HELP 1 Published on Natural History Magazine ( Shakespeare in the Bush Just before I left Oxford for the Tiv in West Afr

Published on Natural History Magazine (

Shakespeare in the Bush
Just before I left Oxford for the Tiv in West Africa, conversation turned to the season at
Stratford. “You Americans,” said a friend, “often have difficulty with Shakespeare. He was,
after all, a very English poet, and one can easily misinterpret the universal by
misunderstanding the particular.”

I protested that human nature is pretty much the same the whole world over; at least the
general plot and motivation of the greater tragedies would always be clear—everywhere
—although some details of custom might have to be explained and difficulties of translation
might produce other slight changes. To end an argument we could not conclude, my friend
gave me a copy of Hamlet to study in the African bush: it would, he hoped, lift my mind
above its primitive surroundings, and possibly I might, by prolonged meditation, achieve the
grace of correct interpretation.

It was my second field trip to that African tribe, and I thought myself ready to live in one of its
remote sections—an area difficult to cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock of
a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people,
all of whom were either his close relatives or their wives and children. Like the other elders
of the vicinity, the old man spent most of his time performing ceremonies seldom seen these
days in the more accessible parts of the tribe. I was delighted. Soon there would be three
months of enforced isolation and leisure, between the harvest that takes place just before
the rising of the swamps and the clearing of new farms when the water goes down. Then, I
thought, they would have even more time to perform ceremonies and explain them to me.

I was quite mistaken. Most of the ceremonies demanded the presence of elders from several
homesteads. As the swamps rose, the old men found it too difficult to walk from one
homestead to the next, and the ceremonies gradually ceased. As the swamps rose even
higher, all activities but one came to an end. The women brewed beer from maize and millet.
Men, women, and children sat on their hillocks and drank it.

People began to drink at dawn. By midmorning the whole homestead was singing, dancing,
and drumming. When it rained, people had to sit inside their huts: there they drank and sang
or they drank and told stories. In any case, by noon or before, I either had to join the party or
retire to my own hut and my books. “One does not discuss serious matters when there is
beer. Come, drink with us.” Since I lacked their capacity for the thick native beer, I spent
more and more time with Hamlet. Before the end of the second month, grace descended on
me. I was quite sure that Hamlet had only one possible interpretation, and that one
universally obvious.

Early every morning, in the hope of having some serious talk before the beer party, I used to
call on the old man at his reception hut—a circle of posts supporting a thatched roof above a
low mud wall to keep out wind and rain. One day I crawled through the low doorway and
found most of the men of the homestead sitting huddled in their ragged cloths on stools, low
plank beds, and reclining chairs, warming themselves against the chill of the rain around a
smoky fire. In the center were three pots of beer. The party had started.

The old man greeted me cordially. “Sit down and drink.” I accepted a large calabash full of

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beer, poured some into a small drinking gourd, and tossed it down. Then I poured some
more into the same gourd for the man second in seniority to my host before I handed my
calabash over to a young man for further distribution. Important people shouldn’t ladle beer

“It is better like this,” the old man said, looking at me approvingly and plucking at the thatch
that had caught in my hair. “You should sit and drink with us more often. Your servants tell
me that when you are not with us, you sit inside your hut looking at a paper.”

The old man was acquainted with four kinds of “papers”: tax receipts, bride price receipts,
court fee receipts, and letters. The messenger who brought him letters from the chief used
them mainly as a badge of office, for he always knew what was in them and told the old
man. Personal letters for the few who had relatives in the government or mission stations
were kept until someone went to a large market where there was a letter writer and reader.
Since my arrival, letters were brought to me to be read. A few men also brought me bride
price receipts, privately, with requests to change the figures to a higher sum. I found moral
arguments were of no avail, since in-laws are fair game, and the technical hazards of forgery
difficult to explain to an illiterate people. I did not wish them to think me silly enough to look
at any such papers for days on end, and I hastily explained that my “paper” was one of the
“things of long ago” of my country.

“Ah,” said the old man. “Tell us.” I protested that I was not a storyteller. Storytelling is a
skilled art among them; their standards are high, and the audiences critical—and vocal in
their criticism. I protested in vain. This morning they wanted to hear a story while they drank.
They threatened to tell me no more stories until I told them one of mine. Finally, the old man
promised that no one would criticize my style, “for we know you are struggling with our
language.” “But,” put in one of the elders, “you must explain what we do not understand, as
we do when we tell you our stories.” Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet
universally intelligible, I agreed.

