sun.
You are a lucky person to wear the crown
A person who is on the throne
When the town prospers,
Is a lucky person to wear the crown. Laoye I [ ]
In a rather different style are the many Akan panegyrics for drums, used
for honouring kings and chiefs both of the past and of the present. They
20 They are trying to do the impossible.

21 Trying to conciliate your opponents, show respect—but not too much because you are
the oba (king).
22 During the chieftaincy dispute all the contestants were confused by the sudden
appearance of Adetoyese Laoye.
Policemen. The reference is to the cummerbund on the Native Authority Police uniform.
During the contest police had to be transferred from Ede because they were alleged to
favour one of the contestants.
recall their origin, their parentage, and their noble deeds. The following is
an extract from one of these praise poems, this time on the drum:
Korobea Yirefi Anwoma Sante Kotoko,

When we are about to mention your name,
We give you a gun and a sword.
You are the valiant man that fights with gun and sword.
If you were to decide, you would decide for war.
You hail from Kotoko, you are truly Kotoko.
Osee Asibe, you are a man,

You are a brave man,
You have always been a man of valour,
The watery shrub that thrives on stony ground,
You are the large odadee tree,
The tree with buttress that stands at Donkoronkwanta,
“ man feared by men. Nketia b
In another Akan example the chief is saluted and ushered to his seat by the
drummer’s praise, while all remain standing until he is seated:
Chief, you are about to sit down,

Sit down, great one.
Sit down, gracious one.
Chief, you have plenty of seating space.
Like the great branch, you have spread all over this place.
Let us crouch before him with swords of state.
Ruler, the mention of whose name causes great stir,
Chief, you are like the moon about to emerge.
Noble ruler to whom we are indebted,
You are like the moon:
Your appearance disperses famine. (Ibid.: 147)
Among the Akan and the Yoruba, drum poetry also appears in invocations
to spirits of various kinds. Longer Akan poems sometimes open with
stanzas calling on the spirits associated with the drum itself—the wood and
its various components—or invoke certain deities or ancient and famous
drummers. Important rituals are also commonly opened or accompanied by
the suitable drum poems. ‘The Awakening’ is one that must be performed
before dawn on the day of the Akan Adae festival:
The Heavens are wide, exceedingly wide.

The Earth is wide, very very wide.
We have lifted it and taken it away.
We have lifted it and brought it back,
From time immemorial.

The God of old bids us all
Abide by his injunctions.
Then shall we get whatever we want,
”e it white or red.
It is God, the Creator, the Gracious one.
‘Good morning to you, God, Good morning’
I am learning, let me succeed. Nketia b: 44)
A final example from the Akan area will illustrate how drums can speak of
the history of a community. This is from the drum history of the Mampon
division of “shanti published by Rattray in . This type of poetry is
performed on the public occasion of an Adae festival and, as Rattray points
out, it has ‘a deeply sacred significance. The names of dead kings are not
to be spoken lightly, and with the recounting of such a history comes no
small sadness to the listener Rattray . The history consists in
all of twenty-nine stanzas, and opens with an invocation to the spirits
associated with the drum. The actual historical record starts in the fourth
of the stanzas quoted below:
(Spirit of) Earth, sorrow is yours,

(Spirit of) Earth, woe is yours,
Earth with its dust,
(Spirit of) the Sky,
Who stretches to Kwawu,24
Earth, if I am about to die,
It is upon you that I depend.
Earth, while I am yet alive,
It is upon you that I put my trust.
Earth who received my body,
The divine drummer announces that,
Had he gone elsewhere in sleep ,
He has made himself to arise.
(As) the fowl crowed in the early dawn,
(As) the fowl uprose and crowed,
Very early, very early, very early.
We are addressing you,
And you will understand.
And you will understand . . .
(Spirit of) the fibre, Ampasakyi,
24 A locality on the Gold Coast.

Where art thou?

He has made himself to arise,
He has made himself to arise
(As) the fowl uprose, and crowed,
“nd you will understand
Oh Pegs, (made from) the stump of the Ofema tree,

(Whose title is) Gyaanadu Asare,
Where is it that you are?
“nd you will understand
And you will understand . . .
(Spirit of) Asiama Toku Asare,26

Opontenten Asi Akatabaa27
Asiama (who came from) the God of the Sky,
“siama of the Supreme ”eing,
The divine drummer declares that,
(As) the fowl crowed in the early dawn.
The drummer of the talking drums, a powerful figure, is commonly referred to as the
divine drummer or Creator s drummer Nketia b .
26 The first Queen Mother of the ”eretuo clan, said to have descended from the sky. She
was head of the clan before they migrated to Mampon.
27 Strong names (titles).
Very early,
Very early,
Very early,
[Oh] ”oafo “nwoma Kwakyie, Kwakyi, the tall one,

Kwakyi Adu Asare,
Whence camest thou?
Thou camest from Mampon-Kontonkyi, the place where the rock wears
down the axe.
Mampon Kontonkyi “niampam ”oafo “nwoma Kwakyi,
Kon!
Who destroys towns, Firampon,
Alas!
Alas!
Alas! . . .
[Oh] “du ”oahen,

”oahen Kojo,
Whence was it that thou camest?
Thou camest from Mampon Akurofonso,
The place where the Creator made things.
Adu Gyamfi with an eye like flint, (whose title is) Ampafrako.
The Shadows were falling cool,

They fell cool for me at Sekyire28
The day dawned, It dawned for me at Sekyire, Who is Chief of Sekyire?
The Chief of Sekyire is Kwaitu, Kwaaye knows “frane “kwa, ”oatimpon
Akuamoa,
Akuamoa,29 whom we even grow weary of thanking, for his gifts,
Akuamoa, you were of the royal blood since long, long ago,
Thou earnest from Mampon Kontonkyi, where the rock wears away the axe.
Kon!
Akuamoa Firampon,
Alas!
Alas!
28 The name of the wider region that includes Mampon.

29 The sixth ruler of the ”eretuo clan.
Rattray – , stanzas II, IV, V, VIII, IX, XII, XIII. He reproduces the poem in
drum language, in ordinary Ashanti, and in English translation.
III
Drum language, it is clear, is a medium that can be put to a wide range of uses.
Its appearance in messages, in names, in poetry, and in the performance of
proverbs has been illustrated. It can also be employed to comment on or
add to some current activity. Armstrong, for example, describes the actions
of a chief drummer at a dance in the ”enue-Cross River area, in words that
could be applied elsewhere too: he
maintains a running commentary on the dance, controls the line dancers

with great precision, calls particular persons by name to dance solo, tells
them what dance to do, corrects them as they do it, and sends them back into
line with comment on the performance. He does this by making his drum
talk, even above the sound of four or five other drums in the ‘orchestra’.
“rmstrong
In this example, the ‘speaking’ and comment of the drum form a linguistic
complement, as it were, to the musical and balletic aspects of the artistic
event as a whole. Among the Kele, the talking drum accompanies wrestling
matches, saluting contestants as they enter the ring, uttering comment and
encouragement throughout the fight, and ending up with praise for the
victor (Carrington 1949a –4). Similar literary contributions are made by
the drums among the Akan even to the otherwise mundane duty of carrying
the chief. It is raised to a state ceremonial by the conventions surrounding it
and by the drum poetry that accompanies and comments on it: the drums
say ‘I carry father: I carry father, he is too heavy for me’, to which the bass
drum replies, in conventional form, ‘Can’t cut bits off him to make him
lighter Nketia b . In funerals too, “kan drums play their part,
echoing the themes of dirges and heralding the occasion with messages of
condolence and farewell (Ibid.: 64). Such comment by drums can take so
elaborate a form as to be classed as full drum poetry in its own right. In this
case it covers the sorts of drum proverbs, panegyrics, and histories already
quoted, forming a specialized type of poetry apparently most characteristic
of certain traditional states of West Africa.
Expression by drums or other instruments can also be an alternative
medium to the human voice through which ordinary poetry can be
represented. Thus among the Yoruba each of their many types of poetry
can be recited on the drum as well as spoken, and the oriki (praise)
poems are as frequently drummed as sung (Lasebikan in Osadebay 1949:
Gbadamosi and ”eier . With the Akan some poems can be
drummed or sung, others are designed specifically for voice, drums, or

horns respectively Nketia in Osadebay .
Many different kinds of communications, then, can be conveyed
through the medium of drum language—messages, public
announcements, comment, and many types of poetry—and the same
sorts of functions can be fulfilled as by the corresponding speech forms,
with the additional attributes of the greater publicity and impressiveness
of the drum performance. In spite of its wide range of uses, however,
drum communication is in certain respects a somewhat limited medium.
There are limitations, that is, on the types of communications that can be
transmitted the stereotyped phrases for use in drum languages do not
cover every sphere of life, but only the content conventionally expected
to be communicated through drums. Furthermore, in certain societies
at least (for example, the Yoruba and the Akan), drumming is a highly
specialized activity, with a period of apprenticeship and exclusive
membership, so that to a greater extent than in most forms of spoken art,
drum literature is a relatively esoteric and specialized form of expression,
understood by many (at least in its simpler forms) but probably only fully
mastered and appreciated by the few. In the case of some peoples the
response to such limitations has been the creation of a highly elaborate
and conventional mode of artistic expression through drums—with the
apparent corollary that in this very specialized and difficult medium
the scope for individual variation and improvization seems to be
correspondingly limited and the stress laid on technical mastery rather
than on verbal originality.
In conclusion it must be stressed again that what is transmitted in drum
language is a direct representation of the words themselves. This is worth
repeating, because for someone unacquainted with this medium it is not
easy to grasp that the drums actually speak words, that from the point of
Or so it seems. With the exception of some remarks in Rattray –7), the sources
do not discuss this point directly.
Not much has been written about the distribution of this skill among the population
generally and further study of this question is desirable. Its prevalence in the
contemporary scene also demands research clearly it is at times highly relevant as, for
instance, in the use of drum language over the radio during the Nigerian civil war to
convey a message to certain listeners, and conceal it from others.
Again, further evidence on this point would be welcome. Of the Akan Nketia makes the
point that all drum texts are ‘traditional’ (apart from the nonsense syllables sometimes
included in them which may be invented) and that many are known in the same form
to drummers in widely separate areas b .
view both of the analyst and of the people involved, the basis is a directly
linguistic one. From this it follows that the content and style of drum
communication can often be assessed as literature, and not primarily as
music, signal codes, or incidental accompaniment to dancing or ceremonies.
Some of the items of drum language that have been mentioned—the
‘proverb-like’ phrases of Kele drum language, for instance, or the whistled
names in the Upper Volta—are only marginally literary. Other forms,
however, in particular the drum poems of southern Ghana, Nigeria, and
Dahomey, unmistakably fall into the category of highly developed oral
literature. ”ut whatever the assessment of individual examples it is clear
that it is both correct and illuminating to analyse drum language in terms of
its literary significance. Among the people who practise it, drum literature
is clearly a part, albeit through a highly specialized and unusual medium,
of their whole oral literature.
There is a huge (and very variable) literature on drum language that it is impossible
to begin to cover here. Useful bibliographies are to be found in Carrington 1949b, and
T. Stern . Cf. also, among many other accounts Witte Ewe Jacobs
Schneider Duala Van “vermaet “rmstrong Hulstaert Labouret
Herzog reprinted in Hymes .
18. Drama
Introductory. Some minor examples: Bushman ‘plays’; West African

puppet shows. Mande comedies. West African masquerades: South-Eastern
Nigeria; Kalahari. Conclusion.
I
How far one can speak of indigenous drama in “frica is not an easy question.
In this it differs from previous topics like, say, panegyric, political poetry,
or prose narratives, for there it was easy to discover African analogies to
the familiar European forms. Though some writers have very positively
affirmed the existence of native “frican drama Traoré , Delafosse
1916), it would perhaps be truer to say that in Africa, in contrast to Western
Europe and Asia, drama is not typically a wide-spread or a developed form.
There are, however, certain dramatic and quasi-dramatic phenomena to
be found, particularly in parts of West Africa. Many are of great interest in
themselves, particularly, perhaps, the celebrated masquerades of Southern
Nigeria. Furthermore, some discussion of such elements of drama helps to
throw light on oral literature in general in Africa.
There are other reasons why some discussion of ‘drama’ in Africa is
essential. The subject is in many minds inextricably linked to the question
of the origin of drama and to the interpretations of a particular critical
school. The existence and supposed nature of drama, mimetic dances, or
masquerades in Africa have been taken as evidence in discussions of the
origin of drama. While many would now reject the assumptions (often
inspired by Frazer’s Golden Bough) that are inherent in the evolutionist
approach, works built on such assumptions still circulate widely and
provoke an interest in the question of what sort of drama can be found
in Africa.1 It is, in fact, natural that students of the nature and history of
1 E.g. F. M. Cornford, The Origin of Attic Comedy, and “. H. Krappe, The Science of Folklore,
which both adopt this line, have each appeared in new paperback editions in the 1960s.
European drama should be interested in comparative evidence of analogous

forms in Africa. In addition, interpretations of literature in terms of myth
and archetype might at first sight be expected to draw particular support
from a knowledge of African dramatic forms.
It is clearly necessary to reach at least some rough agreement about
what is to count as ‘drama’. Rather than produce a verbal definition, it
seems better to point to the various elements which tend to come together
in what, in the wide sense, we normally regard as drama. Most important
is the idea of enactment, of representation through actors who imitate
persons and events. This is also usually associated with other elements,
appearing to a greater or lesser degree at different times or places: linguistic
content plot the represented interaction of several characters specialized
scenery, etc. often music and of particular importance in most “frican
performances—dance.
Figure . Masked Limba dancer and supporters, Kakarima,

