The Shadow of the Sun

The Structure of the Clan

I arrived in Kumasi with no particular goal. Having one is generally deemed a good thing, the benefit of something to strive toward.This can also blind you, however: you see only your goal, and nothing else, while this something else — wider, deeper — may be considerably more interesting and important.

Kumasi lies amid greenery and flowers, on gentle hillsides. It is like a giant botanical garden in which people were allowed to settle. Everything here seems kindly disposed to man — the climate, the vegetation, other people. The dawns are dazzlingly beautiful, although they last but a few minutes. It is night, and out of this night the sun suddenly emerges. Emerges? This verb suggests a certain slowness, a leisurely process. In reality, the sun comes out as if it were a ball catapulted into the air. We suddenly see a fiery sphere, so near to us that we can’t help experiencing a frisson of fear. Moreover, this sphere is gliding toward us, closer and closer.

The sight of the sun acts like a starter’s pistol: the town instantly springs into motion. It’s as if all night long everyone was crouching on his starter blocks and now, at the signal, at that shot of sunlight, they all take off full speed ahead. No intermediate stages, no preparations. All at once, the streets are full of people, the shops are open, the fires and kitchens are smoking.

Yet the bustle of Kumasi differs from Accra’s. It is local, regional, as if self-enclosed. The town is the capital of the kingdom of Ashanti (which is part of Ghana), and it vigilantly guards its otherness, its colorful and robust traditions. Here you can see tribal chiefs strolling along the streets, or the performance of a rite that dates back to ancient times. And in this culture, the world of magic, of spells and enchantments, thrives and prospers.

The road from Accra to Kumasi is not just the five hundred kilometers from the Atlantic coast to the interior; it is also a voyage into those areas of the African continent where there are fewer vestiges of colonialism than along the coastlines. For Africa’s immensity, its dearth of navigable rivers and its lack of roads, as well as its difficult, murderous climate, while presenting an impediment to its development, also furnished a natural defense against invasion: colonialists were unable to penetrate very deeply. They kept to the shores, to their ships and fortifications, their supplies of food and quinine. In the nineteenth century, if someone — like Stanley — dared to traverse the continent from east to west, the feat was widely celebrated for years to come. And it was largely due to these obstacles to communication that many African cultures and traditions have been able to survive intact to this day.

Officially, but only officially, colonialism reigned in Africa from the time of the Berlin West Africa Conference (188485), during which several European states (mainly England and France, but also Belgium, Germany, and Portugal) divided the whole continent among themselves, a status that persisted until Africa won independence in the second half of the twentieth century. In reality, however, colonial penetration began much earlier, as long ago as the fifteenth century, and flourished over the next five hundred years. The most shameful and brutal phase of this conquest was the trade in African slaves, which went on for more than three hundred years. Three hundred years of raids, roundups, pursuits, and ambushes, organized, often with the help of African and Arab partners, by white men. Millions of young Africans were deported across the Atlantic in horrific conditions, stuffed down the hatches of ships; those lucky to emerge alive would with their sweat build the riches and might of the New World.

Africa — persecuted and defenseless — was depopulated, destroyed, and ruined. Whole stretches of the continent were deserted; barren bush supplanted what had been sunny flowering lands. But the most painful and lasting imprints of this epoch were left upon the memory and consciousness of the Africans: centuries of disdain, humiliation, and suffering gave them an inferiority complex, and a conviction, deep in their hearts, of having been wronged.

When World War II erupted, colonialism was at its apogee. The course of the war, however, its symbolic undertones, would sow the seeds of the system’s defeat and demise.

How and why did this happen? First, a short detour into the foul realm of racial thinking. The central subject, the essence, the core of relations between Europeans and Africans during the colonial era, was the difference of race, of skin color. Everything — each exchange, connection, conflict — was translated into the language of black and white. And, of course, white was better, higher, more powerful than black. Whites were sir, master, sahib, bwana kubwa, unchallenged lords and rulers, sent by God to hold sway over the blacks. Into the African was inculcated the notion that the white man was untouchable, unconquerable, that whites constituted a homogeneous, cohesive force. Such was the ideology that ably supported the system of colonial domination, by teaching that to question or contest the system was absolutely pointless.

