When the girl saw them, she said: “There is no joke about it now. Here comes an army of red infants with the umbilical cords still hanging on.”
They discovered her in the fork of the shade tree. “Let me give them some porridge,” the girl thought. The babies just plastered the porridge on their heads. They did not eat it. The last-born then climbed into the shade tree, picked up the baskets that the girl was weaving, and said: “Now, bring me an axe.” The girl shouted out once more:
Mother, come back!
Mother, a man is cutting down our shade tree.
Mother, come back!
Mother, a man is cutting down our shade tree.
Cut! The tree in which I eat is falling.
Here it is falling.
Again the mother dropped into the crowd:
Many as you are, I shall stitch you with this big needle.
Stitch! Stitch!
But her magic did not work with these babies, and the tree was chopped down.
The troop began dragging the girl to the king. They tied her with their umbilical cords, yes, with their umbilical cords. The mother went on with her song, trying to stop them:
Many as you are, I shall stitch you with this big needle.
Stitch! Stitch!
But it was in vain. The troop was already in the fields and out of the bush. The mothers of the babies sang a song of triumph into the heavens as the babies marched into the town.
When they got there, the maiden’s mother said: “Since you have carried away my child, I must tell you something. She is forbidden to pound grain in the mortar, neither can she fetch water at night. If you send her to do one of these things, mind you, I will know where to find you.” With this, the mother returned to her home in the bush.
The following day, the king said: “Let us go hunting.” And to his mother, he said: “My wife does not pound in the mortar. All she can do is stitch baskets.”
While the husband was away, the other wives, as well as the mother-in-law, said: “Why should she not help us prepare food and pound in the mortar?” When the girl was told she must help them pound, she refused, but a basket of corn was brought to her anyway. When she had pounded it, the mother-in-law herself took the meal from the mortar, and then the other women, in their turn, brought some more corn and forced it on her.
So the little girl pounded away, singing at the same time:
Pound! At home I do not pound,
Here I pound to celebrate my wedding
If I pound I go to heaven.
The little maiden began to sink into the ground. She went on singing:
Pound! At home I do not pound,
Here I pound to celebrate my wedding.
If I pound I go to heaven.
She sank into the ground as far as her hips, and then as far as her chest.
Pound! At home I do not pound,
Here I pound to celebrate my wedding.
If I pound I go to heaven.
Soon, she sank down as far as the neck. Now the mortar began to pound by itself, pounding the grain on the ground, not in the mortar. Finally the girl disappeared altogether.
Although nothing more of her was to be seen, the mortar still pounded as before. The women then said: “Now what shall we do?” They called a crane, and told it: “Go and break the news to her mother, but first let us know what you will say.” The crane answered: “Wawani! Wawani!” They said: “That has no meaning. Go back.” Then the women told each other: “Let us send for the crow.” “Now what will you say?” they asked it when it came. The crow replied: “Kwá! Kwá! Kwá!” “The crow, too, does not know how to call,” they said. “We must have the quail instead.” But when they asked the quail: “What will you do?” it answered: “Kwalulu! Kwalulu!” “The quail does not know how to do it either. Let us listen to the dove.” They said: “Let us hear, doves, what will you call her mother?” The dove sang:
Kuku! Ku!
She-who-nurses-the-sun is gone,
She-who-nurses-the-sun.
You who dig,
She-who-nurses-the-sun is gone,
She-who-nurses-the-sun.
They said, “Go, you know how to do it.”
The mother went towards the town. She carried medicines in a pot, as well as tails of animals with which she beat the air. When she reached the town there, she sang:
Let me gather, let me gather
The herd of my mother.
Mwinsa, get up.
Let me gather the herd.
Let me gather, let me gather
The herd of my father.
Mwinsa, get up.
Let me gather the herd.
She then heard the mortar still sounding right above the child. So she got out her medicine and prayed on it. Slowly, the girl began to emerge, from the ground, still pounding. Little by little, her head appeared, and then her neck. Soon her song was heard again:
Pound! At home I do not pound,
Here I pound to celebrate my wedding.
If I pound I go to heaven.
The child was now in full view, completely out of the earth. And so she was brought back to the king, and stayed there as a reminder of how one must always observe the prohibitions given us. I have finished.
—Berre-MuKuni
89
The Three Sisters
There was a certain woman who had many daughters. Among them were three of exceptional beauty, and of these, one was more beautiful than all the rest.
Now, it happened that three young men from a neighboring country arrived at the village where these girls lived, and when they saw them, they fell in love at once. That very day, they decided to marry, and the next day the men brought the hoes that symbolize engagement. When formal greetings had been exchanged, the young men went home until the end of the year, after which they would return for the marriage ceremonies.
When the appropriate time came, they went to the village headman to obtain his agreement. The future father-in-law of the most beautiful of all the girls, whose name was Cuulu, gave his prospective daughter-in-law ten head of cattle and many fine things, better than the marriage gifts made to the other two sisters. When these two girls realized this they were very jealous. From then on they sought every day to kill Cuulu. Meanwhile, Cuulu’s father-in-law continued to love her best and to lavish presents on her.
