The Forgotten Kabange

Twins are considered magical births in Congo. When my colleagues in Katanga found out that I am a twin, they immediately asked me why I did not tell them already. It was as though I had deliberating kept important information from them. Ironically, I get this same reaction in the United States as well.

“My twin sister is fabulous at winter sports,” I might say to someone who tells me about their interest in snowboarding.

“You have a twin! Why didn’t you tell me you had a twin?!” This person would reply.

“Because I only met you two hours ago when I got to the party.”

Just like people with certain medical conditions wear bracelets to let strangers know about them, I should wear a t-shirt that says, “I have twin. No, we don’t look alike. No, we didn’t create our own secret language as children.” When an acquaintance discovers that I am a vegetarian, they respond with mild curiosity, or panic, if they just invited me over to dinner. Discovering that I am twin, no matter how long or short the time I have known this person, is greeted with betrayal that they were not informed.

Perhaps this sentiment is amplified in Congo because twins are said to have magical powers. I mean, if I knew someone who had magical powers, I would expect this to come up pretty early in the course of our friendship. Twins can heal the sick and summon rain. They can bring good or bad luck. I was tempted to ask my colleagues if one twin can bring good luck and the other one bad, because I would definitely be the former. When my older sister bought me a shirt that said, “don’t blame me, it was my evil twin,” she went back to get my twin sister one as an afterthought.

Failing to observe rites associated with twins can be catastrophic for their families and entire villages. In other words, do not mess this twins. They will make life hell for you. Singing the Mapasa when twins are born is en example of such a rite. This song celebrates the birth of twins. One version begins with, “Eldest twin, watch out, don’t go under the bosenge tree/Youngest twin, watch out, don’t go under the bosenge tree/The day that you do, you will die.”

How fabulous. My whole life I have been living in ignorance that there is a tree, which if I go under it, I will die. Twenty-nine years on the planet and only now does anyone bother to inform me of a twin-killing tree. I do not have a clue what a bosenge tree looks like. For all I know, my parents are planning an annex to their bathroom out of bosenge trees.

Because people are afraid of supernatural twins, they might not discipline them. If your child can cause a drought for your village by keeping rain from falling, some battles parents might choose not to fight. My parents might have been less strict on our curfews if they thought Leah and I could wipe our Marietta with a plague.

There is an entire vocabulary associated with twins (and no, not as in their own secret language. Let’s try to get off that track, alright? TWINS DON’T HAVE THEIR OWN SECRET LANGUAGES). In English, both twins are known simply as “twins.” In Congo, mbuyi is the eldest twin. The second one is kabange. The father of twins is shambuyi; the mother is mwambuyi. Far from nicknames, these titles replace parents’ given names. Though I am no linguist, it seems like the entire twin vocabulary is focused on the eldest twin, mbuyi. My parents did not know they were having twins. My twin sister got the chosen name. My father came up with mine on the spot. Now I come to learn that my parents might as well be called, “Mother of Leah” and “Father of Leah.” Apparently, I can never escape the shadow of my twin sister’s glory, even in Congo.