One night, Masoka dreamt that while he was sleeping on his mat under a tree, a beautiful girl called out to him. ‘Come to the river,’ she sang sweetly, ‘Come and see what the Gods have given to thee.’ Once he reached the river, the beautiful girl clapped three times and from the depths of the murky water rose the finest canoe he had ever seen. Three more claps produced paddles. Then the beautiful girl said to him, ‘Now, Masoka, go and gather me some fish. When you bring them back, though, be sure to cut the heads off.’ He did as he was commanded, and when he got back with the headless fish, the beautiful girl cooked them for him, then kissed him on his forehead.
When he woke up the next morning, Masoka was very disappointed to find it was all a dream. ‘Never mind,’ he sighed, picking up his fishing rod and heading for the river. ‘I do not have my Dream Girl, but perhaps I will catch a fish.’
When he arrived at the river, Masoka was amazed to find not only the beautiful canoe he had dreamt of, but a pair of fine wooden paddles. Joyfully, he leapt inside and paddled out to the middle of the lake, where he caught the biggest fish of his life. Mindful of his dream, though, he cut off its head, before heading back home to cook it for lunch.
Imagine Masoka’s amazement when he found in place of his old mat a fine thatched house, with carved wooden furniture, nine servants who bowed down before him, and, on the verandah, his Dream Girl who came out to greet him. She had been sent by God, she explained, to reward Masoka for his kindness and generosity, and to console and comfort him. Never again would he be lonely, hungry or thirsty. The only thing he had to promise, she reminded him, was never to bring home fish with their heads still attached.
Masoka had never been so happy. Every day he laughed with his Dream Girl, fished in his canoe, had his dinner cooked by servants, and went to bed in his beautiful house. His rich brother, Mabvuko, even came to visit to witness his brother’s sudden wealth.
Soon, though, Masoka began to tire of cutting off the fish heads. Why did his servants have to clean and behead them at the river, he moaned, when they could do it more easily at home? His promise to his Dream Girl was a ridiculous one. She’d soon get used to fish heads. And the sooner he took them home, the sooner she’d get used to them. That very afternoon he ordered his servant to take his catch home whole. The boy paled and started shaking when his master made his command. ‘But sir,’ the boy protested, his eyes wide with terror. ‘You know your wife’s wish. I would rather run away than risk her wrath.’
‘Fine!’ shouted Masoka. ‘Then run!’
That night, Masoka went home without one servant – and the fish heads still on. With the next day’s catch, he commanded his second servant to do the same. That servant, too, refused, and the next, and the next, until on the ninth day, Masoka had only one servant left. ‘I command you,’ he shouted to the boy at the river, ‘take the fish home!’
This time, though, the boy took such fright that he ran all the way home – with the whole fishes – to warn his beloved mistress. By the time Masoka had arrived back, not only had his servant vanished, but everything he loved: his beautiful home, his carved ebony furniture, his cupboard full of food – and his beloved dream girl. All that was left was his old mat under a tree.
Masoka fell on his knees, and wept, and prayed to God, promising that he would never ever bring home fish heads again. But it was too late: he had broken his promise.
And as Masoka had learnt, once one breaks a promise, something precious is lost forever.
The finger tree
Told to me in Ndebele by Justice Chinamhora in Harare, Zimbabwe
There was once a father who had only one son. He was very proud of his son, and had brought him up to be honest, brave and kind. One day the father became very ill. As he lay on his deathbed, he called out. ‘My beloved son,’ he said. ‘I want you to make me three promises before I die. If you keep them, you will be happy for ever.’
His son nodded respectfully, promising his father he would do whatever he asked. ‘First you must promise never to talk about other people’s business,’ the father said. ‘Then you must never reveal to your wife the secrets of your heart. And finally, when I am dead, you must cut off my index finger and bury it near your hut. But you must never tell anybody.’ Then the father closed his eyes, and died.
