The Best of African Folklore

by Phyllis Savory

  Her mother wept for joy as she took Ngosa back into the family. For many days the python waited patiently for his wife’s return and, as the days passed, his loneliness increased. Finally he could bear it no longer and he left his water-home to find her.

  As he slithered up the village pathway, the villagers fled away in panic. He reached the mother’s hut and there he found his beloved wife. “Ah, my loved one,” he whispered to her, “come back to me. My river-home is crying out for you.” Then, turning to the mother he said, “Woman, you threw your daughter out of your home. You cannot take her away from me now, for I love her. She is my wife.” Wiping the tears from his eyes, the snake husband sang,

  “Day and night I am crying

  For my very own wife;

  The softest of beauties,

  The wife of my life.

  Storm rains come and help me,

  As you helped me before –

  Sweep down to the river,

  With the wife I adore.”

  There were tears in Ngosa’s eyes, too, as she realised how much the python loved her. She pleaded with her mother to let her return to her husband’s underwater home. But the woman could not bring herself to part with Ngosa, so she drove the great snake away and shut the door. “I will send him presents,” she said to herself, “and he will soon forget the child.” Ngosa’s father, needless to say, was too lazy to notice what was happening. So that night the woman filled a dish with delicious food and carried it down to the river where she placed it near the bank of the big, silent pool.

  The python refused to be comforted, and throughout the night the breeze blew sorrowful cries up to the woman’s hut. “I want my wife,” he pleaded, “for she is the light of my eyes,” and he left the food untouched.

  “I will give him an even larger gift,” said the mother, as she drove the few precious cattle that they owned down to the river and into the big, silent pool. But all through that night again came the same sad cry, blown to the mother’s ears: “I want my wife, for she is the light of my eyes.” And before morning broke, the big snake slithered into the hut where the family slept and, opening his enormous jaws, swallowed Ngosa once more.

  Unharmed, as before, the python returned her to his underwater home. Never again was she seen by human eyes. To this day Ngosa lives in happiness with her loving python husband and his scaly subjects, beneath the silent ripples of the softly flowing river.

  Narrator: N. O. Chilenge

  THE ROOSTER AND THE SWIFT

  MALAWI

  The rooster Tambala, and his friend Nazeze the swift, thoroughly enjoyed light-hearted jokes and fun. Theirs was a happy friendship until their fun led to boasting, and their boasting turned to rivalry – each trying to make out that he was smarter than the other. “Listen, my friend,” said Tambala to Nazeze, after a long argument, “it takes a really good brain to present a successful trick, and my brain is easily better than yours.”

  “I will not agree to that!” argued the swift hotly. “You’re just boasting! Let us have a competition and see which of us has the greater cunning. We’ll invite everyone to a party, and our guests can act as judges to settle our argument once and for all.”

  The rooster agreed readily. So, for the next few days, each practised the trick that pleased him most. On the day of the party birds and animals from far and near gathered at the swift’s house, looking forward to the entertainment, while judges were appointed to decide the winner. The swift was the first to show his skill. He had already told his wife to put a large pot of water upon the fire, and to have the water boiling. When the pot was bubbling merrily, Nazeze turned to his guests.

  “Listen, everybody,” he said. “This trick needs brains as well as speed. My friend Tambala here,” and he pointed to the rooster, “says that he is cleverer than I. When he has done his trick, you must judge. I will now jump into this boiling water, and will come out quite unharmed. Watch!”

  Without another word the swift disappeared into the dense cloud of steam that was rising from the furiously boiling water. As you know, the swift is called a “swift” because of the speed of his flight. So as he flew in circles under cover of the steam, his tremendous speed tricked them all, and no one saw him until, after about a minute or so, he flew out of the steam wet, but none the worse.

  “There!” he said, turning to the rooster, “can you do that?”

  “Of course I can – easily!” replied Tambala boastfully. “I can stay in the water twice as long as that!” and, strutting up to the pot he plunged head-first into the boiling water.

