Stories Gogo Told Me

by Lisa Grainger

  First published by Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, in 2007

  Second edition published in 2008

  Third edition published in 2015 by Penguin Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd

  Company Reg. No 1953/000441/07

  The Estuaries No. 4, Oxbow Crescent, Century Avenue, Century City, 7441

  PO Box 1144 Cape Town 8000 South Africa

  www.penguinbooks.co.za

  Copyright © in text: Lisa Grainger 2007, 2008, 2015

  Copyright © foreword: Iman 2007, 2008, 2015

  Copyright © illustrations: Penguin Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd and Celia von Poncet 2007, 2008, 2015

  Copyright © in published edition: Penguin Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd 2015

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ISBN 978-1-48590-003-0

  Text design and typesetting by Dream Factory

  Original cover and layout design by Celia von Poncet

  Cover (2015) by Randall Watson

  Printed and bound by Replika Press, India

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  To my mother, Annie, great friend and storyteller

  Contents

  Foreword by Iman

  Introduction

  Why Tortoise’s shell is cracked

  Why Rabbit’s tail is short

  Why lightning strikes

  Why Hippo flings his dung

  Why Hare’s ears are long

  Why Frog can no longer sing

  Why Crocodile has no tongue

  When the earth was young

  When Hippo was hairy

  The talking tummy

  The man who snored and the man who sang

  How Honeybird punished the greedy man

  The race between Hare and Tortoise

  The princess and the python

  The man with big lips

  The long-eared thief

  The lion, the snake and the man

  The lion men

  The lion and the jackal

  The leper princess

  The leopard’s promise

  The leopard and the dog

  The incredible Mr Tortoise

  The hen’s safari

  The hawk and the hen

  The greedy spider

  The forbidden fruit

  The fish’s heads

  The finger tree

  The day tails were given out

  The day Monkey saved his heart

  The day Man met fire

  The day Hyena learned about luck

  The hyena and the heron

  The day Hare lost his head

  The curse of the chameleon

  The clever little lizard

  The charming Mr Hare

  The baboon’s party

  The king of the birds

  How Bushpig got a flat nose

  How Lion got his roar

  How Bat got his wings

  How Giraffe got his long neck

  African Stories á Gogo

  I was born in Mogadishu, Somalia, which a long time ago was known as the Horn of Africa because of the way it proudly protrudes from the rest of the continent. I spent most of my childhood growing up in the capital city, Mogadishu, but during my summer holidays I would visit my aunts in the dry, arid semi-desert land of Galkayo in the north or my uncle in the lush vegetation of Biadoa in the south.

  The stories from these two parts of my childhood were a world apart and they were totally influenced by their geographic opposites: roughness and delicacy, beauty and grit. Tribes on our continent have storytelling in their blood, yet each one is different from the other. Storytelling in Africa, like most of our traditions, are ways to be connected to spirit and soul.

  Storytelling provides children with flights of imagination, a code of morals, and the adults with an extensive oral tradition. It’s like mothering … it’s creative nurturing.

  In my homeland it was not only mothers or women who were the storytellers. In our house my father was the designated storyteller.

  The security I felt in my father’s lap at the bewitching storytelling hour of early evening in Africa has sustained me throughout my adult life. Those stories, like stars, illuminated my path when I was lost. They have given me warmth when I felt cold and connected me to my motherland when I moved to the West.

  Miraculously, through the Gogos’ storytelling, these stories continue to exist and are passed on. As with modern tribes today, this book is a reminder of the power of wonder and a symbol that personifies a group unity in our families, communities and the world at large. Share it and pass it on.

  ‘It is in Africa’s old voices that Man’s richest stories lie.’

  In almost every village in Africa lives a storyteller. Telling stories is not her official job. By day she may be a Gogo (or granny), a teacher, a farmer or a seamstress. But at night, round the fire, she will sit, surrounded by young children, old friends, neighbours and travellers, and will tell of how it was in the olden days, when the earth was young, when man was a hunter-gatherer, and when the animals roamed wild throughout the continent.

