by K. P. Kojo
‘Yes,’ agreed Pelican. ‘We know that you crashed the meagre feast of the ants and fed on the scraps of Elephant. And you went to Jackal and Dog and all the way to the pond, to Frog …’
‘But I told you, I’ve changed,’ Mbe said. ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t do anything for the ants or Elephant. Or that I didn’t help Jackal, or Dog, or Frog. I just want to help you get your colours back because I love colours!’
The birds chattered again. They all liked the idea of having colours. Blue Jay had always wondered where her name came from; Vulture and Hawk were tired of being mistaken for each other – Pigeon and Dove too. It even happened to Swift and Swallow sometimes.
They had all heard stories about their colourful history, when Scarlet Macaw was scarlet, Yellow Warbler had yellow feathers and Rainbow Lorikeet actually looked like a rainbow. Pelican’s grandfather had told her that there had been a great flood, a season of almighty rains that had washed all their colours away. And although they still painted themselves every year for the feast in the clouds, they had forgotten how to make the paint stay. It only lasted for a few days until it all faded in the sun.
Blackbird, who had always felt odd in a world of white feathers and was sometimes mistaken for Lark, stepped forward. ‘Mbe,’ she said, ‘can you make black uri paint?’
The tortoise laughed. ‘Easy, easy, easy … Black is a mixture of all the colours, so you can’t make a mistake mixing it.’
‘What about green?’ asked Green Hoopoe.
‘Just a little blue from the indigo bean and yellow from these oba seeds and we’ll have green. Easy!’ said Mbe.
Pigeon flapped his wings to get everyone’s attention. ‘But why should we bother when the colours won’t stick?’ he asked. ‘My grandmother said our colours were washed off by rain.’
‘It’s true,’ said the tortoise. ‘But that was an almighty rain and that only happens every hundred years or so. Everyone lost a little bit of colour then, but you birds lost all your colour, and your king, Eagle’s great-grandfather, forgot how to mix colours. He also forgot the special ingredient that makes all colours stick. It comes from a plant that grows all over Igboland. You see it, girigiri like a skeleton, all over the place. It’s called milk-bush.
‘It’s a tricky plant. When you cut it, white juice comes out. It can be poisonous, but if you use the right amount it makes colours stick. The old eagle was probably afraid to tell you because he forgot how much to use and didn’t want you to get poisoned.’
The birds gasped. No one had spoken about the dead eagle king like that before. Nevertheless, before long, they had gathered round the tortoise to watch him mix colours and milk-bush juice.
Mbe painted Parrot first because he knew he was talkative and would be the most likely to tell him about the celebration the birds were getting ready for.
The tortoise was right. Parrot told him that the birds went every Harmattan to visit their winged friends in the clouds, as there was always water there. Their friends had colours, so the birds painted themselves before going so they would fit in.
‘Is there food?’ Mbe asked, as he put bright blue paint on the ends of Parrot’s wings.
‘Oh, there’s a feast!’ said Parrot. ‘A real feast!’
Mbe felt his stomach rumble with joy. ‘Oh, I would love to go to a feast.’
Parrot laughed. ‘But you can’t go. You can’t fly, so you can’t go. You need feathers to fly.’
‘But Dragonfly and Cricket and Bat fly without feathers,’ said the tortoise.
‘Yes, but they are not as heavy as we are. If you are heavy, you need feathers to fly.’
Mbe looked up from the uri painting of Parrot’s wings to count the birds gathered. There were hundreds. If he could get a feather from each of them, he would have hundreds of feathers. Surely then he would be able to fly too. He would be able to go to the feast.
‘It’s a pity that you can’t fly if you lose a single feather,’ Mbe said slyly to Parrot.
‘What nonsense!’ Parrot laughed. ‘I can lose single feathers any time and still fly. Here, take this.’ He plucked a newly painted red and blue feather and gave it to Mbe.
Mbe smiled and put the feather under a rock beside him.
