In the vibrant tapestry of African spirituality, particularly within the folds of Christianity, a pervasive and deeply contentious belief has taken root: that demons, devils, witches, sorcerers, and all manner of evildoers lurk exclusively in one’s ancestral village.
Bonano sadly will posit that this notion is not just a quirky cultural footnote; it is a powerful narrative that shapes lives, breeds suspicion, and diverts blame from personal accountability to shadowy “village people.” With alarming emphasis, African pastors and priests relentlessly hammer home this idea, turning every setback into a spiritual battle against forces from the homestead.
But let us dissect this myth with unflinching clarity. It is time to challenge how religion has weaponised fear, eroded family bonds, and stifled progress, all while ignoring the simple truth that every bustling city was once someone’s humble village.
Ironically, pastoral proclamation depositing villages as the epicentre of evil is not helping matters. At the heart of this phenomenon lies the pulpit’s unyielding decree. Imagine facing financial ruin, a health crisis, or a string of professional failures. According to many African Christian leaders, the culprit is not poor planning, economic downturns, or sheer bad luck. No, it is invariably “someone from the village” wielding enchantments, curses, or “evil arrows” against you. Sermons thunder with prayers to “bind and cast out” these village-born spirits, as if urban life offers a sanctified shield from supernatural harm.
This emphasis on the village as the sole source of torment is not only simplistic but dangerously divisive. Pastors, often revered as infallible “men of God,” diagnose life’s woes with divine certainty: “Your problems stem from your father’s house!” they proclaim, urging fervent deliverance sessions. Yet, in their zeal, they overlook a glaring irony: the metropolis where congregants seek refuge is, in essence, another community’s village.
Lagos, Abuja, Ibadan, Warri, Benin, Asaba, Nairobi, or Johannesburg did not sprout from thin air. They evolved from rural roots, teeming with the same human complexities. Why, then, is evil geographically confined to the countryside? This selective demonisation fosters a paranoia that poisons relationships and hinders self-reflection.
Religion in contemporary African Christendom amplifies this fear through a doctrine of secrecy. Personal triumphs, be it a new job, a pregnancy, or a thriving business, must be shrouded in privacy, lest “monitoring spirits,” “bad belle” (jealous hearts), or those infamous “village people” sabotage them. This innate caution is not born of wisdom, but of terror, the dread that sharing good news invites jinxes from unseen malevolent forces.
Sadly, Bonano will contend that Nollywood, Nigeria’s cinematic powerhouse, has been the chief propagator of this trope. Think of veteran actress Patience Ozokwo, eternally typecast as the wicked village matriarch brewing potions of doom. One in every 10 viral Nigerian memes or social media posts invokes “village people” as the scapegoat for mishaps, a statistic Bonano stands by, even if playfully exaggerated.
Worst case is, Pentecostal churches have eagerly adopted this narrative, with revival posters screaming promises to “destroy forces from your mother’s house.” Attend any such event, and you will witness the anointing oil flowing freely to combat these phantom foes.
A stark illustration? The modern ritual among expectant Nigerian mothers, lavish maternity photo shoots captured in secret, only unveiled post-birth to announce the baby’s arrival. Why the hoarding? To evade the “evil eye” that might harm the unborn through social media.
Tragically, this mindset turned vicious in a Facebook post mourning a young woman who died in childbirth. Commenters viciously blamed her for posting baby shower photos, especially one with “congrats” etched on her bare bump.
“She invited evil eyes!” they raged, as if pixels could summon sorcery. This is not mere superstition; it is a religious-fuelled rejection of logic, where a flat tyre en route to an interview becomes an “evil arrow” rather than worn treads, or a child’s fever post-birthday party is chalked up to witches instead of overlooked symptoms.
With even greater emphasis, consider how this doctrine dismantles families. Religion has conditioned us to view relatives through a lens of distrust; that uncle in the village is plotting your demise, your mother-in-law is a certified witch.
Yet, that same “devilish” uncle is another’s beloved father, and your “evil” mother-in-law, someone’s cherished mother. The hypocrisy is staggering; you would shun a night at your uncle’s home to protect your “star” from theft, but gladly crash at a classmate’s father’s place, oblivious that he might be someone else’s malevolent kin.
This paranoia extends to absurd lengths. A local government chairman in Nigeria once embezzled millions, then brazenly blamed “village witches” for his failure to build roads or provide electricity.
Instead of accountability, he invoked supernatural sabotage, a convenient dodge echoed in countless homes. Even practitioners of African traditional religions in rural areas are blanket-labelled as evil, their customs dismissed as witchcraft, while urban vices like ritual killings (far more common in cities than villages) go unscrutinised.
Beneath the memes about “village people following you abroad” lies a darker reality. We have cloaked ourselves in suspicion, muting joys to avoid envy. A woman Bonano knew concealed her overseas scholarship from her extended family, revealing it only after settling in, sparking a rift with her aunt, who had housed her for years. “You never know people these days,” she sighed, her mindset twisted by a pastor’s warnings funnelled through her mother. Our reluctance to share vacation snaps or relationship milestones is not humility; it is a self-perpetuating cultural fear, shielding happiness from imagined “evil eyes” on Instagram.
We cannot understate the crippling impact; this fear stifles self-expression, breeds distrust, favours mysticism over reason, and paralyses ambition. It turns potential allies into enemies and excuses inaction. But here is the emphatic truth: bad people exist everywhere, not just in villages. If religion did not erode African family love with “spiritual gossip,” we would see these accusations for what they are: baseless paranoia.
Those vilifying their villages forget that every town was once a village. Develop yours instead of fleeing to build others’. Witch covens and demons thrive in urban shadows, too; mutilated bodies litter city streets, not rural paths. Your village does not covet your wealth; nature calls you to reciprocate. Born there? Your first steps imprinted its soil, your infant messes enriched its earth. Give back, build schools, roads, and clinics. Reject Nollywood’s demon-drenched scripts and religion’s divisive doctrines.
Bonano will conclude that the “village people” myth is a shackle forged by culture, media, and misplaced faith. Focus on responsibility, not phantoms. “What you focus on becomes your reality.” Embrace logic, nurture bonds, and contribute to your roots. Only then can we dismantle this fear and foster an Africa where progress is not haunted by hometowns.