Now it is very seldom in Africa that all these elements of drama come
together in a single performance. One or several do of course occur
frequently. ”ut which, if any, of such performances are counted as fully
‘drama’ will depend on which of the various elements mentioned above are
considered as most significant (a point, of course, that applies to more than
18. Drama 487
just African dramatic performances). What is clear is that while dramatic

elements enter into several different categories of artistic activity in Africa
and are thus worth consideration here, there are few or no performances
which obviously and immediately include all these dramatic elements.2
In order to bring out the respective significance of these various
elements we will look first at some minor forms. This will be followed by
a discussion of the more obviously dramatic forms of West Africa—the
comedies of the Mande-speaking area and the complicated masquerades
of South-Eastern Nigeria.
II
The emphasis on histrionic ability in story-telling has already been
mentioned. Stories are often enacted in the sense that, to a greater or
smaller degree, the speech and gestures of their characters are imitated
by the narrator, and the action is largely exhibited through dialogue in
which the story-teller directly portrays various characters in turn. It is true
that such enactment of character is not sustained or complete, that straight
narration, as well as dramatic dialogue, is used to communicate the events
of the story, and that only one real actor could be said to be involved
thus story-telling can only be spoken of as possessing certain dramatic
characteristics, rather than being ‘drama’ in the full sense. Nevertheless,
these dramatic aspects are of the greatest importance in the telling of stories.
It has been said of written literature that drama, unlike prose narrative,
is not ‘self-contained’ but depends on other additional elements for its
full effect. Precisely the same point could be made of oral narration. As
Delafosse writes of certain storytellers in the Ivory Coast: ‘J’ai entendu des
griots raconter des histoires au cours desquelles ils faisaient parler leurs
héros et qui devenaient dans leur bouche de véritables scènes de théâtre à
personnages multiples représentés par un acteur unique Delafosse
.
This similarity to dramatic performance is heightened by the frequent
occurrence of music and sometimes even rudimentary dance movements.
It is common for the story-teller to begin a song in the course of the
narration—often a song sung by, or representing the actions of, one of the
2 The plays of certain of the Mande-speaking peoples of West Africa, discussed later, are
one possible exception.
See Ch. .
characters—and for this to be taken up antiphonally by the audience acting

as chorus, in this way partaking in the dramatic enactment of the story.
Occasionally too the storyteller stands and moves among the audience. If
most African peoples lack specialized drama, they yet, by the very oral
nature of their art, lay greater stress on certain dramatic characteristics of
their literature than do cultures that rely primarily on written forms.
A very different side of dramatic art is exhibited by the Khomani
”ushman plays described by Doke Doke cf. also Schapera
ff . Here the linguistic element is apparently non-existent, but the action
is portrayed completely through the imitation of several actors. Among
the southern ”ushmen in particular, there is also some attempt to make
themselves up to resemble the animals represented by using paint, or the
skins or horns of animals. These dramas of the desert Doke .
represent the different stages in hunting. Doke describes ten of these plays,
and considers that since they depend on imitation and mimicry they have
to be considered as drama. In the ‘springbok and lion play’, for instance,
the various animals are portrayed: the girls take the part of the springboks,
with the little children as kids, while two or three men act the lions. First
the kids, then the springboks are shown as being stalked by the lions with
a vividness that makes it into a very exciting drama Doke .
The gemsbok play Doke regards as probably the ”ushman masterpiece
of dramatic representation Doke . In it, one man acts the part of
the gemsbok, with a forked stick tied or held to his forehead to represent
the horns, and imitates its actions and gait. He is pursued by three or four
armed huntsmen and by boys acting as dogs who look out the spoor. The
gemsbok is chased, then finally turns at bay. After an exciting fight the play
is ended by the death and dispatch of the gemsbok by the hunters and their
dogs.
It is possible that similar mimicry and dramatization, particularly of
hunting, occur elsewhere in “frica. However, I know of no descriptions
of such plays or dramatic performances of any other kind from ”antu
Africa as a whole, with perhaps the exception of a certain dramatization
sometimes found in rituals like initiation and funeral rites.4 For our other
examples of dramatic or quasi-dramatic phenomena we must turn to West
4 Cf. especially installation rites and annual ceremonies to do with kingship, such as those
described, for instance, in Kuper Ch. for the Swazi aspect of dramatization
and symbolism in ritual (and the various interpretations of this) is too large to enter on
here and is not, in any case, directly relevant to a treatment of literature.
18. Drama 489
Africa, where we can find more elaborate forms ranging from mere puppet
shows to the plays of the Mande-speaking peoples of the savannah areas
and the masquerades mainly typical of the forest region. These can be
discussed in turn.
There are several passing references to puppets in West Africa, though,
it seems, few detailed descriptions of their performances. They have been
recorded as appearing, in various forms, in the north of the Ivory Coast,
in ”ornu, Zaria, ”ida, and other places in Northern Nigeria and Niger,
and occasionally in Southern Nigeria Delafosse Ellison
Labouret and Travélé Murray Pageard . It is uncertain
how long a history they have in these areas.
One detailed description has been given of a puppet show in ”ornu
Ellison . Here the puppets consist of rag dolls that fit over the
manipulator’s hand rather like gloves and are shown through the opening
in a kind of tent made by draping a large gown over a stick planted in
the ground. The manipulator speaks for the puppets in a special voice
produced by half swallowing pieces of ostrich egg-shell the shrill whistle
that results is barely intelligible and the words are therefore repeated by an
assistant standing by. In the performance that Ellison witnessed there were
eight short scenes, each lasting three to four minutes and complete in itself.
Only two puppets could appear at a time, but there were about six in all,
and during the intervals while they were being changed inside the tent, the
audience were entertained by drummers and singers. The scenes portrayed
involved a clear plot, speech, suitable costumes for the parts enacted, and
dramatic and exaggerated action. One scene, for example, showed a thief
entering a man’s house and on the point of making off with his booty
when the owner s wife wakes and gives the alarm the husband appears
and dramatically gives the thief a sound beating. Another included a coy
Shuwa Arab girl dressed in a long flowing gown with cowries in her hair
who sings and dances, and thus captivates a married man he, inevitably,
is caught by his wife and is scolded and beaten and the scene ends with a
realistic fight between the husband and a bystander who has come to see
what is happening. “ final example is about a rest-house keeper. He is told
by the village head that the District Officer is coming—a very particular
and fussy D. O., we are informed—and that the rest-house must be very
well swept, and wood and water all provided with the greatest care. The
Puppet shows in ”ornu are said to have begun in the mid-nineteenth century according
to Ellison
D. O. arrives dressed all in white, complete with white pith helmet, and is
shown being greeted with exaggerated respect by the village head. ”ut, the
story continues, the rest-house turns out to be not exactly spotless and the
scene ends with its keeper being severely reproved.
Are such shows to be called drama? Certainly they include most of the
dramatic elements we have already mentioned: the enactment of character
and events several actors, albeit in puppet rather than human form plot
linguistic content specialized costume and a limited amount of singing
and dancing as well as interval music. In a way it seems unsuitable to call
this form drama and it is worth noting that even in ”ornu it seems to have
been relatively rarely practised and not regarded as a serious form of art.
Still, it must be accepted that the plots and attitudes involved are very
similar to some of those in the Mande ‘plays’ described later, and that even
puppet shows can be used to comment comically and dramatically on the
events and characters of everyday life.
III
Of much greater interest are the comedies of certain Mande-speaking
peoples in the savannah areas of ex-French West Africa. These, perhaps
alone among African enactments, would seem fully to satisfy most of the
normal criteria for a truly dramatic play. They have clear plot and linguistic
content, as well as music, dancing, costume, definite audience, and the
interaction of several human actors appearing at once in the village square
that acts as a stage. They are described as véritables pièces parfaitement
ordonnées et réglées, destinées à exposer une intrigue déterminée, en
employant pour interpréter celle-ci des acteurs humains. On peut donc
affirmer, dans ces conditions, qu il existe bien un théâtre soudanais
Labouret and Travélé .
One group of these plays—those of the Mandingo—were described in
some detail by Labouret and Travélé in . They are all comic, intended
for entertainment and the realistic portrayal of the characters and faults
of everyday life. As implied by the Mandingo term kote koma nyaga, the
plays treat especially of marriage and the various misfortunes of married
life, but also involve satirical comment on many other aspects of life. The
authors are also actors.
These comedies are said to have been performed every year in the
”amako and ”ougouni cercles of what was then French Soudan, in the
region of the old Mali kingdom. The normal occasion is after the harvest,
18. Drama 491
between October and March. In the evening the audience is called to

the open village square where, with no scenery or special building, the
comedies are presented in the open air, lit either by the moon or by
lanterns and candles. Each evening’s entertainment follows a fixed order
which Labouret and Travélé term respectively the opening ballet kote
don), the prologue, the presentation of the players, and, finally, the plays
proper.
The proceedings begin with the announcement of the kote koma iiyaga at
about eight in the evening people hurry to the square and sit ready, with
the children running around among the spectators. The drum orchestra
enters and takes its place in the centre, and the young men and women
start to dance in a slow, circular movement. This makes up the opening
ballet. Then the orchestra withdraws to the edge of the square and the
choir of women and girls group themselves around it ready to take up the
actors’ singing. Meanwhile the actors (almost always men) are preparing
in a nearby house, dressing and making up by covering the face and body
with clay or ash to create a fantastic or ridiculous appearance. They dress
themselves for comic effect, with torn clothes and the various implements
which they need for their roles.
When the actors are ready, this is made known and the audience fall
silent. At first only a cry is heard from an invisible actor calling on the
audience in set phrases which are answered, line for line, by the chorus.
Then the actor makes a hesitating entry. He presents a strange appearance,
partly naked, his body covered with white ash, a short torn cloak on his
shoulders, an old turban on his head, and rags hanging down his back. The
orchestra persuade him to call the others, so he runs to the entrance and calls
his comrades in an exaggerated and burlesque way, miming his impatience,
listening for them, and running round the different entrances. At last the
other actors enter. Each is dressed according to his role: one is an infirm
old man, another is blind, lame, or a leper other stock characters include
an idiot, an unskilful hunter, a brigand, an adulterer, a deceived husband,
a thief, and a sorcerer. They go right round the square, singing and dancing,
and then retire, marking the end of the prologue and presentation.
These introductory sections are followed by the comedies themselves
of which several are performed one after the other. These include titles
like ‘The boastful coward’, ‘The adulterous wife’, ‘The deceived hunter’,
‘The sorcerer with large ears’, and ‘Thieves of yams’. The play entitled ‘The
kola seller and the flirtatious wife’, one of seven described by Labouret and
Travélé, can illustrate the type of plot and action involved. The dramatis
personae are the seller of kola nuts Fatimata, a coquettish woman played
by a young man Fatimata s husband the chorus and the orchestra.
Fatimata enters and sits in the centre, simpering, with a mirror on
her knees she is wearing an exaggerated dress with huge pearls in her
hair and colossal bracelets. The kola seller comes in hesitatingly with his
basket of kolas and asks the orchestra if this is a good place for selling kola
nuts. When the musicians reply that it is, and, furthermore, that there is a
pretty woman there too, the kola seller protests that he is not concerned
with women, and dances in the square calling out ‘kolas for sale’. As he
dances, he catches sight of Fatimata still making herself up . He goes up
to her, calling out persuasively about his kolas. When asked the price, he
offers her a few kolas free, and steals up to her to present them. The scene
is repeated several times—and results in his discovery that he has given
all his merchandise away! The kola seller bemoans his fate exaggeratedly:
all is finished, Fatimata has deceived him. She replies self-righteously: the
kola seller for his part, she says, has been interfering with the end of her
loin cloth. At first indignant at this charge, he finally decides he might as
well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and tries to pull her cloth right off. Up
to now Fatimata has been all complaisance. ”ut the kolas finished she
now turns defensive and there is a violent tussle between her and the kola
seller, with great leaps and vivid representation, prolonged or contracted
according to the skill of the actors. Attracted by the noise, Fatimata’s
husband now makes an imposing entry. When he hears Fatimata’s version
of the story he attacks and beats the kola seller, and the play ends with him
chasing his rival from the stage with Fatimata, all innocent, by his side.
“ similar comedy was reported by Delafosse in from the ”ambara
(also Mande-speaking) who use the same term, kote koma nyaga, to refer to
their plays. Again the characters are a wife (acted by a man), her husband,
and her lover. The action takes place in the village square, surrounded by
spectators, and with an orchestra and choir to take up and echo the actors’
songs.
The man and his wife enter and ask permission from the village elders
(the orchestra) to set up house. Then, while the husband is occupied in
building their hut, his wife catches sight of the third actor, her would-be
lover. For the time being they have no opportunity to be together. ”ut time
passes and at last the husband’s crops are planted and ready for harvest
(the whole process being vividly mimed by the actor). When they have
harvested the crop the wife offers to go and pick off the seeds—an excuse,
of course, to be with her lover in the fields. ”ut it is not long before her
18. Drama 493
suspicious husband follows them. She sees him first—as she thinks—and
hastily buries her lover under a pile of stalks. The husband pretends he has
seen nothing and sits down. Then follows a conversation, with the husband
on his side pretending ignorance, the wife more and more alarmed as
detection seems to approach nearer:
Husband Have you finished picking off the seeds?

