Stories Gogo Told Me

by Lisa Grainger

  Brushing the grass off their fur, the two charmers strolled out of the bush and strutted towards the girls. Soon, with their polite manners and handsome looks, the pair had enticed the girls to share a sunset drink by the river, where they giggled and fluttered their eyelashes.

  As usual, the boys spent hours competing for attention. ‘You have never met such a great burrow digger as myself,’ boasted Hare, showing off his strong back leg muscles. ‘If you need someone to dig you an extra room, girls, I’m your man!’

  Baboon gave a laugh. ‘You may be able to dig down, Hare,’ he said, ‘but you can’t climb like I can to the top of a tree to pick presents of mangoes, figs and papaya. If you want a boyfriend who will give you presents, girls, or a pair of nimble hands, I’m definitely your man!’

  The boasting continued all evening, Hare and Baboon trying to outdo each other, until at last the time came for everyone to go home. As they were leaving, Hare took one of the girls aside. ‘If you meet us in the same place tomorrow,’ he whispered, ‘you will see with your own eyes who is the greater of the two.’ The girl nodded happily, and waved Hare and Baboon goodbye, shouting ‘See you tomorrow’ as they went.

  The next day, Hare and Baboon got up early to spruce themselves up. They brushed their coats and groomed their tails. They flicked off fleas and picked off burrs. Finally, when they were ready, they gave each other a look-over. ‘Very handsome, Baboon,’ proclaimed Hare, giving his friend’s coat a last minute dust. ‘They’ll love you.’

  They set off but five minutes down the path Hare gave a groan and, holding his stomach in agony, fell to the ground. ‘I’m ill, terribly ill,’ whined the long-eared creature, wriggling and writhing on the path. ‘I can’t walk any longer, Baboon. You are going to have to carry me.’

  Baboon had never seen his friend ill before, so, feeling sorry for him, he willingly leant down so Hare could climb on to his back.’ Thank you,’ said Hare, mounting Baboon with a sly smile. ‘How kind, dear friend, how kind. Imagine how impressed the girls are going to be with your chivalry.’ ‘Indeed,’ said Baboon, smiling happily at that thought, ‘just imagine!’

  A bit further along the path, Hare again let out another cry. ‘Flipping flies! I wish they would stop biting me!’ he said irritated. ‘Would you be so kind, friend Baboon, to pass me a long leafy stick to swat them off?’

  Keen to help his sick friend, Baboon amicably agreed, and soon Hare was happily sitting on his friend’s back swatting flies with his long leafy stick. The peace didn’t last long though. Just before the river, Hare started screaming. ‘Quick, Baboon, Lion is coming to eat us!’ he screeched, clinging onto Baboon’s back with all his might. ‘Run!’

  Believing every word, Baboon shot off towards the river, dust flying as his paws scuffled up the dirt. The closer to the girls they got, the louder Hare shouted, urging him on and beating him with his long new stick. ‘Faster, Baboon, faster!’ he screeched. ‘If you don’t get us to the river, we will be Lion’s dinner!’

  Baboon ran and ran and ran. When at last they reached the river, where the two girls were waiting, he was hot, dusty, sweaty and exhausted. Not Hare, though. ‘Why, hello girls,’ he said smoothly, hopping off his friend’s back. ‘Isn’t it wonderful to have friend who will transport you about?’

  The two girls smiled at Hare, captivated by his charisma. Imagine, they thought, having a boyfriend with his own transport! ‘What a wonderful, handsome and clean creature you are, Mr Hare,’ they cooed, as Baboon stood by, filthy and sweaty. ‘Can we offer you a drink, my dear?’

  And off they swayed, arm-in-arm with Mr Hare, towards the river for a drink, chatting and laughing and enjoying his wit, as well as his charm.

  Baboon, sitting exhausted in the dust, was humiliated and very, very cross. But realising that he had no chance of charming the girls with his muddy paws, dusty coat and sweaty face, he grumpily put his tail between his legs and swung off home through the trees, vowing to revenge his cheating chum.

  Hare, being the charming chap he is, won the hearts of both women, and took them both home as wives. Even today look and see how many wives and girlfriends and children he has. It will definitely be more than one. He isn’t called the Charming Chap of the Jungle for nothing.