  The stories are for old and young alike, but it is usually children who beg her to sit down after supper. ‘Please, please, Gogo,’ they will plead in unison. ‘Sit and tell us a story.’ If she isn’t too busy, tending to food or family or her home, she will. Sitting on a little wooden stool under the stars, she will close her eyes, and think back to the tales her grandmother told her when she was a girl. Then slowly, by the light of the fire, her face will light up and she will begin with the words everyone loves to hear: ‘Once upon a time …’

  Some storytellers I met when travelling round southern Africa with my tape-recorder were men and women in their eighties or nineties who had been telling tales in their village for more than half a century. None of the fables came from books; they were all told from memory and varied according to the tribe the storyteller belonged to. Some included songs, and listeners enthusiastically joined in, clapping and swaying and shouting. Others required the storyteller to imitate the grunts and growls of the African jungle, as she brought favourite African characters to life: the naughty hare, the wise old tortoise and the greedy baboons. Some were told to teach a moral or a lesson. And all brought howls of laughter to the village.

  I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did while travelling through villages in Zimbabwe (my birthplace), Zambia, Botswana and South Africa. The proceeds of this book, I hope, will bring some happiness to the men and women who told me the stories. A few – like the poetically named Chirikure Chirikure in Zimbabwe or Gcina Mhlophe in South Africa – are established storytellers who can support themselves. But many of the others are old and poor villagers, either bringing up AIDS orphans alone, living with leprosy or trying to survive after years of drought. But no matter how hard their lives, all of them seemed happy to sit down round the fire after a hard day to say: ‘Paivapo?’ (Are you listening?), knowing that they will get an enthusiastic ‘Dsepfunde, Gogo. Dsepfunde!’ (We’re here, granny!)

  So, close your eyes, think of a dark, star-studded African night filled with woodsmoke, chirruping frogs, the laugh of the hyena and the crackle of flames and try to imagine Gogo, Africa’s granny, as she reaches back into her memory, and the spirits of her ancestors, to say ‘Once upon a time …’

  LISA GRAINGER

  Why To
rtoise’s shell is cracked

  Told to me in Bemba by Godfrey Chanda, a subsistence farmer near Kalamazi rose farm, outside Lusaka, Zambia

  Once, a long time ago, the earth was perfectly stocked with food and water. Every river ran clear and sweet. Every tree hung with fruit. Every blade of grass was green and crisp. There were treats around every riverbend and every mountain top for the animals to eat and every creature on earth was fat and happy.

  There was so much food that, one day, King Lion decided to celebrate with a feast. ‘Gather your favourite foods and let’s meet this afternoon under the fig tree,’ he announced. ‘This will be the greatest of all feasts.’ The jungle was a mass of moving animals as everyone hurried about, gathering their favourite titbits: marula berries for Elephant, river-grass for Hippo, sausage tree fruit for Giraffe and soft roots for Hare.

  At sunset, everyone met under the fig tree and began munching and crunching with gusto, from the tall giraffe crunching his succulent sausage fruit to the tiniest bat softly sucking its guava. By midnight, everyone had had a marvellous time – except one poor old creature: Tortoise. The slow fellow had taken so long to gather his favourite cabbage leaves that by the time he arrived, the party was over and his friends were burping and barking and heaving their fat bellies off to their beds.

  Tortoise was very upset. As he sadly trundled home, he passed some birds in a tree. ‘What’s wrong, Tortoise?’ they asked, chirruping and cheeping. ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘The animals had a feast today, and I am so slow I missed it,’ wept the tortoise. ‘I was looking forward to a chat over a bit of wild cabbage, but when I arrived, no one wanted a nibble or a natter.’

  The birds felt very sorry for Tortoise. His face was so tear-stained and his mouth looked so downturned that there was only one thing they could do: hold their own party the next day. ‘And you will be our guest of honour, Tortoise,’ they smiled. Tortoise was very excited. He had never been to a birds’ party before. Then his face went glum again. ‘Birds usually have their parties up in the sky,’ he complained gloomily, ‘and I am a big heavy tortoise. How I am I going to get up there?’