Wife Yes. Here they are in my basket.
Husband Well, you carry the seeds, I’ll take the ashes.
Wife (Taken aback) What ashes?
Husband I’m going to burn the stalks.
Wife (More and more alarmed) You can burn them tomorrow. Let’s
go home now.
Husband No, I’m in no hurry, I’m going to burn them now.
Wife (Very alarmed) Don’t you see the storm coming?
Husband (Still pretending not to notice anything) Yes I see. If it rains I’ll
cover the ashes with my coat.
Wife The wind will blow it all away before you can collect it up.
Husband (Decidedly) I’m not going until I have burned that straw.
He sets fire to the pile while his wife dances round it singing. “t this the
lover pushes his way out and takes to his heels, while the husband rushes
after him shouting ‘Catch the rat that’s escaped from my pile of stalks’
(repeated several times). The three actors disappear and the audience
bursts into laughter Delafosse .
From these two examples of Mande comedies, it can be seen that both
plot and characterization are simple and depend for their effect very largely
on the actors’ art: we are told that they display great talent, based on
keen observation and the exact imitation of gesture, voice, and intonation
Labouret and Travélé . The characters are conventional types.
Most popular of all is the deceiving wife, represented (as in stories from the
same locality) as a flirtatious and capricious liar, with both her actions and
her husband’s jealousy satirically and comically portrayed. Similar stock
characters also appear in Mandingo plays: the leper, ridiculed for his lack
of fingers and consequent awkwardness the thief the coward the boaster
and the sorcerer represented as an old woman, ugly and infirm, with huge
ears and a frightening appearance.6
These plays can be counted as comedies, satires on the foibles and
ridiculous aspects of everyday life, particularly, marriage. In this sense they
6 Ivory Coast ‘animal ballets’ are even more burlesque and include more clowning and
miming and less linguistic content (Prouteaux 1929).
can be called drama even though it is drama enlivened by music, dance, and
mime as well as spoken conversation. However, such comedies, it appears,
have only a limited distribution—basically among certain Mande-speaking
peoples of Mali, Soudan, and the Ivory Coast.7 Even within West Africa
they are not widespread and—on present evidence at least—they provide
the exception rather than the rule for full dramatic performances in Africa.8
IV
The final class of dramatic phenomena to consider are the masquerades
of West Africa. These are widespread in this part of Africa (including, to
some extent, the Mande area) and take many different forms, but seem to
be especially developed in the southern (forest) areas where the carving of
wooden masks has reached such a high degree of artistic development. The
masquerades—dances of masked figures of various kinds—probably vary
throughout the region in content, purpose, and pattern, but they all seem
to include certain elements of drama and are often referred to as ‘plays’.
There is generally the idea of some kind of enactment or representation by
the masked figure with great emphasis on costume (especially masks) and
on music and dancing. On the other hand, there seems to be little or no
linguistic content, though there is sometimes a rudimentary plot.
Rather than trying to describe all variations, I will speak of masquerades
in South-Eastern Nigeria. It is in the forest (or once forest) regions of this
area among the Ibo, Ijaw, and Ibibio peoples that, in the words of G. I. Jones,
Nigerian masked plays reach their greatest development Jones .
Even in this fairly circumscribed region there are variants enough. ”ut it is
clear from Jones’s article (‘Masked plays of South-eastern Nigeria’),9 that they
all share certain common features. There is always some religious element, a
belief, for instance, that the masked figures are in some sense supernatural, or
closely associated with supernatural beings. There is the disciplinary element
expressed in the awe in which the masked dances are held by women and
the uninitiated: the men who produce the play are initiates of a secret society
whose mysteries and rules they are bound to keep. Finally, there is always
7 The plots and tone of some of the Northern Nigerian puppet shows have something in
common with these plays and possibly indicate a wider incidence than as yet appears.
8 On these comedies see also Meillassoux 1964. For the way in which some modern skits
in Mali owe much to traditional dramatic forms, see Hopkins .
Jones . I draw very heavily on this article here also on ”oston , and Horton
. See also Messenger Horton , and Jones .
18. Drama 495
an element of pageantry and display however secret the society there is

always an occasion when the community is inspired by the spectacle of the
supernatural beings parading round in public, resplendent in all the finery
the society can provide Jones .
In different areas one or another of these aspects is to the fore. Thus in
the Cross River region, where secret societies have such central importance,
the element of display and pageantry is relatively undeveloped and
the local ‘spirit plays’ stress the macabre and supernatural ‘to a degree
unequalled in any of the other masked plays Jones, . “mong
the Ibo, by contrast, with their democratic and independent traditions, the
religious and disciplinary aspects have relatively little significance. There
are many Ibo, Ibibio, and Ijaw groups, furthermore, who choose to use
these masked plays primarily as vehicles for their artistic talent. Here the
play itself is the important thing the supernatural element, particularly
the feeling of fear, recedes and comedy and a sense of fun takes its place’
Jones, cf. also Messenger . There is much display of fine
costumes, masks, drumming, dancing, and singing. Acting too has a place:
Usually this acting is limited to each mask playing its own particular
role without regard to the other characters, but in a few plays the masks
act together in a complete drama. In one Ogoni play, for instance, all the
masks appear as a group of decrepit old men and hold a meeting guying the
local village elders. In another play the mask called ‘Doctor’, after boasting
greatly of the potency of his medicines, tries them out on the mask called
Rain Maker and poisons him in terror he appeals to Kamalu, the god of
the rain, and after much comic byplay and bargaining as to the value of the
sacrifice he must make to Kamalu, he succeeds in bringing ‘Rain Maker’ to
life again. Jones
Important varieties of masked plays in South-Eastern Nigeria are the Ibo

and Ibibio ghost plays. These are enacted by dancers wearing true masks
(i.e. right over their faces) and often elaborate costumes. The Northern Ibo
ghost play (Mau)), for instance, often includes a great variety of characters
wearing masks or carved heads (or both). These masks have conventional
meanings. Some are represented as masculine, some as feminine some
are fierce, some comic, some (mostly the feminine ones) beautiful. It is the
‘beautiful’ masks, portrayed according to Ibo ideas of stylized beauty and
feminine character (but in fact worn by men), who do most of the actual
dancing first the daughter masks appear and dance, then the mothers ,
and finally the ‘grandmother’ mask performs her solo dance. The comic
masks amuse by clowning, whereas the fierce ones are meant to frighten.
Some are so fierce (especially those combining the features of lion, elephant,
and buffalo that they must be kept on a leash by their attendants others
are used to keep the crowd back from the dancers, and threaten them with
whips. Miming and sometimes parody seem to be highly developed in
these ‘plays’. In one instance,
When the play has just begun a white-faced mask with a cavalry moustache,
wearing white ducks and a spotless sun-helmet, stalks into the arena and
casts a supercilious eye over the scene. The play stops, the mask languidly
signals them to proceed and strolls over to sit amongst the audience in the
seat of honour. This character is Oyibo the White Man. Jones
The importance of miming and even satire is brought out by another writer
on Ibo masquerades ”oston . In northern Iboland it is apparently the
dramatic element that has been developed at the expense of the religious.
”ut even here the element of plot is very undeveloped indeed compared to
the emphasis on music and dancing. ”oston expresses clearly the Ibo order
of priorities when he writes:
Each type of masquerade has a characteristic rhythm, which is produced
by a subtle and intricate combination of voices, instruments, and stylized
movement, and this rhythm supplies a compulsive force to the performance,
as the plot does in European drama. It also creates a dramatic link between
the various elements of the masquerade, which are often scattered in
different parts of the village. ”oston
Though there are several other types of Ibo and Ibibio ghost plays besides
those mentioned, all seem to share the characteristic of less emphasis on
plot than on miming, music, and dancing.
The third main variety of masquerade in South-Eastern Nigeria
comprises the Ijaw water-spirit plays. The plays of one group of Ijaw
peoples the Kalabari have been discussed by Horton and the outline of
his account is followed closely.10 In these plays too there is an emphasis on
music, dance, and costume at the expense of linguistic content.
The plays are staged by the Kalabari Ekine Society. This is a religious
and artistic association for men, separately organized in each Kalabari
community. Each such society stages a cycle of thirty to fifty masquerade
plays. The society is divided into grades through which members can
progress according to their skill and on payment of a small fee. Each
society has its own headman and certain other officials and its own rules
10 Horton cf. also . There is not, unfortunately, space to do justice to the

subtlety of his discussion.
18. Drama 497
of behaviour one of the strictest of these is the idea of concealment of

certain activities from women. The plays themselves are connected with
water spirits, and in the myths about their origin we are told how a woman
was once abducted by the water spirits and was shown their special plays
before she returned home they were then taken over by the men as an art
or recreation, but their religious significance was still remembered.
In these masquerades there are comments and accompanying songs. The
subject-matter a covers a diversity of social experience though it is ostensibly
concerned with the activities of water spirits, in fact it clearly reflects the
everyday life of Kalabari town and village, portrayed in a realistic manner:
Perhaps the commonest theme is that of the ferocious male warrior, laying
about him with matchet or spear, his violence set off by the plump, comely,
slow-moving figure of his wife. This pair is portrayed by some of the most
widely distributed masquerades such as Agiri, Egbelegebe, Egbekoro, and Seki.
Then there is the dignified, opulent ‘house head’ portrayed by masquerades
like Gbassa and Alagba. Or the massive, stolid character portrayed by the
maskers of Otobo—a water spirit who is thought of as part man, part
hippopotamus, and who is addressed in song as ”east who holds up even
the flowing tide . ”y way of contrast, there is the cunning, amoral hypocrite
portrayed by Ikaki—’Tortoise’. Or the sexy, good-for-nothing aristocrat Igbo,
of whom they sing His father sent him to market to buy yams but instead
he bought woman’s vagina. O! Igbo, son of a chief! O! Igbo, son of a chief!’
Or again, there is the native doctor Ngbula, grunting around with grim
concentration in search of bad medicines and evil spirits: suspicious like
all of his profession that people are talking ill of him, and breaking off from
time to time to make ferocious charges at his supposed detractors among the
Ekine members. Female water spirits, too, sometimes take the central place
in a masquerade. Notable among these is Igoni a garrulous, self-pitying
old widow who alternately bemoans her own and everyone else’s troubles.
Horton
”ut in spite of the existence of such plots and of some linguistic content in
songs and comment, this aspect of Ekine masquerading is only of secondary
importance. It is worth quoting Horton at some length on this point, for
he makes absolutely clear that it is the dancing and the drumming rather
than the linguistic element which is the important part of these dramatic
performances:
Diverse as they are . . . the verbalized themes of the masquerade are never
very elaborate. All that can be said about the characters portrayed in a
particular play takes no more than a sentence or two. And the plots of the
Egbert tableaux are sketchy in the extreme—especially if one compares them
with the rich narrative which the Kalabari weave about the water spirits
in other contexts. There is, in fact, a good reason for this sketchiness and
brevity. For the masquerade is not intended as the enactment of verbal narrative.
Its dominant symbols are those of rhythmic gesture, dictated by the drum
and in so far as its verbal commentaries have a use, it is one of directing
attention to the broad area in which the meaning of the dance gestures lies.
Words here provide no more than a bare, crude outline of meaning, and it is left to
the language of the dance to fill in the detail which makes the masquerade rich and
satisfying to its audience [my italics].
If an Ekine member is asked how he recognizes a particular play, he does

not start to talk about the character portrayed or about the plot of the Egberi.
He starts by imitating the rhythm of its drums and perhaps, if there are
no women about, by dancing a few of its characteristic steps. ”y this, he
is able to convey the distinctive features of the play: for every masquerade
has its own characteristic set of drum-rhythms, beaten on a characteristic
combination of drums . . . .
The value which Ekine sets on the dancer’s attunement to the drum does
much to explain why its members consider possession by the masquerade
spirits to be the crowning achievement of the expert performer. In Kalabari
thought, all symbols of the gods are instinct with their presence. Now the
drum-rhythms of each masquerade are symbols of its spirit ‘owner’, and as
such they too are vehicles of his presence. So, saying that the spirit ‘owner’
has taken charge of the dancer’s body is a natural way of describing the
ideal state of attunement in which the drum-rhythms seem to have taken
over the man’s movements from his conscious will and thought. That these
are indeed two ways of describing the same experience is suggested by the
reply of a gifted dancer whom I asked what it was like to become possessed
during the dance. As he put it: ‘One plays until, as it were, the drum pushes
one around . Horton
”esides verbalized content and rhythm, a third element in these Kalabari