The son was an obedient boy, and before his father was buried, he cut off his index finger, and put it in a hole near his hut. At first nothing happened above the hole. But soon, after the great rains, a beautiful tree grew. It was the most magnificent specimen anybody had ever seen. Its trunk was the size of an elephant’s body. Its branches were big enough to seat ten leopards. Its sap was so sugary it made sunbirds sing. And its flowers were so sweetly scented that girls would beg their lovers for a gift of just one red bloom.
Villagers came from all over the land to see the marvellous tree. Everyone wanted to know where he had got it, but the boy, remembering his promise, never revealed the secret.
As the tree became more famous, visitor after visitor arrived, many with gifts for the boy. People offered him cows in return for the secret, and cloth, and gold, but still the boy kept his pledge.
In the next village lived a cunning man who was jealous of the son’s fortune. He wanted the tree more than anything in the world, so he too could be brought gifts of cloth and cows and gold. He tried growing a seed, but it shrivelled. He tried planting a stolen branch, but it died. There must be another way, he thought, trying desperately to think of a plot.
One day the greedy man had an idea. He told his most beautiful daughter to pack her bags and go to the boy’s village with permission to be his wife. When she was there, he said, she should use her wiliest charms to win the secret of the tree. She was not to return until she knew it.
When the girl arrived at the village, the boy was so bewitched by her beauty that he happily agreed to marry her. As soon as the wedding was over, the girl did as her father had instructed, and set about winning her husband’s heart. She cooked his favourite meal of goat stew and maize, and made him the finest beer. She kneaded his sore feet after a long day’s work and carried cool river water to the fields for him to drink. But no matter how strong her feminine wiles, she never managed to obtain the secret.
A year after the marriage, the couple had a baby son. The husband was delighted and went to great trouble to show his wife his affection. He procured special treats for her to eat and arranged a great celebratory feast. He found the best nursemaid in the land to help her and wrapped the baby in the finest cloth. And he showered his wife with love and attention. He had never, ever been so happy.
After the great feast, the wife thought she would try again to learn the secret. ‘My brave warrior,’ she said to her husband, fluttering her big brown eyes at him. ‘I know you love me dearly, and want to make me happy. But if you want me to be the happiest woman in the world, tell me just one thing.’
‘What is that?’ said her happy husband. ‘What is the name of our beautiful tree, and how did it grow?’ she asked again.
The husband loved his wife so much that he felt he couldn’t hide the secret from her any longer. ‘Your heart is my heart,’ he said, ‘so I will tell you. But you must promise to tell no one else – not even your mother and father.’ His wife promised, and so he told her. ‘The name of the tree is Finger of My Father,’ he said, ‘and it grew out of the trust of our hearts.’
That night, while her husband was sleeping, the wife packed her belongings into a bundle, picked up her sleeping baby and crept out of the village to journey to the house of her father.
The father was delighted with her discovery, and by morning he had spread the news around the entire village. ‘Finger of My Father, the tree is called,’ he trumpeted self-importantly. ‘Finger of My Father.’
While the girl’s father was celebrating his discovery, her husband was waking up to find his wife and his baby gone. ‘My beautiful wife,’ he cried, ‘and my precious son! Why, Gods, are you punishing me?’ W
hen he heard the villagers outside shouting ‘Finger of My Father’, he knew at once. He had broken the most important pledge a man can make – that to his father and mother – and was now being punished. He knew that he had not only lost his family, but that he had to leave his village. His ancestors’ spirits would ensure that, if he stayed in his father’s village, he would have bad luck for ever.
Sadly, he packed a small bundle of clothes and food, took his hunting stick and spear, and walked out into the valley to live a life alone. The Finger of My Father tree never flowered again. It still grows, green and tall, its flowerless branches acting as a reminder of the power of broken promises.
Old African proverb:
‘He who marries only a beauty marries trouble.’
The day tails were given out
Told to me in Xhosa by Mabutinki Mafatshe near Rustenberg, South Africa
Long, long ago, when the earth was still young, Lion was the only animal that had a tail. ‘But then I am the king,’ he reasoned, flicking flies off his body with his long, muscly tail, ‘so if anyone should have a tail, it’s the royal me.’
