Stories Gogo Told Me

by Lisa Grainger

  Tortoise, of course, was delighted his trick had worked and, congratulating himself on his powers, he marched off into the jungle as the word spread about his incredible powers. He has never had a day’s trouble from any beast of the jungle. But if you ask him how he did it he has only one thing to say: ‘Strength is not in the arm, but in the head, dear creatures. In the head.’ And he’s right. Often in life it is not the strength of a creature’s brawn that matters. It is the cunning of his brain.

  The Hen’s safari

  Told to me in Shona by Sabina Sinjere in Mabvuku, Zimbabwe

  Hen, the fattest of the kraal chickens, was bored. Her life was always the same, she sighed: scratching at dry red soil, peck-peck-pecking at corn seeds, flapping around her little yellow chicks and putting up with the loud, bumptious cock-a-doodle-doing of her bossy old husband, the kraal rooster. What she needed was an adventure. ‘Today,’ she decided, ‘I am going to take myself off on safari. It’s about time I escaped this kraal and saw the world.’

  So one afternoon after she’d tucked her little chicks up for their nap under a nearby acacia tree, she evaded the sharp eye of her rooster husband, and giving her feathers a quick powdering in the soft rusty dust by the chief’s hut, Hen set off down the kraal path towards the river. The riverbank, according to her friend, Goat, was brimming with exotic creatures: kingfishers with emerald wings, silver fish that could leap over rocks, and beetles that could roll dung balls bigger than their own bodies. This was going to be a day that the kraal hen would never forget!

  Hen set out full of the joys of Africa. The sun had turned the afternoon golden with its rays, the msasa trees gently shaded her with their limy leaves, and soon she could smell the weedy, watery, willowy, wet wafts of the river in the wind.

  Hen had never been on safari, so once she’d got to the riverbank, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. ‘I know – I’ll have a drink,’ she clucked, scuttling her plump body down to the water.

  It all seemed so peaceful, with the river flowing gently by, Mr Kingfisher sitting on a dry branch watching out for fish, and the sun gently glimmering on the water. The only thing that moved in the midday sun was a log gently floating by.

  Because she was a village bird, Hen had no idea that the log floating by was not a log at all, but a well-disguised and very hungry crocodile, who couldn’t believe his luck having such a delicious dinner delivered right to his riverbank. And as Hen happily sipped away at her first safari drink of the day, the hungry crocodile swam quietly towards the bank, then sprang from the water, snapping up Hen in one big snap!

  ‘Oh Brother!’ squawked Hen, her scrawny neck sticking out of a big gap in Crocodile’s brown, rotting teeth. ‘I beg of you, Brother, please don’t!’

  Crocodile was so shocked on hearing Hen refer to him as brother that his mouth flew open, leaving Hen to flap out on to the riverbank. ‘Brother?’ he said, not quite believing that he had let his supper go. ‘How on earth can I be Hen’s brother?’

  As Hen wandered along the riverbank, covered in chickenbumps from shock, Crocodile had another think. Not only was his belly rumbling and his mouth salivating from the thought of chicken dinner, but one of Hen’s feathers was still stuck between his teeth, making him look extremely silly. ‘I have been tricked by a stupid town bird,’ he grumbled. ‘This time I cannot let her escape!’ So, creeping up behind her, he snapped her up in his jaws. But again, Hen let out a bloodcurdling squawk. ‘Brother, oh Brother,’ she squealed, ‘Release me, don’t eat me!’ Hearing those words, and not wanting to eat a sister, Crocodile let her go.

  Crocodile was so shocked by his own actions that he decided to go and seek advice from the Great River God. On his way he saw his equally scaly friend, Lizard, cooling his slippery white tummy on some moss. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ hissed Lizard.

  ‘Oh Lizard, I am in a terrible tizz,’ said Crocodile, sliding on to a warm rock. ‘There was a lovely kraal-bred hen who I caught twice, but I just had to let go because every time her lovely feathered flesh touched my tongue, she squawked out ‘Oh Brother!’ Of course, Lizard, I can’t eat my own sister! So now I am off to the water spirit to talk it over.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said the lazy lizard, flicking his tongue languidly to catch a passing dragonfly. ‘Don’t you see, dear Crocodile, that Duck lives near the water and she lays eggs. Turtle lives near the water and she lays eggs. I live in water, and I lay eggs. So do you. We are all brothers of a type. And none of us eats the other.’

