Stories Gogo Told Me

by Lisa Grainger

  For a while, the other animals put up with Hippo’s vanity because he was such a picture to look at. But soon it began to annoy them – especially when he started to make nasty comments about them. ‘Bad luck about your bulgy eyes,’ he’d say snidely to the chameleon. Or ‘Pity about your warty face,’ he’d remark rudely to the warthog.

  The final straw came one day when Hare was passing by. ‘Poor creature,’ said Hippo, as he watched Hare hop. ‘Such a spindly little frame, and such silly floppy ears. And then, the misfortune of such bent-up back legs. The gods must have been crazy when they created him!’

  Now, as we all know, hares have very fine hearing, and this one wasn’t at all happy with Hippo’s horrible remarks. ‘He might be beautiful on the outside, but he is turning rather rotten inside,’ muttered the miffed hare. ‘I am going to have to think of a way to sort him out.’ And off he hopped to have a think.

  Later that day, Hippo was rather surprised to see Hare carrying large bundles of grass towards his house. ‘What are you doing?’ asked Hippo with a frown. ‘Oh, beautiful Mvuu, I am building a fence just for you,’ replied Hare. ‘Then once you are inside, you won’t get dust on your glossy hide.’

  Hippo was very pleased. Hare might be ugly, he thought, but he certainly was clever. That night he wandered happily towards his newly fenced house, knowing that in the morning his coat would be even more beautiful, and even glossier.

  Once Hippo was settled for the night, Hare crept off to a nearby village. The villagers were sitting round a fire, entranced by a storyteller’s tale. And, while their attention was on the story, Hare silently crept beside the fire, stole a burning branch and raced off. When he got to Hippo’s new fence, he flung the burning branch onto it and hid behind a nearby tree to watch.

  Flames soon flickered skyward, setting fire to everything in their path, including Hippo. ‘Help! Help!’ cried the mighty Mvuu, as the flames leapt on to his precious coat. ‘My ears! My tail! My neck! My face! Help me, oh help me get out of this place!’

  Hippo was not a fast runner in those days, but with such scorching flames searing his flesh, the fat creature was soon racing down to the river at the speed of a cross crocodile. When he got there, he jumped in with a mighty splash, and stayed underwater while the cool, wet water soothed his sore, blistered skin.

  Mvuu stayed in the water all night, until dawn, when at last he started to feel better. The pain had died down. His tail had stopped throbbing. And even his big bottom had stopped burning. Slowly, he raised his big belly from the river bed, and blowing bubbles, floated up to the surface. Then he got out of the water, and took his normal position on the riverbank, where there was a great pool of water to admire himself in.

  But what a shock he got! Rather than the gorgeous, glossy, graceful Mvuu he had been, the creature in the reflection was a stumpy, rather ugly, animal, with no hair at all. Gone was his beautiful, glossy coat. In the place of his long ears were two stubby lumps. At the top of his bottom was a tiny, stubby, fat little tail. His body was covered with a thick, grey skin, with rather nasty patches of pink where the flames had burnt deep.

  With a miserable snort, Mvuu threw himself into the river. And there he has remained ever since, coming out only at night when the other animals can’t see him. Occasionally, you’ll hear him weep when he sees other animals come to admire their own reflections. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear him.

  ‘Boooohuhuhuhu,’ he’ll cry mournfully, ‘Boooohuhuhuhu.’

  The talking tummy

  Told to me in Shona by Cecilia Masekereya in Mabvuku, Zimbabwe

  Long ago, there was a drought. There was no fruit on the trees. The green grass turned brown and died. Even the sausage tree stopped making its delicious long green sausage pods. There was nothing on the ground to eat but stones and dust.

  The animals were so hungry that King Lion decided to call a meeting. ‘Someone has to have an idea what we can do,’ he said. So, one day, all of the animals gathered under the shade of the acacia tree. Most of them had never seen a drought, so didn’t know what to do. Others, like Elephant, had seen several – when food didn’t grow the whole year and rain only fell twice during summer. So it was to them that the animals turned.

  ‘Nzou, Nzou, what should we do?’ they sang to the elephants. ‘The rain has not come, there are no clouds in the sky, the only thing left is to lie down and die.’