The old man handed me some more beer to help me on with my storytelling. Men filled their
long wooden pipes and knocked coals from the fire to place in the pipe bowls; then, puffing
contentedly, they sat back to listen. I began in the proper style, “Not yesterday, not
yesterday, but long ago, a thing occurred. One night three men were keeping watch outside
the homestead of the great chief, when suddenly they saw the former chief approach them.”

“Why was he no longer their chief?”

“He was dead,” I explained. “That is why they were troubled and afraid when they saw him.”

“Impossible,” began one of the elders, handing his pipe on to his neighbor, who interrupted,
“Of course it wasn’t the dead chief. It was an omen sent by a witch. Go on.”


Slightly shaken, I continued. “One of these three was a man who knew things”—the closest
translation for scholar, but unfortunately it also meant witch. The second elder looked
triumphantly at the first. “So he spoke to the dead chief saying, ‘Tell us what we must do so
you may rest in your grave,’ but the dead chief did not answer. He vanished, and they could
see him no more. Then the man who knew things—his name was Horatio—said this event
was the affair of the dead chief’s son, Hamlet.”

There was a general shaking of heads round the circle. “Had the dead chief no living
brothers? Or was this son the chief?”

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“No,” I replied. “That is, he had one living brother who became the chief when the elder
brother died.”

The old men muttered: such omens were matters for chiefs and elders, not for youngsters;
no good could come of going behind a chief’s back; clearly Horatio was not a man who knew

“Yes, he was,” I insisted, shooing a chicken away from my beer. “In our country the son is
next to the father. The dead chief’s younger brother had become the great chief. He had also
married his elder brother’s widow only about a month after the funeral.”

“He did well,” the old man beamed and announced to the others, “I told you that if we knew
more about Europeans, we would find they really were very like us. In our country also,” he
added to me, “the younger brother marries the elder brother’s widow and becomes the father
of his children. Now, if your uncle, who married your widowed mother, is your father’s full
brother, then he will be a real father to you. Did Hamlet’s father and uncle have one mother?”

His question barely penetrated my mind; I was too upset and thrown too far off-balance by
having one of the most important elements of Hamlet knocked straight out of the picture.
Rather uncertainly I said that I thought they had the same mother, but I wasn’t sure—the
story didn’t say. The old man told me severely that these genealogical details made all the
difference and that when I got home I must ask the elders about it. He shouted out the door
to one of his younger wives to bring his goatskin bag.

Determined to save what I could of the mother motif, I took a deep breath and began again.
“The son Hamlet was very sad because his mother had married again so quickly. There was
no need for her to do so, and it is our custom for a widow not to go to her next husband until
she has mourned for two years.”

“Two years is too long,” objected the wife, who had appeared with the old man’s battered
goatskin bag. “Who will hoe your farms for you while you have no husband?”

“Hamlet,” I retorted, without thinking, “was old enough to hoe his mother’s farms himself.
There was no need for her to remarry.” No one looked convinced. I gave up. “His mother and
the great chief told Hamlet not to be sad, for the great chief himself would be a father to
Hamlet. Furthermore, Hamlet would be the next chief: therefore he must stay to learn the
things of a chief. Hamlet agreed to remain, and all the rest went off to drink beer.”

While I paused, perplexed at how to render Hamlet’s disgusted soliloquy to an audience
convinced that Claudius and Gertrude had behaved in the best possible manner, one of the
younger men asked me who had married the other wives of the dead chief.

“He had no other wives,” I told him.

“But a chief must have many wives! How else can he brew beer and prepare food for all his

I said firmly that in our country even chiefs had only one wife, that they had servants to do
their work, and that they paid them from tax money.

It was better, they returned, for a chief to have many wives and sons who would help him
hoe his farms and feed his people; then everyone loved the chief who gave much and took
nothing—taxes were a bad thing.

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I agreed with the last comment, but for the rest fell back on their favorite way of fobbing off
my questions: “That is the way it is done, so that is how we do it.”