  He had a point. How were they going to fly him up to their favourite cloud, the birds asked. Then Kingfisher piped up. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he chirruped cheekily. ‘What if we birds each donated a feather to Tortoise, and the bees gave some wax to stick them on? Wouldn’t he then be able to fly up to the sky?’

  The birds all agreed that was a marvellous idea and one by one they flew down to give the shelled creature a feather. First came King Eagle with a big glossy one, then Vulture with a speckled one, followed by Hawk, then Bulbul, then Sparrow, then Weaver, then Ibis, and Stork, and flocks and flocks of tiny, rainbow-shaded birds. Before long, in front of Tortoise’s scaly head, lay a magnificent array of green, blue, black, white, yellow, red, striped, speckled and dotted feathers – gifts from the smallest finch to the largest ostrich.

  Tortoise had never had so many gifts before, and once his friends, the bees had kindly spread their yellow wax onto his shell and his legs, and buzzed about sticking the feathers down, a great grin spread across his face. With a run, a jump and a flap of his little legs, Tortoise was soon airborne, and whizzing up high towards the birds’ cloud in the sky.

  When he reached the cloud, he couldn’t believe the feast the birds had assembled. There were green grasshoppers and geckoes. Plates of red ladybirds and wriggly worms. Crawly caterpillars and traily snails. And trays and trays of leaves, and cabbages, and grass, and fruit. What a feast!

  Tortoise’s mouth started drooling. But before anyone was allowed to eat, King Eagle asked them all to introduce themselves to their new guest. ‘I am Kingfisher,’ said the kingfisher, flying forward and flashing his emerald wings. ‘I am Warbler,’ sang the sweet-voiced warbler. ‘I am Egret,’ fluttered the dainty white egret. Then the sparrow stepped forward. ‘And who exactly are you?’ he asked Tortoise.

  Tortoise looked confused. ‘Well, I have everybody’s feathers on my back, so I suppose I am Everybody,’ he said. Then King Eagle stepped forward. ‘Now the introductions are over, I open the feast. It is for everybody, so everybody tuck in.’

  The birds looked confused. Was it for them? Or was it for Everybody the tortoise? Politely they held back, and watched as their guest tucked into the wonderful feast. Head down, eyes to the floor, Tortoise munched and crunched, without looking up once. First he gobbled all of the birds’ favourite foods, which he didn’t normally eat: the grasshoppers, then the geckoes, then the ladybirds and wriggly worms. Then he crunched his way through the caterpillars and snails. And once he had devoured that, he started munching on the all of his own favourites: piles and piles of lovely lush leaves.

  The birds weren’t pleased with Tortoise’s rudeness – especially when he casually announced he was going. ‘At least you could say thank you,’ muttered grizzly Owl. ‘Or offered to share a worm, which we know you don’t even like,’ muttered Crow. ‘Or halved a caterpillar,’ grunted Egret. But, no. Tortoise was selfish. He was used to living alone, and not sharing, and so, when he finished his feast, he licked his lips and turned around to fly home off the edge of the cloud.

  The birds were furious. How dare Tortoise eat all their food and not say thank you? If he was going to be so rude, they decided, they were all going to take their feathers back from him. So, in a great flock, the birds all swooped on Tortoise, each pecking their feather off his back. And slowly, Tortoise felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into the cloud.

  ‘Help!’ he cried, as he sunk into the whiteness. ‘Help, someone!’ But not a single bird came. ‘If you think you are Everybody, then help yourself!’ they squawked, flying away crossly to their nests.

  Of course, without feathers, the heavy Tortoise fell to the earth with a tremendous thud. The landing was sore and very undignified. But even worse than that – it had ruined his shell. His once beautiful, glossy, glamorous outer layer was gone, and in its place was a shattered mess of a hundred tiny squares.

  Today, if you look at a tortoise, its shell is still cracked. The gods left it that way as a reminder to all creatures – of what happens when you take your friends for granted. Love them and you will fly high. Forget them and you will fall. Just like Tortoise did.