  ‘So we are,’ thought Crocodile, slinking back into the cool depths. ‘I think I will go and catch something else for supper. Something that doesn’t lay eggs.’

  From that day on, crocodiles have preferred eating mammals, such as buffaloes or zebras. And hens have rarely gone on safari again.

  The hawk and the hen

  Told to me in Shona by Isaac Cherenje in Harare, Zimbabwe

  Long ago, Hawk and Hen were very good friends. Hen roosted in a kraal with her seven chicks, and Hawk nested on the peak of a high mountain. But although they lived far apart, they still behaved like neighbours, helping each other with favours, food or even feathers whenever the other needed it.

  One day, when Hen noticed how straggly her chicks were looking, the first friend she turned to for help was Hawk. ‘Dear Hawk,’ she called to her friend up the mountain, ‘please may I borrow that marvellous razor you found glinting on a hill? My little chicks are looking so ugly and untidy, with their long, unkept feathers. They desperately need a trim.’

  Hawk could not refuse Hen, knowing that his neighbour often gave him an egg or two to eat, or a glossy feather for his nest, so he was happy to fly down his precious tool for her to borrow. There was one condition, though. ‘I simply must have it back tomorrow, if you don’t mind, Hen,’ said Hawk, ‘because lots of other birds borrow that razor from me. Of course, I won’t charge you a fee to use it, but I must have it back or there will be a queue of birds complaining.’

  Hen was very grateful to Hawk for the loan, and as soon as she got home, she gathered up her bedraggled chicks. One by one she trimmed their dusty farmyard feathers until they looked perfectly round, golden and fluffy again. When she had finished, she marched the sharp razor over to the henhouse, and put it safely on a high shelf where no small feet could step on it.

  Once the razor was out of sight, Hen completely forgot about it, continuing her days as normal – scratching for food, nesting in the soft grass, and clucking over her chicks. It was only four days later, when a great Hawk’s shadow fell over the kraalyard, that she suddenly remembered her promise. ‘I do wish you’d get a brain, Hen,’ Hawk chided crossly.

  Hen was mortified. ‘Dear friend Hawk,’ she clucked in a great fluster, wings flapping and feathers flying. ‘I put your precious razor in such a high, safe place in the henhouse that I clean forgot about it. Please forgive me. I’ll get it now.’

  Hen flew into the henhouse, and with a squawk, flapped up onto the shelf shelf. But where she had put the silver shiny tool, there was a space. The razor had gone. Imagining the look on Hawk’s face when he found out, Hen frantically looked around the kraal. She scratched around on the floor, but it wasn’t there. She peered her beady eye under the children’s nest, but it wasn’t there either. She searched the firestones, in the store, by the water trough, under the maize tray, but it was nowhere to be found. Hawk’s precious tool had simply vanished.

  When Hen shamefacedly shuffled out into the kraal to break the bad news, Hawk was furious. ‘Mine was the only razor in the bird kingdom,’ he snapped, his yellow eyes flashing wildly. ‘There is no substitute. It must be returned, Hen. I will give you one more day, then you’ll have to pay!’ With that, he gave a mighty flap, lifted his huge yellow claws off the earth, and with a piercing cry, swept off into the night.

  Poor Hen spent all night searching, but found nothing. She demolished her henhouse, searched the straw, picked about in the rubble of the walls, in the ashes of the fire, and even
in the rubbish. But she found nothing.

  The next day, as promised, Hawk returned as Hen was looking through a heap of long grass. ‘As a neighbour and friend,’ said Hawk, staring at Hen in the eye, ‘I have been very good to you. But I’m afraid this time I must be compensated. In payment, I am going to take a chick for my supper. And tomorrow I will be back.’ Hen was very upset to lose one of her chicks, but Hawk was such a powerful bird, with such big, sharp claws and razor beak, that she couldn’t refuse. ‘I’ll be back,’ he snapped, flying away with a squeaking chick clutched to his breast. ‘I will be back.’

  True to his word, the next evening he returned. And despite Hen’s clucking and flapping and scratching and biting, he took another chick. The same has been happening every day until today. That is the reason why, when you see a hen, she is always scratching on the ground. And a hawk is always circling, looking for its payment of a baby chick.