I decided to skip the soliloquy. Even if Claudius was here thought quite right to marry his
brother’s widow, there remained the poison motif, and I knew they would disapprove of
fratricide. More hopefully I resumed, “That night Hamlet kept watch with the three who had
seen his dead father. The dead chief again appeared, and although the others were afraid,
Hamlet followed his dead father off to one side. When they were alone, Hamlet’s dead father

“Omens can’t talk!” The old man was emphatic.

“Hamlet’s dead father wasn’t an omen. Seeing him might have been an omen, but he was
not.” My audience looked as confused as I sounded. “It was Hamlet’s dead father. It was a
thing we call a ‘ghost.’” I had to use the English word, for unlike many of the neighboring
tribes, these people didn’t believe in the survival after death of any individuating part of the

“What is a ‘ghost?’ An omen?”

“No, a ‘ghost’ is someone who is dead but who walks around and can talk, and people can
hear him and see him but not touch him.”

They objected. “One can touch zombis.”

“No, no! It was not a dead body the witches had animated to sacrifice and eat. No one else
made Hamlet’s dead father walk. He did it himself.”

“Dead men can’t walk,” protested my audience as one man.

I was quite willing to compromise.

“A ‘ghost’ is the dead man’s shadow.”

But again they objected. “Dead men cast no shadows.”

“They do in my country,” I snapped.


The old man quelled the babble of disbelief that arose immediately and told me with that
insincere, but courteous, agreement one extends to the fancies of the young, ignorant, and
superstitious, “No doubt in your country the dead can also walk without being zombis.” From
the depths of his bag he produced a withered fragment of kola nut, bit off one end to show it
wasn’t poisoned, and handed me the rest as a peace offering.

“Anyhow,” I resumed, “Hamlet’s dead father said that his own brother, the one who became
chief, had poisoned him. He wanted Hamlet to avenge him. Hamlet believed this in his heart,
for he did not like his father’s brother.” I took another swallow of beer. “In the country of the
great chief, living in the same homestead, for it was a very large one, was an important elder
who was often with the chief to advise and help him. His name was Polonius. Hamlet was
courting his daughter, but her father and her brother . . . [I cast hastily about for some tribal
analogy] warned her not to let Hamlet visit her when she was alone on her farm, for he
would be a great chief and so could not marry her.”

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“Why not?” asked the wife, who had settled down on the edge of the old man’s chair. He
frowned at her for asking stupid questions and growled, “They lived in the same homestead.”

“That was not the reason,” I informed them. “Polonius was a stranger who lived in the
homestead because he helped the chief, not because he was a relative.”

“Then why couldn’t Hamlet marry her?”

“He could have,” I explained, “but Polonius didn’t think he would. After all, Hamlet was a man
of great importance who ought to marry a chief’s daughter, for in his country a man could
have only one wife. Polonius was afraid that if Hamlet made love to his daughter, then no
one else would give a high price for her.”

“That might be true,” remarked one of the shrewder elders, “but a chief’s son would give his
mistress’s father enough presents and patronage to more than make up the difference.
Polonius sounds like a fool to me.”

“Many people think he was,” I agreed. “Meanwhile Polonius sent his son Laertes off to Paris
to learn the things of that country, for it was the homestead of a very great chief indeed.
Because he was afraid that Laertes might waste a lot of money on beer and women and
gambling, or get into trouble by fighting, he sent one of his servants to Paris secretly, to spy
out what Laertes was doing. One day Hamlet came upon Polonius’s daughter Ophelia. He
behaved so oddly he frightened her. Indeed”—I was fumbling for words to express the
dubious quality of Hamlet’s madness—“the chief and many others had also noticed that
when Hamlet talked one could understand the words but not what they meant. Many people
thought that he had become mad.” My audience suddenly became much more attentive.
“The great chief wanted to know what was wrong with Hamlet, so he sent for two of Hamlet’s
age mates [school friends would have taken a long explanation] to talk to Hamlet and find
out what troubled his heart. Hamlet, seeing that they had been bribed by the chief to betray
him, told them nothing. Polonius, however, insisted that Hamlet was mad because he had
been forbidden to see Ophelia, whom he loved.”

“Why,” inquired a bewildered voice, “should anyone bewitch Hamlet on that account?”

“Bewitch him?”

“Yes, only witchcraft can make anyone mad, unless, of course, one sees the beings that lurk
in the forest.”

