African Myths and Legends

by Dianne Stewart

  The Chief’s eyes brightened. ‘Have they come to comfort me for the loss of my sons? If that should be so, then I will reward you with seven of my fattest cattle. These magic birds must be caught. Send seven boys after them at dawn tomorrow. They will surely catch them.’

  So the boys were chosen and the Chief’s youngest son showed, by signs, that he insisted on being one of the seven. Though Mbata was worried to risk the life of the Chief’s one remaining son, he knew too that the boy had to prove his own bravery for himself. Like his brothers, he had to prove his manhood.

  ‘Go and find these birds,’ ordered the Chief. ‘Do not let me see your faces again until you return with them. Here are assegais for you to take with you.’ And to his son he gave a special assegai of his own.

  Sure enough, next morning the strange green birds appeared again. The Chief watched, with Mbata at his side, as the seven boys followed the seven birds across the veld and out of sight.

  The beautiful birds led them far into the wild bush country, past the Cliffs of the Falling Goats and over a great river. There the boys stopped to gather twigs and rushes to make cages for the birds they hoped to catch. The next morning, the birds led them up the steep, forested mountains on the farther bank. By the third evening, the birds beat their green wings more slowly. They were tired. The Chief’s son crept ahead of the other boys and made his way silently towards one of the birds which had perched on a thorn bush. Triumphantly, he sprang forward and grabbed the long shining tail feathers just as the poor, exhausted bird tried to flutter out of his reach.

  Following his example, each of the other boys stalked and caught a bird for himself. When they gathered together beside the cages, they were all chattering with excitement.

  ‘At last, at last!’ shouted the Chief’s son joyfully. And suddenly the other boys realised that the boy had found the power to speak.

  They rejoiced greatly with him and they gave him a new name – for that is the Zulu way – calling him Kulume, which means ‘speak.’

  ‘Our task is won!’ he cried, happily. ‘Tomorrow we can take our birds and my new voice back to my father. Let us start back towards home at once.’

  They hurried down the mountain slopes but soon it was night and they did not know where they were. They stumbled on through the forest, clutching their precious cages, until Kulume saw the light of a fire. He led them cautiously towards it, but no-one was there and an empty hut stood beside. The place seemed safe enough, so they lay down inside the hut and went to sleep.

  In the middle of the night Kulume woke. The fire was out and the hut was dark. Then he heard a voice muttering, ‘The meat smells good. I shall call my brothers!’ and Kulume knew with fear that they were in the hut of a cannibal.

  He woke his friends silently, and led them far and fast through the darkness. But as the stars faded and the morning came, Kulume realised with horror that he had left his caged bird behind.

  ‘We must all go back together,’ suggested one of the boys, though all of them were afraid.

  ‘No,’ said Kalume. ‘It is all my fault. I must go alone. Don’t worry, I’ll be back’.

  ‘But what will happen to us if we lose the Chief’s last son?’ wailed the other six boys.

  ‘Watch my spear,’ said Kulume, planting his assegai firmly in the ground. ‘If it stands still, I am safe. If it shakes, you will know I am in danger. If it falls, I am dead.’ He ran back into the forest.

  The sun was high in the sky when the six boys saw the spear tremble, then steady itself; tremble again and bend, before steadying; tremble a third time and shake and almost fall, and then stand still once more. As they breathed a sigh of relief that all seemed to be well, there was Kulume beside them with the cage and the bird in his hand.

  ‘What happened?’ they cried.

  Breathlessly, Kulume told them how he had met an old woman fetching water beside a waterfall. Her waterpot was heavy so he stopped to help her.

  ‘Where are you going so fast?’ she asked and he told her. ‘You are brave,’ she chuckled and then gave him some meaty fat in a little wooden bowl. When he reached the cannibals’ hut, he was horrified to see four of them rejoicing over whatever or whoever was roasting over the fire. So he slipped inside the hut, found the little cage and the bird warbled softly, as if glad to be with him. Then he made ready to run. But as he was escaping, the cannibals saw him in the firelight.