Then, suddenly, Africans recruited into the British and French armies in Europe observed that the white men were fighting one another, shooting one another, destroying one another’s cities. It was a revelation, a surprise, a shock. African soldiers in the French army witnessed their colonial sovereign, France, defeated and conquered. African soldiers in the British army saw the imperial capital, London, bombed; they saw whites seized with panic, fleeing, pleading, sobbing. They saw ragged, hungry whites, crying for bread. As they moved east, fighting white Germans alongside white Englishmen, they encountered columns of white people dressed in stripes, people-skeletons, people-rags.

The shock the African experienced as scenes from the white man’s war passed before his eyes was all the more powerful because earlier the inhabitants of Africa (with few exceptions, and in the case of the Congo, for example, none) were not permitted to travel to Europe, or anywhere else beyond their continent. And so their views of the lives of white men was based only on the luxurious circumstances whites enjoyed in the colonies.

And another thing: the inhabitant of Africa in the middle of the twentieth century had no sources of information other than what a neighbor, his village chief, or a colonial administrator told him. Therefore he knew of the world only as much as he was able to glean from his immediate surroundings, or what he heard from others during an evening’s chat by the fire.

The veterans of World War II who returned from Europe to Africa shortly reappear in the ranks of various movements and parties fighting for national independence. The number of these organizations swells rapidly; they spring up like mushrooms after a rain. They have various points of view, and various goals.

Those from the French colonies initially make limited demands. They do not speak yet of freedom. They ask only that all the inhabitants of the colony be made French citizens. Paris rejects this. Yes, someone who has been educated in French culture, who raises himself to its level — the so-called évolué—can become a French citizen. But such individuals will turn out to be exceptions.

The organizations in the British colonies are more radical. Their inspiration and program are the bold visions of the future as formulated by the descendants of slaves, Afro-American intellectuals of the second half of the nineteenth century and first half of the twentieth. They called their doctrine pan-Africanism. Its principal creators: the activist Alexander Crumwell, the writer W. E. B. Du Bois, and the journalist Marcus Garvey (this last one from Jamaica). They differed among themselves, but agreed on two points: (1) that all blacks in the world — be they in South America or in Africa — constitute a single race, a single culture, and they should be proud of the color of their skin; (2) that all of Africa should be independent and united. Their slogan was “Africa for Africans!” On other matters they differed, W. E. B. Du Bois for example proclaimed that blacks should remain in the countries in which they now live, while Garvey held that all blacks, wherever they may be, should return to Africa. For a time he even sold photographs of Haile Selassie, proclaiming each was a valid return visa. He died in 1940 never having seen Africa himself.

A young activist and theoretician from Ghana, Kwame Nkrumah, became an enthusiast of pan-Africanism while studying in America. He returned home in 1947 and founded a political party into which he recruited former World War II combatants as well as the young. At a rally in Accra he issued a war cry: “Independence now!” In those days, in colonial Africa, this resounded like a bomb exploding. Ten years later, Ghana became the first independent African country south of the Sahara, and Accra immediately became the provisional, informal center of all movements, ideas, and activities for the entire continent.

The town burned with liberation fever, and people flocked here from all over Africa. Journalists from around the world also arrived. They came out of curiosity, uncertainty, and even the fear growing in Europe’s capitals — what if Africa explodes, what if the blood of white men flows here, and, even, what if armies are formed, and then, supplied with weapons by the Soviets, attempt — in a gesture of hateful vengeance — to strike at Europe?

…

In the morning I bought the local newspaper, Ashanti Pioneer, and set out in search of its editorial offices. Experience teaches that one can learn more passing an hour in such an office than in a week of walking around to see various institutions and notables. And so it was this time.

In a small, shabby room, with a strange mix of odors, overly ripe mango and printer’s ink, I was greeted effusively by a cheerful, corpulent man, Kwesi Amu. “I am also a reporter!” he exclaimed by means of introduction, and as though he had been waiting for this visit for who knows how long.

