by K. P. Kojo
They would laugh and say: ‘Be patient, child, everything happens in its time, in its own way.’
Mariam couldn’t tell Abeba that she was not strong enough to have another baby. However, Abeba soon knew, for after falling sick during a season of flooding, her mother died.
Abeba became very quiet and would no longer go out to play tegre with her friends in the village any more. When she started playing again, she only played with her father. Taddese became her best friend, her teacher, her cook, her qəne reader and still, sometimes, her donkey – even though by the time she turned nine she became a little heavy for the donkey to carry.
Then one day, Taddese told Abeba that she would have a new mother, because he was marrying a new wife.
‘I know you’ve been sad,’ he said. ‘I’ve also been sad and lonely. Gelila is a kind woman, and I’m sure you’ll love her.’
Abeba made a face and said nothing.
‘She has two children as well,’ Taddese added. ‘A six-year-old girl called Elene and an eight-year-old boy – Girma. You’ll finally have playmates!’
But Abeba wasn’t very happy when Gelila moved in. She had had her father to herself for more than two years, and she wasn’t ready to share him. Besides, nobody could replace her mother.
Although Gelila cooked much better than her father, Abeba never ate much when she made meals and only ate properly when her father cooked. She complained that Gelila didn’t make specially shaped injera for her as her mother had and put in too little salt when making doro-wat – her favourite chicken stew.
Abeba also hated her stepbrother, Girma, because he opened her notebooks and read her qəne without asking and he now played tegre with all her friends in the village. She didn’t like sharing a room with two other children anyway and she didn’t like that Elene got to wear all the clothes that she could no longer wear because she had grown too big.
She began to wander in the hills around the village alone, thinking about ways in which life could be better. Abeba started to miss her mother all over again, even more than she had before. She wrote and sang sad songs called tizita:
Yesterday I danced a dream
but my arms today are broken
only memories hold me close
She dreamed of her mother, remembering what her soft, brown skin smelt and felt like. She remembered how Mariam used to burn frankincense at the weekends, singing while washing clothes as her father looked over his students’ work. How wonderful it was when she ruffled Abeba’s short curly hair!
Gelila tried very hard to make Abeba feel special. She asked her what she would like to eat on Saturdays when they were all home together, she brought her little gifts from the fields, she taught her songs that she had learned while growing up, she offered to teach her how to draw portraits. No matter what she did, Abeba remained quiet and didn’t respond.
As soon as the holidays came, Abeba begged her father to send her to her grandmother’s. She wanted to be close to someone that reminded her of her mother, who could tell her stories about her mother’s childhood – someone who would understand how sad and lonely she was.
At her grandmother’s Abeba cried every day for two days. Her grandmother tried to comfort her by cooking her favourite dishes and taking her to visit cousins that she had not seen for a while, but Abeba would not cheer up. Eventually her grandmother called and asked her what was wrong.
‘If you came here to be sad,’ said her grandmother, ‘then you had better go back home. When I see my grandchildren I want them to be happy.’
‘Ayat, I’m sad and I’m lonely. My stepmother doesn’t love me and now my father doesn’t have time to play with me anymore. He’s always with Gelila’s children.’
‘Abeba, your father will always have time for you. And how do you know that your stepmother doesn’t love you?’
‘I am not her child. I can see it in the way she talks to them. She doesn’t do anything special for me; she ignores me.’
‘Do you want her to love you?’ asked her grandmother.
Abeba didn’t know what to say, because she had never thought about it, but she wanted to feel special again so she nodded.
Her grandmother looked at her for a long time, then pulled her close to hug her. ‘I think I know what is needed. This has not been done since my own grandmother was a little girl, but I think it could work for you.’
Abeba sat up, curious. ‘What is it?’
‘Well,’ said her grandmother, smiling with her eyes just like Mariam used to, ‘I can make you a love potion to give to her.’
‘A love potion – that’s exactly what I need,’ said Abeba. She stood up and clapped. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Not so fast,’ said her grandmother. ‘It’s a very complicated potion to make, but I can do it. It’s just that there is one ingredient that you would have to get for me.’
‘Anything, Ayat, I’m ready.’
‘OK. The thing that I need to finish off the potion is the whisker of a cheetah.’
Abeba’s jaw dropped. There was no one in the world more scared of cheetahs than Abeba. ‘A cheetah’s whisker?’
‘Yes,’ smiled her grandmother. ‘Do you think you can get one?’
‘Of course,’ nodded Abeba, not wanting to give up. ‘I’ll go out tomorrow and start searching.’
Abeba knew that the cheetahs of the savannah slept for hours every day in shaded areas of high grass. When Abeba had gone to the edge of her grandmother’s village to fetch water, she had never travelled much further – except in the direction of her own village. In every other direction, the isolated clumps of thorn trees looked scary. However, she set off the next day on her quest, knowing that she would have to go beyond all the paths she had known before, leaving behind the comfort of knowing where she belonged.
There weren’t many places to hide in the open savannah. The hollows of abandoned anthills provided shelter here and there and sometimes there were caves. However, other animals lived in most of the caves and it was dangerous to intrude.
