Villagers know that life is more predictable and secure at home than in the bush; they relax and talk easily among themselves, knowing exactly how to behave with each one of their kin. (They call each other by kinship terms—grandpa, brother, sister, or cousin—rather than by first names, and thus always know the proper actions to take in greeting, eating, and visiting. For example, though men and women usually work and visit separately in the backyard, grandparents and their grandchildren may joke and play openly together—even making flippant remarks about sex.)  Courteous behavior follows long-established patterns of etiquette. A well-raised Chokwe knows the intricate nuances of word and action connoted, and expected, by each kinship term.

But villagers expect no such consistency in the wilderness: There, “extraordinary beings” roam freely and are more likely to approach and threaten humans with ambiguous actions than in the village—though occasionally, at night, these beings wander in.

Hunters and long-distance travelers often return with dramatic personal accounts about their experiences with these extraordinary beings: forest creatures, mask figures and deceased presences, sorcerers and their apparitions. Hunters, particularly, tell about losing their way because the pipe-smoking shamuhangi, the one-eyed forest creature, blew a fine haze into their eyes; or they may explain the antelope’s escape as the fault of the predatory, people-eating giants—those Yingandangali who are “eating all the game.” Occasionally, a traveler or even a woman gathering wood returns frightened and tells of stumbling upon the burial ground of the akishi, the mask spirits who dwell beyond the village.

Now and then, a woman working in her fields will report an unusual encounter with an antelope who “baby-sat” her infant while she hoed; the villagers, listening to her account, recognize that a mufu, a deceased presence, visited her. These spirit allies, often close relatives who recently died, hover nearby, ever-ready to protect and help the children.

But none of these extraordinary beings disturb the Chokwe as much as an ambiguous encounter with a lone stranger—that suspect sorcerer wandering in the bush, surreptitiously planning trouble. Most villagers know some victim of sorcery and can name the person responsible. But the night-working sorcerers, who during the daytime are neighbors, themselves never mention their hidden identities. They keep their potions secret. They work privately—usually in the bush, by night.