The course and temperature of the first greeting are of utmost significance to the ultimate fate of a relationship, which is why people here set much store by the way they salute each other. It is essential to exhibit from the very beginning, from the very first second, enormous, primal joy and geniality. So, for starters, one extends one’s hand. But not in a formal manner, reticently, limply: just the opposite — a large, vigorous gesture, as if one’s intention were not so much to offer one’s hand as to tear the other’s off. If, however, the other manages to keep his hand, whole and in its proper place, it is because, understanding the ritual rules of the greeting, he has likewise executed the same broad, forceful gesture. Both of these extremities, bursting with tremendous energy, now meet halfway and, with a terrifying impact of collision, cancel out the two opposing forces. Simultaneously, as the hands are rushing toward each other, the two individuals share a prolonged cascade of loud laughter. It is meant to signify that each is happy to be meeting and warmly disposed to the other.

There ensues a long list of questions and answers, such as “How are you? Are you feeling well? How is your family? Are they all healthy? And your grandfather? And your grandmother? And your aunt? And your uncle?”—and so forth and so on, for families here are large with many branches. Custom dictates that each positive answer be offered with yet another torrent of loud and vibrant laughter, which in turn should elicit a similar or perhaps an even more homeric cascade from the one posing the questions.

You often see two (or more) people standing in the street and dissolving with laughter. It does not mean that they are telling each other jokes. They are simply saying hello. And if the laughter dies down, then either the act of greeting has come to an end and they will now move on to the substance of the conversation, or, simply, the newly met have fallen silent to allow their tired vocal cords a moment’s respite.

After completing the raucous and cheerful ritual, Kwesi and I started to talk about the Ashanti kingdom. The Ashanti resisted the British until the end of the nineteenth century, and really never fully capitulated to them. Even now, after independence, they hold themselves at a distance from Nkrumah and his supporters from the coast, whose culture they don’t value highly. They are closely attached to their extremely rich history, their traditions, beliefs, and laws.

In all of Africa, each larger social group has its own distinct culture, an original system of beliefs and customs, its own language and taboos, and all of this is immensely complicated, intricate, and mysterious. That is why anthropologists never spoke of “African culture,” or “African religion,” knowing that no such thing exists, and that the essence of Africa is its endless variety. They saw the culture of each people as a discrete world, unique, unrepeated. And they wrote accordingly: E. E. Evans-Pritchard published a monograph on the Nuer, M. Gluckman on the Zulu, G. T. Basden on the Ibo, and so on. Meantime, the unschooled European mind, inclined to rational reduction, to pigeonholing and simplification, readily pushes everything African into a single bag and is content with facile stereotypes.

“We believe,” Kwesi told me, “that man is composed of two elements. Blood, which he inherits from his mother, and spirit, donated by his father. The stronger of these components is blood, which is why the child belongs to the mother and her clan — not to the father. If the wife’s clan orders her to leave her husband and return to her native village, she takes all the children with her, for although the wife lives in her husband’s village and house, she is there really only as a guest. This possibility of returning to her clan gives the woman a place to go should her husband abandon her. She can also move out herself, should he prove to be a despot. But these are extreme situations; usually, the family is a strong and vibrant unit in which everyone has a traditionally assigned role and everyone understands his or her duties.

“The family is always large — several dozen people. The husband, the wife (or wives), the children, the cousins. The family gathers as frequently as possible and spends time together. Time spent communally is highly valued and accorded much respect. It is important to live together, or near one another: there are many tasks which can be accomplished only collectively — otherwise, there is no chance of surviving.

“The child is raised familialy, but as he grows, he sees that the borders of his social world extend further, that other families live nearby, and that these families together constitute the clan. A clan comprises all those who believe that they have a common ancestor. If I believe that you and I have an ancestor in common, then we belong to the same clan. Such a belief carries enormous consequences. For example, a man and a woman from the same clan are forbidden to have sexual relations. This is subject to the strongest possible taboo. In the past, parties violating it were both condemned to death. But even today it is a serious transgression, one that can anger the spirits of the ancestors and bring great misfortune down upon the clan.