  The greedy spider

  Told to me in Nyemba by Madeleine Chisala in Lusaka, Zambia

  Once upon a time, Spider lived with his wife and children in a village. He was a very greedy spider, and ate everything he came across. If he saw a fly passing by he’d pounce and catch it. If he chanced upon a fat worm, he’d slip it slyly into his mouth. And if he got an opportunity to steal a delicious bite of fruit from someone else’s fields, he would. He was the craftiest food-finder about.

  The problem was that Spider hated to share. Every day as he ploughed and hoed his fields, he thought of ways to sneak a snack so no one else would see it – or have to share it. He’d chomp a mosquito here and steal a fruit there. Soon he became so good at it that his abdomen became heavy and bloated.

  Mrs Spider couldn’t understand it. She was a mere slip of a woman, with similarly tiny children. How could her husband be so fat, she wondered.

  One day, her husband came home with an answer. ‘I am sorry to tell you, dear wife,’ he said, holding his bloated body with his hands, ‘but I am about to die.’

  While Mrs Spider began to cry, Spider didn’t seem upset at all. In fact, he seemed rather jolly. ‘I have had a message from the heavens,’ he said, smiling, ‘as long as I am buried near our crops in a large coffin with the instruments I need, life will be marvellous. Apparently I will need gardening tools, salt, water, matches and cooking oil where I am going, so I would be grateful if you would prepare them. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t put soil on top of my coffin.’

  The next day, the puzzled Mrs Spider set about doing as her husband had ordered. She found a large coffin, some matches, gardening tools, salt, a bottle of water and a container of cooking oil, and, puffing and panting, she dragged them all home. When she got inside, there lay Mr Spider on the floor, dead.

  Mrs Spider was very upset. But, knowing how happy her husband was about dying, she picked him up, put him into his large, airy coffin with his food, matches and tools and that afternoon, she and her children buried him in his favourite field. Then they went home sadly to sleep.

  With Mr Spider gone, it was up to Mrs Spider to go to the field and pick crops for the family’s dinner. Every day, she took her basket to select fine sorghum, gather fat flies, and pick a perfect pumpkin. But one day she arrived and half of her crops were gone! Her peppers had been pinched, her sorghum stolen, her tomatoes taken and even her pawpaws picked. And because the thief had taken her fruit, there was not a single wiggly worm or fat fly to be found.

  As soon as she got back to their village, Mrs Spider reported the theft to the chief. ‘My husband has only been gone a week, and some nasty creature has filched our food,’ wept Mrs Spider. The Chief was suitably supportive and promised that night he would send a group to guard the field. ‘Even if he’s a silent as a ghost, we’ll catch him, Mrs Spider,’ he promised.

  That night, as the chief said, a group of fearsome creatures gathered in the maize to watch over Mrs Spider’s fields. Dung Beetle stood guard, showing off his strong front pinchers. Scorpion loaded his tail with painful poison. Snake sharpened his fangs. And Wasp prepared his sting.

  By the light of the moon, the creatures stood and watched. At first nothing happened. But soon, as they peered through the maize, they saw the strangest sight they had ever seen – a creature covered in leaves coming out of Mr Spider’s grave. It looked like a walking plant.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Scorpion, his tail flicking ferociously into the air. But no one knew. As they watched, the creature sat down and made a fire. Then it took some vegetables out of Mr Spider’s grave and started to cook.

  ‘Ghosts can’t cook, so it can’t be a ghost,’ hissed Snake. ‘Leaves don’t make fires, so it can’t be a leaf,’ whispered Wasp. ‘No nice person keeps his food in a grave, so it must be a naughty thief!’ stuttered Scorpion. ‘Let’s get him!’

  The creatures stormed out of the crops, hitting and stinging and flicking the thief. But their punishment didn’t last long. For as soon as the creature began to yell in pain, they recognised his voice. It was Mr Spider!

  ‘Mr Spider, we thought you were dead!’ squeaked Dung Beetle. ‘We buried you a week ago!’ whispered Wasp. ‘Please tell me you’re not a ghost!’ wept Mrs Spider.

  But he wasn’t a ghost. As Mr Spider later admitted to the Chief, he was a terrible trickster. He had pretended to die so he could be buried in his favourite field of food. That way, when no one was watching, he could climb out and eat as much as he liked. Without asking anyone. And without sharing.