  The baboon’s party

  Told to me in Shona by Talent Tabengwa, a Methodist pastor in the Chiwundura communal area near Kwekwe, Zimbabwe

  Once upon a time Hare and Baboon were close friends. Every morning, they would wake up, eat breakfast and walk to the fields to farm their crops. There Baboon pulled the plough to break up the soil and Hare hopped from one side to the other, planting seeds. They were a fine team.

  One year their millet crop was so good that Baboon decided to have a party. He called his wife and asked her to prepare big barrels of beer, brewed from their millet. ‘Yippppppeeeeee!’ she screamed, jumping wildly from branch to branch. ‘A party!’ Then she swung off the branch to start brewing.

  After a few weeks Mrs Baboon’s beer was ready and the couple started to issue invitations. When it came to Hare’s invitation, though, Mrs Baboon paused. ‘I know you and Hare are good friends,’ she said to her husband, ‘but he has his own share of millet to brew beer from. I am not going to give him any of mine.’ Mr Baboon, being rather scared of his sharp-toothed wife, agreed. But he was secretly worried. How was his wife going to keep a clever fellow like Hare away from a party?

  Mrs Baboon, of course, had a plan, and when the day of the party came, she woke up early and started to carry the calabashes of beer up a very high tree. So that was how she was going to keep Hare away! Mr Baboon smiled. Hare couldn’t climb!

  The party was a great hit, and soon the jungle was filled with the sounds of Baboons screeching and yelling. When Hare heard the noise, he went to investigate. ‘Hey friend Baboon!’ he yelled from the ground, ‘Can I come to your party?’ Hearing the cry, Mrs Baboon climbed to a low branch to greet him. ‘Of course Hare, come up,’ she said, her long teeth glinting as she smiled. ‘As I am sure you know, baboon beer has to be drunk up a tree, not on the ground. But please, come and join us.’ And off she went.

  But no matter how hard Hare tried, he just could not get up the tree. He couldn’t jump high enough to grab a branch, and his paws were too soft and slippery to climb the trunk. Tired, and very upset at his friends’ meanness, he went home and cried.

  His tears didn’t last long, though, for in his burrow that night, Hare came up with a plan for revenge. First thing next morning he instructed Mrs Hare to chill their best beer. Then quickly he hopped over to Baboon’s tree, where he invited his friends to a party. ‘But be sure to wash your hands, though,’ he warned Baboon. ‘Mrs Hare wants it to be a smart affair tomorrow with lots of clean new beer mugs. She would not be pleased if you dirtied them.’ Baboon nodded happily, pleased to be invited, and waved as Hare hopped off home.

  That night, Hare prepared his trap for the next day. First, once his family were asleep in their burrow, he snuck out and from a nearby village stole a little piece of burning log. Then, after setting the grass outside his burrow ablaze, he hopped happily back to bed, knowing that when he woke, the grass outside his burrow would be burnt black.

  The next day, just as he had planned, Hare’s friends all hopped through their underground burrows to his house for the party. The only person to arrive from the outside world was Baboon, who called politely from the burrow entrance. ‘Why hello Baboon,’ said Hare good-naturedly. ‘You’re looking wonderfully groomed and glossy. Um, pity about your dirty hands.’

  Baboon looked down and blushed. Hare was right. Although Baboon’s wife had de-flead and cleaned him beautifully, his hands and feet were filthy – black and covered in soot. How could that have happened? Embarrassed, he backed out and quickly ran to the river to have a wash.

  But no matter how many times he washed his feet and hands, every time he walked back into Hare’s burrow, the same thing happened. And while Hare seemed sympathetic to his friend’s dile
mma, he had to be firm. ‘I’m sorry, Baboon, but you know Mrs Hare’s rules,’ he said. ‘No clean hands, no beer.’

  Poor Baboon. Soon, it was too late. Hare’s beer had all been drunk, his food finished, and his guests were hopping happily home to their burrows. And Baboon had had none of it.

  ‘Isn’t it strange, my friend,’ said Hare, as he escorted Baboon back to his tree, ‘that in the very week I fail to climb your tree for a beer, you come to my party and can’t drink either? Doesn’t the jungle deliver strange justice?’

  That justice still exists today. Have you ever seen a hare up a tree? Or a baboon down a burrow? There you are.

  The king of the birds

  Told to me in Xhosa by Mabutinki Mafatshe in Rustenberg, South Africa

  Once upon a time the birds decided to elect a king. ‘The animals have a king, Man has a king, so we should have a king,’ they said, gathering under the branches of the ancient baobab tree.

