Mbugaithai danced. He wore a mask that he had delicately and painstakingly carved from the black wood of a limba tree. The mask was painted with a blend of red ochre clay and white limestone that had been ground into chalk. Straw, feathers, and giant forest hog hair dangled from the base of the mask, making it look as if a horrendously tangled beard hung from the painted face.

Three days ago, Mbugaithai’s wife was killed. The People’s Armed Forces of Congo, a rebel group, had begun cutting timber near Mbugaithai’s village. After a terrific storm, rebels took shelter in the village. An altercation broke out. Mbugaithai’s cousin speared one of the rebels for stealing bushmeat. The rebels, however, had guns. By the time the rebels left, the village had been decimated. Their food stores were gone. Fourteen members of their sixty-person village were dead.

Mbugaithai danced and danced. The tribe chanted and watched him with heads bowed. Tongues of flame and embers from the great bonfire in the center of the village leapt and danced along with Mbugaithai. The bright yellow glow cut through the darkness as it flickered across his richly pigmented body and exotic facemask.

“Pamuya sahidi asuhudie makuya!” Screamed Mbugaithai.

“Ikusinda sahidi asuhudie makuya!” Retorted the crowd.

“Pamuya sahidi asuhudie makuya!” Screamed Mbugaithai.

“Ikusinda sahidi asuhudie makuya!” Retorted the crowd.

This chanting went on and on. It grew louder and more forceful. The villagers prayed in desperation. They clanged whatever metal they had together and made as much noise as possible. They intended to wake up the god of war and death and alert him to their plight. They hoped that he would give them the strength to protect their village. This village had never prayed to the god of death before. Until this moment, and this tragedy, they prayed only to the provider god of the jungle. After his wife’s death, however, Mbugaithai had talked the village into trying something new.

Mbugaithai’s heart rate increased. He began breathing heavily, but he danced harder and faster. As the tenor reached an earsplitting volume, Mbugaithai screamed, “haiwen!”

The crowd fell silent and everyone, including Mbugaithai, fell prostrate on the dirt. They lay still for at least ten minutes. They listened to the crackling fire. They waited for a response from the death god. They soon heard a rhythmic whooshing noise over the soft crackle of the fire. They looked up to see black wings suspended by jagged bone flapping five feet above their bonfire. The wings came from the back of a ghastly scarlet-skinned man. He hovered above the campfire and as the villagers gazed into his glowing yellow eyes, they felt fear.

Mbugaithai, on the other hand, had put fear behind him in the wake of the tragedy. He lived in a constant state of ennui. Without hesitation, he approached the ghastly, scarlet, hovering demon.

“Come.” The demon said as it beckoned to Mbugaithai.

As their shaman drew close to the campfire, the villagers saw the demon swoop down on him. In a flash, the bony black wings enveloped Mbugaithai. Then the wings spread wide and the creature took flight. Mbugaithai, their shaman, was gone. They were left confused.

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