  During the first minute that passed there was dead silence, and the excited circle of guests waited expectantly for Tambala to come out of the steam as the swift had done. But when he had failed to appear after double that time, they anxiously damped down the fire to find, when the steam had died down, a very dead rooster lying at the bottom of the big pot.

  So you see, my friends, never boast that you can do a thing, unless you are quite sure that you can!

  Narrator: Brighton Kumalo

  THE PUNISHMENT OF THE FAITHLESS ONE

  MATABELE

  Although most bird-lovers know that the Trumpeter Hornbills of southern Africa make their nests in hollow tree trunks, it is not everyone who knows that, once the hen has laid her eggs, her husband seals the entrance with clay. He leaves only a small slit open through which he can pass food. So she is imprisoned inside the tree trunk until the young birds are old enough to be fed from outside. Then he breaks open the hole so that she can help him feed the fledglings.

  If you ask the people of Matabeleland, they will tell you that the Hornbill cannot be blamed, for his wife richly deserves her imprisonment. It all started like this they say – in the days of long, long ago. The Hornbill and his wife used to build their nest in the treetops; they used twigs, well sewn together with hair from the tails of zebra and wildebeests. Inside, the nest was plastered with clay, and was lined with the softest thistledown.

  They were a happy pair. Three fine eggs lay in their snug little home. Proudly the Hornbill sought the tastiest fruits in the forest, so that his dear wife need never leave the nest and the precious eggs. To find her favourite fruits, her devoted husband searched farther and farther away, which meant that the time he was away grew longer and longer.

  Each day the dutiful wife turned the eggs beneath her, gently caressing their smooth white surface with her great beak. She had no thoughts beyond the joy of that first moment when her young ones would break from the shells that held them. But there was a wicked tempter abroad in the forest, in the form of a handsome bachelor who called softly to her from the treetops, trying to tempt her away from the eggs. At first she did not listen to this stranger but, as her husband was away for so long, she started to think wistfully of the days when she used to enjoy happy flights over green forests.

  As soon as he saw her longing, the tempter increased his persuasion for her to join him on his joy flights. “One little flutter will not harm my precious eggs!” she thought. “Just one short flight with such a handsome companion! I will be back long before my husband returns.”

  What followed is not difficult to imagine. Every day, while the Hornbill husband searched the forest for dainties for his wife, she was flitting over the countryside with the gay-feathered bachelor. Day by day their pleasure-flights grew longer. One day the Hornbill found a big marula tree full of fruit nearby, that had escaped the notice of his sharp eyes in the past. Therefore, he was home much sooner than usual, his crop swollen with the delicacies that he had found for his beloved wife.

  To his dismay he found their nest empty, and the three precious eggs barely warm. “What can have happened?” he wondered. “Has some dreadful monster carried off my dear wife?” Surely he would have heard her cries!

  At least he could try to save the babies, he decided, by keeping them warm with his own body, and he settled down clumsily. He had been sitting on the eggs for only a few minutes when he heard laughter and
merrymaking. “That is a voice I know,” he said to himself. Then, into sight flew his wife and the handsome male Hornbill. The husband flew upon this intruder with rage, and there is still talk among the birds of the fierce battle that followed. The wicked tempter was put to flight as he deserved and driven far away, while the faithless wife returned in disgrace to her nest. But she had been away too long this time, and there was no warmth nor life in the eggs.

  Carefully the guilty wife hid the truth from the Hornbill as, week after week, she sat upon the lifeless eggs. When, eventually, no chickens hatched her husband guessed the dreadful truth. He chased his guilty wife from the nest and one by one he flung the eggs to the ground, then he set about destroying their lovely treetop home completely. Next he looked for a tree trunk with a conveniently large hole in it, and inside this he made his wife lay her next clutch of eggs.

  When the last egg had been laid, he cemented his faithless wife securely into the tree trunk allowing only a small slit to remain open. And that, so they say, is why to this very day, the Trumpeter Hornbill imprisons his wife in her nest, only breaking away the plaster when his fledglings are ready to leave the nest.

