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Authors: Eric P. McCormack
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to pay our respects right away to the Boma Chief. His compound was in the middle of the village near a huge fig tree. Efua warned me now to walk carefully as we passed it. It was, apparently, the major fetish of the Boma. Every leaf, every little twig that fell off was taken home and treasured by the tribe.
“I met the Chief and gave him a Swiss Army knife, which he was very pleased with. He said I could stay as long as I liked.
“Now, as things turned out, I was only able to stay a few days. But even in that brief time, I saw a curious example of just how important fetishes were to the Boma.
“What happened was this. On our second night, I went with Efua to watch a purification ceremony in the clearing at the back of the Chief’s compound. A big, muscular man was tied to a stake in the middle of the square and a Shaman was chanting and sprinkling some kind of powder on him. The ropes looked very flimsy but the captive made no attempt to break them.
“Just after we arrived, the Chief and all the elders of the tribe came out of the main compound. The Chief himself was carrying an ornate club with a big knob on the end of it. I didn’t like the look of that.
“Without a word, he went up to the man at the stake and smashed the club onto his head, breaking his skull open. Then each of the elders took turns with the club, until the man’s head was nothing but a bloody stump.
“After that, some of the younger tribesmen untied the body. They carried it out of the village and down to the river and threw it in. Within a few minutes, the crocodiles were at it, ripping it to pieces.
“Efua told me that what we had just witnessed was the killing of a man who had desecrated the fetish. Apparently, he’d been one of the most successful hunters among the Boma, but he’d had a run of bad luck in the past few months. In his compound, he kept a branch of the big fig tree in a leather bag tied to the beam of his hut, and he’d sacrificed to it over and over again—chickens, fruit, the very best betel nuts—with no result.
“Now it wasn’t that he expected the gods always to act on his behalf. He knew very well how arbitrary they could be. But he expected at least some consideration for his devotion to the fetish.
“Instead, things just got worse and worse. Not only was his hunting unsuccessful, but three of his children died of some mysterious kind of poisoning. Then, their mother, his favourite wife, was so distraught she drowned herself in the river.
“It seems he was able to put up with everything else, but not that.
“He went directly to his hut and cut down his fetish from the central beam where it had pride of place and brought it to the very square we’d just been in. A lot of the Boma were there, watching him. He took the fetish out of its leather bag and spat on it. Then he lit a fire and threw both the bag and the fetish on it. He waited till they were nothing but ashes.
“After that, the tribal council knew they had to get rid of him: they couldn’t risk the fetish turning against the whole tribe. The Shaman demanded that the offender be turned loose in the jungle after dark to be tormented to death by the night-demons. But the Chief was more humane and opted for the more traditional method of clubbing him to death. He argued the man deserved that consideration because he’d done his awful act publicly, for them all to see. If he’d done it privately, they might never have known and the tribe would have been doomed.
“So it was that punishment we’d witnessed. I was looking forward to finding out more about the fetish, but the next day, I came down with a little bout of malaria. I’d have sweated it out and stayed a few more days to do some research. But Efua told me one of the canoemen, after too much palm beer, had let it slip that I’d attempted to eat a banana on the boat. The Boma Shaman deduced that my fever was some kind of punishment by the river spirits and that the entire tribe might
“I met the Chief and gave him a Swiss Army knife, which he was very pleased with. He said I could stay as long as I liked.
“Now, as things turned out, I was only able to stay a few days. But even in that brief time, I saw a curious example of just how important fetishes were to the Boma.
“What happened was this. On our second night, I went with Efua to watch a purification ceremony in the clearing at the back of the Chief’s compound. A big, muscular man was tied to a stake in the middle of the square and a Shaman was chanting and sprinkling some kind of powder on him. The ropes looked very flimsy but the captive made no attempt to break them.
“Just after we arrived, the Chief and all the elders of the tribe came out of the main compound. The Chief himself was carrying an ornate club with a big knob on the end of it. I didn’t like the look of that.
“Without a word, he went up to the man at the stake and smashed the club onto his head, breaking his skull open. Then each of the elders took turns with the club, until the man’s head was nothing but a bloody stump.
“After that, some of the younger tribesmen untied the body. They carried it out of the village and down to the river and threw it in. Within a few minutes, the crocodiles were at it, ripping it to pieces.
“Efua told me that what we had just witnessed was the killing of a man who had desecrated the fetish. Apparently, he’d been one of the most successful hunters among the Boma, but he’d had a run of bad luck in the past few months. In his compound, he kept a branch of the big fig tree in a leather bag tied to the beam of his hut, and he’d sacrificed to it over and over again—chickens, fruit, the very best betel nuts—with no result.
“Now it wasn’t that he expected the gods always to act on his behalf. He knew very well how arbitrary they could be. But he expected at least some consideration for his devotion to the fetish.
“Instead, things just got worse and worse. Not only was his hunting unsuccessful, but three of his children died of some mysterious kind of poisoning. Then, their mother, his favourite wife, was so distraught she drowned herself in the river.
“It seems he was able to put up with everything else, but not that.
“He went directly to his hut and cut down his fetish from the central beam where it had pride of place and brought it to the very square we’d just been in. A lot of the Boma were there, watching him. He took the fetish out of its leather bag and spat on it. Then he lit a fire and threw both the bag and the fetish on it. He waited till they were nothing but ashes.
“After that, the tribal council knew they had to get rid of him: they couldn’t risk the fetish turning against the whole tribe. The Shaman demanded that the offender be turned loose in the jungle after dark to be tormented to death by the night-demons. But the Chief was more humane and opted for the more traditional method of clubbing him to death. He argued the man deserved that consideration because he’d done his awful act publicly, for them all to see. If he’d done it privately, they might never have known and the tribe would have been doomed.
“So it was that punishment we’d witnessed. I was looking forward to finding out more about the fetish, but the next day, I came down with a little bout of malaria. I’d have sweated it out and stayed a few more days to do some research. But Efua told me one of the canoemen, after too much palm beer, had let it slip that I’d attempted to eat a banana on the boat. The Boma Shaman deduced that my fever was some kind of punishment by the river spirits and that the entire tribe might
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