Tattoos, Leopard Skins and the Queen Mother
One of the mysteries of the Humjibre people has been the presence of their names tattoed inexpertly on their forearm with a date of birth and apparently some kind of serial number. Normally you only see that kind of thing on concentration camp victims and prison inmates, so after tentatively asking a few people and getting only queer looks in return, I thought it best to leave the mystery unsolved.
Anyway, it turns out that a few years back a group of travelling salesmen arrived in the village offering to tattoo people for a very cheap rate. Well, you know how these things go, one dude gets his name and number hot needled into his arm and everyone wants to do it. Apparently, for a few balmy days it was all the rage in Humjibre. Why? Well, one good reason is the very real chance that you'd be decapitated, this is Sefwi land after all.
The Sefwis are part of the Akan family, which means their language is similar to the dominant Twi of the Asante and they even pay fealty to the Asantehene, Chief of the Chiefs of Asante. However, Sefwi culture is different in some important respects, one of them being their faith in the medicine that can be derived from a disembodied head. The Ghanaians who work with us from other parts of the country often joke about how their friends thought they were crazy (or 'off their head' to use a bad pun) to come here and we often read headlines such as "Horror at Sefwi" in the national rag, the Daily Graphic.
So it was with no little discomfort that we took the news that the Queen Mother of the village had died. For British readers this might seem laughable as we are used to the image of a gin-soaked, nicotine-stained, doddery old hag as Queen Mother but the Queen Mother in Akan culture holds a position of considerable power and influence. In fact, it was the Queen Mother, Yaa Asantewaa, who began the Asante Uprising that nearly repelled the British from Ghanaian soil back in 1901. She is the King Maker and is the only one who can physically touch the chief, which is an allusion to her ability to slap him down. Anyway, all this means that there should traditionally be a lot of bloodletting when she passes to the 'next realm'. Especially since she had been on her throne since 1953, for longer than Ghana has been independent.
I may have mentioned that the loudspeakerman is not one for understatement, (even the footy scores are spat out like a curse), but when he starts announcing that no-one should leave their house after 10pm, you start to listen. So, for the last few days and until Monday, we are under curfew. Probably bollocks of course, but I like my neck how it is thank you very much.
Ilona and I donned our blacks and went along to the funeral. The usual blaring Hiplife was replaced by the royal drummers. At the Yam Festival, I had had a bit too much palm wine and was freaky dancing so I now get on with the drummers really well. They were using special leopard skin drums and since they had been going for days spent the time in between dances to compare blisters. The beat they pound is really asynchronous and like nothing I've heard elsewhere. They begin as if they're all playing a different tune then it somehow coalesces and you feel yourself dragged along. The dancing is cool too. It reminds me of a guy I once saw after a music festival in Copenhagen dancing to the 'please walk' music at a pedestrian crossing. There's a few town drunks but one in particular that always gets up to boogy. This time, as the drummers saw him stumble towards the area used to dance, they looked at each other and cut the dance off dead. Everybody was laughing at the poor guy in mid gyration. That kind of thing is common at these get-togethers and there's always a bawdy undertone. Witness the guy dancing with four women pretending to worship at his feet. Or the way that young guys will dance in a way that looks like they are pretending to hump each other for the girls to watch.
Recently, I was asked in front of a crowd where I was from, and I answered 'me firi Humjibre'. They lapped it up and it added to the feeling that we're treated in almost a chiefly manner. I hope this means I don't need my name penned on my forearm...
Anyway, it turns out that a few years back a group of travelling salesmen arrived in the village offering to tattoo people for a very cheap rate. Well, you know how these things go, one dude gets his name and number hot needled into his arm and everyone wants to do it. Apparently, for a few balmy days it was all the rage in Humjibre. Why? Well, one good reason is the very real chance that you'd be decapitated, this is Sefwi land after all.
The Sefwis are part of the Akan family, which means their language is similar to the dominant Twi of the Asante and they even pay fealty to the Asantehene, Chief of the Chiefs of Asante. However, Sefwi culture is different in some important respects, one of them being their faith in the medicine that can be derived from a disembodied head. The Ghanaians who work with us from other parts of the country often joke about how their friends thought they were crazy (or 'off their head' to use a bad pun) to come here and we often read headlines such as "Horror at Sefwi" in the national rag, the Daily Graphic.
So it was with no little discomfort that we took the news that the Queen Mother of the village had died. For British readers this might seem laughable as we are used to the image of a gin-soaked, nicotine-stained, doddery old hag as Queen Mother but the Queen Mother in Akan culture holds a position of considerable power and influence. In fact, it was the Queen Mother, Yaa Asantewaa, who began the Asante Uprising that nearly repelled the British from Ghanaian soil back in 1901. She is the King Maker and is the only one who can physically touch the chief, which is an allusion to her ability to slap him down. Anyway, all this means that there should traditionally be a lot of bloodletting when she passes to the 'next realm'. Especially since she had been on her throne since 1953, for longer than Ghana has been independent.
I may have mentioned that the loudspeakerman is not one for understatement, (even the footy scores are spat out like a curse), but when he starts announcing that no-one should leave their house after 10pm, you start to listen. So, for the last few days and until Monday, we are under curfew. Probably bollocks of course, but I like my neck how it is thank you very much.
Ilona and I donned our blacks and went along to the funeral. The usual blaring Hiplife was replaced by the royal drummers. At the Yam Festival, I had had a bit too much palm wine and was freaky dancing so I now get on with the drummers really well. They were using special leopard skin drums and since they had been going for days spent the time in between dances to compare blisters. The beat they pound is really asynchronous and like nothing I've heard elsewhere. They begin as if they're all playing a different tune then it somehow coalesces and you feel yourself dragged along. The dancing is cool too. It reminds me of a guy I once saw after a music festival in Copenhagen dancing to the 'please walk' music at a pedestrian crossing. There's a few town drunks but one in particular that always gets up to boogy. This time, as the drummers saw him stumble towards the area used to dance, they looked at each other and cut the dance off dead. Everybody was laughing at the poor guy in mid gyration. That kind of thing is common at these get-togethers and there's always a bawdy undertone. Witness the guy dancing with four women pretending to worship at his feet. Or the way that young guys will dance in a way that looks like they are pretending to hump each other for the girls to watch.
Recently, I was asked in front of a crowd where I was from, and I answered 'me firi Humjibre'. They lapped it up and it added to the feeling that we're treated in almost a chiefly manner. I hope this means I don't need my name penned on my forearm...
posted by Luke Chapter 1 at 4:20 pm
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