  THE FOUNDING OF A TRIBE

  A TRUE STORY FROM THE AREA WHERE GRAHAMSTOWN NOW STANDS

  In the days of long ago, when witchcraft and sudden death were all too common, the great chief Tshiwo ruled over a vast stretch of land and a large number of people.

  But all was not well in that land, for Tshiwo’s witch-doctors held even greater power than he, and they kept him in a constant state of fear by telling him, from time to time, that he was being bewitched by one of his subjects.

  The chosen victim would always be one who possessed a fine herd of cows – or something else which one of the witch-doctors wanted. “The bones were thrown” each time, and the witch-doctors would point to the man they had chosen and declare that he was the one who planned against his chief.

  The punishment was always the same – death, after which all the victim’s wives and cattle were seized. In this way the witch-doctors grew rich, for they were given a good share of the man’s possessions. As their wealth increased, their greed grew greater, and they were always on the look-out for a rich innocent man to kill.

  As you can see, it was the witch-doctors rather than the chief Tshiwo who held the greater power, and this caused great fear among the chief’s honest subjects.

  The name of the executioner whose duty it was to carry out these death sentences was Kwane. He was a just and kindly man. True, he too, made a profit from the killings, and his herd increased with every man he clubbed to death. But each cow that joined his flock in payment for the killings, brought deeper sorrow to his heart. He came to hate each journey to “The Place of Death”.

  As time wore on, he loathed his job more and more. His kindly heart told him that it was wicked to take the lives of those he knew had done no wrong.

  The killing ground was far from the Royal Kraal. It was a wild and lonely rugged kloof, that was feared by all as a place of death and sorrow. No one ever went that way.

  One day the witch-doctors “smelled out” a young and particularly handsome man and said he was guilty of trying to bewitch his chief. One of the witch-doctors probably wanted his lovely wife, or maybe his herd of fat cattle – so he, too, was sentenced to death and sent to the killing ground with Kwane.

  The man was full of the joy of living; he did not want to die. All along the path to “The Place of Death” he begged Kwane to spare his life. Kwane knew this would be a dangerous thing to do, for if it ever became known that he had disobeyed his ruler, he too, would die. His own flocks and wives would be handed to the human vultures who were tricking his chief.

  However, Kwane could not bear the thought of killing this strong and innocent man, so he tried to make a plan. “If I leave you alive,” he asked, “where will you live? As you know, I risk my life if you are ever found.”

  “Yes, I know the risk you run,” replied the young man, “but life is good: I do not want to die. I will give you my solemn word that I will stay here and never leave this place of death. No one will ever know that you showed me mercy.”

  So Kwane spared the young man’s life, and he built himself a hut in that wild and lonely kloof. He lived by the skill of his hands on creatures that he snared, wild fruits and berries, and roots of many kinds.

  From that day onwards, Kwane never killed another living soul. Each man, as he was sentenced to death by Tshiwo, was taken to “The Place of Death” and there Kwane released him and made him give the same promise of silence.

  As time went on, Kwane smuggled grain to plant in the growing settlement, so that before long they had created small gardens, and lived their lives there in peace.

  Eventually their numbers increased to over a hundred strong and healthy men – for the greedy witch-doctors were declaring more and more innocent men to be guilty. However, in spite of all their pretended skill, these wicked men could not prevent disaster from overtaking Tshiwo, and one day fighting broke out against a neighbouring tribe.

  The battle was a bitter one, and Tshiwo’s men were badly beaten: not many escaped with their lives. It was then that Kwane came forward and offered to help his chief.

  “What can you, one man alone, do to help me?” asked the dejected chief. “I can bring you a hundred strong men,” the old man replied.

  “Bring them,” ordered Tshiwo. “If they are fresh and willing, we might still save the day, for our enemies have not yet recovered from the fight.”

