The Best of African Folklore

by Phyllis Savory

  When he arrived at the hut, Relinyane found an ugly old woman cooking a pot of corn-gruel outside her doorway. He knew she was a cannibal, probably the grandmother of many cannibals, but all the same it was wisest to be polite. So he said, “Good morning to you, grandmother.” The old woman was very deaf, so she asked the boy what he had said. “I said: ‘Good morning to you, grandmother’,” repeated Relinyane, “I have come to ask for some fire.”

  The old woman, who was almost as blind as she was deaf, thought it was her grandchild speaking, so she answered good-naturedly, “Child of my child, of course you may have some of the fire, but first help me scoop this gruel to the pot inside the hut, for I am preparing your father’s beer.”

  “Very well,” replied Relinyane, taking the first brimming measure into the hut to her. Several times he carried the scoop to her as instructed, and between each trip he built up the fire, until the gruel boiled and bubbled fiercely in the big pot.

  “Eh!” croacked the old woman, “you are making the gruel too hot; it has already been cooked.” “Oh no!” replied the boy, “it still smells raw.”

  And as she bent forward to sniff, he threw the contents of the scoop into her face, hoping to rid the land of one more cannibal.

  With the scalding gruel blinding her completely now, the old woman screamed, “The child of my child is killing me!” Hearing her cries, her cannibal son came hurrying from the field to help and when he saw Relinyane running for his life, he gave chase. But fortunately for the boy, the cannibal was a fat man, and Relinyane was far ahead of him by the time he reached the tree under which he had left his stupid brother.

  As he ran, Relinyane shouted, “Reli, the cannibal is coming. Remember what I told you!” “What did you tell me to do?” mumbled his twin. “If you told me to blow my nose, then I’ve just done so.”

  “You fool!” scolded Relinyane as he lost patience and boxed his brother’s ears. “Ask the earth to swallow you, and be quick about it, or you will be eaten!” Then he lost no time in climbing up to the topmost branches of the tree.

  Slowly Reli mumbled the magic words, and equally slowly the earth opened up in front of him, so that there was only just time for him to tumble into the crack before the cannibal came in sight. Reli pulled his loin-cloth in after him, but was not quite quick enough, for the crack closed on the cloth, leaving the one end of it above the earth.

  It was not long before the cannibal, puffing and panting with effort, discovered Relinyane hiding in the treetop but as he was fat and heavy, he could not climb up after him. “Come down, I tell you – or it will be the worse for you!” he threatened.

  “First chop down the tree, and I will come down with it,” replied Relinyane rudely. He was alarmed when the cannibal, without bothering to answer, took a small axe from his loin-strap, and began to chop at the trunk of the ironwood tree with all his strength.

  Soon the sound of axe on wood echoed through the countryside, but the ironwood tree was as hard as iron indeed, and the axe was soon too blunt to make even a mark upon it. Presently the cannibal gave up in disgust, and put down the axe to take a rest. It was then that he caught sight of Reli’s loin-cloth peeping out of the crack in the earth. “Ah!” he cried greedily, “another one is hiding here. The earth will be easier to chop than this tree.” Soon he was dragging poor Reli from his hiding place. He quickly slung him over one of his massive shoulders, and turned to take him home to eat.

  “No, no, no!” begged Reli. “Please don’t take me from my twin. Please eat me here.”

  “Very well,” agreed the cannibal. “It will be a good punishment for your brother, to watch me enjoy my meal.” So he built a large fire, killed Reli, cooked him and ate him.

  “Will you leave the bones for me?” called Relinyane from the top of the tree. The cannibal did, as he had eaten quite enough, and he went home well satisfied with his enormous meal.

  As soon as he was safely out of sight, Relinyane climbed down from the tree, spread his brother’s loin-cloth upon the ground, carefully arranged the bones on it in their correct order. Then he folded the sides of the cloth over the bones, and chanted,

  “Reli, Reli, help your twin,

  Whose heart is full of fear.

  Come and drive the cattle home –

  The night will soon be here.”

  Slowly, the bones gathered new flesh round them, and gradually the boy came back to life. Reli lifted himself sleepily from the ground. Then, drawing a hand across his eyes, as though he had just awakened from a dream, he said, “Brother, how did I sleep so long? Our father will beat us if we lose his cows.”

  Relinyane replied, “Our father cannot beat you, because there is no you.” Then he told Reli how the cannibal had caught and eaten him, and how he, Relinyane, had brought his twin back to life by magic.

  After that, things changed a lot. When the boys reached their home that night, it was Reli who counted and put away his father’s cows; it was Reli who fetched the evening meal; and it was Reli who did anything that required intelligence. The villagers were amazed. Soon everyone began to realise that Reli was as clever as his twin Relinyane.

  Needless to say, though everyone wondered how this miracle had come about, the boys kept the secret to themselves. The twins lived happily and inseparably for many years, grateful to the wicked cannibal who had taken away the Spirit of Stupidity inside Reli’s body by eating it!