One day, everyone in the village went off to work except Cuulu, who remained behind because she had a headache. Seeing this, the two sisters also stayed behind, hoping for an opportunity to kill her. But when they reached her hut they found no one there. Then they noticed the water pot was missing and realized Cuulu had gone down to the river. “Well,” they said, “let’s follow her.”
So they did, but on approaching the river they met Cuulu already on her way back. Very courteously, as if they had no evil intentions, they greeted Cuulu, saying, “My dear, how have you slept? We have just been to visit you and found you not at home. We know you’ve just gone to the river, but won’t you go back there with us now?” Cuulu replied, “No, I am too tired. But why don’t we return to my hut where we can talk with each other more easily than standing here.”
So they all went back to Cuulu’s hut, where she gave them some nice stools to sit on and cooked some food so that they might eat together.
After a while, when Cuulu was clearing the things away, one sister said to the other, “Here’s our chance—let’s go home and get some knives, then come back and kill her here.” But the other replied: “No, you go alone. I’ll say you have just gone home to cook some millet porridge.” So the other left to get the knives.
In the meantime, Cuulu’s husband had finished his work in the fields, and was hurrying home because he loved his wife very much. As he arrived, Cuulu was putting a pot on the fire to bake some flour.
When the sister who had gone for the knives returned, the sister who had remained with Cuulu quickly went outside to her. She told her that Cuulu’s husband had come, so they hid the knives in t
he grass because they could not kill her then. When they went back into the hut, Cuulu gave them millet porridge and the three sisters sat down together and ate. Afterwards, Cuulu and her husband walked the sisters home, and all the while, the two women were planning some other way to kill Cuulu.
Some while later, it happened that each of the three sisters gave birth to a baby son. At this, Cuulu’s father-in-law was delighted, and he said to Cuulu: “Help yourself to all the animals in my cattle corral.” But Cuulu declined to accept more than five beasts. Even so, the other two sisters felt more jealous than ever, seeing that all they got on this occasion was one sheep apiece for having given birth to sons, for their fathers-in-law were not so openhanded.
Three days later, everyone in the village went out to the fields to work, with the exception of the three sisters who were still resting after childbirth. When the two jealous women saw that everyone had left the village, they put their children to sleep and went to visit Cuulu. They said to her, “Our sister, let us go to the river, because when the people come back from the fields they will need a lot of water.” Cuulu replied, “No, my sisters, I have just been there.” But they cajoled her until at last she agreed to return with them. At this the two jealous women were delighted.
When they got to the riverbank, they said to Cuulu, “Now you start filling the pots.” She refused. Then they said, “All right, if you won’t begin, then we won’t draw any water either. But we’ll take the water you’ve drawn already and tell the father-in-law who loves you so much that you’re neglecting his grandson.”
Then Cuulu was afraid, and said, “Well, I’ll get water, only keep our children out of it.” But as she was drawing the water from the river, the two sisters threw her into it, together with the water pot and the ring she used to balance the pot while she carried it on her head. Then they drew water and returned to the village, rejoicing.
When the people came back from the fields, they began to wonder where Cuulu was, asking, “But where can she have gone, and left her small child behind?” Her husband, her father-in-law, and mother-in-law were furious that she should have done this. They inquired of the two sisters, who said they did not know where she was (all the while, they were rejoicing in themselves). Every path around the village was searched. Cuulu’s despairing husband grew thin, thinking of his wife. Other people began to forget her.
Then one day, a little old lady was going to the river when she heard a voice coming from it, saying:
Cuulu draws water, Cuulu,
Goes to the village, Cuulu,
Now Cuulu is forgotten.
Don’t you forget me, Kaleekaminisya,
Yes, I am Cuulu.
The old lady gave a start. She thought at first it was a bird, then perhaps a frog. But, as she was drawing water from the well, she heard the voice again:
Cuulu draws water, Cuulu,
Goes to the village, Cuulu,
Now Cuulu is forgotten.
Don’t you forget me, Kaleekaminisya,
Yes, I am Cuulu.
The old lady lost no time in collecting her water pot and her carrying ring and returning to the village. Once there, she said: “You elders, when I was drawing water from the river just now I heard a voice coming from it.” Some people thought that the old lady had been dreaming, or else that she was a liar. But there were others who believed her, and the two sisters who had thrown Cuulu in the river began to tremble. In the end, everyone went down to the river and listened, but no voice was heard. Then many people were angry and wanted to beat the little old lady, but a number of elders forbade it, saying, “Let all those who don’t believe her story return to the village. Then we shall see.”
When the people had gone, the old lady approached the river and began to draw water. Then a voice was heard, saying:
Cuulu draws water, Cuulu,
Goes to the village, Cuulu,
Now Cuulu is forgotten.
Don’t you forget me, Kaleekaminisya,
Yes, I am Cuulu.