  Kwane went to the lonely kloof, and brought back with him all the men whom he had spared. Tshiwo was astonished to see so many of the men who were supposed to be dead, but gladly accepted their service. Without giving his enemies a chance to reorganise, he went into battle once more. This time, thanks to Kwane and his men, Tshiwo gained a great victory.

  When the fight was over, the old chief called Kwane to him and willingly forgave him for his years of disobedience. What is more, he made him chief over the men he had saved, declaring that they had been more useful to him than all his wicked witch-doctors.

  Throughout Kwane’s lifetime, this new tribe called itself “The Children of Kwane”, but when, sometime after his death, his grandson Cungwa became chief, they took the name of “The Children of Cungwa”.

  The tribe fought many fierce battles against the British before they put down their arms to become the civilized and peaceful people they are today.

  Narrator: Blasins Kattlana, a direct descendant of Kwane

  THE GUARDIANS OF THE DEW POND

  LESOTHO

  Aserious drought was troubling the land where the elephant ruled as king. The rivers and the waterholes were dry, and all the animals were suffering. King Elephant therefore called his subjects to a meeting. “We must build a dam,” he told them, “to catch the dew at night. Then, at midday, everyone who has helped will be allowed to drink his share.”

  All through the day they dug, scraped, stamped and smoothed, until by night time, they had made a strong and gently sloping bowl to catch the dew.

  Now one animal, the lazy, trouble-making hare, refused to lend a hand. He just sat on a big rock and laughed as the others sweated and toiled in the heat of the summer sun. That made the angry creatures promise that they would not allow him to drink one drop of water. They would take it in turns to guard the pond.

  On the first day it was the owl’s turn to see that the hare did not drink the water. But as you know, an owl’s eyes are made to see by night, and in the sunlight he can’t see so well at all. Therefore, when the cunning hare crept stealthily along, disguised by some dry grass on his back, the owl did not see him. He drank all the water in the pond, leaving the thirsty animals only mud to suck. That put the owl in great disgrace.

  On the following day it was the dassie’s turn to guard the pond. He took up his position on a little ant-heap nearby and, full of enthusiasm, he began to watch. Presently the hare arrived and without a word bega
n to dig a hole with a little tunnel leading from it. Inside this he built a fire. The dassie was intrigued and said, “Tell me, friend, why are you doing that?”

  “I am making a fire so that you and I can play the ‘cooking game’ ”, replied the hare. “First you must cook me, and then I will cook you.” And he made off towards the forest. There he found a pod from a creeper which made a loud popping noise when he squeezed it.

  “Now,” he said when he came back, “I will go inside the hole. When you hear me ‘pop’ you will know that I am cooked, and you must come and take me out. Then I will cook you. This game is great fun!” and he skipped into the hole.

  After a short while there was a loud “pop” and the hare called, “I am cooked! Come and take me out!”

  The dassie did as he had been told, and they both sat on the edge of the hole and laughed. Then the dassie, who agreed that it was a splendid game, jumped into the hole for his turn to be cooked.

  But the hare had stoked up the fire in the tunnel before he left it, and very soon the dassie found it uncomfortably hot. He called out, “I am cooked now! Come and take me out!”

  But the hare said, “Oh no! you have not popped yet. How can you be cooked?” Then he blocked up the hole with earth and stamped on it, until the poor dassie was suffocated. Once again, the hare drank all the water, and even cut off one of the dassie’s ears to make a whistle for himself. When the animals came for their drink at midday, they again found nothing but mud in their dew pond.

  Next morning it was the turn of the tiny buck, the “dik-dik”, to guard the pond, and he took up his position near the water. Soon the hare came running out of the forest blowing on the whistle he had made, and dancing as he ran. He went up to the dik-dik, who was delighted by the noise, and said, “Let’s have a game. I’ll play on my whistle while you dance, and then you can play on it while I dance.” He played such a catchy tune that before long they were both dancing, and thoroughly enjoying themselves.