As the summer wore on, Lion began to notice how infuriated the flies made all the other animals. Swarms of the little black insects buzzed and they bit, and they flew and they nipped, but none of the animals had anything to whisk the flies away.
Lion eventually began to feel sorry for them. ‘As the king, I think it’s time I helped my subjects by giving them tails,’ he decided. ‘I won’t give anyone a tail as long as mine, of course, because only the king should have such a magnificent specimen. But I will give each of them something that will help them to flick away those pesky flies.’
That morning he started to make all sorts of tails – long and short, thin and fat, spiky and bushy, and round and stubby, spotted and striped. By midday, he’d fashioned all sorts of attachments, and hung them in a row on a long branch so he could admire them.
After he had decided which tail to give to which animal, he summoned one of his trusty messengers, Baboon. ‘I have decided to give all the animals a gift,’ he said to the rosy-bottomed creature. ‘Please go and tell them I wish to see them tomorrow morning. Every single animal must come, as I have a gift for each of them.’
The baboon, delighted at being given such an important task, was soon jumping from rock to rock and tree to tree, running through grass and over rivers, relaying the royal message. He told Elephant and Hippo, Kudu, Eland and Impala, Antbear and Monkey – every animal from the largest to the smallest. ‘And every animal must come,’ said the baboon, ‘because our king has made each one of us a special present.’
The animals were all very excited, for it wasn’t often the king gave away gifts. Only the fat, furry dassies, were not bothered – they are lazy animals who would rather lie in the sun on a rock than walk into the valley to see the king. So they thanked Baboon, then dozed off again on their warm rocks.
The next morning, the valley streamed with excited creatures, on their way to get their gifts. Only the dassies lay about on their rocks. ‘Aren’t you coming, dassies?’ shouted the troops of monkeys, as they chattered past. ‘The king will be very cross if you don’t!’
The father dassie rolled over on his tummy and looked at them through half-closed eyes. ‘No,’ he said lazily, enjoying the warm rock on his belly. ‘I’m sure he won’t have anything for such small and insignificant creatures as us. If he does, though, would you mind bringing it back for us?’
The monkeys reluctantly agreed, and went on their way, swinging and screeching through the trees into the valley. When they got to Lion’s royal rock, there was their king, proudly surveying a branch on which he’d hung of all sorts of tails. There were dotted ones and striped ones, long ones and short ones, stubby ones and fluffy ones, straight ones and whirly ones. They were all sorts of colours, too – red and striped, or yellow and dotted, or black and white. What a fantastic array!
The animals roared and chattered and screeched with excitement, each trying to guess which tail they’d get. ‘Silence!’ roared the king, getting flustered, ‘or you will make me forget which one I made for each of you.’ The king, you see, was getting a bit old and his memory was fading. He picked up the first tail on the branch – a tiny one with sharp black bristles – and then called out. ‘Right, Antbear, I think I made this for you. Oh, actually, no that’s a mistake. I think it’s for Monkey. No, I mean, um, oh dear, I can’t remember! Oh yes! It was for Hippo! Come Hippo, come and collect your tail!’
While Hippo was very pleased that he’d been the first animal to be given his tail, he was not very pleased about its size. What was a great big animal like him going to do with such a tiny tail? It wouldn’t do at all do have such a stubby specimen! But he couldn’t complain, so graciously he let the king attach it to his bottom and then showed it off to the other animals.
The next tail on the branch was a great brown bushy creation that fluffed out at the sides and waved about in the air. It was so beautiful that all the animals wanted it. But once again the king paused. ‘Now who did I make this for?’ he said, scratching his head absentmindedly. ‘Was it for Giraffe? Or for Rhino? Oh gosh, I can’t remember. Well, it is brown, so I guess it must be for a brown animal. I know! Squirrel! Come forward Squirrel!’ And so the surprised squirrel bounded forward for his magnificent tail, which he then flicked backwards and forwards with pleasure, showing it off to all the other envious creatures.
The tail-giving went on all afternoon, until at the end of the day, every single animal had a tail. But still there was one left hanging in the tree. ‘Now this one I remember specifically making,’ said the king. ‘I made it for Dassie. Step forward Dassie!’