  Once feathers had settled, the roosters had roosted, the flamingos had balanced themselves on one leg, and all the tiny jewel-coloured sunbirds had stopped chattering, the meeting began. The little black swallow was the first to speak up. ‘I think Ostrich should be king,’ it chirruped. ‘Kings are strong and powerful, and Ostrich is by far the biggest.’ There was a murmur of approval from all the birds.

  But Ostrich shook his head. ‘Thank you, kind Sparrow,’ he said. ‘While I am extremely honoured, I believe the king of the birds should be someone who can fly, and sadly ostriches cannot. It will be of no use to you having a king who cannot see his kingdom from the sky, will it?’

  The birds nodded. He was right. So who should it be? ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Ostrich. ‘We should hold a competition, and the bird who can fly higher and for longer than anyone else should be crowned.’

  There was so much dust and so many feathers flying that nobody noticed that Quelea had hidden himself among the feathers on Eagle’s back. When Eagle soared higher than anyone else, so did the cunning little Quelea.

  After hours of flapping and soaring, most birds were exhausted, and soon only Eagle was left flying. ‘Get the crown ready,’ he called grandly to all his prospective subjects on the ground. ‘Your new king is about to land.’

  The birds were very excited. ‘Hail Eagle, King of the Birds,’ they shrieked, squawked and sang in unison. ‘Come down and be our king.’

  Just then the birds heard a sound which appeared to come from above Eagle’s wings. ‘Ping! Ping!’ it went. ‘Ping! Ping!’ Everyone looked up and, sure enough, flying above the mighty eagle was a little quelea. ‘Look at me! Look at me!’ it trilled. ‘It is I, not Eagle, who has won. Prepare a nest for your new king!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Eagle, his golden eyes flashing crossly. ‘It is quite clear that Quelea has cheated, for he could never fly higher and for longer than me. You must crown me king.’

  The birds didn’t know what to do because they had told Eagle he was king, but Quelea had clearly flown higher. So they all huddled up for an emergency meeting. This time Ostrich was the first to speak. ‘What’s important, my friends the birds, is to find out whether Quelea cheated or not,’ he said, fluffing his wing feathers importantly. ‘If he did not, he should be king. If he did, he should be plucked as punishment.’

  Being rather a dapper little fellow, Quelea didn’t like the thought of having all his feathers plucked at all. So without delay he scuttled off down the tiniest mongoose burrow he could find, where he felt sure none of the other birds would be able to find him.

  He was right. Not a single other bird could fit down the narrow passage – which made them all doubly furious. ‘Oh well,’ said Ostrich, snapping his beak crossly. ‘It’s quite clear he cheated, or he wouldn’t be hiding from us. We can’t waste any more time with this silly Quelea. Someone will have to set up watch outside so when he comes out, he is caught. In the meanwhile, the rest of us should decide who should be king.’

  It was agreed that because Owl is such a big and heavy bird, he should keep watch. Quelea, the birds said, would never be able to escape past the sharp talons and piercing beak of Owl. So, Owl was positioned above the mongoose’s hole while the other birds went off for their meeting.

  From his hole, Quelea listened carefully to their plans. How on earth was he going to escape, he thought. Then he came up with a plan. He knew that Owl liked nothing more than a fat mouse to eat, so, from the soft clay in the mongoose hole, Quelea carefully made a lovely, soft grey clay mouse, which he pushed up slowly through the hole with a stick.

  Owl couldn’t believe his luck. As you know, he can’t see very well during the day, but even he could make out that shape, and it was a delicious snack! He leapt on it, pecking it with his sharp beak, then sprang back in horror as the horrible, sticky, grey wet clay stuck to his beak, his eyes and his face. Owl hooted and howled, scraping and scratching as he pulled the sticky pieces off his face. And as he did so, Quelea escaped.

  When Owl discovered Quelea was gone, he knew he would be in terrible trouble. ‘What will I dooooooo? What will I doooooo? Twitboohoo! Twitboohoo!’ he cried. Terrified of what the other birds might do, Owl breathed in, and crunched his wings together, then squeezed his fat, feathered body into the tiny mongoose hole to hide.

  When the other birds came by later, they were in a terrible mood, as no one could make a decision as to who should be king. The atmosphere became even worse when they saw the half-eaten clay mouse outside the hole and no Quelea inside it. ‘That stupid, greedy Owl is even more foolish than the cheating Quelea,’ said the birds. ‘He, too, will have to be plucked! Let’s get him!’