I stopped being a storyteller and took out my notebook and demanded to be told more about
these two causes of madness. Even while they spoke and I jotted notes, I tried to calculate
the effect of this new factor on the plot. Hamlet had not been exposed to the beings that lurk
in the forests. Only his relatives in the male line could bewitch him. Barring relatives not
mentioned by Shakespeare, it had to be Claudius who was attempting to harm him. And, of
course, it was.

For the moment I staved off questions by saying that the great chief also refused to believe
that Hamlet was mad for the love of Ophelia and nothing else. “He was sure that something
much more important was troubling Hamlet’s heart.”

“Now Hamlet’s age mates,” I continued, “had brought with them a famous storyteller. Hamlet
decided to have this man tell the chief and all his homestead a story about a man who had
poisoned his brother because he desired his brother’s wife and wished to be chief himself.
Hamlet was sure the great chief could not hear the story without making a sign if he was

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indeed guilty, and then he would discover whether his dead father had told him the truth.”

The old man interrupted, with deep cunning, “Why should a father lie to his son?” he asked.

I hedged: “Hamlet wasn’t sure that it really was his dead father.” It was impossible to say
anything, in that language, about devil-inspired visions.

“You mean,” he said, “it actually was an omen, and he knew witches sometimes send false
ones. Hamlet was a fool not to go to one skilled in reading omens and divining the truth in
the first place. A man-who-sees-the-truth could have told him how his father died, if he really
had been poisoned, and if there was witchcraft in it; then Hamlet could have called the
elders to settle the matter.”

The shrewd elder ventured to disagree. “Because his father’s brother was a great chief,
one-who-sees-the-truth might therefore have been afraid to tell it. I think it was for that
reason that a friend of Hamlet’s father—a witch and an elder—sent an omen so his friend’s
son would know. Was the omen true?”

“Yes,” I said, abandoning ghosts and the devil; a witch-sent omen it would have to be. “It was
true, for when the storyteller was telling his tale before all the homestead, the great chief
rose in fear. Afraid that Hamlet knew his secret he planned to have him killed.”

The stage set of the next bit presented some difficulties of translation. I began cautiously.
“The great chief told Hamlet’s mother to find out from her son what he knew. But because a
woman’s children are always first in her heart, he had the important elder Polonius hide
behind a cloth that hung against the wall of Hamlet’s mother’s sleeping hut. Hamlet started
to scold his mother for what she had done.”

There was a shocked murmur from everyone. A man should never scold his mother.

“She called out in fear, and Polonius moved behind the cloth. Shouting, ‘A rat!’ Hamlet took
his machete and slashed through the cloth.” I paused for dramatic effect. “He had killed


The old men looked at each other in supreme disgust. “That Polonius truly was a fool and a
man who knew nothing! What child would not know enough to shout, ‘It’s me!’” With a pang,
I remembered that these people are ardent hunters, always armed with bow, arrow, and
machete; at the first rustle in the grass an arrow is aimed and ready, and the hunter shouts
“Game!” If no human voice answers immediately, the arrow speeds on its way. Like a good
hunter, Hamlet had shouted, “A rat!”

I rushed in to save Polonius’s reputation. “Polonius did speak. Hamlet heard him. But he
thought it was the chief and wished to kill him to avenge his father. He had meant to kill him
earlier that evening….” I broke down, unable to describe to these pagans, who had no belief
in individual afterlife, the difference between dying at one’s prayers and dying “unhousell’d,
disappointed, unaneled.”

This time I had shocked my audience seriously. “For a man to raise his hand against his
father’s brother and the one who has become his father—that is a terrible thing. The elders
ought to let such a man be bewitched.”

I nibbled at my kola nut in some perplexity, then pointed out that after all the man had killed

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Hamlet’s father.

“No,” pronounced the old man, speaking less to me than to the young men sitting behind the
elders. “If your father’s brother has killed your father, you must appeal to your father’s age
mates: they may avenge him. No man may use violence against his senior relatives.”
Another thought struck him. “But if his father’s brother had indeed been wicked enough to
bewitch Hamlet and make him mad that would be a good story indeed, for it would be his
fault that Hamlet, being mad, no longer had any sense and thus was ready to kill his father’s

There was a murmur of applause. Hamlet was again a good story to them, but it no longer
seemed quite the same story to me. As I thought over the coming complications of plot and
motive, I lost courage and decided to skim over dangerous ground quickly.