  The elephants, being clever creatures, didn’t stand for silly sentimentality. ‘What nonsense, foolish fellows,’ trumpeted the enormous bull elephant. ‘We will have to do what Man does. When he can’t find food, he grows it.’

  The animals erupted in a mass of disdainful bellows and howls. ‘Grow it?’ growled Leopard, prowling up and down in disbelief. ‘Plough fields?’ howled Hyena, cackling with laughter. ‘Sow seeds?’ giggled Gnu, tossing his mangy fringe.

  But King Lion gave a roar. ‘If any animal has got a better idea, would he step forward?’ he said. Slowly the noise subsided and the stamping stopped, as the animals hung their heads in shame. After a few minutes of silence, the king spoke again. ‘Well, Elephant,’ he smiled. ‘I think you’d better tell us how to do it then.’

  Elephant, rather pleased with himself, flicked his trunk into the air and strolled self-importantly to the front of the crowd. When the last giggles and chatters stopped, he began. ‘I have seen Man,’ he droned, giving an elderly snort every now and then, ‘and what he does is this. He clears the bush, then he ploughs, then he sows, then he waters, he weeds and he reaps. He plants a variety of plants, so he has some ready in weeks, while others are still ripening. That way, he has food all summer.’

  The animals listened and, when he’d finished, let out a loud cheer and quickly arranged themselves into the groups he ordered: rhinos to clear the bush, buffaloes to pull the plough, baboons to plant the tiny seeds, antelopes to pull up the damaging weeds and elephants to sprinkle little pools of muddy water onto the plants to make them grow. After just one meeting, the animal kingdom was going to become one big animal farm.

  The animals worked hard, ploughing and hoeing and weeding and reaping and soon the jungle was a mass of lush, green fields filled with delicious crops. There were golden mealies, fat sweet potatoes, crisp green cabbage and bulging orange pumpkins, which the animals ate for breakfast, lunch and supper. Soon everyone fattened out, coats became glossy again, and mothers began to have plump, happy babies.

  Life was great in the jungle until the terrible day Hare went to collect some maize and it wasn’t there. Every single maize cob had been stolen and the stalks stood bare. The next day, the turnips were taken.

  And the following day the sweet potatoes were stolen. The animals were furious – especially Hare, who had stood guard on the night the turnips had vanished. ‘What can I do,’ he wondered, ‘to catch the thief who is pinching our food?’

  All night he tossed and he turned in his burrow, trying to think of a plan to catch the thief. Just as dawn broke, he came up with an idea. ‘I know!’ he said, hopping up and down in his burrow with glee. ‘The pumpkin!’

  In the middle of the main field, the animals had grown the most magnificent orange pumpkin. It was large and golden and would be ripe within days. ‘It would be a perfect trap for a thief,’ Hare decided.

  After cutting a small trapdoor and hollowing it out, Hare climbed into the pumpkin. ‘He will not be able to resist this,’ he smiled, as he sat inside and waited.

  Sure enough, once the sun had set, and Owl started twittering and whoooooing, Hare heard footsteps outside the pumpkin. ‘It’s the thief,’ he thought, giggling nervously. It was. But before Hare had time to jump out and attack the creature, the whole pumpkin, with him inside, was put in the creature’s big mouth and swallowed.

  ‘Hey, hey, help!’ shouted Hare, as he and the pumpkin slid down into the creature’s belly. ‘Stop thief, stop!’

  The creature, terrified of the noise it heard, started running away in panic. But everywhere he went, the noise
went too. If he jumped across a river, the noise jumped too. If he climbed a tree, the noise climbed as well. Even when he went home to his wife, the noise went home with him.

  The creature was terrified. ‘What must I do?’ he cried to his cowering wife. ‘I’ve got a devil in my belly!’ But his wife had no time to answer, for from the depths of its belly came a dark voice: ‘Take me to your king oh thief, or you will get no sleep, take me to your king, oh thief, or I will make you weep!’ And from inside its stomach came a thudding and bumping noise as Hare took his fists and punched and thumped.

  The creature howled in terror and hollered in pain, until at last he could bear it no more. ‘I promise, I promise to take you to the king,’ he cried, and he ran as fast as he could all the way to Lion.