masquerades consists of the costumes, of which the most distinctive part is
the headpiece, sometimes including a wooden mask. This mask is regarded
as distinct from the rest of the costume and is the ‘name’ of the masquerade,
so that even when it is not in fact visible to the spectators it still plays a part.
”ut even the masks have only a secondary role compared to the dancing.
‘The real core of the masquerade lies in the dance and . . . by and large other
elements are only considered important in so far as they contribute to it’
Horton .
Horton concludes that despite certain functions of Ekine activity (its
significance as a status symbol or organ of government) the essential
values can only be called aesthetic Horton . Why then, if the
masquerade is first and foremost an art, does it retain close associations
with religion? Horton argues that reacting to a human performance as a
18. Drama 499
work of art seems to involve two main factors: first, an ability to exchange
practical workaday reactions to the subject-matter for some sort of attitude
of contemplation an eye which is engaged yet somehow aloof Horton
and secondly, a suspension of personal reactions to the actor
as a known individual in favour of a concentration on his role in the
performance. Now in modern Western theatre and ballet these requirements
are usually fulfilled without much difficulty. The theme of play or ballet is
often removed from the first-hand experience of the audience so too are
the actors, so that the problem of suspending personal reactions to them as
individuals does not arise. ”ut in a small-scale homogeneous society like
that of the Kalabari the situation is very different:
In the first place, the greater uniformity of social experience means that the
audience will have had first-hand exposure to the subject-matter of almost
any dramatic performance. In their case, the subject-matter is always near
the bone. Secondly the performers are always personally known to most of
their audience. Horton
The Kalabari solution to these difficulties can be found in the religious

context of the masquerades. First, by associating the plays with water
spirits, the Kalabari can, in a complex way, disentangle them from the too
human and personal context. Furthermore the actors’ water spirit disguise
makes it relatively easy for the spectators to concentrate on the play itself,
on the roles rather than the individuals. This also helps to explain the
prohibitions laid on women in connection with Ekine activity (as well as
with West African masquerades elsewhere). It is not that they are forbidden
all knowledge of the masquerades: indeed, they are its principal spectators.
What they are forbidden is to know of or suggest any connection between
masquerades and an individual player. In Kalabari masquerades the masks,
the costume, the religious associations and prohibitions all serve to bring
about the ‘psychical distance’ essential in dramatic art.
This discussion of West African masquerades tends to one main
conclusion. That is, that though these performances possess certain of the
elements we associate with drama, the emphasis is very different from that
of most modern European drama. Even where there are some linguistic
content and plot, these always seem secondary to drumming and its essential
counterpart, dancing. “s Horton suggests it seems that at least in certain
areas of West Africa, the dance overshadows sculpture, painting, architecture,
and literature as the leading traditional art Horton .11
11 For further references to ‘drama’ in Africa see the bibliographies in Shore 1962:
V
How far can the discussion in this chapter be said to be relevant for the
study of African oral literature? With a few possible exceptions, there is no
tradition in Africa of artistic performances including all the elements that
might be demanded in a strict definition of drama—or at least not with the
emphases to which we are accustomed. We can go further and add that
what dramatic or quasi-dramatic performances can be discovered never
seem to involve tragedy in the normal sense. The events and characters are
depicted as comedy, and treated more or less realistically, even cynically.
Though costumes and masks are sometimes important, there is no evidence
of specialized scenery or of buildings or sites specifically designed for
theatrical performances. The players are sometimes skilled experts or
belong to artistic associations such as the Ekine Society, but there is no
tradition of professional actors. The audience, finally, is sometimes a ‘pure’
audience in the sense that it appreciates without itself taking part directly
but, with the significance of the dance and the absence of the ‘proscenium
barrier’, there is often a tendency to greater audience participation than is
typical of most recent Western drama.
We can also make other negative points. Little direct light is thrown on
the question of the origin of drama by a study of African dramatic forms—
except possibly in the vague sense that it might be said to enlarge our
general view of the possibilities of drama, or of certain elements in drama.
Similarly it adds little support to the kind of interpretation of drama which
relies on the idea of tragic archetypes and of rituals ultimately referable to
The Golden Bough.
However, one positive point does emerge. Though different elements
of drama are stressed in different African cultures, one theme that seems
to run through almost all these African performances is the overriding
significance of music and dance and the secondary importance of the
spoken word. Even in the Mande comedies, which at first sight seem
most to resemble the more verbalized type of European drama, the stress
laid on words seems to vary: what is constant is the emphasis on dance,
song, and mime. Further research obviously needs to be done on this.
”ut it does appear that, at least in West “frica the area that provides the
and Traoré . There is a detailed and sympathetic account of Ijebu Yoruba

masquerades in Ogunba 1967. See also the briefer report in Clark and Gibbs 1967,
especially Chaps. , , and ”ibliography.
18. Drama 501
most highly developed dramatic forms), we would be mistaken to look

only at the verbal content in any discussion of drama and miss the rich
traditions in music and dance which form essential elements in dramatic
performances.12 Though there may be no ‘plays’ in quite the Western sense,
these indigenous artistic forms nevertheless possess some of the elements
we associate with drama. They present a dramatic representation of life
in a detached and yet somehow more direct and active way than can be
conveyed through descriptive words alone, and in this way provide a
complement to the various forms of oral literature already described.
12 Traditions exploited in modern literature by, for instance, the ‘Yoruba folk operas’
described by ”eier , and the musical and balletic emphases in productions by
recent West African playwrights.
Conclusion
Several points emerge from this examination of oral literature in Africa.

The first is an obvious one. This is the relevance of African oral literature
for comparative literature in the wide sense. The study of the kinds of
instances and genres touched on in this account can enlarge both our
literary experience and our concept of ‘literature’ altogether. It can also
throw light on some recent literary experiments (jazz poetry, for instance)
as well as on the oral background to literature even in literate cultures. Its
significance, in other words, is by no means confined to those with a special
interest in the continent of Africa.
The kind of conclusions I myself would draw about the nature of
this African literature would be, first of all, to repeat the obvious point
of its variety. Not only is generalization difficult, but many of the
general conclusions that have been stated to date turn out to be based on
relatively little evidence. It now seems obvious, for example, that simple
generalizations about the collective nature of art in non-literate cultures
cannot hold good in face of the evidence about the creative activity of the
individual poet or story-teller, and that the process of artistic composition
even in non-literate societies turns out to be more complex than often
imagined. Again—and this is perhaps more controversial—I would
hold that there is less support than might be expected from the African
material for the mythopoeic or archetypal interpretation of literature, or
the idea that African literature is all marked by ‘dark mysticism’ or similar
catchwords. Finally, the fashionable ‘structural’ approach of Levi-Strauss
and his followers has not seemed a fruitful one for any detailed study
of actual oral genres in Africa in their own context. This type of elegant
but at times rather farfetched analysis turns out, in my opinion, to be less
illuminating in the face of the facts than a less ambitious analysis of the
obvious meaning and context of actual instances.
Some of these conclusions are no doubt controversial. ”ut the main point
that I want to insist on here is that such questions are relevant ones for the
study of literature, and ones on which the African material can throw light.
It should no longer be acceptable to discuss such problems in the abstract
without reference to the actual facts of African literary expression. African
oral literature, in short, is part of the literature of the world and should be
considered significant as such.
The second main point may not be so obvious. This is the relevance
of African oral literature for sociological analysis. It has been well said
that a society cannot be fully understood without its songs. ”ut this has
sometimes, it seems, been forgotten by the sociologists.1 In particular,
those who have concerned themselves with the sociology of foreign and of
so-called ‘primitive’ societies have too often neglected to take any serious
interest in their literary forms.
This aspect is so important that I want to expand on it a little. Traditional
African societies have by and large normally been grouped into the general
category of ‘primitive’. And one of the most important differentiating
characteristics of this category is normally taken to be the fact of being ‘non-
literate another is of being simple . People have found it only too easy to
slip from this into the assumption that ‘non-literate’ involved something
like our concept of ‘illiterate’ (i.e. someone who in a literate community may
be regarded as having failed to master the ways of that particular culture),2
and, further, that ‘simple’ implied simple intellectually or artistically as well
as simple in technology. Neither of these assumptions is in fact logically or
empirically defensible. In particular, there is nothing necessarily ‘backward’
about a poet in a culture which does not use the written word choosing to
express his literary ability through the rich oral medium at his disposal.
Furthermore—and this is the pertinent point in this context—it should now
be clear from the descriptions and examples given in this book that being
non-literate or technologically simple does not mean that such societies are
lacking in elaborate artistic forms, in literature, in complex symbolism, in
scope for the individual to express his own artistry and insights, or in an
awareness of the depths and subtleties of the world and of human life. As a
Kongo proverb expresses it: ‘The human heart is not a bag into which one
can plunge one s hand Van Wing . This becomes evident with
even a cursory study of oral literature. ”ut it is a facet that is almost always
overlooked when people speak of the ‘non-literate’ and ‘simple’ societies
of traditional Africa.
1 A term in which I include social anthropologists.

“ point well made by “ndrzejewski .
Conclusion 505
This oral literature, furthermore, needs to be taken seriously in its own

right. Explaining oral literature away by reference to social or even ‘symbolic’
function is to miss much of its actual detailed significance, and is as much of a
disservice to the sociologist as to the literary critic. The relationship between
literature and society is too complex and various to be reduced to such
generalized explanations. Even for a sociological analysis literature must be
considered first in its own terms before an accurate assessment can be made
of its role in society. And if some still prefer not to speak of ‘literature’ here,
it must at least be admitted that whatever the actual term used there exists
a complex oral art in African cultures and that this must be taken seriously
into account in any balanced assessment of African societies.
This is a point I want to emphasize. The fact of the existence of this
oral art—this literature as I would call it—is something which both throws
light on the nature of African societies and also helps to undermine the old
view of the quality of non-literate societies generally. It is not something
peripheral, but basic to their life and thought. It is something, in short,
which, too often forgotten, must be taken into full account by the sociologist
in his approach to these societies.
This leads on to one final point. It might be supposed that such literature
is dying out with the impact of literate, wealthier, and reputedly more
‘progressive’ cultures. This is not necessarily so at all. Some genres, it is true,
are receding but others political songs, new versions of dance songs, new
religious lyrics—are increasing in importance. Oral literature, in fact, plays
its part in developing, not just traditional, Africa.
Figure . Dancing in Freetown continuing site of oral literature and its

practitioners, 1964 (photo David Murray).
It is frequently assumed that the only and the natural direction of

development for ‘undeveloped’ countries like Africa must be towards
greater reliance on the written word. This assumption, however, may not
be justified. People have spoken of the ‘revolution’ in communications in
Western countries in the last few decades which involves a change to a
much greater dependence on auditory forms (the radio in particular) at the
expense of the visual (the written word). This greater reliance on auditory
forms is something which would not seem at all strange to those brought
up in the traditions of spoken literature characteristic of Africa. Indeed
this reliance on the spoken word—and thus on oral forms of expression—
may well increase rather than decrease in Africa in the future. This is
not unlikely to follow increasing European influence, both in its general
turning towards non-written forms and in some of the particular literary
experiments with oral or semi-oral forms. This tendency towards oral
forms may also be intensified as the transistor radio spreads still further.
Already there is evidence from all over the continent of the radio being
used as the vehicle of oral literary forms—the mvet songs over Yaounde
radio, for example, or the Somali balwo, ideal material for broadcasting
and though a medium involving a mass rather than a face-to-face audience
must necessarily lead to some changes in the traditional nature of oral art,
it is yet clearly related to it. It may be, then, that increasing dependence on
the written word may not necessarily be the obvious line of development
in the Africa of the future.
Whatever our guess for the future, however, it is clear that oral literature—
whether addressed to small family groups, an emir’s court, political rallies,
or radio listeners—is not just something of the past. It is relevant for the
contemporary analysis of African society and not just for those interested
in ‘traditional culture’ or antiquarian researches.
African oral literature, then, is of interest not only for students of
literature, but also for sociologists and all those with an interest in African
society, past or present. The final note must be, however, to point to the
great need for further research into this subject: the present book can
provide only an introduction.
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Index
“bimbola, W., , , , - “frican scholars, , -

