He who alludes without nuance should deliver the full meaning, or, like Nanga Bangu, suffer this sentence.
Near the forest of Bangu, on the road to Loufoulakari, heading towards Kindamba and Mindouli, there was a village. There lived Nanga Bangu, a famous hunter in his lifetime, who remained so even after his death. His name was often mentioned, associated with a proverb of popular wisdom repeated by the Nzoonzi, these rhetoricians and customary spokespersons among the Koongo.
Nanga Bangu lived peacefully among his own, celebrated for his hunting skills that had lasted for years. His shotgun allowed him to peacefully take out his cassava bread, with the certainty of soon having meat in the village. Despite this notoriety, he remained humble and stood out for his sense of charity. Many young women envied his wife. He did not hunt in a group; he went to nkoonda alone, with his finkila, a homemade rifle. His ability to scent the game, nkoonda, was as effective as a dog's.
The dry season had barely ended when the first rains of October were already there. The bush remained beautiful despite the fires; it was adorned with a magnificent dress grazed by mitsina, the seasonal caterpillars. The pleasant smell of plants gnawed by insects made one's mouth water. The abundance of rainfall caused the tall grass to grow beyond the height of the tallest man. This was the favorite terrain of hunters, whether human or feline. Nanga Bangu remained on guard so as not to become a prey himself: in this environment, the most fearsome beast was the solitary lioness, the one that never roars, whether hunting or digesting her meal.