  Quickly, as the old woman had instructed him, he rubbed some of the meat fat on a stone. When the cannibals rushed up, each one wanted the stone. One said, ‘It is mine!’ and swallowed it. Immediately the rest attacked him and ate him. Then they started running after Kulume once more. Twice more, as they caught up with him, he had done the same thing and left the cannibals quarrelling and feasting behind him in their horrid manner.

  ‘So that is why your assegai trembled those three times,’ exclaimed one of the boys.

  ‘But you said there were four cannibals,’ worried another. ‘If they stopped three times to eat one of their gang, there must still be one left alive.’

  And at that moment the remaining cannibal sprang into the clearing with a bloodthirsty roar. He was huge and hairy and horrible. But he was heavy with all that he had eaten, and no match for seven boys and seven assegais. It was Kulume’s own sharp blade which finally killed him.

  For seven long days the Chief had sat gazing into the distance towards the Cliffs of the Falling Goats where his last son had gone adventuring. The sun was already gathering red clouds around it when he heard a shout from his Induna, Mbata.

  ‘I see seven figures, Nkosi, and they come running.’ said Mbata with joy in his heart.

  Across the valley came the cry, ‘It is I, your youngest son Kulume, who speaks with a new name. We bring with us the seven beautiful birds and, what is more, I bring my voice.’

  The Chief’s kraal was filled with the sound of shouting and laughter as all his people rushed out to greet the boys. The noise stilled with wonder as they saw each boy standing behind his bird cage, set out in a line across the path. Kulume bowed politely to his father and then ran along the line, cutting open the cages with his assegai. From each arose not a bird, but a tall, young man. The seven lost sons had come to life again.

  That night the valley was loud with rejoicing, and the Chief’s long sorrow was turned to joy.

  The Zulu

  The rolling valleys of KwaZulu-Natal were settled over a thousand years ago by Nguni-speaking tribes probably originating from Zimbabwe. In the early 19th century, the great military commander Shaka made his tiny Zulu clan into a powerful kingdom. Today, almost all the black peoples of Natal (numbering some 7 million) refer to themselves as Zulu. They believe that a powerful force, Nkulunkulu (‘great, great one’) watches over them. Their Zulu folktales remain one of the richest sources of traditional storytelling in Africa.

  The wagtail’s necklace

  The wagtail is one of our prettiest and most delicate birds, which has lived alongside man for many generations. The Bushmen loved this bird too. This was long before the remains of their people were forced into their present desert way of life in the Kalahari or the Namib. The friendship began long ago when the Bushmen lived in the Cape in low caves with rocky walls and sandy floors. The steep, rocky sides of the Kloofs sheltered them from the biting winds of winter and the scorching heat of the summer sun. These kloofs also held water and, in this dry land, it was good to have a constant water supply flowing by your door.

  So the Bushmen people lived in the Cape mountains, hunting and gathering roots, fruit and berries, talking and dancing and singing and painting. They were a happy people and very content with their homes and surroundings. Then one day the sand-flies came. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Millions. Breeding by the running water – burrowing into the sandy floors of the caves – biting men, women and children – spreading suffering, pain and disease. The Bushmen could do nothing.

  The sand-flies multiplied and multiplied until whole
valleys were plagued by them. The Bushmen held council and decided to move. All the caves were emptied of their scanty belongings. Weapons, tools and cooking utensils were packed, and everyone was ready to leave. They intended to march out along the valley of the Olifants River into the vast Karoo. Their leader was making a speech, explaining to all why they must leave, and trying to prepare them for the hardships which he knew lay ahead. Then he stopped talking and looked up into the bright blue sky with amazement. A large, black cloud was speeding rapidly towards where they were standing. Everyone watched in wonder and felt afraid. Then, as the cloud began to echo with sound, they realised it was a flock of birds.