Abraham, R. C., 277 South “frican school, , - , ,
Abrahams, R. D., xxx history of with special reference to
“brahamsson, H., , , , prose narratives, , ,
Acciuabo. See Chuabo relevance for comparative literature, ,
accompaniment ,
in lyrics, , , African society, misconceptions about,
in panegyric, 116 - , - , , , , , , - ,
in stories, , , , ,
“chebe, , “frikaans, “frikaaner, ,
“choli, “cioli, , , “fro-“siatic language group, ,
action songs, , , , “gni,
“dali-Mortti, G., , , Akamba. See Kaba
Adam, G., 297, 299, 426 “kan, , , , , , , , ,
, , , , , , , ,
Adamawa-Eastern language sub-family,
, - , - , ,
“kan dirges, , , - , - . See
“dande, “.,
also elegiac poetry
“dangme, , ,
“lbert, E. M., , , ,
“delabu,
allegory, , . See also parable
AdetoyeseLaoye I, Oba, 477
“llen, J. W. T., ,
“dewa, E. “.,
alliteration, , ,
“etiological tale,
in Southern ”antu panegyric,
“frican Music Society, , , , ,
Alnaes, 201, 288
, ,
“lur,
African oral literature, study of
Amazulu. See Zulu
history of,
Amandebele. See Ndebele
in nineteenth century, , ,
Ambede. See Mbeti
in twentieth century evolutionist, ,
- , , , , “mbo hunting songs, -
functionalist, , , Ambo, 220
diffusionist, - , , , , Kuanyama Ambo, 248, 401
interest in classification, “merica, “merican, ,
recent work, - , - “merican scholars, ,
musicologists, , , Uncle Remus tales in,
“merican anthropologists, - “merican Folklore Society,
“merican-Indian, ,
“mhara, “mharic, , Ashanti, 84, 86, 88, 116, 207, 211, 212, 214,
“nang Ibibio, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
, , - , ,
“ndrzejewski, ”. W., xxxi, , , , , “sia, ,
, , , , , , Asu, 271
“ngola, atabele. See Ndebele
animal stories, , , , - , - audience
, , , , , , as chorus, , , , , , ,
proportion of exaggerated, , , , in drama, , , , , , ,
animals participation of, , , ,

as metaphors in panegyric, 117, 122, for poetry, Ch. ,
, , , , in praise poetry, ,
names for, , , for proverbs, 402
praises of, , , , significance of in oral literature, ,
proverbs about, , - , , , in story-telling, - , , , - ,
, ,
songs associated with, , , See also chorus
See also animal stories cattle praise authorship. See Individual originality
poetry Poet
“nkole, , , , , , , , , Awona, A., 110
, , Azande. See Zande
anthropology, , azmaris, 92, 98
“merican anthropologists, xxxvi, , ,
development of in relation to study of ”a, “. Hampaté,
oral literature, , ”aamilembwe. See Milembwe
antiphony, , , , , , , babalawo, 97
Anya-Noa, L., 242 ”abalola, S. “., xxxv, , , ,
Anyumba. See Owuor, H. ”abemba. See ”emba
Appiah, K. A., xxx background, , , , , ,
“rmstrong, R. G., , , - , ”agaudu, Song of,
Arabian Nights, , ”ahima. See Hima
“rabic, , , , ”ahunde. See Hunde
”akoko,
influence in prosody, ,
”akongo. See Kongo
influence on vernacular literature,
”alandier, G.,
literature, , ,
”aluba. See Luba
scholarship,
balwo, , ,
script, , ,
”ambala. See Mbala
“rabs, “rabia, , , ,
”ambara, , , , ,
“rewa, E. O.,
”ambuti,
“ranzadi, I. X.,
”amesemola,
Aristotle, 414
”ang, D. N.,
“rnett, E. J.,
”ansisa, Y.,
“rnott, D. W., , , , , , ,
”antu, - , , , - , , ,
, , , , ,
“rnott, K.,
Languages, , ,
asafo, 182, 211, 212, 214
panegyric, 117
Bibliography 545
”aoule. See ”aule ”leek, W. H. I., , - , ,

”araguyu, ”mbala. See Mbala ”ambara
”arber, Karin, xxvii, xxx, ”mbuti,
”ari, ”oas, F.,
”arra, G., , ”occassino, R.,
”ascom, W. R., xxxv, , , , , ”oelaert, E., ,
, , , , , , , ”ohannan, P.,
”ashi. See Shi ”ondei,
”asotho. See Sotho ”ornu, , ,
”asset, R., , ”oston, J. S.,
”aule, ”ouillon, “.,
”auman, R., xxvii ”ounfour, “., xxx
”aumgardt, U., xxxi, xxxix ”owers, C.,
”éart, C., , , ”owra, C., xxxv
”eaton, “. C., , , ”rakeley, T. C.,
”eattie, J. H., , , ”randel, R., ,
”eidelman, T. O., , - ”razil,
”eier, H. U., - , , - , , ”reitinger, E., xxx, xxxii
196, 197, 201, 219, 220, 267, 268, 299, ”rown, D., xxx
, , , , , , ”ufe, E.,
”elcher, S., xxx, xxxii ”ull, “. F.,
”elinga, M. S. E., xxxii, , , , , ”ulu,
, ”ura,
”elmont, xxx ”urbridge, “.,
”emba, , , , ”urton, R. F., , ,
”ena Kanioka, ”urton, W. F. P., ,
”en-“mos, Dan, xxvii, xxx, xxxii ”urundi. See Rundi
”ender, C. J., ”ushmen, ”ushman, , , , - ,
”enedict, R., , , , , , ,
”enzies, W. R., ”ushong,
”erber, , ”ynon, J.,
”érenger-Féraud, L. J. ”.,
”erlin, , Cagnolo, C., xi, , -
”erry, J., xxxv, Calame-Griaule, G., xxxi, 269
Callaway, H.,
”eti,
Cameroons, Cameroun, 109, 242, 470
”iebuyck, ”.,
Carrington, J. F., 118, 462, 468, 469, 471,
”iebuyck, D., xxxii,
, ,
”(ttner, C. G., , , ,
Carter, H.,
”ini, , ,
Casalis, E.,
birds, -
cattle
bird riddles, 418
names for,
songs associated with, ,
poetry connected with, 89, 90-91, 112,
”isset, C. J., , , , , , , , ,
”ivar, “. D. H., - , - ,
”lacking, J., , , , in proverbs, ,
”lair, D. S., in riddles, 422
”leek, D. F., ,
Cendrars, ”., in political songs, 271

Central “frica, , , , , , , in religious poetry, 178, 179, 182, 192
in stories,
Central “frican Republic s , , , in work songs, , , , , ,
Central ”antu, ,
Central language sub-family, , Christaller, J. G.,
Central Saharan language group, Christensen, J. ”., ,
Cerulli, E., Christian, Christianity, , , , ,
Chad , ,
Lake, lyrics, , , , , , -
language sub-group, effect on religious poetry, , ,
Chadwick, N. K., , , , , , effect on political poetry, , , ,
, , 281, 289
Chadwick, H., , , , , , , Church of Nazareth, 181
, Clark, J. P., xxxii, , ,
Chaga, Chagga, 400, 419, 426 Clarke, J. D., 196, 198
chain rhymes, , , Clarke, K. W., 41
characterization, - , , , Clarke, R. T., 472
characters class system in languages , , -
in stories, , use of in Southern ”antu panegyric,
animals, - , , - , , , in stories, 64-66
Classical world, ,
people, , , , classification
overlap of, - interest in, ,
See also myths historical narratives difficulty of constructing for African
Chatelain, H., , , , , , oral literature, , , , , - ,
Chaytor, H. J.,
Cherbonneau, “., - native classification of literature:
Chewa, neglect by collectors , -
chiasmus. See parallelism of myths , , , , , , -
Chikaranga. See Karanga ,
Chikunda, 228 of proverbs, , ,
children’s poetry of riddles, 420
games and verses, , , , , Click language family,
, , - composers and reciters
lullabies, , , , , on drums, , ,
nursery rhymes, , , in hunting poetry, 218, 220, 221
See also riddles in modern situations, ,
Chinamwanga. See Nyamwanga and military poetry, , , ,
Chinyanja. See Nyanja 211-212
Chiwale, J. C, 122 nature and distribution of, 16, 91-92,
Chopi, , , , , , , -
chorus occasions for, - ,
in drama, 488, 492 performance of, , , - ,
in elegies, , , religious, 166, 200
in lyrics, , , , , , , , self-praises, , , , , , ,
260 142, 460
similarity to epic, 109, 110
Bibliography 547
in Southern ”antu languages, court musicians, 79, 86-87

in Southern ”antu praise poetry, , - court poets, , , - , , , - , ,
, , , - , , , ,
style of in general, Cronise, F. and Ward, H. W., , ,
verbal element in, , , , , . See Crowder,
also court poets oriki Crowley, D. J.,
compound nouns. See noun formation Cummins, S. L.,
Cole-”euchat, P. D., , cumulative story,
Colin, R., curses, -
Collier, F. S., 220 Curtin, P. D., ,
Collins, J., Curtis, N., 179, 224, 272
Comhaire-Sylvain, S., ,
communal creation, as supposed da Cruz, C, ,
characteristic of oral literature, 107 dabteras,
competition, - Dadié, ”.,
in children’s games, 299 Dahle, P. ”.,
in proverb telling, , , Dahomey, , , , , , , ,
in riddle asking, - , , , ,
composition Dale, “. M., , , , , , ,
, , , ,
connection with performance, 11, 100-
, , , Dammann, E., , , ,
among Chopi, 10 dance
in Luonyatiti songs, 100-101 songs, , , . See also action songs
in lyric, , , , , in drama, , , , , , ,
- , , ,
in Southern ”antu panegyric, - ,
associated with elegiac poetry, 146
in special purpose poetry, 202, 214, 218, in hunting poetry, 217, 222
, , associated with praise poetry, 140
in stories, 11 in war songs, , , , ,
in Zambia, 261, 262. See also individual in work songs, , , , ,
originality dance songs, , , , . See also
Congo, , , , , , , , , action songs
, , , , , , , , Danquah, J. ”.,
, , , , , Dauphin-Tinturier A., xxx
content, 471 de “ranzadi, I. X.,
nature and types of, 14 de Clercq, “.,
occasions and functions, 14, 102 de Dampierre, E., , , ,
praise names in, , de Foucauld, C., ,
style, 7, 160-161 de Ganay, S., 461
Conti Rossini, C., de Pélichy, “. G.,
Cook, P. A. W., 126 de Rop, A., 109
Cope, T., , de Vries, J., 108
Coptic, , death, , , , - , , , ,
Cornevin, R., 108 440
Cornford, F., in proverbs,
Coulon, V., xxx in stories,
Coupez, A., 207
deities, , , , , , , , , Driberg, J. H.,

, , , drinking songs,
in stories, , , , . See also drum literature, , - , , -
myths names, , , -
Delafosse, M., , , , , in announcements, 470-472
Deng, F., as history, , , - ,
Denisoff, R. S., limitations of,
Dennett, R. E., as panegyric, , , - ,
Denny, S. R., 228 principles of drum language, 468, 469-
derivative verbal forms, - , 470, 484-484
Derive, J., xxxi, xxxii, xxxiii, xxxix in rituals, 482
Dewar, E. H., Drum proverbs, , , , , ,
Dahle, P. G., - ,
Dhlomo, H. I. E., , , , , , Dschagganeger. See Chaga
249 du Toit, ”. M.,
dialogue Duala, , ,
in bird songs, Dufays, F.,
in children’s games, etc., 297-298, 299 Dundes, A., 421
in hunting song, 218 Dunning, R. G., , , , ,
in lyrics, , , Dupire, M. and Tressan, L., 428
in riddles, , , , , dyalo, 97
in stories, , , . See also dynastic poetry, 89, 90, 106, 116, 122
antiphony leader Dzalamo. See Zaramo
Didinga, 201
Dieng, ”., xxx, xxxii Earthy, D.,
Dieterlen, G., 199, 200 East “frica, , , , , , , ,
diffusionism, , , , , , ,
Dijkmans, J. J., East African rhyming area, 74
dilemma story, , , , as factor in prosody, 74
Dingane, 127 in proverbs,
Dinka, , , , , , tone as substitute for,
Diop, “. ”., xxxii in Swahili tenzi, 172
Diop, ”., , East Central Africa, 121, 427
Dipumba, East, R.,
dirge. See Akan dirges Ebding, F., ,
domestic songs. See work songs Echegaray, C. G., 110
Dogon, , , , , , , , , Economic position
, , , of poets, Ch. , , , , , , ,
Doke, C. M., , , , , , , , 120
, , , , , , of story-tellers, , ,
on style of proverbs, , , , , Edo,
, , , , , education,
Doke collection, xxvii, xxxix, as possible function, , , ,
Donohugh, “. C. L., in proverbs, 400, 401
Dorson, R. M., in riddles, 427-428
drama, xxxii, - , , , - , in stories, . See also moralizing
- , - Effimbra, G., ,
Drewal, T., xxvii
Bibliography 549
Efik, , , , fiction, fictional, 207

Egudu, R. N., , Eiselen, W. M., tales distinct from historical narratives,
Ekine society, , , , , -
Ela. See Ifa distinct from myths , , - , ,
Elegy, Elegiac poetry, , Ch. . See also stories
distribution and nature of, - figurative expression, - , ,
“kan dirges content and themes, - , in names, , , , ,
, - , , , in oratory, , ,
structure and style, 147 in prayers, 446, 447, 448, 449
delivery, , , , in proverbs, , , ,
occasions and functions, 146, 149, 161 in religious poetry, 112-114
Luo nyatiti laments, - , , , in riddles, 421
in Somali balwo, 247
Ellenberger, V., , in Southern ”antu panegyric, , , ,
Ellis, “. ”., , , , , , , , , . See also praise names
Ellison, R. E., 489 Finland, Finnish,
Emsheimer, E., Finnegan, A., xxxv
Endemann, C., Finnegan, R. H., , ,
Englebrecht, J. A., 298 Fisher, J. L.,
enigma, , Fivaz, D., 67
Ennis, E. L., , , Fjort,
entertainment Fletcher, R. S., , , , , , ,
in proverbs, - ,
in riddles , , Foley, J. Miles, xxvii
in stories, , , , , , folk songs,
epic folklore, xxviii, , , , - , ,
in Africa, xxxi, xxxii, 108, 109, 110 folktales, , ,
epic laws , European, ,
Swahili tenzi, 108, 170, 172 contrasted to myths, , , . See
epigram, , , , , , also fiction
Equilbecq, F. V., , , , Fon, , , , , , , ,
Eshu-Elegba, formulae, in stories, ,
Ethiopia, , , , , - , , , Fortune, G., xxvii, , , , , ,
424, 427
European languages in “frica, , ,
Frazer, J. G., ,
Evans-Pritchard, E. E., xxxv, , , ,
Freeman, R. “., ,
, , , - ,
French Soudan, 490
Evheer. See Ewe
French
evolutionism, , , -
concept of ‘griot’, 97
Ewe, , , , , , ,
language in “frica,
Ezeigbo, T. A., xxx
scholars, , , . See also Négritude
Fali,
Freud, 46
Fang, , , , , , ,
Frobenius, L., , ,
Fante, Fanti, , , , , , ,
Fuchs, H.,
Fardon, R., xxx
Fula. See Fulani
Farias, P. F., xxvii, xxx
Fell, J. R., 414
Fernandez, J. W.,
Fulani, , , , , , , , , , gewel, 97, 98