  Narrator: Melesala Khan

  THE CROW AND THE JACKAL

  LESOTHO

  Though birds and beasts were not often friends together, even in the old days, it happened that mother crow and mother jackal came to visit each other often.

  The crow had four fine fledgling chicks of which she was very proud, but the jackal had no children. She often complained about this to her feathered friend. In fact, she went on in this way so many times that one day she said to the crow, “My good friend, your children have reached the age when they are a nuisance to you. They are too young to fly with you to your feeding grounds, and too old for you to leave unattended in your hut. They could wander off and get into all kinds of danger. You know that I hunt by night, so I have plenty of spare time during the day. Won’t you let me guard your children through the daylight hours?” The jackal’s eyes glinted, and she hid a secret smile.

  “That is indeed good of you,” replied mother crow with gratitude. “I know that I can safely leave my little ones with you.”

  On the following day the crow flew light-heartedly to the feeding grounds leaving the jackal in charge of her four chicks. But as soon as she was out of sight, the jackal tempted one of the young crows out of the hut and, closing the door upon the other three, she killed and ate it.

  The mother crow came back late that night, her crop bulging with food for her four children. She thanked the jackal for all she had done, but mother jackal said, “Do let me stay a little longer. I could help you to feed the little darlings.” Then she added slyly, “One can never have too much of a good thing. I have thoroughly enjoyed my day.”

  The crafty creature went into the hut and brought out one of the little crows. The mother shared the contents of her crop between the fledglings as they were brought to her one by one, the jackal taking each one back when it had been fed.

  As there were only three chicks left, the jackal brought the first little fledgling back again to the mother who thought it was her fourth child and gave it a second share of food. Imagining that all was well, the mother crow flew up into the tree, tucked her head under her wing, and was soon asleep.

  On the following day the same thing happened. The wicked jackal cooked another meal for herself from one of the crow’s children, so there were only two to be fed when the mother came home. But young crows are even greedier than most other little birds, and they were only too happy to eat a second helping from their mother’s crop. So again the crow went to bed in the treetop, satisfied that she had attended to all four of her children.

  On the third day the
jackal made a tasty midday meal from another little crow, which left only one. Of course this remaining chick was satisfied after it had been brought back for the second time, so the jackal said to the mother crow, “I fed your children today myself. That’s why only two of them are hungry. The other two are sleeping.” And the mother crow believed her.

  The fourth day saw the jackal making her midday meal off the last of the four fledglings and then the wicked creature disappeared into the forest. When the mother came home that night she found the hut empty, and realised the trick that had been played on her.

  For many days the broken-hearted bird mourned the loss of her fledglings. Then, remembering that there was a human village nearby, where many little children played, she flew there, hoping that the sight would bring her comfort.

  But the more she looked at other people’s children, the more she longed to have one, or more than one, to take the place of her lost fledglings. One day, seeing a woman leave her twins unguarded while she hoed the mealie lands, the mother crow swooped down and stole first one, and then the other.

  When Liloane, the mother, discovered that her little Ntjelo and Ntjelozana had disappeared, she ran to her husband and told him of their loss. But, instead of sympathising with her, the husband was very angry indeed, and told her that she should not have left the children alone. Unless she found them, he told her firmly, he would drive her from their home.

  The broken-hearted woman asked her sister-in-law to help her to look for the babies, and together they left the village, not knowing where to go. All through the countryside they wandered, without finding any news of the missing twins. Each time that they returned empty-handed, the hard-hearted husband told her to go away and go on searching.

  Day after day the two women wandered, until they found themselves farther from their homes than they had ever been before. As the midday heat beat down mercilessly upon them, they passed a youth herding his father’s cows. The lad listened to the sorrowful song that Liloane sang as she walked along, until finally he called after them, “Sisters, why are you weeping?”

  “We weep for my little ones, who have been stolen away from their home,” sobbed Liloane. “If you want to find them,” advised the boy, “follow the big black crow. Twice I saw her fly overhead towards the hills, and each time she carried a little child. Travel westwards, and you will find them.”

  With their hopes renewed, the two women hastened on towards the setting sun. Liloane made up a new song:

  “Ntjelo and Ntjelozana,

  Stolen by the big black crow;

  Answer my song my little ones,

  That I may know where to go.”

  The two women had been walking for some hours, and were beginning to wonder if they would ever find the children, when they came to a village and heard an answer to the song. There they found the twins being cared for by the big black crow. When Liloane called her children by name, the bird could not stop them from running to their mother.

  Overjoyed, Liloane went to the chief of the village to request the return of her children, but he replied, “How can I take the twins from the mother crow, when she says they belong to her?”

  “They are mine! They are mine!” croaked the crow. “They are my very own flesh and blood!”

  “She lies, the wicked bird,” cried the women of the village. “These little ones are human, for they know their mother’s voice. Look at them clinging to her now!”

  The chief was so angry with the crow for her theft and her lies, that he banished her from his kingdom for evermore.

  Liloane and her sister-in-law carried Ntjelo and Ntjelozana back to their father’s home in triumph. The mother was forgiven by her husband, and together they built a village of their own, where they soon gathered their friends and relations around them.