“The great chief,” I went on, “was not sorry that Hamlet had killed Polonius. It gave him a
reason to send Hamlet away, with his two treacherous age mates, with letters to a chief of a
far country, saying that Hamlet should be killed. But Hamlet changed the writing on their
papers, so that the chief killed his age mates instead.” I encountered a reproachful glare
from one of the men whom I had told undetectable forgery was not merely immoral but
beyond human skill. I looked the other way.

“Before Hamlet could return, Laertes came back for his father’s funeral. The great chief told
him Hamlet had killed Polonius. Laertes swore to kill Hamlet because of this, and because
his sister Ophelia, hearing her father had been killed by the man she loved, went mad and
drowned in the river.”

“Have you already forgotten what we told you?” The old man was reproachful. “One cannot
take vengeance on a madman; Hamlet killed Polonius in his madness. As for the girl, she
not only went mad, she was drowned. Only witches can make people drown. Water itself
can’t hurt anything. It is merely something one drinks and bathes in.”

I began to get cross. “If you don’t like the story, I’ll stop.”

The old man made soothing noises and himself poured me some more beer. “You tell the
story well, and we are listening. But it is clear that the elders of your country have never told
you what the story really means. No, don’t interrupt! We believe you when you say your
marriage customs are different, or your clothes and weapons. But people are the same
everywhere; therefore, there are always witches and it is we, the elders, who know how
witches work. We told you it was the great chief who wished to kill Hamlet, and now your
own words have proved us right. Who were Ophelia’s male relatives?”

“There were only her father and her brother.” Hamlet was clearly out of my hands.

“There must have been many more; this also you must ask of your elders when you get back
to your country. From what you tell us, since Polonius was dead, it must have been Laertes
who killed Ophelia, although I do not see the reason for it.”

We had emptied one pot of beer, and the old men argued the point with slightly tipsy interest.
Finally one of them demanded of me, “What did the servant of Polonius say on his return?”

With difficulty I recollected Reynaldo and his mission. “I don’t think he did return before
Polonius was killed.”

“Listen,” said the elder, “and I will tell you how it was and how your story will go, then you

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may tell me if I am right. Polonius knew his son would get into trouble, and so he did. He had
many fines to pay for fighting, and debts from gambling. But he had only two ways of getting
money quickly. One was to marry off his sister at once, but it is difficult to find a man who will
marry a woman desired by the son of a chief. For if the chief’s heir commits adultery with
your wife, what can you do? Only a fool calls a case against a man who will someday be his
judge. Therefore Laertes had to take the second way: he killed his sister by witchcraft,
drowning her so he could secretly sell her body to the witches.”

I raised an objection. “They found her body and buried it. Indeed Laertes jumped into the
grave to see his sister once more—so, you see, the body was truly there. Hamlet, who had
just come back, jumped in after him.”

“What did I tell you?” The elder appealed to the others. “Laertes was up to no good with his
sister’s body. Hamlet prevented him, because the chief’s heir, like a chief, does not wish any
other man to grow rich and powerful. Laertes would be angry, because he would have killed
his sister without benefit to himself. In our country he would try to kill Hamlet for that reason.
Is this not what happened?”

“More or less,” I admitted. “When the great chief found Hamlet was still alive, he encouraged
Laertes to try to kill Hamlet and arranged a fight with machetes between them. In the fight
both the young men were wounded to death. Hamlet’s mother drank the poisoned beer that
the chief meant for Hamlet in case he won the fight. When he saw his mother die of poison,
Hamlet, dying, managed to kill his father’s brother with his machete.”

“You see, I was right!” exclaimed the elder.

“That was a very good story,” added the old man, “and you told it with very few mistakes.”
There was just one more error, at the very end. The poison Hamlet’s mother drank was
obviously meant for the survivor of the fight, whichever it was. If Laertes had won, the great
chief would have poisoned him, for no one would know that he arranged Hamlet’s death.
Then, too, he need not fear Laertes’ witchcraft; it takes a strong heart to kill one’s only sister
by witchcraft.

“Sometime,” concluded the old man, gathering his ragged toga about him, “you must tell us
some more stories of your country. We, who are elders, will instruct you in their true
meaning, so that when you return to your own land your elders will see that you have not
been sitting in the bush, but among those who know things and who have taught you

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