  These birds were small and delicate, with long tails which jerked up and down as they walked. Their backs were grey-brown, and their chests and outer tail feathers were white. The whole tribe watched in amazement as the birds settled by the running water and took over the kloof. They had made a long journey and they were very, very hungry. The sand-flies were just what they wanted! In their hundreds, they attacked the stream and the caves and the ground around the caves.

  For three days they gobbled and pecked as the Bushmen looked on in amazement. By the end of that time, there was not a single sand-fly to be seen. Then the flock flew away as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind them just one pair of birds. The cloud of tail-wagging birds continued on its journey and everywhere it settled – in every kloof, by every pond, by every stream – one pair stayed behind. So that is how the wagtails, as we call them now, came to live all over our land.

  It was a miracle, and the Bushmen were overjoyed at being able to remain in their homes. To show their gratitude, they decided to honour the wagtails. But how does one honour a bird?

  The Bushmen had no medals of honour and very little jewellery. The women and children wore necklaces made from small pieces of ostrich eggshell. So it was decided that the women would make a similar necklace for the wagtail and his wife. This was soon done and everyone was delighted. But, of course, it did not work. The necklace was too heavy for the birds. It caught in the bushes and once even broke in flight and was lost. The wagtails were upset and the Bushmen were upset. They wanted to show their gratitude to these birds – but how? For long nights they sat in their caves and talked of nothing else. What could they do?

  There was one Bushman who lived in a high cave overlooking the kloof, and he was a great artist. He painted in brown, orange and black – paintings of men, lion, springbok, birds, insects and plants. His work was as beautiful in its delicacy and charm as any painting you have seen.

  ‘Why not,’ said one of the eldest Bushmen, ‘ask one of the artists to paint a necklace onto the wagtail and his wife?’ Everyone agreed with enthusiasm.

  The artist was approached and the problem explained. Gladly, he mixed a rich grey-black and painted a dark, choker-necklace on the white chests of the birds. It looked beautiful. The Bushmen loved it and the wagtails loved it. Mother Nature looked down from her seat above the Great Karoo and she loved it too. She decided, there and then, that the collar would forever be the sign of man’s gratitude to the wagtail. A symbol for all the help the wagtail gives in controlling insect pests. And from that day to this, wagtails have always worn a dark-grey choker necklace. Next time that you see a Cape wagtail, have a careful look at him. He never goes anywhere without his necklace.

  Rock Paintings

  There are over 15 000 sites in Southern Africa where such paintings have been found. The oldest, in Namibia, may be as old as 27 000 years, though most were probably painted within the last 2 000 years. The kloofs of the Cape mountains – the Cedarberg and Baviaanskloof, in particular – have many caves with beautiful paintings on their walls and ceilings. The Bushmen lived in the mountains for centuries, until the spread of European civilization destroyed their old way of life.

  The Rain Bull

  There was drought upon the land. The clouds that carried the rain sailed high above, not seeming to notice the suffering of Africa. No fruits, no fodder and hardly anything to drink. But there came a day when the rain sniffed at the scents of the Earth and sensed the enticing fragrance of a young woman. He looked down on her. She had skin as shining as wet rock, and hair as dark as dew-moist berries, and the rain desired her.

  So the rain made himself into the shape of a bull, though he had the thoughts of a man. On the shaft of lightning, the great Rain Bull came down from the sky and he trod the Earth like rippling thunder. He stood by the low hut where the young woman slept, and the place became misty with his breath like a cloud heavy with moisture.

  The sweet smell of rain filled the hut and the young woman woke. She watched as the Rain Bull laid his ears back, lowered his lashing tail and bent his forelegs to kneel before her.

  ‘Who is this?’ she said to herself. ‘Is he Man or Bull?’ So, as there seemed to be magic at work, she took up some twigs of buchu, for its fine aromatic leaves have a magic of their own. Buchu soothes and calms. Perhaps it would have the same calming effect on the Rain Bull.