  When they got there, the creature spoke. ‘Oh dear King, help me,’ he moaned, holding his tummy. ‘Inside my stomach is a voice. It hurts me and it devils me. I have to get it out!’

  Before the king had a chance to answer, a voice rose from the creature’s stomach. ‘King, I am no devil. If you order this creature to open its mouth, you will see who I am when I climb out.’ Amazed, the king ordered the creature to do as his tummy had told him. And, sure enough, out of the creature’s big mouth scrambled not a devil, but a very wet, pumpkin-covered Hare.

  When Hare had wiped all the pumpkin from his face, and opened his eyes, he couldn’t believe what he saw. ‘Baboon!’ Hare exclaimed, staring at the creature who had eaten him. ‘You rotten thief!’ Rather shamefaced, Baboon admitted that it was he who had stolen not only the pumpkin, but the animals’ other crops as well.

  After praising Hare for his marvellous thief-catching trick, the king turned to Baboon. ‘You have proved to be a lazy and wicked creature who has tricked your hard-working friends,’ the king scolded. ‘For that, the animals can never forgive you. You must take to the hills for ever.’

  Sadly, Baboon walked through the valley and climbed high up on to a hill to live. He has lived there ever since. He occasionally ventures into the valley to steal a cob of maize or a juicy sweet potato from someone’s field. But there is one thing he will never, ever steal again: pumpkin. I think you know why.

  The man who snored and the man who sang

  Told to me in Tonga by Beatrice Shawalala outside Lusaka, Zambia

  Many years ago, two men set off on a long journey to a faraway valley. All day they travelled, walking over sharp rocks and swimming through streams, climbing over fallen tree trunks and wading through sharp reeds.

  It was a hard journey, and by sunset both men were exhausted, hungry and thirsty. It was also getting dark and they had nowhere to sleep. But at last, they spotted a village: a cluster of thatched huts, a well for water and – even better – a fire with a cooking pot steaming on it.

  As they walked towards the village, the chief, in leopard skin pants, came out to greet them. ‘Welcome!’ he said, smiling. ‘You must be hungry – come and eat. You must be thirsty – come and drink. And, please, stay the night. However, you must make one promise.’

  The men nodded. ‘Of course we will make a promise. What is it?’ The chief looked at them with a serious face. ‘We will happily give you food, water and a bed for the night. But you must promise not to snore. We are very busy people who need our sleep. So anyone who snores is punished.’

  The men both nodded their heads in agreement, then sat down round the fire for a meal of maize meal, chicken and beer. It was a fine feast, and after it, the old villagers gathered round the fire to tell stories – tales of wild animals, hunting trips, brave warriors and wise chiefs. Eventually, when the moon was high in the sky, the men went to their hut and settled down to sleep.

  In the middle of the night, one of the men woke up with a terrible fright. There was something in the hut – something that was making a loud roaring, whistling, blowing sound. A terrifying sound! He lay there with his heart beating in his chest and raised his head slowly to look around. There was nothing in the hut but his friend. Yet still the noise rose in the air. ‘Nnnnnnnkkkkkkkkhhhho!’ it went loudly in the darkness, ‘Nnnnnnkkkkkkkkkkho!’ As the man looked round the hut, he realised what the noise was. ‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed in the dark. ‘My friend is snoring! The chief warned us that anyone who snored would be punished. I must get up and stop him.’

  Quickly he rose from his bed to wake his friend, but it was too late. Outside the door he could hear the villagers whispering about the terrible snoring and the punishment the chief was going to inflict.

  Before anyone had had a chance to come inside the hut, the man had made a plan. He started to sing.

  Slowly, the villagers’ whispering stopped and another sound started – the villagers singing along. They sang and they sang. They fetched their drums, then their whistles. And before long the man could hardly hear his own voice for the party outside. All night the villagers sang and whistled and danced. At last, when dawn came, they all went to bed, tired but happy.

  That morning, the snoring man woke up refreshed after a good night’s sleep. His friend, however, was exhausted. ‘You have no idea how lucky you are that I saved you!’ said the tired friend. ‘We can’t stay here a single night longer, though, for this time the villagers will surely punish us.’