Then, singing, Cuulu emerged from the river. The people around rejoiced and took her back to the village. Then everyone came to see her, and one of the olders got up, and said, “Cuulu, we are most glad to see you again here, but how did you come to be in the river? Let us hear just what happened to make you disappear.”
At this Cuulu got up and stood in the midst of them, her two sisters included, and said: “As you see, I am delighted to be back in this village once more. You know well that I am the mother of this child Kaleekaminisya, and also that I was married on the same day as these, my sisters. One day, everyone went to work in the fields, except we three sisters. They put their babies to sleep, and came to my home. They said: ‘Let us go and get water.’ When we got to the river they persuaded me to draw water first, and while I was doing so, they threw me in, along with my water pot and carrying ring.
“When I reached the bottom of the river I met a crocodile, who was very pleased to encounter such good food as myself. But when he saw that I was a woman, he told me he would not eat me, but would marry me instead. Now, I don’t know how I could believe the words of a crocodile. Anyway, after some time had passed in such a way as you may imagine, the crocodile saw that I was getting thin and drove me away, saying, ‘I cannot bring myself to sleep with a woman as thin as you.’ So I returned, you elders, and now I am here! Those who threw me into the river are my sisters here, who were jealous because my father-in-law loved me.”
At this Cuulu’s father-in-law got up with spear in hand and stabbed those two women. Then everyone got sticks and stones and beat them until they died. They took their corpses and threw them in the river. Cuulu recovered and lived with her husband from then on.
So my story ends.
—Fipa
90
The Messenger Bird
A man named Zili married a woman and then found he did not like her. One day, he said to her: “It has been a long time since we went to visit your parents. Make a pot of beer and we will go.” So she put the pot on her head, and they set out. He led her by a path that she didn’t know—one that no one used. When she asked why they went that way, he answered, “Never mind, it is another way.” They came to a tree and stopped to rest beneath it. The woman objected, saying, “There is no room to sit down.” “Just put down your pot of beer, so I may drink,” said he. She set it down and he drank. Then he grabbed her and killed her. He cut off her head, her arms, her legs—everything that had human shape. These he wrapped in a bundle of grass, and then climbed up and hung them at the top of the tree. Then, he took the remainder of the body, skinned it, cut the flesh into strips, which he also wrapped up in grass, and took them with him.
As he left, a bird began to sing:
Zili! Amasesendini, amasendi, old man! You are a witch, sesendini!
What’s that kind of meat! Sesendin!
It has got no tail! It has no horn! Sesendin!
He asked, “What bird is this that sings and calls me by name?” He threw his stick at the bird and killed it. Then he lifted his burden and went on his way. But the bird rose again. It followed him, passed close to him flapping its wings, pfu pfu, perched on another tree, and sang its song once more. Zili, astonished, exclaimed: “How can the bird follow me like this? Is it possible that I did not kill it?” He gave chase to it, knocked it down, tore it limb from limb, and threw the mangled remains to the winds. Once more, he picked up his load, and continued on his way.
But look, the bird again gathered together its scattered limbs, and came back to life. Once more, Zili pursued it a long way, and killed it yet a third time. He lighted a fire with a wooden flint, laid the dead bird on the wood, and watched it slowly burn to ashes. Then, grinding the ashes to powder, he scattered them far and wide. He stayed sitting at this place for a long time. As the bird did not return, he said to himself, “This time it is quite dead.” He then resumed his journey and duly arrived with his load at the village of his parents-in-law.
They hastened
to meet him. “Here is Zili. Good day, Zili!” They took from his hands the bundle of grass filled with flesh, they bade him enter the hut, and before untying the bundle, they asked for news of his home. Then his mother-in-law took up the bundle and said, “Today you are treating us as princes!” And she began to open it. But, lo, swiftly and silently the bird arrived, and, perching on the top of the hut in which they were sitting, it began its song:
Zili! Amasesendini, amaesendi, old man! You are a witch, sesendini!
What’s that kind of meat! Sesendin!
It has got no tail! It has no horn! Sesendin!
Zili kept quiet. “What a curious bird that is!” said his parents-in-law, listening to its song, but others said it was just ordinary. And the bird sang on.
“How was our daughter when you left home?” inquired the parents. “Quite well,” Zili answered. “She will soon come herself.” And the bird continued its song:
Zili! Amasesendini, amasendi, old man! You are a witch, sesendini!
What’s that kind of meat! Sesendin!
It has got no tail! It has no horn! Sesendin!
Then the bird flew into the hut. They drove it out, but it would not keep silent. Slowly, the parents began to understand a little of the real meaning of its words. Zili trembled, but spoke not at all. Then the mother began to roast the flesh Zili had brought, and the bird went to sing in her ears. Finally, she understood, and she fainted.
Then the men of the village went to Zili and asked him to explain, saying, “What bird is this that follows you and calls you by name?” But Zili declared: “The bird came not with me. I heard it here for the first time in this hut.” “If that is so, come and let us see our child,” the people said.
African Folktales Page 41