‘I’m s .. o .. rr .. y’ he croaked. ‘I’m so s … o … rr…y,’ he replied to the voice above him, in a deep voice that sounded like a bellowing, young calf.
Frog was so choked up that he had great difficulty forming the sounds of the words in his throat. Not only had he eaten the honey, but someone had seen him do it! He had also betrayed the trust of all the animals in the thornveld.
He never did discover who the voice belonged to, but Frog had learnt his lesson. From that day on, Frog’s eyes always looked as if they were about to pop out of his head. And, even today, Bullfrog always croaks in a loud, booming voice – and never, never eats honey!
The Flight of the Honeybee
A bee colony can consist of 60 000 bees – all busily contributing to the tiny community within a hive. There are three types of bee in the hive and each has special duties. The queen bee is the mother of the colony and lays the eggs. She is cared for by the infertile females, called workers, who feed the larvae and clean and protect the hive. When a hive is disturbed, the workers will protect it fiercely, and an angry swarm can be quite dangerous. Male bees are called drones, but only one drone mates with the queen.
The cattle herder’s song
SWAZI
In a fertile valley, west of the Lebombo Mountains, lived a king who had a large herd of fine cattle. In fact, it was one of the largest herds in Swaziland. The king valued his beasts so highly that only his son was allowed to take care of them.
Early every morning, the boy would take his father’s cattle out to graze. At night, he would call each by name and herd them home to the kraal.
On dreamy summer days, the boy would open the kraal gate and drive the cattle to the river. They were led by a magnificent ox with fine horns and a loud voice, so when he bellowed all the cattle followed.
The boy would sit on the rocks at the edge of the river and watch the weavers build their nests and the swallows swoop down to drink. Sometimes he would sit in the cool shadows of the rocks where moss and little ferns grew.
But as much as he loved his father’s cattle, the king’s son often grew tired and longed to sleep, especially at midday when the sun’s heat is greatest. But he forced himself to stay awake so he could watch the animals as they grazed in the long grass.
One summer day as he lay on a rock, with the heat waves rising up around him, the boy fell asleep and thought he was dreaming. A gnarled, old woman stood beside him. He sat up in fright.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the woman. ‘I’m here to help.’ ‘It is such a responsibility to look after my father’s animals,’ the boy said. ‘They are so important to him that if one cow strays or is stolen, I’ll be in great trouble. I have to wake early in the morning, and I often get so tired out here in the heat of the sun.’
The old woman smiled: ‘Look at that large round rock worn smooth by the river.’
The boy looked at the rock and was sure he had never seen it before.
The woman continued: ‘It is so wet and slippery that anyone who tries to climb it will fall into the river. But you shall not fall. That will be your rock. Stand on it and you will be able to see the whole river valley. You’ll be able to follow the course of the river as it slithers around the bends like a snake, and you’ll see all your father’s cattle in one glance.’
The boy was so excited that he ran towards the large smooth rock.
‘Wait, son,’ the old woman warned. ‘Never fall asleep on that rock or your cattle will be stolen. I will teach you a special song, and when the cattle hear it, they will all come to you and follow you wherever you wish to lead them.’
The boy listened as the wind whipped up the grass around him and the river flowed by lapping at its edges. Then the old woman sang her simple song:
Cattle, cattle far away,
Come to me and do not stray.
The boy practised it and when he had mastered the tune, he saw his animals ambling towards him from all directions. He turned around to thank the old woman for her kindness. But she had gone.
All through the summer the boy sang to the cattle and they never strayed or were stolen.
One day the air in the valley was so hot and humid that the king’s son lay down on his special rock to rest. It was a quiet day, with no wind to rustle the sweet-reed on the other side of the river bank and cool his face. He fell asleep.
The people on the hillsides noticed that the herder was asleep and slowly crept down into the river valley. They gathered all the cattle together and drove them away, led by the magnificent ox.
When the king’s son awoke, refreshed by his sleep, he stood up on his rock, stretched and looked for his cattle. They were gone. In desperation, he sang his special song as loudly as he could.
Cattle, cattle far away,
Come to me and do not stray.
But there was no response, not even an echo.
Panic-stricken, he ran up and down the river bank, thinking that the cattle might have strayed, but by nightfall he had still not found them. He dreaded going home.
When he arrived home and told his father that his cattle had gone, the king was so angry that he said, ‘Go and search for my prized possessions! You are not welcome here until you return with my cattle.’
The boy wandered down to his stone at the river’s edge. With the dim light of the half moon, he climbed up onto the slippery rock, and cried.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘I told you not to sleep,’ said the old woman. ‘Now your cattle have been stolen. But, go to the chief who has your cattle and ask him to take you on as his herder.’
At first light, the young boy walked along the mountain paths, through many cultivated fields and at last he reached the settlement of the chief. He heard the bellowing of the ox and knew immediately that his father’s cattle were in the chief’s kraal.
He begged the chief to let him watch the cattle. The chief agreed, so the boy worked for many years, thinking of a way to return his father’s cattle.