  As you know, birds come in many different shapes and sizes, and some species are better at pulling creatures from holes than others. To get Owl out, it was the big birds who were needed, with their long beaks and razor-sharp claws. Stork was the first to be asked to try. He stepped forward on his spindly pink legs, lowered his head and slowly inserted his long black beak into the mongoose hole.

  What the birds had forgotten was that, while Owls see badly in the day, they can focus perfectly in the dark. And as the beak came towards him in the dark hole, Owl saw it and bit hard. With screeches and squawks, Stork leapt back out of the hole, blood pouring from down his long neck. So Hawk bravely volunteered to try – with the same results. Then scruffy Vulture got a sharp gash above his eye.

  ‘Let’s go home now,’ said Vulture, rubbing his red, sore head with his scraggly wing. ‘Tomorrow we will be fresher and can decide how to punish this vicious owl.’ The other birds were glad to agree. It had been a long day and none of them wanted to be the next to be bitten by Owl. So off they flew home to their nests.

  As soon as it was dark, Owl crept out of the hole and silently winged his way through the forest to find a secret tree hole of his own. He has lived there ever since, all by himself. The only time he comes out now is to try to catch a real mouse by moonlight, when you might hear his lonely call: ‘Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot!’

  The other birds still haven’t decided who should be their leader. If you see a flock of them round a pond or up a tree today, perhaps that’s what they are trying to do: elect a king.

  How Bushpig got a flat nose

  Told to me in English by Zambian game guide Aubrey Mbewe in the Luangwa Valley, Zambia, who was told it by his Zimbabwean grandmother

  Once upon a time, when the earth was still young, the bushpig had a beautiful, long, elegant nose. He snuffled with it in the grasses, using it to sniff out the tastiest, sweetest fruit and roots in the forest, and to dig out the whitest, fattest ants on the anthill. It was a source of great pride.

  One day, when he was on his way to the river for a morning drink and a cooling mud-bath, he spotted the lilac-breasted roller doing one of its magnificent air displays. The bird was a natural acrobat, flying up and up towards the sun, before shooting down like a stone. Then, just before the ground, he’d do a neat little flip, and land deftly on a branch, right beside his wife.

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p; Roller was a bit of a show-off, but his performance was obviously a great source of pride to Mrs Roller. On his landing, she would coo ostentatiously, fluffing up her lilac feathers and puffing out her breast beside her magnificent aerobatic husband.

  Bushpig was mesmerised by the sight. ‘Oh, how I wish I could learn to fly like that,’ he said. ‘Imagine being able to see the earth from the sky! And just think how proud Mrs Bushpig would be! Perhaps she wouldn’t wander off so much if I could do clever tricks like that.’ And he gave a little sigh.

  The great African hornbill was standing by, listening. ‘You can do anything if you really want to, Bushpig,’ he said. ‘Would you give anything to fly?’

  ‘Anything, oh anything!’ snuffled Bushpig, little tears running down his face. ‘No matter what I do, Mrs Bushpig ignores me, wandering off with our little babies. But if I could fly …’

  Hornbill had an idea. ‘If I gave you some feathers, and the bees gave you some wax, then perhaps you could,’ he suggested. ‘We’d just stick the feathers on with the wax and that would be that. Come on, it’s worth a try.’

  Once Hornbill had pulled out some of his feathers, the bees volunteered an old comb of their wax, and soon Bushpig and his stuck-on feathers were ready to fly. At first he just tried jumping from a high rock, flapping his little legs, and soaring gently down to earth. But once he’d tried that, his mind was set. ‘I want to fly high, high in the sky!’ he cried.

  The animals, excited by the commotion, soon came out of the jungle to see what the fuss was. Even night creatures like the nightjar and elephant shrew were woken from their sleep. ‘Bushpig can fly! Bushpig can fly!’ the creatures cried, looking upwards. And sure enough, flying above the trees towards the clouds the animals saw the strangest sight – a fat, hairy, long-nosed creature covered in black and white feathers, soaring like a bird.

  Bushpig was so excited that he flew for hours – over koppies, above the grasslands, along rivers and through herds of buffalo. He flew higher and higher, until at last he could see the midday sun right above him in the sky. It was perfect. Bliss. Until suddenly he felt a drip. Then heard a flutter. Felt another drip. And heard a second flutter. ‘It’s not raining,’ he thought, floating through the air. ‘And there aren’t any other birds around. What can it be?’