  The twins grew and, when the time was ripe, Ntjelo became a much respected chief of a nearby village, while Ntjelozana was chosen to be the first and foremost wife of their dearly beloved chief. Her bride-price of many fine cows brought riches beyond their fondest hopes, to the girl’s ageing parents.

  Narrator: Melesala Khan

  THE PYTHON’S BRIDE

  MALAWI

  This is a tale about a man, his wife and two daughters. They lived in Malawi when the country was suffering from a severe drought. Food was scarce for even those who worked hard in the fields, while the lazy ones, needless to say, were forced to live by their wits – or starve. Some caught fish from the nearby lake; others hunted the small creatures of the wilds, while others, again, took to stealing from their hardworking neighbours’ gardens.

  The father of the two girls in this story was one of these thieves. All day long this man sat lazily, caring little that his wife and children were starving. To keep his own stomach full, he crept from hut to hut during the night and stole whatever he could find: a chicken perhaps, fruit, or grain from well-tended gardens.

  One night Ngosa, the elder child, feeling more hungry than usual, decided that if her father went out to steal food, it must be all right for her to try. So she crept from the hut to take some fruit from a neighbour’s tree.

  “Sister, what are you hiding under your blanket?” asked the younger child after their hardworking mother had left the hut at dawn on the following day, to hoe her crops.

  “Hush!” whispered Ngosa, putting her finger to her lips. “Don’t you dare wake our father. See, I have food to fill our empty stomachs,” and she produced from beneath her blanket a bunch of ripe bananas.

  Being extremely hungry, the younger child did not ask where they came from. Taking the fruit that she was offered, she ate it with glee: but she was a jealous child, and envious of her elder sister’s beauty. Here, she thought, was an opportunity to get Ngosa into trouble. So, when her mother returned hot and tired from the mealie-lands at midday, the child took her aside and whispered, “Mother, if you will give me twice my share of food today, I will share a secret with you.”

  “What is it, daughter?” asked the mother crossly. “Here, eat your fill,” and she handed the greedy child all that she had brought from the lands.

  “Ngosa, my sister, steals from our neighbour’s trees!” she whispered softly in her mother’s ear. Now, although the mother knew where her husband went at night, she, herself, was an honest woman. She had no wish for her children to follow their father’s bad example so, catching Ngosa, she beat her without mercy and drove her out into the veld. She wouldn’t even allow her to sleep in her home that night.

  Storm clouds had gathered throughout the day, and down came the rain, and down to the river rushed the storm water, carrying Ngosa with it. And as the rushing water washed her into the swiftly-flowing river, so Santo, the big, strong water python, came up from the depths of his silent pool and swallowed her.

  He took her down into the depths and, when he had reached his underwater cave, he brought her out of his stomach unharmed. He made her welcome, and there, in his home, the huge snake married Ngosa.

  Days of happiness followed for both the girl and her bridegroom, as the snake pressed both gifts and kindness upon his bride: beaded finery, clothes of the finest texture, possessions more wonderful than she had ever seen before.

  The big snake even gave her a magic sleigh that shone with such dazzling brilliance that it was invisible to the human eye. Two enchanted oxen took the happy bride wherever she wanted to go.

  “Take your magic sleigh,” said Santo the python one day, “and visit your parents’ home. It would be good for your mother to know that happiness and love has come to you.” So the little outcast returned to the home of her childhood and, made invisible by the python’s magic, she joined once more in the daily life she used to live. And the first night she arrived, she found that her father was as lazy as ever and still a thief.

  On the following morning, when the village girls took their clay pots to draw water from the river, Ngosa went with them, although being still invisible, they could not see her. First they bathed, laughin
g and talking as they splashed each other in the clear, cool water. When they had tired of their fun, they filled their pots with water and in pairs they helped each other to lift the heavy water pots on to each other’s head.

  “Now,” said the leader of the party, “two by two we will carry the water back,” and in pairs they departed. Ngosa’s little sister had no companion to go with her along the way so, when she reached her mother’s hut she was crying – though she realised it was her own fault that she had lost her sister who used to pair with her.

  At the sight of her sister’s tears, the invisible Ngosa’s heart was touched, so she lifted the heavy pot from the child’s head, while the little girl looked around her in astonishment. She was more astonished still when she heard Ngosa say, “Little sister, I have come to tell you that I am now the wife of someone who is more kind to me than you could ever imagine. Don’t tell your mother, or the people of the village until I have returned to my home, or they may try to spoil the happiness of my new life.”

  For several days Ngosa stayed in the village, helping her sister with her daily tasks until one day the mother asked the child how she was able to do her work so quickly by herself. “My big sister helps me, though I can’t see her,” the child replied, and she told her mother of Ngosa’s invisible visit.

  The mother had grown sadder and sadder because she had thrown her elder daughter out into the storm, and she called out loudly, “Daughter! Forgive me for driving you from your home. Come back, wherever you are, to those who love you.” At her words the magic spell was broken, and Ngosa stood in front of her mother, able to be seen by all her family, though her father was too lazy even to look.