  After breakfast, the men packed their bags and went to thank the chief for his hospitality. ‘No, no, no,’ said the chief, smiling. ‘It is we who must thank you. For never before have we heard such sweet songs, or held such a marvellous party. Please, as a thank you, take this gift of gold.’ The chief then handed the singing man a leather bag filled with shiny, precious gold.

  The two men couldn’t believe their luck, and once they had thanked the chief again, they set off on their journey. But as soon as they were out of the village, the snoring man asked his friend to stop. ‘I would like my share of the gold now,’ he said. ‘Let’s stop under this shady tree and divide it.’

  The singing man was not only tired from having been awake all night, but he was very grumpy. ‘What do you mean divide it?’ he said crossly to the snoring man. ‘If I hadn’t sung all night, and whistled and danced and entertained those villagers, they would have had us for supper. All you did is make horrible snoring sounds. It was you who got us into trouble in the first place.’

  The snoring man shook his head vigorously and started to shout and wave his fist about. He’d had a good night’s sleep and was now full of energy. ‘Listen here,’ he said, waving his finger at his tired friend’s face. ‘If it weren’t for my snoring, you wouldn’t have had to sing in the first place. You would have slept all night. It’s thanks to me that you were given the chance to entertain the villagers. Half that gold is mine. Now hand it over!’

  No matter how hard the snoring man tugged, the singing man wouldn’t hand over the bag. Soon the former friends were wrestling in the mud, pounding and punching and hitting each other.

  What they didn’t realise is that they were being watched from above. The rain god happened to be passing on his rain clouds in the sky, and he couldn’t believe how silly the two men were being. After thundering loudly at the men from above, he shot down a huge bolt of lighting. With a crack! and a bang! it sent the pair whizzing into the air. And with a fizzz! it hit the bag of gold, shooting it like a star into the sky.

  Neither of the men ever saw the gold again. The rain god took every little bit and used it to make his rainbow sparkle. But that doesn’t stop men from trying to find it. Every time it rains, you will see them heading across the Mrican valley towards the rainbow. Ask them where they are going and they will tell you – to find the singing man’s lost bag of gold.

  How Honeybird punished the greedy man

  Told to me in Ndebele by Isaac Nyatha in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe

  The honeybird has always been the friendliest of birds, fetching men from their fields and leading them into the forest to show them where to find honey. ‘Chee Chee!’ it has called for centuries, ‘Follow me! Follow me!’ flying in circles around the spot
where man could find sweet, golden honeycomb.

  One day, long ago, Honeybird found a very large honeycomb that his friends the bees had been working on in the hollow trunk of a tree. He loved honey, but being a kind, sharing creature, he flew straight to the fields to find someone to share his good fortune. At the edge of the forest, in a little clearing, he saw a man busily planting maize seeds in the earth. ‘Chee! Chee!’ sang Honeybird, flying backwards and forwards over the man’s head. ‘Chee! Chee! Follow me! Follow me!’

  The man had heard of the great honeybird, which led lucky men to a kingdom filled with sweet golden treasure, but he had never seen one with his own eyes. So, quickly, he lay down his spade and seed and followed the bird into the forest.

  The man climbed down ditches, over tree trunks and through rivers until at last the bird stopped before a hollow tree where a swarm of bees lived. There, it flew round and round, darting up and down, directing the man exactly where to look.

  Staring into the tree, the man couldn’t believe his luck. For there, in the dark hollow, was the biggest stash of honey he had ever seen – great layers of golden, dripping combs that overflowed from the trunk and permeating the air with a sweet, flowery smell.

  The man was ecstatic, and being rather a greedy chap, he quickly fell to his knees, stretched his hand inside the hole and took out a great big piece of comb, which he stuffed into his mouth. With honey dripping down his chin and running down his arms, he took another, then another, chomping and chewing and slurping and swallowing, until soon there was not a single drop of honey left. After a very noisy burp, he got up, wiped his sticky hands on his trousers and set off, without even bothering to thank the bees, or his guide the honeybird.

  Honeybird was furious. ‘Chee Chee!’ he squawked unhappily after the greedy, rude man. ‘Chee Chee! What about me? What about me?’ But the man didn’t even look up as he rubbed his rounded belly and headed home.