, , , , , , , , Gérard, “. S., xxx
, , , , , Ghana, Ghanaian, , , , , ,
Functional approach, - , , , , , , , , , , , ,
, - 484
Fulbe. See Fulani gheraera, geeraar,
functions of oral literature Ghilardi, V., 419
of Akan dirges, 24 Gibbs, J. L., 177
of myths , , , Gibbs, J. M.,
of political songs, 267, 268, 271, 276 Gidley, C. G. ”.,
of praise poetry, 118 Gikandi, S., xxx
of proverbs, - , , - , , gold weights, ,
406, 407, 408, 410 Golden Bough, The, ,
in religious poetry, , , Goldstein, K. S., xxvii
of stories, - , , - , Goody, J., 4
of work songs, , , Görög-Karady, V., xxx
political functions, , , , , Gowlett, D. F., ,
, , , , , , , Grant, E. W., , , , , , ,
- , , , , , . See
also education functional approach Gray, E., , , , , , , ,
utility 414, 424, 426
Furniss, G., xxxi Great Lakes, ,
Games. See children’s poetry Greek, Greeks, 60
Ga, Green, M. M., , - ,
gabay,106 Greenberg, J. H., ,
Gabon, , , Greenway, J.,
Gaden, H., , greetings. See salutations
Galaal, M. H. I., , , Grimm brothers,
Galla, , , , , , , , Griaule, M., , , , - , ,
Ganda, , , , , , , , ,
, Griots, 96, 97, 100
Gaskin, L. J. P., Guinea, 99, 281
Gates, H. L., xxx Gulliver, P. H.,
Gbadamosi, ”., - , , - , , Gunner, E., xxxi
, , , , , , , , Gur,
, , , , Gutmann, ”., ,
Gbeho, P., 269 Gyima, , ,
Gbeya, ,
Hadendiwa,
Ge’ez, 74
Hahn, T., ,
genre
Hale, T. “., xxx, xxxii, xxxiii
literary, ,
Hama, ”.,
types of in African oral literature, 26,
Hamba, xxvii, xxx
70, 79, 80
Hamburg,
Georges, R. A., 421
Hamitic,
German East “frica,
Hamito-Semitic language group,
Germany, Germans, , , -
Hanks, W. F., xxxvii
contribution of early German scholars,
- Harari,
Bibliography 551
Harding, F., xxvii, xxx Homer,

hare, as central figure in stories, , , Homeric epithet, , ,
, , Hodgkin, T.,
Haring, L., xxx, xxxii Hoernlé, “. W.,
Harries, L., , , , , , , , Holas, ”.,
424 Hollis, “. C.,
Hartland, E. S., Honko, L., xxvii
Hartter, G., Hopkins, N. S.,
Hattingh, S. C, hortatory poetry,
Hauenstein, “., , Horton, R., xxxv, , , , , ,
Hausa, Haussa, xxxi, , , , , , , 498, 499
, , , , - , , , , , Hottentot, , , , , , ,
, , , , , , , , Houdas, O.,
, , , , - , , ,
Houis,
, - , , , , - ,
Huffman, R.,
, , , , , , , ,
, , , , , , , , Hughes-Freeland, F., xxvii
460, 472 Hulstaert, G., , , , , , ,
Haya, , ,
Hayford, C, Humbi,
Heath, F., humour, . See also wordplay
Hebrew, Hunde,
Hecklinger, P., Hungarian,
Helser, “. D., , Hunt, “., , , ,
Heraclios, hunting poetry, , , , , -
Heroic age, “mbo songs, , , -
poetry. See epic Ijala, , , , , , , , ,
recitations, 121. See also epic occasions for, , , , ,
Herskovits, M. J., , - , , - Huntingford, G. W. ”.,
404, 467 Hunwick, J. O.,
Herskovits, M. J. and F. S., , Hunwick, O.,
Herzog, G., , , , , Hurel, E.,
Hichens, W., Hurutsche,
Hillelson, S., Hutu, , . See also Rwanda
Hima, , , , , Hymes, D., xxvii,
Hinaway, M. “., Hymns. See prayers religious poetry
Hiskett, M., , , , Improvisation
historical significance of in oral literature, 10
background. See social background in lyrics, , , , , , , ,
evidence, oral literature as, 47
narratives, - , , , , , in work songs,
, in written literature, 12
“rabic influence on, , , , Ibadan, University of, Institute of African
on drums, 479-481 studies, xxvii, xxxv, 200
myth-legends , , Library, xxxv, xxxix
poetry, 117, 141. See also epic Ibibio, , , , , . See also
Historical-geographical school. See Anang Ibibio
diffusionism
Ibo, , , , , , , , , , initiation, literature connected with, 102,

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
, , ,
ideophone, - , - , Inkishafi, 170
in ”antu languages, , , Innes, G., xxxv, ,
in other African languages, 72 innovation. See composition
in panegyric, improvisation
in riddles, , , , intoned literature. See recitative
Idoma, invocation. See religious poetry
Ifa, Irele, A. F., xxx
literature, , , - , , , Islam, Islamic, , , ,
198-199, 200 magic, 179
priests of, , as patron of poetry, 91
Igala, religious poetry, , ,
Igbo. See Ibo war poetry, 207. See also tenzi
Ijala poetry, 72, 218 myths in, , -
tone in, 72, 218 poetic forms in, xxxiii
Ijaw, 494, 496 political songs in, 281
Ijebu Yoruba, Ittmann, J., , ,
Ila, , , , , , , , , Ivory Coast, , ,
, , , , , , , ,
419-420, 428 James, W.,
Imbongi, - , . See also court poets, Jabo, , ,
imigubo Jacobs, J., , , , ,
Imigubo, 204, 210 Jacobs, M., 42
improvisation, significance of in oral Jacottet, E., , , , , , ,
literature Jahn, J., 470
in lyrics , , , James, W.,
in work songs, Jans, P.,
See also composition individual Jaques, “. “., , , , , , ,
originality 416, 422
incantations, 179, 180, 181, 199 Jelleman, ,
India, Jie,
individual originality Job, 169
in “kan dirges, , , Johnson, F., xxx, xxxii, , , ,
in curses, prayers, Johnston, J. W.,
in drum literature, Jones, “. M., , , , , , , ,
existence of denied in oral literature , , , , , , , , ,
- , , , ,
lack of in Ambo hunting songs, 221 Jones, E. D., xxx,
by leader in lyrics, , , , Jones, G. I., , ,
in lyrics, , , Jones, R., ,
in mantic poetry, 184 Jordan, A. C, 418, 419
in proverbs, 404 Joseph, 169
in stories, , , - , , , Jousse, M.,
, , Joyce, James,
Indo-European, Jung, 46
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Koelle, S. W.,
Junod, H. P., , , , , , , , Konate, M., 108
, , , , , , Kongo, , , ,
Koranic. See “rabic Islamic
Kaffir. See Xhosa
Koranko, Kooranko,
Kagame, “., , , ,
Koritschoner, H.,
Kaguru,
Kosi,
Kagwa,
Krappe, “. H., ,
Kalabari, , , , ,
Krieger, K.,
Kalahari, , ,
Krige, E. J., , - ,
Kalanda, A., 79
Krio,
Kalanga,
Kronenberg, “.,
Kalela dance, 269, 274, 276
Kru, ,
Kamanzi, Th., 207
Krug, “., ,
Kamba, , , , , , , ,
, , , , , , , Kuanyama Ambo, 248, 401
Kamerun, Kuba,
Kanuri, , . See also ”ornu Kunene, D. P., 68, 121
Karanga, , , , , Kunene, R.,
Kaschula, R, H. xxxi, xxxix Kuper, H.,
Kassena-Nankani, Kwa, 77
Kauffman, R., 181 kwadwumfo,86
Kawada, Junzo, xxx Kxatla. See Kgatla
Kele 118, 468-469, 470-472, 482, 484 Labouret, H., , , ,
Kensdale, W. E. N., Lacroix, P. F., , , , ,
Kenya, , , , Laing, “. G., ,
Kenyatta, Jomo, 278, 280 Lamba, , , , , , , , , ,
Kesteloot, L., xxx, xxxii, 108 , , , , , ,
Kgatla, , , Lambert, H. E.,
Khoi-Khoi. See Hottentot lampoons, 266, 270, 271. See also political
Khoisan, songs
Kidney, E., , , Lane, M. G. M. 272
Kikuyu, , , , , , , , Lango, , ,
- , - , , , languages, “frican, , - , , , ,
Kilson, M. D. de ”., ,
Kimbundu, , , , , , Larson, T. J.,
King, “., Lasebikan, E. L., - , ,
King, “. V., Laurence, 247, 248
Kingslake, ”., Laydevant, F., , , , ,
Kingsley, M., leader, song, , ,
Kiniramba. See Nilyamba in lyrics, , , ,
kirari,112, 460 in stories,
Kirkby, P. R., in work songs, 227
Klama, , See also soloist
Klingenheben, “., , , Leakey, L. S. ”., - ,
Klipple, M., Leaver, K. D.,
Lega, Lloyd, L. C., 149, 178

legend. See historical narrative Lloyd, P. C.,
Leith-Ross, S., Lomax, “.,
Lekgothoane, S. K., , Lomongo. See Mongo
Lele, Loeb, E., 248
Leslau, W., Lokele. See Kele
Lestrade, G. P., , , , , , , Longmore, L.,
, , Lonkundo. See Nkundo
Lévi-Strauss, C., Lord, “. ”.,
Lewis, I., , , , , Lotuko, ,
Lhote, H., love poems, 246-249, 277
Limba, xxvi, xxxxliii, , , , , , love songs, , , , -
, , , , , , , , music in, ,
, , - , , , - , occasions for, 247, 249
, , , , , , , , religious, 248,
, , , , , , , , themes of, 246, 247. See also Christian
, , , lyrics
Lianja, , , Lovedu, 121
Liberia, , , , Lozi, 228
Lienhardt, G., xxxv, , , , , Luba, , , , , , , , ,
- , ,
Lienhardt, P., 169 Luganda. See Ganda
Lifchitz, Lifszyc, D., , , , Lugbara,
Ligers, Z., Lukas, J., ,
Lindblom, G., , , , , , , Lullabies, , , , -
, , , , , , Lulua,
Lindfors, ”., xxx Lunda, ,
Lingala. See Ngala Luo, , , ,
linguist “kan , Luthuli, Chief, 274
linguistic basis of “frican literature, , Luvale, ,
70. See also tone Lyele, , ,
linguistic studies of African oral literature, lyrics, , , - , , , Ch.
, ,
composition in, , , ,
literacy
connection with hunting songs, 221,
amount of in contemporary Africa, ,
- , ,
with military poetry, , ,
in “rabic or “rabic script, - ,
form and style of, , , , ,
literature, oral literature as one form of, 1 ,
difficulty of defining, 1, 26 love songs,
difficulty of differentiating from music in, ,
non-literary forms in oral cultures, 17,
occasions for, , , ,
26, 27
religious,
African forms in nineteenth-century, 27,
themes of, - , , , , .
-
See also Christian lyrics
lithoko, ,
Littmann, E., ,
Mabale, , ,
Liturgical verse, ,
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MacCulloch, J. “., Mbole ”ambuli ,
Macdonald, D., , Mboro,
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McLaren J., , , , , , McLaren, J., , , , , ,
McLuhan, 21 McLuhan, M., 21
Macrosudanic language group, Meeussen, “. E., ,
Madan, “. C., Meillassoux, C., 118
Madumere, A., 270 Meinhof, C., ,
Maes, J., Melanesia, 179
Maes, V., memorization, , , , , , , ,
magic, magical, , - , , , , ,
202, 217 Mende,
Makua, 416, 419, 422, 424, 426 Mensah, A. A., 182
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, , Merrick, G., 111, 418
Mali, 490, 494 Merwe, D. F. v. d., , , ,
Malinke. See Mandingo Messenger, J. C, , , , , ,
Mande, 96, 97, 489, 492, 494 , , ,
Malcolm, D., , , Messing, S. D.,
Mandingo, , , , metaphor. See figurative expression
Mandinka. See Mandingo Methodist, , ,
Mandishona, G., 122 metre, , , ,
Mangoaela, Z. D., 141 absence of,
Mantic poetry. See Religious poetry, as prosodic factor, . See also prosody
maroka Middleton, J., , ,
Mapanje, J., xxx Migeod, F. W. H.,
maroka, , , Milembwe, 446, 447
marriage military poetry, , , , , ,
songs connected with, , , , , , , , ,
, . See also wedding songs Akan, 102, 207, 211, 274
Marshall L., - as drum poems, 211, 277
Masai, , Nguni, 207, 208, 210-211
Mashona. See Shona occasions of, 202, 204, 206, 207, 209, 214
masquerades, , , , . See also recent uses of, , , -
drama Miqdad, 169
Matswa, 274 Mischlich, A., 167
Mau Mau, 280, 281 Mitchell, J. C., 269
hymns, , , - , - mmoki,
Maupoil, ”., , Mofokeng, S. M., xxvii, , , , ,
Mavuso, 126 , , ,
Mayr, F., Mohamadou, E., , ,
Mayssal, H., Mohammed, 169
Mba, Mongo, , , , , ,
Mbala, Monod, Th., 167
Mbete, 297, 299, 426 Monteil, C.,
Monteil, V., MwanaKupona, utendiwa, 171