In the mornings when he took the animals out to graze and in the evenings when he returned home with them, the boy sang his special song. Although he longed to be with his own family, he was comforted by the fact that he was with his father’s cattle.
One year, at the time of the First Fruits Festival, the king’s son saw that beer had been prepared by the women and had been placed in a row of calabashes outside the kraal. All the men, women and children had gone to the fields with their baskets to gather the first ripe produce of the harvest: maize, millet, ground-nuts, sugar cane, and pumpkins.
Only the king’s son and an old woman who was too old to do any work were left at home. The boy had a plan. He ground a special herb into a fine powder and put a little of it into each calabash. This would make the drinker sleep.
The celebrations began, and the first fruits of the harvest were brought to the chief. His advisors gave him and all present a purification drink of sea water and river water, mixed with herbs. Then, while the king’s son watched from afar, they ate the first fruit … and drank the beer.
Not one was awake to see the full moon rising, except for the cattle herder who had not taken part in the celebrations. He crept off to the cattle kraal and, opening the gate, sang:
Cattle, cattle far away,
Come to me and do not stray.
The boy led his cattle past the sleeping villagers. The sound of their snoring drowned the clomp of the cattle’s hooves and no-one stirred. By the light of the full moon, the king’s son escaped with his father’s cattle. Clumsily they made their way across the countryside. At sunrise, the ox in front bellowed so loudly that all the cattle from the east, west and south, came to join them.
With a sense of urgency, the boy drove the cattle towards his father’s kraal, only allowing them to graze or drink at the river for a short time. But when the chief woke to find his cattle missing, he called his warriors together and, with their shields and assegais, they followed the tracks of the
cattle.
Towards evening, the king’s son heard the chief’s men in the distance behind him. He drove the cattle down from the hills into a thickly wooded area that lined a stream.
The boy hid beneath a fig tree. He was very scared and didn’t want to lose his cattle again. Darkness fell. He was cold and lonely. He knew that he had to think of a plan before dawn. At first light, the chief’s men would start following him again.
The mosquitoes irritated him, the frogs around him croaked so loudly that he couldn’t sleep and bats scuffled in the branches above him. Suddenly, he heard a voice. It was a voice he recognised.
‘Do not be afraid,’ said the old woman. ‘Just do as I tell you. Kill one of your white oxen and make ten thousand little shields out of the hide. I will bring you warriors of your own.’
The boy looked at the woman in disbelief, but he did exactly as he was told. Then the old woman turned to the frogs and said:
‘Each one of you must take up a shield and be a warrior for the king’s son.’
All through the night the boy instructed them, and just before the darkness of the night gave way to the gentle rays of the morning sun, the boy ordered his army of frogs to sit in a rowan the hillside, so that the chief’s men would clearly see the warriors and their shields.
When the chief and his men saw the great army of frogs and heard their war-cries, they were terrified and retreated into the valleys. Although the chief was desperate to retrieve his cattle, he decided that he would rather lose the cattle than his men.
So, after the cattle had grazed on the sweet grass, the king’s son sang his song and continued his journey to his village. The cattle followed contentedly.
The king was overjoyed to see his son. He hugged him and gave him great honour.
‘You have looked after my cattle well, son,’ he said proudly. ‘And they have increased in number.’
And so, every morning and every evening, the king’s son sang his special song and the cattle neither strayed nor were stolen.
The Festival of the First Fruits
The annual First Fruits festival is still celebrated in Swaziland today in gratitude for the harvest. The celebration starts three weeks before the summer solstice with a ceremony called the ‘little incwala’. A group of men go off to the west to collect river water, while another group journeys to the east to find sea water. On their return, the king and his attendants withdraw into a secluded hut called the inhlambelo, where the king tastes the first fruits of the season and the traditional sweet-reed. When the dancing and singing begins, the people know that they can eat the harvest. The ‘big incwala’ takes place at full moon less than two weeks later and lasts for six days. There is dancing and sacred songs are sung. The young men of the village cut branches from the sekwane thorntree to reinforce the king’s hut and a black bull is killed. The ceremony then ends with a huge bonfire in which the remains of the slaughtered bull, a section of the crops and items used by the king in his inhlambelo, are burnt.
Hen and Hawk’s lost friendship
SOTHO
Long ago in the mountain kingdom of Lesotho, a special friendship developed between Hawk, a bird of the air, and Hen, a bird of the earth. Hawk loved to visit Hen. Whenever he came down to earth to talk to Hen, she would stop whatever she was doing, flap her little rust-red wings and cackle and cackle as she listened to Hawk. They were very good friends.
Now, Hawk had a treasured possession that no other bird in the kingdom owned. It was a shiny, silver needle and he kept it carefully hidden in his home high up on the mountain ridge. Hen knew about this needle and one day when Hawk was visiting her, she asked:
‘Dear Hawk, please may I borrow your needle?’
‘Whatever do you want to do with my needle?’ asked Hawk in astonishment.
‘I’d like to sew a new blanket for myself. The summer is nearly over and it gets so cold when the snow covers the mountains.’