  She gathered up her kaross, made of soft skins, and covered herself with it, tying it round her body. As the Rain Bull came to her, she could smell only the strong bull sweat of desire. She pressed buchu on the hard forehead between the bull’s curving horns and she tried to push him away.

  The Rain Bull stamped his hoof and the Earth rumbled with thunder. He wanted to take the young woman away and it was clear that she did not wish to accompany him. His eyes were dark and clouded. But the strange charm of the buchu was starting to work. He stamped his hoof again, unsure of what to do next.

  The young woman was wise. She did not wish to make him angry. Somewhere, behind the bull’s shape and the man’s mind, she caught the sweet smell of rain – and she knew that any hope of rain must be welcomed with love. So as he stood there, shaking his great head in frustration, she smiled and climbed up on his back.

  The Rain Bull trotted away and the sound of his hooves was like rain pattering on dry ground. Across the veld he went with her, trotting, trotting, trotting towards the far distant mountains where the rain comes from. When they left behind the dryness, the stones and the parched sand, she saw a single kiepersol tree spreading its shady leaves.

  ‘My bones ache from riding on your back,’ she called to the Rain Bull. ‘Wherever it is you are taking me, I shall never be able to please you when I get there. Let me take some rest. There is cool shade under that tree. Let us stop there.’

  So the Rain Bull walked beneath the kiepersol tree and stopped. The young woman slipped down from his back. In the concealing shade, she reached under her kaross and took out a sprig of buchu. The Rain Bull arched his back with pleasure as the young woman started to stroke his neck, though in truth she was rubbing it with bushu. The fragrant scent crept into his nostrils and drowsed his senses. So it was the Rain Bull, not the young woman, who settled down to sleep.

  At first the woman was frightened at what she had done. She climbed into the tree to find safety. But as the Rain Bull slept on, she felt her courage return and she climbed softly down again and ran away back to her own village.

  The Rain Bull awoke in the cool of the evening. There was no smell of Bull or Man, only the fresh green scent of the buchu leaves. He forgot that he had been courting the young woman and he remembered only the rain. So it was rain that fell lightly on the thirsty Earth, and rain that brought new life to the grazing plants, and life-giving rain that filled up the empty water holes.

  The people were glad for there was water to drink. All admired the young woman. She had not angered the Rain Bull when he was a man, but she had not given herself to him either. They looked everywhere for her in order to sing her praises but she was not with them. She was inside her hut rubbing her body with buchu to take away the scent of the bull, until all that remained was the sweet smell of the rain.

  The Bushmen Today

  The San were among the earliest inhabitants of Southern Africa. They are sometimes called Bushmen, but neither of the
se are the words they use to name themselves. Each group has its own name, seldom known to the white or black settlers who drove them from their lands in KwaZulu-Natal and the Cape into the deserts of Namibia and Botswana where they live today. They are unable to survive by hunting and gathering in the small areas left open to them, and have adapted to some aspects of modern life such as handling four-wheel-drive vehicles and operating solar driven water pumps. As well as keeping some cattle and growing vegetables, the women still gather bush food and the men still hunt, but the well-known old style picture of these people is long gone. Their children, however, are learning the education they need to go forward into 20th-century civilization.

  Renier and the thundertops

  Renier de Winnaar lived on the slopes of the Koesberg, near today’s town of Zastron, and he was the best storyteller in the whole of the Free State. If Renier had not told the stories he did, we might never have known why there is a hole in the Aasvogelberg or why so many of the hills around Zastron have flat tops. According to him, both were the results of minor differences of opinion between Renier and the Devil. Storytelling brings long life, according to the folk of Zastron, which must be why Renier de Winnaar lived to the ripe old age of 102.

  There was one particular day when Renier was fishing. It was a great way to pass the time – lying back with a pipe in one hand and a bottle beside him, watching the clouds go past. He was there often, so the clouds came to know him quite well. Day after day they had watched him glugging back the liquid in his long dark bottle and they became quite jealous. Whatever it was, it smelt strong and appeared to taste even stronger.