Moore, G., Mwera, 417
moralizing Mynors, T. H. ”., -
in proverbs, , , mythopoeic, ,
in speeches, 440, 441 myths, xxxii, , , , , , ,
in stories, - , - , - ,
Morgan, L. H.,
Nadel, S. F., 120
morphology, language,
Nakene, G., , ,
in ”antu languages,
Namaqa Hottentot, -
Morris, H. F., , , , , ,
names, ,
Morton-Williams, P., 187
in “kan dirges, - , , , ,
Moru, 297
,
Moses, 169
drum names, -
Moshesh, ,
functions of, - , , - ,
motif, , , , , , , , .
proverb names, , , See
See also themes
also praise names
motif indexing,
narrative
Moyo, S. P. C.,
absence of music in, 76
Mpama-”akutu,
ideophones in,
Mpongwe,
in military poetry, 66
Mqhayi, ii
in praise poetry, ,
Mulford, D. C, 287
in religious poetry, 192
Muller, Max,
syntax in, . See also prose narrative
Mulokozi, M., xxx, xxxii
narrator. See poet, story-teller
Munonga, “.,
Nassau, R. H.,
Murray, D. J., xxxv, , , ,
nature,
Murray, K. C., 489, 494
as theme: in lyrics, 241, 248
music
in panegyric, , ,
in African literature, 6, 7, 76
in riddles, 424
in “kan dirges, - , -
Ndau, , ,
different words to same tune,
Ndebele, , , , , , ,
in ijala, 6, 72, 218
Négritude, ,
in lyric poetry, , , , Ch.
Nettl, ”., , , ,
in panegyric,
Newell, S., xxx
in relgious songs, , , ,
Ngala, ,
in stories,
Ngandu Nkashama, P., xxx
in Swahili tenzi, 169
Ngoni, , , , , , , , ,
in work songs, , 210, 292
musical setting as prosodic factor, Ngubane, J. K.,
‘Music of Africa’ series. See African Music Nguni, , , ,
Society
Ngwana, 141
musicologists, , ,
Niane, D. T., 108
Muslim. See Islam
Nicolas, F.,
Mutesa, 114
Nicolas, F. J., 418, 429, 460, 462
Muyaka,
Niger, , ,
mvet, , ,
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Nigeria, , , , , , , , , occasions
, , , , , , , , significance of in oral literature, ,
, , , , , for Akan dirges, 161-162
Nile, , for Dogon praise names, , ,
Nilo-Hemitic, , for elegies, 146, 149, 161
Nilyamba, 64 as factor in classical myths ,
Njururi, N., , xxxvii for hunting songs, 216, 217, 218
Nketia, J. H. K., xxxv, , , , , of oratory, , , , ,
, , , , , , , , for praise poetry, , , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
on “kan dirges, , , , , , for proverbs, , - , - , ,
- , , - , - ,
on form and style in lyrics, , , for riddles, , , , ,
, , , , , , , ,
in special purpose poetry,
-
of story-telling, , , ,
Nkrumah,
for war songs, , , , , ,
Nkumbula, 286
207, 209
Nkundo, , , ,
of work songs, , , ,
North “frica, ,
Odu Ifa. See Ifa literature
North-East “frica, ,
Oduduwa,
North-West “frica,
ogres in stories,
Northern Rhodesia. See Zambia
Ogumefu,
Norton, W. “.,
Ogun, , - ,
noun classes. See class system
Ogunba, O., ,
noun formation in ”antu languages, ,
oigo, -
, ,
Ojea, 147-148
in praise names, 68
Okot, J. 149, 272
Nsimbi, ”.,
Okpewho, I., xxxii
Ntumu,
Omijeh, E. “., xxix, ,
Nubians, 74
onomatopoeia, , - , ,
Nuer, , , ,
Opie, I. and P., ,
Nupe, 119, 120
oracular poetry.See Religious poetry,
Nurse, G., 288
oral literature
nursery rhymes, , . See also
concept and nature of, xxx, xxxiv, xxxix,
children’s poetry
- , - ,
Nyanja, , , , , , , ,
difficulty of distinguishing from non-
, , , , , ,
literary speech forms, 17, 26-27
Nyasaland. See Malawi
interplay between written and oral
nyatiti, 100
forms, 18, 20, 21-22, 60
Nyembezi, C. L. S. , , , , ,
not rigidly distinguishable from
, , ,
written literature, 24-26, 202, 464
Nyerere, 172
should it be classified as literature?,
Nyika, , - , , , ,
Nyoro, , , oral tradition, ,
Nzakara, 94 oral transmission of written forms, 12,20-
, , , -
oaths, , ,
oratory in drama, Ch. 18, 486, 489, 490-491, 499

proverbs in, , , , , , implications for study of oral literature,
relative neglect of in study of oral xxxiii, , ,
literature, . See also Speeches in praise poetry, , -
originality. See Individual originality in prayers, 446
oriki, 112, 460, 482 in proverbs, , , , ,
Orwin, M., xxx, xxxi significance of in oral literature, , , ,
Osadebay, D. C, , , ,
Ovimbundu, , , , , in speeches, - , , -
Owuor, H. alias “nyumba , , - , in story-telling, , , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
in Swahili tenzi, 169, 170, 172
Paden, J., , personification, 64
Pageard, R., 489 Peul. See Fulani
Pahouin-”antu, Pfeffer, G., 167
Palmer, E., Phillips, H. R.,
panegyric. See Praise poetry Pilaszewicz, S., xxxi
Papadopoullos, T., 108 Plass, W.,
Pâques, V., Plato, 14
parable, , , Poet Awona, S., 110
parallelism poet
in Ambo hunting songs, 222 of elegiac poetry, , , , , ,
in ”antu languages, , , , , ,
in ”ushman hymns, fear of, - , , ,
in children’s songs, 298 ignorance of or misconceptions about
cross-parallelism chiasmus , , , , position of poet, , -
408 of ijala, 218
in curses, 444 of mantic poetry,
in prayers, 447 non-specialist poets, 99
in proverbs, and patronage, Ch. , , , , , ,
in Southern ”antu panegyric, , , ,
tonal parallelism, 72 position of poet, , , , , , ,
Paredes, A., xxvii 120
parody, , of praise poetry, 90-91
Parrinder, E. G., 197 religious poets, , ,
pastoral poetry, 122. See also Cattle wandering poets, , - , - , -
Patterson, J. R., 120 effect of on cultural uniformity, 98-99
Paulay, G., See also composition court poets
Paulme, D., , , , professional poets
Pedi, Poetry, Part II
Peek, P., xxx difficulty of distinguishing from prose,
Pemba, xxxii, 76-77, 78
performance more highly valued than prose, ,
in “kan dirges, , , , music in, - , , , - , , , , ,
connection with composition, 100, 106, , , - , Part II
, poetic forms among Akan, Yoruba, 9, 71
in curses, 444 and patronage, Ch. , , , , , ,
,
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literature, 77 . See also Prose narratives
as specialist art, , prose narratives, Chs. , , ,
tone in, , , - , , . See also Tone, in Ifa literature,
children’s songs, elegiac poetry, over-emphasis on, , , , -
hunting poetry, lyric, military study of, Ch. , , , , , ,
poetry, political poetry, praise poetry, - , , , ,
religious poetry, topical literature, evolutionist approach to, , , ,
work songs
poets, wandering, , - , - , - diffusionist approach to, , , ,
political poetry , ,
in elections, , - , , attempts to classify, , , , ,
in Guinea, 281 , , - ,
Mau Mau hymns, , , - , See also stories historical narratives
280-281 myths
associated with political parties, 274, prosody, in “frican verse,
, , , , , , in Akan dirges, 160
in Zambia, - “rabic influences in, ,
political songs, 49, 266, 270, 274, 276-277, in ”antu languages,
- , , in Hausa Song of ”agaudu,
Polynesia, Polynesian, , in Southern ”antu panegyric, ,
Posselt, F., Prouteaux, M.,
possession songs. See Religious poetry, proverb names, , , -
Mantic proverb-poems ,
praise names, , , - , , proverb-riddles, , , , - ,
in “kan dirges, , - , 427
in ”antu languages, , , , proverbs, Ch. 14
in hunting poetry, 111, 217, 218 absence of music in, 76
inmilitary poetry, , , among “zande, , , ,
in riddles, 418 collections of,
praise poetry, , , , , , , , , concept of, , , , ,
- , Ch. , , , , , , drum proverbs, , , , , ,
, , , , , , , , , - ,
prayers, - , among Jabo, , , , - ,
Présenceafricaine, occasions and functions, , , - ,
Prietze, R., , - , - , , - , ,
Prince, R., 198 408, 410
printing, 20, 21 in oratory, , , , ,
professional jesters, praise names in, ,
professional orators, significance, , , , , -
professional poets, , , - , , , similarity to riddles, , , . See
. See also court poets also Proverb-riddles
professional story-tellers, , in stories,
Propp, V., , structure and style, , , - ,
Prose, Part II , - , -
absence of music in, 76 subject-matter, , - , , -
contrasted with poetry, xxxii, 76-77, 78 tone in, ,
among Zulu, , , , , , , in lyrics, , , , , ,

, , , , - , .See also in prayers, 447, 448
proverb names proverb-poems in proverbs,
psychological functions of literature, in religious poetry, , ,
, . See also functions of oral in Southern ”antu panegyric, ,
literature
in speeches,
puns, ,
in work songs, , . See also
Puplampu, D. A., 202 parallelism
Pygmies, , , rhetoric. See oratory
qasidah,74, 168 rhythm
quantity, as factor in prosody, in children’s poetry, 292, 294
in curses, 444
Radcliffe-”rown, “. R., , as factor in prosody, ,
Radin, P., , in lyrics, ,
radio, , , in masquerades, 497-498
Ras-al-ghul, 169 in prayers, 446,
Rattray, R. S., , , , , , , in proverbs, , ,
479 Rhodes, W., x, , - , , ,
Raum, O. F., 400, 419, 427 Rhodesia. See Southern Rhodesia
Rautenbach, S. C. H., Rhodesia and Nyasaland, University
recitative, , , College, library of, xxvii, xxxv
recording of oral literature, , rhyme
Reichard, G., East African rhyming area, 74
religion as factor in prosody, ,
significance in Kalabari masquerades, in proverbs ,
497, 498, 499 tone as substitute for, 6, 72
as subject in stories, in Swahili tenzi, 172
types of in “frica, . See also myths Ricard, A., xxx
religious poetry
riddles
religious poetry, Ch. , , , - ,
content, -
nature and types of, , , , ,
types of, , , , -
421
Christian influence on, ,
occasions and functions, , , ,
didactic and narrative, 167, 168, 200
praise names in, ,
Fante Methodist lyrics, , -
style, , - , , ,
generalisations about, 199, 200
Riesz. J., xxx
hymns, , , , , , , ,
Ripp, O., , , ,
incantations,
Roberts, J., 276
mantic poetry, , ,
Robinson, C. H.,
Sotho divining verse, ,
Rodegem, F.,
Swahili tenzi, 168, 169, 171-172
Roger, J. F., , ,
Yoruba Ifa poetry, 187-190, 198, 478
Ronga,
repetition
Roscoe, J., ,
in Akan dirges, 160
Rossini, C. Conti,
in ”ushman hymns,
Rouch, J., 179, 180
in curses, 444
Rouget, G., , ,
indrum literature, 469, 474
Bibliography 561
Rozi, 122 Shakespeare,