But Abeba was determined to have the love potion, so she carried on. Past the dark red sands that marked the edge of the village, past the stubborn clumps of low elephant grass that seemed to survive regardless of the weather, beyond the patchwork scatterings of spear grass and into higher clusters of mixed beard grass and lovegrass.
The grass was as high as her waist and made a pleasing, swishing sound as she walked through it. After a while she heard the distant trickle of a stream, so she climbed a nearby tree to look for it. She couldn’t see the water itself, but Abeba could tell from the richer green of the grass towards the east, where she had to shade her eyes from the early sun, that it was there.
As she prepared to get down from the tree she saw a movement in the grass close to the stream and waited. She held her breath, her heart beating faster and faster, until she saw the creature through the grass; its thick tail, its distinctive markings, its smooth gait. It was a cheetah, a lone cat. She watched it move away from the stream and stop under a cloud-shaped bush. It stretched backwards then lay down to sleep.
Abeba got down from her tree and walked towards the cheetah. When she was close enough to hear the low rumble of the cheetah’s breathing, she found another tree and crept even closer to rest beneath it and watch the sleeping animal.
Although she was scared, she felt close to the cheetah because, like her, it was alone. She was fascinated by the contrast between its white belly and the rest of its coat, like a secret it carried.
Abeba watched the cheetah all day until it woke again. It sniffed the air as though it sensed her presence. Its whiskers twitched and it let out a low growl as it yawned, tossing its head before it ambled back towards the stream. Abeba returned to her grandmother’s, determined to return the next day and get closer to the cheetah.
While helping her grandmother cook the spicy beef key-wat stew that evening, she thought about the cheetah’s black tear marks that ran all the way down to the sides of its mou
th, making it look sad and funny at the same time. Abeba hummed a tizita, but with a smile on her face.
Yesterday I danced a dream
and if today my arms are gone
can my feet find a new rhythm?
She saved a large piece of raw meat from the key-wat to take with her the next day.
Abeba was up and by the cheetah’s bush just after sunrise. The light threw her shadow behind her as she crept back to the tree she had found the day before to watch the cheetah.
The cat surveyed the horizon, now and then pausing to sniff the air. Abeba was as still as an anthill and breathed slowly through her mouth into her hands. She felt sure that the cheetah sensed her presence and it seemed to pause before settling down to sleep. When she was certain that it was in a deep sleep, Abeba left her hiding place and tossed the meat from the night before close to the sleeping animal.
When the cheetah woke up, it caught scent of the meat and slunk towards it. It sniffed the meat cautiously, then lifted it into its mouth in one swift movement. As it chewed it sniffed the air, as if sensing Abeba’s presence again, then made a soft growling noise before returning to rest under its bush.
Abeba watched the cheetah as she did the day before. She realized that she now found the sounds that the cheetah made familiar. She could tell when a growl was contented, when one indicated hunger or thirst. She could guess from a tone of purring that the big cat was about to sleep. She waited until the cheetah went towards the stream to drink and crept away for the day.
She returned the next day with more raw meat. This time Abeba did not wait for the cheetah to fall asleep. She stood up and tossed the meat towards the beast then walked slowly to her hiding place. She watched as the cheetah gobbled the meat and observed, stunned, as it seemed to toss its head in her direction. She thought that perhaps that was its way of saying thank you. Yes, she said to herself, yes.
Abeba headed back to her grandmother’s with a skip in her step. She zoomed past the high clusters of mixed beard grass and lovegrass, the patchwork scatterings of spear grass, the stubborn clumps of low elephant grass and the dark red sands that marked the beginning of the village, to help her grandmother chop up ingredients for key-wat.
With the onion cooking in the niter kibbeh oil and her grandmother grinding more spices to add, Abeba crushed garlic cloves and paused to ask about the love potion.
‘Ayat, when you get the whisker, do you chop it or grind it, or do you just boil it for flavour like you do with bones for soup?’
Her grandmother brushed a handful of spices into the pan over the nicely-browned onions and looked at Abeba, a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Just get it first,’ she said. ‘Get it and I’ll show you.’
‘OK.’ Abeba took a piece of meat and wrapped it in leaves for the next morning.
At the cheetah’s resting bush, the next morning, Abeba did not retreat to her hiding place after she tossed food to the cheetah. She crouched close by and watched it eat. She remained in the same position as the beast stared at her. It purred and sniffed the air in her direction, as if making sure that it was a scent it recognized, then turned to look across the wide expanse of the savannah. After a while, the cheetah growled softly and rose to go towards the stream.
Abeba returned daily with meat, moving closer to the cheetah each time.
One morning, after a few weeks of her visits, she was surprised to find the cheetah gone when she arrived. She thought that it might have walked to the stream early, but after a couple of minutes she heard a growl behind her. Abeba realized that she was surprised but not scared. She tossed the meat she had brought to the usual spot and the cheetah slunk past her, brushing its thick tail against her arm as it went to eat.
Feeling bold after her encounter, Abeba went to the cloud-shaped tree a little earlier the next morning to spring her own surprise on the cheetah. She crept up behind the big cat and stroked it along the thick patterned fur on its side. The cheetah purred, raised a large front paw in the air for a second and growled.