  Why Rabbit’s tail is short

  Told to me in Ndebele by Lindani Nlotshwa in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, and in Bemba by Godfrey Chanda in Zambia

  Once upon a time, long back, when animals could talk and Hare had a long tail, there was a terrible drought. The leaves shrivelled up. The puddles turned to dust. And the waterholes slowly dried and cracked, leaving the animals with nothing to drink. Even when they prayed to the great Rain God, the air remained empty and dry, without a single cloud in the sky.

  King Elephant became desperate. He hadn’t had a drink for two days, or a mud bath for a month. So he decided to call a meeting. ‘Cheetah!’ he trumpeted to his chief messenger, who was lying in the shade, trying to keep cool. ‘Go and call all the animals. We must meet.’

  Being the fastest animal on earth, it didn’t take Cheetah too long to relay the king’s message. He ran from river to rock, from grassland to grotto, and from treetop to mountain top until, by the end of the day, the animals had all gathered under the great baobab tree.

  When they had all quietened down, the Elephant began. ‘Subjects,’ he trumpeted, swaying his body importantly from side to side. ‘We are in grave danger. Our waterholes are almost dry, and soon we will die of thirst. Either we must move to a wetter area, or we must make a plan. I’ve given up on my ideas. So if anyone else has one, would he please step forward.’

  At first no one said anything. Then Impala and Gemsbok, the shy little buck of the bush, started to whisper to each other. ‘Speak up, speak up!’ thundered Elephant. ‘If you’ve got something to say, trumpet it out, trumpet it out!’

  ‘Well, Your Majesty,’ whispered Impala, his skinny front legs shaking with nerves, ‘what about digging a well
? If all of us helped, it wouldn’t take long. We could take it in turns to guard it, day and night. And then we might have water for ever.’

  The animals couldn’t quite believe that such a big idea had come from such a small creature. ‘You are quite brilliant!’ said the king proudly. ‘Tomorrow, as you have suggested, we will start digging. And you will be the first to be rewarded with the sweet water when the well is finished.’

  The next day, as agreed, all the animals gathered in a sandy spot by the riverbank to dig. Every animal, that is, but lazy Hare. ‘Me?’ Hare said, flicking his beautiful, long, fluffy tail. ‘Why should I want to drink from your silly well? I have juicy roots to gnaw in my burrow, and an underground spring to sip from. Thanks, but I’d rather have a snooze here in the shade.’

  Digging a well took a whole day, but at the end of it, the animals heard a wonderful sound coming from the bottom. ‘Water!’ Python gurgled, as he slowly floated up on a bubbling pool of liquid. Excitedly, the bucket was passed to the front, and as promised, when the first bucket was drawn Impala was given the first sip. The water was not only cold. It was sweet, pure and clear – the nicest water anyone had ever tasted.

  Over the next weeks, as the earth became drier and drier, the animals congratulated themselves on their magnificent well. Only Hare wasn’t happy. The spring had disappeared from its underground spot, and the roots had shrivelled and dried.

  But whenever he tried to get to the well, some fierce creature was guarding it. And the animals all said the same thing. ‘Sorry, Hare, but you didn’t help us to dig, so you can’t drink either. Goodbye.’

  Hare was becoming very cross. He couldn’t be bothered to dig his own well. He didn’t fancy pleading with the king for water. So there was only one thing left, he decided to steal it.

  That night, he crept quietly behind the well, and with just a little hop, he was at the bottom, sipping lovely cool, sweet water. ‘Hahaha, you are a clever chap!’ he laughed to himself, as he inched his way back up. But Hare was not quite as clever as he thought. The watchful guard had spotted him leaping in, and immediately called the animals. Just as Hare got to the top, he was caught. Then a great roar erupted into the night. ‘Hahaha,’ laughed Hyena. ‘Hisssssshissss,’ hissed Python. ‘Snortttttt, snortttt,’ huffed Hippo. ‘We have caught the water thief!’