When the birds saw the wonderful uri Mbe had done on Parrot, they all promised to give him a feather if he painted them beautifully too. So the wily tortoise set to work, designing the best uri patterns ever seen in Igboland and storing a mixed clump of feathers beneath his special rock. However, he saved his most colourful work for the birds who told him the most about the feast in the clouds, because the longer he painted them, the more they told him. If you watch birds it is still easy to tell which ones told Mbe the most. The most talkative birds in the world became the most colourful birds in the world.
‘A touch of yellow for the beak
and for the wings a scarlet streak.
Orange splashed around the eyes,
a blue crest that lights the skies,
Uri for breast and tail and feet;
that’s how you fix a bird for a feast!’
Mbe sang loudly as he painted the birds, only stopping to ask questions. Bustard and Crane told him how really big birds fly. Hummingbird showed him the pattern the birds flew in on the way to the clouds. Toucan explained how the birds greeted their friends in the clouds.
By the time Mbe got to paint Eagle, who was king of the birds, but bald – like his father and grandfather – because of all the diving he did to fish, he knew more about flying and the feast in the clouds than any single bird.
Eagle was not very talkative. He stood very still and kept his beady eyes on Mbe. The tortoise wondered how such a quiet bird could be a great king.
‘I have some small feathers here,’ Mbe said. ‘Would you like me to put some on your head?’
Eagle frowned. ‘Why would I? They will only fall off again.’
‘Not a chance!’ exclaimed Mbe. ‘Not if I stick them with my special milk-bush juice.’
Eagle thought about how his reflection would look when the rains came again and he went diving for fish. A fine crest of feathers would make him look even more like a king.
‘I can just leave them white and paint the rest of your feathers in dark colours so your kingly head really stands out.’ Mbe dipped his uri stick in a dark brown ink mixture.
‘OK, fine,’ said Eagle. ‘Just make sure it is striking.’
‘And can I come to the feast with you? I want to try these feathers to see if I can fly.’
Eagle laughed. ‘Well, I’d love to see a tortoise fly.’
All the other birds joined in the laughter. Pigeon and Pelican were particularly loud.
‘If you can fly, you can come,’ said Eagle. ‘We leave tomorrow at dawn.’
So as twilight broke in the shadow of the oba tree, the birds arrived to see a curious thing, a most peculiar spectacle. It was Mbe the tortoise covered in feathers of all colours. His wings were held together by milk-bush juice and were very wide – three times the length of his body. For his tail he had Pheasant’s golden feather and Rooster’s black feather. Mbe was a real mix of colours and patterns and shimmered in the rising sun when he moved.
‘King Eagle,’ he said, ‘I am so grateful for this chance to fly with you and I want to repay you.’
‘There is no need,’ replied Eagle. ‘Let’s see if you can actually fly first.’
‘Oh, I can fly,’ said Mbe. ‘I practised at night.’ He lifted his wings for Eagle to see.
‘Stunning!’ exclaimed Eagle in surprise.
‘Now,’ said the tortoise, ‘I noticed that you don’t like to speak much, so when we get to the clouds I could make your speech for you.’
Eagle’s eyes lit up. ‘How nice of you to offer, but how would you know what to say?’
‘I always know what to say,’ said the tortoise with a wry smile, becoming his old cheeky self again. He was really looking forward to the feast.
The birds took off and flew in
the shape of the letter V towards the clouds. The V worked like a pair of scissors, cutting through the air. It made it easier for the heavy birds to fly, like Pelican, Pheasant, Eagle and Mbe the tortoise, who stayed at the bottom of the V. It was beautiful teamwork and the birds, with their astounding new uri patterns and colours, looked like jewels in the sky.
Mbe was proud of his work. He floated on the warm wind, enjoying the air on his bald head. ‘My bird friends,’ he shouted. ‘With our fantastic new patterns we should all pick party names for the feast. I choose Ununile because I have feathers from you all.’
‘I choose Silverhead,’ said Eagle, ‘to celebrate my new crown that gleams like silver.’
One by one, all the birds picked party names to mark their uri patterns – and when they arrived in the clouds that is how they introduced themselves.
Their hosts shared kola nuts with them, as was traditional in that part of the world, and welcomed them with a song. Then their leader, a creature with scales and a crown like a cockatoo, led them to the feast and tasted every dish. Then she stood to one side. ‘Now that you know that the food is safe, the feast can begin. This is for you all.’