Abeba placed the piece of meat she had brought in front of the cheetah. As it ate, she reached out and pulled a whisker from its face, tucking it into a little fabric pouch that her mother had made for her when she was younger. She stayed beside the cheetah as it stared across the horizon and stood up with it when it rose to head to the stream for a drink.
Abeba went in the opposite direction, a bit sad to be leaving her new friend, but broke into an excited run as she approached her grandmother’s home.
‘I have it! I have it!’ she screamed as she burst into the kitchen. ‘I have the cheetah’s whisker. Now we can make the potion.’
Her grandmother laughed and gave Abeba a big hug.
‘Come and sit down, my child,’ she said, leading Abeba to her bedroom.
‘Now, tell me, how did you manage to get a whisker from a cheetah without getting any bites or scratches?’
Abeba sighed. ‘I took my time. I watched it and tried to understand its habits. I knew that it had to trust me and I needed to lose my fear of cheetahs, so I was patient. I took it something to eat every day and got closer each time. After a while, I could tell that it expected me and waited for me. When I felt like it trusted me completely, when I felt that I could call it my friend, I sat beside it while it ate and pulled out a whisker.’
‘That must have been very difficult for a girl like you; you’re intelligent, but very, very, impatient,’ said her grandmother with a knowing smile.
‘Well,’ said Abeba, ‘I knew the whisker was important to you, to help make the love potion. Can we make it now?’
Abeba’s grandmother looked her right in the eyes, holding the girl’s face between her small, dark hands. ‘Abeba, you don’t need a potion. You were patient with a cheetah because you knew it was important to me. Now try being patient and attentive with Gelila and Elene and Girma because it’s important to your father. You’ll see it’s a lot easier than making a love potion.’
Abeba nodded, tears welling in her eyes.
Her grandmother wiped her tears. ‘And remember that I don’t like to see you unhappy. It’s important to me and your mother that you smile every day.’
Where the King Washes
A Mauritian tale
On the east side of our island, where petrels swoop down at dusk to fish, where bats unfold their wings to float and catch insects in the cool night air, there is a family of hares who avoid going anywhere that tortoises can be found. The reason for that is a story that the birds still tell. Indeed, even the bats, blind as they are, tell it well.
There was a king who lived in the castle up on the first hill from the eastern coast, not far from Trou d’Eau Douce. Like all queens and kings before him, King Samir was kind, had a melodious laugh, smooth, smooth skin from his daily scrub, loved all sorts of curry dishes – especially hot curry dishes that he invented himself – and did not like wearing his crown. But King Samir was a little odd too. Not odd-looking, but odd like a chicken that doesn’t like to eat corn or worms; King Samir absolutely, positively hated having his bath in the castle.
There were eleven bath pools in the castle; two in the grand huts beside it, where his guards lived; one by the gate to the castle; and two by the farm, for the families that looked after his donkey, six horses and livestock. But somehow King Samir preferred to bathe in a large pond that was down the hill from the castle, surrounded by high takamaka and manglier trees. He loved the pond so much that he had forbidden anyone else to bathe in it.
He called his favourite guard, Vikas – son of the old king’s guard – who had been his friend since he was seven years old. He put on his shorts, picked up his towel and walked down the hill, whistling a song he’d learned from his father as he did so:
Down the hill and down below,
down into the magic pond.
When I feel a little hot,
that’s where I like to go.
When he got there, he hung his things on a low branch, dived into the clear water, sw
am underwater to the opposite bank, then on his back to the middle of the pond. Wading in the middle he let the sun play on his dark skin for a while, then he returned to the bank to wash himself properly.
He had been doing that every day since he was young – ever since his father first took him as a nine-year-old and he fell in love with the place. And he kept doing it every day until one day he got to the pond and found that it was dirty. It was so dirty that it looked like a mud bath.
King Samir was furious. ‘What’s happened here?’ he asked Vikas, although the guard had arrived after him, carrying his towel and change of clothes.
Vikas, who was half a head taller than the king, shrugged just as a drop of water from a takamaka tree fell on his nose. He remembered that it had rained the night before.
‘I think it rained, my chief,’ he said. ‘That might be why.’
King Samir laughed one of his loud, melodious laughs. ‘Ah, yes, you’re right. Let’s go back then. We can return tomorrow.’
And off they went, back to the castle, where King Samir had a lunch of milkfish and gecko curry, one of his invented dishes.
The next day he went back down to the pond, whistling the same song as always, very excited that he would finally have his bath.
… down into the magic pond.
When I feel a little hot …
Before they had gone past the high manglier and takamaka trees that surrounded the pond, King Samir tossed his towel to Vikas and ran towards the pond. He almost, almost jumped in, but he stopped at the edge. Only one toe – the big one on his left foot – got wet. The pond was dirty again.
When Vikas arrived, he was surprised to see the king sitting naked beneath a tree. He picked up King Samir’s shorts and passed them to him.
‘Did it rain again?’ asked the king.
Vikas looked at the ground. It was drier than the tip of a rhinoceros’ horn. ‘No, my chief,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Then you must stay here and find out what’s happening to my pond,’ said King Samir.