“At the head of the clan stands the chief. He is chosen by a clan assembly, which is led by a council of elders. The elders are village chiefs, heads of individual clans, functionaries of all kinds. There can be several candidates and many rounds of voting, for the choice matters deeply: the position of chief is hugely important. From the moment of his selection, the chief becomes a holy person. Henceforth, he is not permitted to walk barefoot. Or to sit directly on the ground. One is not allowed to touch him or speak a bad word about him. One can tell from afar that a chief is coming — because of the open umbrella. A great chief has an enormous, decorative umbrella, held by a special servant; a lesser chief walks about with an ordinary umbrella purchased from an Arab in the marketplace.

“The clan chief has a function of the utmost significance. The central element of the Ashanti faith is the cult of ancestors. The clan comprises a great number of individuals, but we can see and meet only a small percentage of them — those that live on earth. The others — the majority — are ancestors who have partially departed, though in reality they still participate in our lives. They look at us, observe our behavior. They are everywhere, they see everything. They can help us, but they can also punish us. Bestow happiness upon us, or bring about our ruination. They decide everything. That is why maintaining good relations with the ancestors is a precondition for the welfare of the whole clan and of each and every one of us. And it is the chief who is responsible for the quality and closeness of these relations. He is the mediator and link between two integral parts of the clan: the world of the ancestors and the world of the living. It is he who communicates to the living the ancestors’ will and decision regarding any given matter, and it is he who pleads with them for forgiveness if the living have violated custom or law.

“One can obtain this forgiveness by making offerings to the ancestors: sprinkling the earth with water or palm wine, laying food aside for them, slaughtering a sheep. But it all might not suffice — the ancestors might continue to be angry, which for the living means endless misfortunes and illnesses. The greatest anger is caused by incest, murder, suicide, assault, insulting the chief, witchcraft.”

“Suicide?” I was surprised. “How can you punish someone who has committed suicide?”

“Our law commanded us to cut off his head. Suicide was the violation of a taboo, and the principle tenet of the clan legal code is that each offense must be punished. If an offense goes unpunished, the clan will meet with catastrophe, will face ruin.”

We were sitting on the porch of one of the numerous local bars, drinking Fanta, which clearly holds a monopoly here. A young barmaid was napping behind the counter, leaning her head on her hands. It was hot and sleepy.

“The chief,” Kwesi continued, “has many other duties. He decides disputes and resolves conflicts, and is therefore also a judge. An important fact, especially important in the villages, is that the chief allocates land to families. He cannot give them this land, or sell it, for land belongs to the ancestors. They dwell in it, inside it. The chief can only allot it for cultivation. If a field grows barren, he will assign the family another piece of ground, and the former one will lie fallow, gaining strength for the future. The land is sacred. The land gives people life, and that which gives life is sacred.

“While the chief enjoys the greatest respect, he is surrounded by a council of elders and cannot decide anything without seeking their opinion and gaining their consent. That is how we understand democracy. In the morning, each member of the council visits the chief’s house, to greet him. That is how the chief knows that he is governing well and enjoying support. Should these morning visits cease, it means that he has lost the council’s confidence and must go. This will happen if he commits any one of five offenses: drunkenness, gluttony, collusion with sorcerers, bad rapport with people, and governing without seeking the opinion of the council of elders. He must also step down if he is blinded, infected with leprosy, or becomes mentally unsound.

“Several clans together form what Europeans call a tribe. The Ashanti is a union of eight clans. At their head stands a king, the Ashantehene, also surrounded by a council of elders. Such a union is cemented not only by shared ancestors. It is also a territorial, cultural, and political community. It can be very powerful at times, numbering many millions, larger than many a European nation.”

I hesitated a long time, then finally asked him: “Tell me something about witchcraft.” I hesitated, because it is a subject about which one speaks reluctantly here, and often simply passes over in silence.

“Not everyone believes in it anymore,” Kwesi answered. “But a lot of people still do. Many are simply afraid of not believing. My grandmother thinks that witches exist and meet at night on tall solitary trees standing in fields. ‘But has Grandma ever seen a witch?’ I once asked her. ‘That would be impossible,’ she answered with conviction. ‘At night, witches envelop the whole world with a spider’s web. They hold one end in their hands, and the other is fastened to every door in the world. If someone tries to open a door and go outside, he moves the spider’s web. The witches feel this and, alarmed, vanish into the darkness. In the mornings one can only see shreds of spiders’ webs hanging down from tree branches and doorknobs.’ ”