It was the turn of the birds to respond and Mbe, the tortoise, stood up to speak on behalf of Eagle. The hosts applauded, yelling, ‘King of the birds! King of the birds!’
Eagle frowned, but Mbe raised his myriad feathers to acknowledge the chants. He had planned it all. Toucan had told him the only way that the hosts knew who was the king of the birds was by his bald head. And, of course, Mbe had convinced Eagle to cover his baldness with white feathers. The tortoise was the only bald creature with feathers in the clouds – the only bald bird!
‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said. ‘We are always glad to be in your company. You are most generous hosts and our long history of shared feasts gives us birds something to look forward to when the Harmattan winds blow and our rains begin to falter. We are always humbled by the food before us.’
Mbe paused and all the birds clapped, even Eagle, who wasn’t so sure about the tortoise speaking on his behalf. It was only the beginning, but it was a better speech than Eagle had ever given.
Mbe raised his feathers and continued his speech. He retold a joke he’d heard from Peacock, remembered a story from Toucan, demonstrated a dance from Duck and ended with a song from Trogon. Then he turned to the hosts and said, ‘Again, thank you. Before I finish I’d like you to repeat something for us. Who is this food for?’ He pointed at the feast that was laid out in front of the birds.
‘It’s for you all,’ the hosts shouted back.
Mbe turned to his bird companions and whispered, ‘You heard their leader say that this food is for “you all” – unu nile – which is my party name, so I think they will bring yours out after I eat.’
The tortoise sat with his back to the birds, facing the hosts. Although the hosts thought it was odd that he was sitting alone on the other side, he was clearly the king of the birds so they said nothing.
Mbe feasted on diced bluebottles, creepy-crawly salad with almond oil, grasshopper eyes seasoned with soil, crunchy soldier ants, pickled currants, groundnuts, spiced black gnats, sun-dried maggots, tiny tiger nuts, red berries and worm bellies. He drank yellow flower juice, burped, then had some purple grape fries and steamed brains of dragonflies, termite eggs and chargrilled figs.
The birds watched in awe as Mbe gobbled the food. They thought he would stop when he had had his fill, but his belly seemed to have no bottom!
When he had eaten half of the food laid out, they started chattering.
‘Look!’ said Parrot. ‘Mbe hasn’t changed at all.’
‘He’s such a liar!’ exclaimed Toucan. ‘He tricked us all.’
‘I want my feather back!’ cried Hummingbird, looking at Eagle. ‘Can I take my feather back?’
Eagle scratched his new white-feathered head. ‘Yes, Hummingbird, what you gave freely you can always take back.’
Hummingbird hopped forward and plucked his feather from Mbe’s back.
The tortoise was so busy eating that he didn’t even turn round. It was as if he was in a trance – nothing could distract him.
So, one by one, the angry birds hopped to the tortoise and removed their feathers. As the food was almost finished, they took what scraps they could, thanked their hosts and began to leave.
By the time Mbe was done eating, and leaned backwards into his smooth shell, only Parrot and Eagle were still in the clouds with him. Eagle explained to their hosts that Mbe was not really their king and apologized for the tortoise’s behaviour. He thanked them once more for inviting all the birds. Then he turned to kick Mbe, but the tortoise ducked into his shell.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Mbe pleaded from the safety of his shell. ‘All the birds have taken their feathers back. Only you are big enough to carry me down safely.’
Eagle shook his head. ‘It’s too late to be sorry, because you planned this. Find your own way down.’ He turned away and swooped towards Igboland.
Mbe turned to Parrot. ‘Parrot, see how wonderful your feathers look. Surely you will help me?’
Parrot plucked his red and blue feather from Mbe’s back. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have enough feathers to help you fly. Thank you for my uri, but you will have to jump. If you can swim, I can show you the best place to jump from.’
‘I can’t swim!’ Mbe wailed, pulling his head back into his shell. ‘I’ll sink like a rock. I’m trapped on these clouds!’
‘So sorry, Mbe,’ said Parrot. ‘Would you like me to send a message to anyone if you don’t make it?’