No one stepped forward, and animals were silent. ‘Dassie, step forward please!’ roared the Lion again. But still no one moved. Then Monkey edged forward slowly. ‘Excuse me King,’ he said, holding his new long black tail over his arm. ‘But Dassie was busy sunbathing this morning. So he asked me if I would collect his tail for him.’
The king was furious. He had spent a long time making the tail for Dassie, but the rotten little rock rabbit hadn’t even bothered to come. Still, it would be silly to let that tail go to waste, so he handed it to Monkey and sent everyone home. Soon the valley was full of happy, chattering animals, waving and admiring their handsome new bottoms as they wandered off into the sunlight.
As he had promised the king, Monkey carried Dassie’s tail carefully over his arm. But as he got nearer Dassie’s rock, he began to look at it enviously. ‘Why should lazy Dassie get a tail at all if he couldn’t be bothered to collect it himself?’ he said to himself. ‘It is such a fine long tail and if I added it to mine, I would have the longest in the kingdom. Even longer than Lion’s!’
So the naughty monkey took the end of Dassie’s tail and stuck it on to the end of his own. The combination of his own long black tail and Dassie’s little white fluffy blob on the end made Monkey’s tail the finest the kingdom had ever seen.
Dassie of course never got a tail at all – something he’s enormously embarrassed about. Even today, if you spot him, he will lower his bottom and hide with shame behind a rock.
But its laziness is still remembered today. You will still hear the Xhosa people say: ‘I-mbila yaswel’ umsila ngoku-yaleza’ which means ‘If you act like a dassie, you will get the rewards of a dassie’. Which, as poor Dassie learnt, means no reward at all.
According to the Shona storytellers of Zimbabwe, the week after Lion gave out tails he gave out nipples too. All the animals gathered round the baobab tree to be given tips for their breasts. But Hen couldn’t be bothered to go; she was too busy scratching for corn. So her friend Dog agreed to collect them for her. On her way home, Dog had a crafty plan. ‘If I had extra nipples, I could feed all my puppies at once,’ she thought. So, instead of delivering Hen’s nipples to the chicken kraal, she attached them to her own body – one line of nipples along the left side, and one line on the right. She was very pleas
ed, for ever since she has been able to feed six puppies all at once. Hen, though, has no nipples. The next time you see a chicken’s breast, have a look. Can you see any?
The day Monkey saved his heart
Told to me in Bemba by Godfrey Chanda, a subsistence farmer, near the Kalamazi rose farm, outside Lusaka, Zambia
When Man came to live on the earth, God put him in a beautiful valley. The valley had clear rivers to drink from, tall trees to rest under, strong grass to thatch his huts and bountiful rain for his crops. Man loved his home.
In those days, Man had never seen an animal and the animals had never seen a man. God had separated them – animals on one side of the lagoon, and Man on the other. Man could hear the lions roaring, the hippos Hmmmmmhmmmmhmmming, the hyenas cackling and the baboons howling on one side of the lake. And the animals could hear Man singing and drumming from his side. But neither had ever met.
One day the animals’ curiosity got the better of them, so they held a meeting to decide how they should go about meeting their neighbours. ‘Firstly, we need to see who they are,’ said King Lion at the meeting. ‘Then, secondly, we need to find out what that delicious smell is that wafts across the valley. If we knew what it was, perhaps we could have it too.’
The animals agreed. But no one could agree whom to send to meet Man. The small animals were too scared to go. The buck couldn’t swim to the other side. Rhino was too bad-tempered to meet anyone. Giraffe was too tall to swim all that way. And Lion was too fierce. So Monkey volunteered.
‘Don’t be silly, Monkey,’ said Elephant. ‘You are far too naughty.’ But then the king spoke. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Monkey is naughty and can be very noisy. But who else has the skills that Monkey has? He can run on land. He can swing in trees. He can swim in water. He’s got the brains to escape if he needed to. I think that’s a very good idea – Monkey, you are the one.’
Stories Gogo Told Me Page 10