‘Dear Hen,’ said Hawk. ‘You know it is the only needle amongst all the birds, what will happen if you lose it?’
‘I promise I won’t, Hawk,’ pleaded Hen. ‘I’ll only use it myself and take very special care of it. If I lose your precious needle, you can have something precious of mine.’
‘And what is that?’ Hawk asked.
Hen paused for a moment and thought about what was dearest to her in all the kingdom. And, knowing that she would certainly guard Hawk’s needle with her life, offered him one of her most treasured possessions.
‘A chick,’ Hen answered confidently. ‘One of my precious, little children.’
‘Fine,’ agreed Hawk. ‘That is a fair exchange. Your young chicks must surely be as special to you as my needle is to me, so I know you will look after it well.’
Hawk took off into the clear blue sky with his strong wings and Hen watched until he was but a little black dot in the distance. Then she gathered together her little skins and laid them out – ready to start patching them together to make her blanket. She was so happy to think that she would soon have a Hlosi, a magnificent skin blanket fit for a chief or one of his wives.
When she looked up into the sky again, Hen saw Hawk already making his way back to her from his mountain-top home. In his strong, hooked beak he carried his gleaming needle. With a promise to take good care of it, Hen took the needle and Hawk flew off in search of breakfast. Hen threaded the needle with a long thread and using fine stitches, she carefully sewed her skin blanket. When it was finally finished, she wrapped it around her and showed it to her family.
‘You look more beautiful than any other hen on earth,’ said her family. This pleased Hen and made her feel very proud. She walked up and down, showing off her new blanket. She felt like a very special person, as grand as the wife of a chief in her new Hlosi, and was so flattered when fowls that she didn’t even know came up to her and said: ‘Hen, you look very beautiful. Just like the chief’s wife.’
When all the hens in the village had seen her blanket, Hen quickly called together all her chicks and said:
‘I do not want my new blanket to get dirty. Please clean the house for me. Gather the dirt together and put it all on the fire heap so that it is ready to be burnt.’
Then Hen went strutting off to show her new blanket to the hens who were working in the fields. So proud was she. She even forgot all about Hawk’s needle.
Hen’s little chickens cleaned her straw house from top to bottom, swept the floor and threw all the dust onto the fire heap as they had been told to do. ‘Mother will be pleased with us,’ they chirped. ‘There is not a speck of dust anywhere.’
But Hawk’s precious needle was hidden amongst the dirt …
The hens weeding the fields admired Hen in her new blanket. ‘You look so radiant, Hen; as beautiful as one of the chief’s wives’ they remarked.
All the compliments had gone to Hen’s head and she strutted home proudly, forgetting the words of her forefathers who said: Pride comes before a fall.
Suddenly, as Hen was following the little path through the grass that led to her home, she saw a large dark shadow on the ground in front of her. She recognised her dear friend, Hawk, but she had forgotten all about his needle and the promise she had made to him.
Swooping down to the ground, Hawk said: ‘Hen, do you realize how proud you have become in that smart blanket of yours?’
She giggled and, taking no notice of him, kept on walking along the path. Then Hawk said to his friend: ‘I have come for my needle, so I can put it back in its very special place.’
Hen jumped. She got such a fright. She suddenly remembered the promise she had made to Hawk and the price she would have to pay if she lost his precious needle. She didn’t say a word but hurried back to her little house.
When she arrived home, she saw that the floor was spotlessly clean. There was not even a speck of dirt on the floor. There was no needle either. She looked everywhere for it.
‘It must be on the fire heap,’ she said, running outside. She ran as
fast as she could to the edge of the village, where the fire heap was still smouldering. Hawk hovered above Hen, watching her as she searched through the fire heap, desperate to find the missing needle.
Hen could see the worry in Hawk’s penetrating eyes and she scratched and scratched, frantically looking for the lost treasure. She didn’t even notice that her blanket had fallen off her back and it lay in the ashes on the fire heap.
Hawk flew off to give her a little time, but when he swooped down again from the sky, Hen knew he had come to take her chick. She moaned and groaned in anguish. She ran to protect her children, rucking them safely under her wing. But Hawk was not an unreasonable friend, and he flew off again so that Hen could scratch around in the dirt a little longer. When he had disappeared the chicks went back to scratching for food.
Hen clucked and cackled and was a little relieved, but she was still worried. Not long ago she had felt like the wife of a chief, but now she was nothing. She didn’t even know where her new Hlosi was, and she felt like a mother who could not even protect her own young.
‘I have to find Hawk’s needle, I must find it.’ she cried out aloud.
The hens in the village were worried about her. She looked so distressed. Hen told them what had happened and they felt very, very sorry for her. They were mothers too, and understood how she felt. So they helped her look for Hawk’s needle. They looked in the long grass, they looked along the dirt paths. They even looked through the fire heap again. No-one could find the needle.
Then, as Hawk flew over them, he cast his sprawling dark shadow across the paths of the hens and they shrieked in terror. They were very frightened. There was no guarantee that Hawk would not take one of their children.
‘Chicks, come quickly and hide under our wings,’ they cried to their children.
African Myths and Legends Page 3