  The creatures all agreed that no one had ever been such a mean husband. Or such a rotten liar. As punishment, the chief ordered Mr Spider to spend his life in a corner, with his back to the world. No one would ever talk to him again.

  That’s why, still today, most daddy long-legs spiders spend their lives by themselves in corners. It is punishment for their greed and for pretending to be dead.

  The forbidden fruit

  Told to me in Ndebele by Benicah Ncube in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe

  Once upon a time there was a fruit that grew only at the very top of a tall mountain in the south of Africa. The fruit hung, ripe and rich and red, from the branch of a tall tree, and from the forest in the valley below, all the animals could see it. But none of them had ever tasted the fruit, because the mountain was too steep for them to climb.

  The animals all looked up longingly at the red fruit, imagining its sweet, succulent taste. And the more they looked at it, the more they wanted it.

  One day they could stand the temptation no longer, so the king called a meeting to decide how to get a taste of the forbidden fruit. Hare was the first to speak up. ‘Being a great jumper, I could reach the fruit easily,’ he said (in that smug way that hares do). ‘But I might not be able to resist taking the first bite of it. I think we need someone trustworthy. Why don’t we ask Tortoise first?’

  The animals all thought this was a very good idea. ‘He’s slow, but he’s steady and honest,’ they agreed. So the next day Tortoise was dispatched, up the path, over the river, and step by precarious step, up the slippery slopes of the mountain. He climbed, and struggled and slid. But halfway up, the cliff was too much for his flat, scaly feet to hold on to and he flipped onto his back, and slid all the way back down into the forest on his hard shell.

  The slope, it was agreed, was obviously too great for such a small creature to try. So, after helping Tortoise back onto his feet, they asked Kudu to try next. ‘Please Mr Kudu,’ they begged, ‘make the leap into the land of the fruit tree, and bring a taste of the forbidden fruit.’ With a toss of his curly horns, Kudu trotted off, and was soon high on the slopes. But he too failed, for no sooner had his hard hooves touched the slippery rocks than he began to stumble and eventually tumble - a mass of flying hooves and hair, off the mountain slope and into the jungle.

  Baboon tried the next day – and fell when the cliff face began to crumble. So Hare came to the conclusion he should indeed try himself. He said to the other animals: ‘I am sure of foot and nimble of paw, I am as sharp of brain as I am of claw.’
And that, the confident creature felt, was reason enough to be the one to pursue the pleasures of the forbidden fruit.

  Hare was right in one way. Unlike the other animals, his route didn’t go up the path, over the river and up the slope. That was far too difficult, he decided. Instead, it went around the less steep slopes of the mountain, and up to the top. It was simple, and by sunset, the big-headed animal was back in the forest, triumphantly calling the others to see the rich, red, ripe fruit he held in his paw.

  There was great excitement as they gathered, with everyone jostling and pushing and shoving to get near it. The fruit not only looked irresistible, but its fragrance was the sweetest anyone had ever smelt – mango and honey and strawberry all rolled into one.

  They all wanted to try it, and soon a riot had begun. ‘I’m the biggest, so I should be the first to tickle my tastebuds,’ trumpeted Elephant, heaving forward. ‘Stuff and Nonsense! Make way for the monarch!’ roared Lion, flicking his tail. ‘Hold on, hold on – what about me!’ snorted the Hippo, flaring her nostrils.

  It was all going precisely as Hare had planned. While the animals rattled and roared, and harrumphed and hawwed, the clever little creature put the forbidden fruit under his arm and slipped off into his burrow for a private feast.

  The rest of the animals have still never tasted the forbidden fruit. If you see them now near a mountain, watch and see. They will still be looking up trying to spot another tree.

  The fish’s heads

  Told to me in Chichewa by Evalena Njovu at the Latete leper colony in Zambia

  A long time ago there lived two brothers, Mabvuko and Masoka. Mabvuko was a rich man with a beautiful house, and many servants. But greed had made him mean and arrogant, and no one liked him. Masoka, however, was the most generous, kind man in the land, always sharing whatever he had. If he caught three fish, he would give away two. If he found a mango tree bulging with fruit, he would call the other villagers to feast. If he came upon a sweet stream in the mountains, he would fill his pot so he could share it on the way home.