Mbe’s popped his head out of his shell, his eyes bright again. ‘Yes, yes! Oh, how could I be so silly? I am not trapped.’ He turned to Parrot with his best smile, lowering his bald head to beg. ‘Could you please ask my wife to put the mattress and all the laundry in the clearing near the palm grove? And can you whistle when she has done that?’
‘No problem,’ said Parrot.
‘Thank you, thank you, oh, thank you!’
And off Parrot went, gliding down towards Igboland. As he flapped his wings he realized just how hungry he was. He got more and more cross with the tortoise as he got closer to home. When he got to Mbe’s home, he was furious and ravenous.
Parrot knocked on the door and told Mrs Tortoise that Mbe wanted her to put all the hard things in the house in the clearing near the palm grove. He helped her build a heap of old pots and pans and wood pieces. There was even a hoe and a cutlass in the pile.
When he was done, Parrot summoned the other birds to gather in the clearing and wait for Mbe’s fall, then he flew just beyond the tops of the trees and whistled for Mbe to jump.
First they heard Mbe shouting: ‘I’m free. I’m a bird. I’m coming home.’ But he must have noticed that the pile was glinting in the sun so he began to scream, ‘No!’
His wife tried to help him by lying on the pile of hard things. He landed on top of her with a resonant bang and their smooth smooth shells broke in several places. The birds clapped and chattered, and guess what they said to Mbe?
‘We know exactly what you can fix that with.’
‘What?’ Mbe groaned.
‘Milk-bush juice!’
And that’s just what Mbe did; which is why all tortoises from Igboland have shells glued together from pieces, making them a rough patchwork like a wooden quilt. Of course, they are still strong shells because they have that secret ingredient!
Marimba, the Mother of Music
An Ndebele and Zulu tale
Ngai was the god of the Masai people. Many years before this story begins, he had been wounded by Mulungu, the god of lightning, and had been driven out of the sky valley where the gods lived. After centuries of exile his wounds would not heal, so Ngai made a plan. He would capture Marimba, leader of the Wakambi people. He hoped that if he took some of her blood every day, his immortal wounds would heal.
At this time, immortals roamed and ruled the upper world, as the
ancestors now rule the lower world. Immortals were born from delicate eggs of the finest coloured crystal, green as the deepest cluster of bamboo in the forest, which hummed when the night winds blew over them. Each egg hatched in just a month and out came fully formed child immortals, who grew as fast as grass does. Within two years they became adults and lived as we do, except that they all had powers beyond ours. Marimba was an immortal. She was the daughter of Odu the Ugly and Amarava the Beautiful, and was the leader and mother of the Wakambi people. She had outlived two husbands – and now her people were in grave danger.
Marimba’s kingdom was weak because her son, Kahawa, had just come of age. Kahawa was a powerful warrior and was in charge of the Wakambi armies, but his inexperience and quick temper made him vulnerable. He had taken charge because Marimba was still in mourning after the death of her most recent husband.
Kahawa often went out hunting with his closest friend, Mpushu the Cunning, a large man with a rare skill for making people confide in him. One night as darkness fell they abandoned the trail of a man-killing lion and headed back towards the hilltop settlement where the Wakambi people lived.
As they spoke of past hunts and brave warriors who had lived before them, Kahawa suddenly fell silent. He grabbed Mpushu’s hand as they walked along.
‘We’re being followed, my friend. Don’t look. Keep walking.’
Mpushu stumbled over a clump of grass. ‘Is it one of the Life Eaters?’ he asked.
‘I can’t tell, Mpushu. Just stay calm and we’ll change our path. We can’t let him know where our people live.’
Although Mpushu was terrified, he followed the lead of his younger companion. They took a few turns and detours through the forested land they knew so well, and doubled back on their pursuer. By the time the man – who had strange hair that sat in two bundles, one above his forehead and the other at the back of his head – noticed them, it was too late. Kahawa and Mpushu clubbed him with the jawbone of a hippopotamus and bound him securely with strips of dried kudu skin.
They bore the tall stranger on their shoulders until they reached the foot of the hill where the Wakambi lived. From there they called for the royal guards to help take the man before Marimba and her council.