Rwanda, Ruanda, , , , , - , , Shangana-Tsonga, ShangaanSee Thonga
, , , , , Shango, 174
Rundi, , , , , , , Sherzer, J., xxvii
Russian, 19, 60 Shi, 246, 268
Rycroft, D., xxxv, , , , Shilluk, - , ,
Shona, , , , , , , ,
Sachs, J., 288
Shore, H. L.,
Sacleux, C.,
Sierra Leone, , , , , , ,
salutations, , ,
- , , , ,
by drums, 116, 118, 461, 462, 482
Silla, O., 99
Samarin, W. J., ,
Simmons, D. C., , , , , ,
Sandawe, 427
Sanger, C, 272
singer. See poet
sanza, 409, 410
Sklar, R. L.,
satire, satirical, , , , , , ,
Smith, E. W., , , , , , , -
, , , , . See also drama
, , , , , , , ,
Mande comedies, - , ,
, , , , , , ,
Savard, G. C.,
Smith, M. G., , , , , , , ,
Sayers, E. F., 167 117
Scandinavian, , , Snoxall, R. “.,
Schachter, R., , , , , social anthropology. See anthropology
Schapera, I., , , , , , , social background, in “frica generally, ,
, , , - , , , , -
Schechner, R., xxvii sociology,
Scheub, H., xxxix relevance of African oral literature for,
Schipper, xxx
Schlenker, C. F., Sölken, H.,
Schneider, , solo, soloist, Ch. 4, 104, 118
Schön, J. F., in “kan dirges, ,
School of Oriental (and African) Studies, in lyrics, , ,
xxix, ,
in religious songs, 178
Schtirle, G.,
solo songs, 106
Schulien, 201
in work songs, , , , , ,
Scott, C. T., 421
See also court poets leader poet,
Sechuana. See Tswana wandering
secret societies, , , Somali, xxxi, , , , , , , ,
Seidel, “., , , , , ,
Sékou Touré, , - , , Somaliland, 106
Sempebwa, E. K. K., , , Songhai, ,
Senegambia, 97, 98, 99 songs,
Senegal, , , as lyric poems, Ch. 9
Senghor, L. S., connected with proverbs, ,
sermons, , in speeches, -
Seydou, C., xxx, xxxii, 74 song-riddles, 419, 426
Shaka, , , , , , , , in stories, , . See also poetry
408
Soninke, 118
Soolima, stress, as factor in prosody, ,

Sotho, , , , , , , , , in Southern ”antu pangyric, , ,
, , , , , , , , structural analysis, , , . See also
, , , , , , , functional approach
Soudan, 494 structural-functional. See functional
sound system in ”antu languages, - approach
source for, Stuart, J., , ,
South “frica, xxxi, , , , , , Stuhardt, J. G.,
, style
South West Africa, 77, 117 of “kan dirges, , - ,
Southern Rhodesia, , , , , , in Ambo hunting songs, 221-222
, of ”usman hymns, -
Sow, “. I., , , in Limba curses, , ,
Spanish Guinea, 109 in Luo oigo, -
speeches, , , , , , , , of lyrics generally, ,
, ‘miniature’ forms of Somali balwo, 247
Spider, as central figure in stories, , in oratory, , , - , , ,
, , , , , 442
Spiess, C, , of praise poetry, , - ,
St. John-Parsons, D., in proverbs, , , - , ,
Stappers, L., , , , , - ,
Stead, W. G., of qene 92,
Steere, E., , in religious poetry, - , , ,
Stefaniszyn, ”., , , , , , , - , - ,
Stern, T., 484 in riddles, , - , , , ,
Stilz, E. ”., 428
Stopa, R., , , of Southern ”antu praise poetry, ,
stories , - , - , ,
absence of music in, 76 in story-telling,
composition, in work songs, ,
functions of, , - , Suaheli. See Swahili
modern themes in, , , , - , Sudan region,
, Sudan, , , , , ,
occasions for, , , , Sudanese action songs, -
in oratory, , Sudanic languages,
over-emphasis on study of, Sundkler, ”. G.,
about people, - , Susu, 281
performance of, , , - , Swahili tenzi, - , , , , ,
story-teller, , , , - , , , , , , , ,
, , - , - , Swahili, , , , , , , , , ,
study of, Ch. , , , ,
style of, . Swanepoel, C. F.,
See also “nimal stories Myths Prose Swazi, , , ,
narratives. syntax, ”antu,
story-teller, , , - , , , takhmis,74
, , , - , , - ,
Tanganyika, Tanzania, , , , ,
487-488
289
as song leader,
Bibliography 563
Tanghe, J., 229 Tlokwa, , , , ,

Tardy, L., , Togo,
Tarsitani, ”. “., xxx tone riddles, 72, 416, 427
tasmit, 74 tone, , - ,
Taylor, G. “., , in drum language, 6, 71, 467-468, 469,
Taylor, W. E., , , ,
Tedlock, D., xxvii as prosodic factor, ,
tegble, 202 in proverbs, , ,
Tegnaeus, H., , relationship of sung and spoken tone,
television, 22 , - ,
Temne, , in riddles, 416, 417
Ten Raa, E., 427 tonal structure in poetry, 71, 72
tenzi, 168, 169, 172 Tonga, 104, 147, 296, 414
Terrisse, “., tongue twisters, ,
Tescaroli, L., , - Topan, F., xxx,
Tetela, topical literature
Tew, M., elegies, 147
texts, collections of neglect of, , , , , , , ,
in Congo, 46, 447 , ,
emphasis on in nineteenth century, topical poems, topical songs, , , ,
- - , - . See also political
over-emphasis on, 49 songs
See also recording Torrend, J.,
Theal, G., tortoise, , , , , , ,
themes Touareg. See Tuareg
of “kan dirges, - , Toucouleur, 99
in animal stories, , , , - , Towo-Atangana, 110
, , Tracey, Hugh, , , , , ,
in hunting poetry, 216, 218, 220, 222 , , , , , - , ,
- ,
in Islamic religious poetry, 169, 206
traditional, over-emphasis of, xxviii, , ,
of lyrics, - , , , ,
, , , , - , , , , , ,
in mantic poetry, - , , ,
of praise poetry, 207
tragedy,
of proverbs, , , , ,
training of orators, , ,
in riddles, 424
training of poets, 91-92, 197
in stories about people, - ,
in Ethiopia, 92
in work songs, 228, 229
in mantic poetry, 184, 197-198
Theuws, F., , -
among Rwanda, 88-91
Thiam,
Transvaal, , ,
Thomas, N. W., ,
Traoré, ”., xxxii, , , ,
Thompson, Stith, , ,
Travélé, M., , , , , , ,
Thonga, , , , , , , , ,
, , , , ,
Tremearne, “. J., , - , ,
tifinagh script,
Tressan, L., 428
Tigre, 74
trickster, , - , , ,
Timannee. See Temne
Trifles, H.,
Tiv, 272
Tsala, T.,
Tshi. See Twi Vili. See Fjort

Tsonga, 121. See also Thonga vocabulary, in African languages, 60-61
Tswana, , , , , , in Ambo hunting songs, 222
Tuareg, , , special in poetry, 407
Tucker, “. N., , , , , Von Funke, E.,
tug of war, in stories, , , Von Hornbostel, E.,
Tumba, 471 Von Sicard, H., , ,
Tumbuka-Kamanga, Von Sydow, C. W., ,
Turnbull, C., Von Tiling, M., 292
Turner, H. W.,
Wa-”ondei. See ”ondei
Tutsi, , . See also Rwanda
Wabvuwi, 181
Twi,
Wade, “.,
Tyloch, W., xxxi
Wakweli. See Kweli
Tylor, E.,
Walker, S. H.,
Tyo (Teka), 426
Wängler, H. H.,
Uganda, , Wanyamwezi, 248
Ullendorf, E., War song. See Military poetry
Upper Volta, , , Warren, A., 19
Uppsala, 41 Watt, I., 4
Utenzi. See tenzi Wedding poems, songs, , , , ,
utility, assumed as main function of oral
literature, , . See also functional Wellek, R. and Warren, A., 19
approach Wellerism,
Werner, “.,
Vai, Werner, J., , , , , , , ,
Vail, L., xxx , , , , , , , ,
Vajda, G., ,
Van “vermaet, E., , , , Wescott, R. W.,
Van Caethem, R., West “frica, , , , , , , ,
Van Goethem, E., , , , , , , , ,
Van Spanndonck, 168 , , , , , , - ,
Van Warmelo, J., , -
Van Wing, J., associations in, , ,
Van Zyl, H. J., hymns in, ,
Vanneste, M., Ifa literature in, 106, 187
Vansina, J., West “tlantic,
variability, of oral literature generally, West Central Africa, 297
10-11, 12 West Equatorial “frica, , , , ,
Velten, C., , , ,
Venda, , , , West Indies,
verb system in ”antu languages, - Westcott, J.,
derivative verbal forms, Westermann, D.,
Verger, P., 174-176 Westphal, E.,
verse, difficulty of distinguishing from White, C., ,
prose, White, L., xxx
Verwilghen, L. “., Whiteley, W. H., xxxv, , ,
Viaene, L., Whitting, C. E. J., , , ,
Vilakazi, ”. W., , , , , , Wieschhoff, H. H.,
Bibliography 565
Williamson, S. G., , written literature in “frica, , . See also

Wilson, C. ”., Arabic
Windels, “., Wyndham, J.,
Witte, P. “., ,
Witwatersrand, University of, xxxvii, Xhosa, xxxiii, , , , , , ,
Wolfson, F., ,
Wolof, , ,
Yankah, K., xxx
women, 99, 262
Yao, ,
as poets, relatively rare, ,
Yoruba, , , , , , , , ,
in Christian lyrics, - , ,
, , , , , , , ,
as elegiac poets, , , , , -
, , , , , , , ,
, , , Ch.
, , , , , , , ,
among Ila and Tonga, , - , , , , , , , ,
in lampoons, 268, 270, 272, 284 - , ,
in love songs, , - , , - Young, T. Cullen,
as praise poets, 87, 116
in political songs, 268, 270, 272, 284 Zambia, , , , , , , ,
as story-tellers, , , , , ,
in work songs, , , , , Zande, , , , , , , , ,
wordplay, - ,
work songs, , , Zaramo,
canoe songs, 228, 229 Zemp, H., , , ,
dance songs, 228 Zezuru, ,
domestic songs, , , zitengulo, 147
farming songs, , , ziyabilo, 296
style of, , , , , , , , Zulu, xxxiii, , , , , , , , ,
, , , , , , , , ,
Wright, M. J., , , , , , , , ,
written literature, , , , , , , , ,
contrasted with oral forms: in approach , , , , , , , ,
to its study, , , , , , ,
in audience involvement, , Zuni,
in mode of transmission, 12, 21, 22, Zuure, ”.,
- Zwide, 124
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Oral Literature - Ruth Finnegan

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Oral Literature in Africa

Publisher: Open Book Publishers

© Open Book Publishers, 2012

© 2012 Ruth Finnegan. Forward © 2012 Mark Turin.

Version 1.2. Minor edits made, February 2016.

Further details about CC ”Y licenses are available at https://creativecommons.org/licenses/

Printed in the United Kingdom, United States, and Australia

List of illustrations xiii

2. The perception of African oral literature 29

. The social, linguistic, and literary background

8. Special purpose poetry—war, hunting, and work 201

10. Topical and political songs

11. Children’s songs and rhymes 291

. Prose narratives II. Content and form.

16. Oratory, formal speaking, and other stylized forms

IV. SOME SPECIAL FORMS

17. Drum language and literature 467

This volume is complemented by original recordings of stories and songs

Frontispiece: The poet DLP Yali-Manisi in traditional garb with staff

2 The author on fieldwork in Limba country, northern Sierras xxii

4 Mende performer, Sierra Leone, 1982 (photo Donald 8

Dancers from Oyo, south West Nigeria, 1970 (photo David 20

10 Tayiru ”anbera, West “frican bard singing his Epic of 94

11 Songs for Acholi long-horned cattle, Uganda, 1960 (photo

12 Funeral songs in the dark in Kamabai, 1961 (photo Ruth 147

16 Work company of singing threshers at Sanasi’s farm, 226

‘Karanke Dema, master story-teller, drummer, musician and

24 Thronged Limba law court, site of oratory, Kamaba, 1961

At end: Maps of “frica © John Hunt .

online access to complete digital editions of all publications alongside high

New Haven, Connecticut, May

When I first became interested in research into one particular form

throughout—in many eyes among one of the volume’s more original

Such as ”arber and Farias , ”auman , , , ”auman and Sherzer

to found their own universities, create departments of African studies,

Library then dispersed throughout London. I think as well of my mother’s

Let me, however, indulge myself by some remarks on one characteristic

, , , a, b, Orwin and Topan , Peek and Yankah , Prahlad ,

Jorholt Zulu radio drama Gunner or the CD by the

Old ”letchley, UK, “ugust

Mr. Wande Abimbola (The Odu of Ifa, African Notes , , .

Dr. Ethel M. Albert and the American Anthropological Association

Professor R. G. “rmstrong Talking drums in the ”enue-Cross River region

Professor William ”ascom The sanctions of Ifa divination, JRAI ,

Professor Robin Horton and the International “frican Institute The

“bbé “lexis Kagame La poésie dynastique au Rwanda, Institut royal colonial

Mbari publications ”. Gbadamosi and U. ”eier, Yoruba poetry,

Professor J. H. Nketia Funeral dirges of the Akan people, Akan poetry,

Professor Willard Rhodes (Music as an agent of political expression, African

Professor M. G. Smith and the International African Institute (The social

Father F. Theuws (Textes Luba, ”ulletin du centre d étude des problèmes

Dr. Hugh Tracey ‘Lalela Zulu’, 100 Zulu lyrics, 1948).

Professor A. N. Tucker (Children’s games and songs in the Southern Sudan,

M. Pierre Verger (Notes sur le culte des Orisa, Mem. IFAN , .

Witwatersrand University Press (extracts from the following articles in

West “frica , Orbit House, London, E.C. R. Schachter, French Guinea s

I am also indebted to the Delegates of the Oxford University Press to

I am also most grateful to the following for permission to quote from

The Library, University College of Rhodesia (manuscripts in the Doke