Ajapa the Tortoise

by Margaret Baumann

  A Fisherman Finds the Golden Comb. Page 22.

  “Oh,” cried little Remi, dancing with delight, “it will be the envy of all the other girls. Let me wear it at once!”

  But Taiwo and Kehinde, the twin sons of the fisherman, looked closely at the comb and whispered together.

  “Father,” they both said at once, “this comb is too pretty for a fisherman’s daughter. Let us sell it in the town, for it seems to be made of gold, and with the money we obtain we can buy Remi a comb of tortoiseshell, and other things for ourselves besides.”

  At this Remi began to cry and begged for the yellow comb. Her brothers just as eagerly wished to sell it, so that in the end their father was quite distracted, and, unwilling to grieve any of them, he decided to take the comb into the town and find out its real value.

  Accordingly he set out, after hastily drinking a bowl of gari, which is what poor people live on in Nigeria, and soon reached the town.

  He found himself in the market and showed his comb to a trader of good reputation, who examined it—at first carelessly, then with great interest.

  “My friend,” said the honest trader, who was called Oniyun. “You must take this comb to the goldsmith, not to a poor stallholder like myself, for if I turned all my goods into money I could still not afford to buy it from you. How came you by such a treasure?”

  The cautious fisherman declined to say, and, while thanking Oniyun for his kindness, asked for the name of a goldsmith to whom he might apply.

  “You will find an honest man living at the second house in the street leading to the market-place,” said the trader. “His name is Alagbede, and he will give you a good price for your comb, which is made of the purest gold and displays the finest workmanship in the world in its decoration. I pray you at least to hide the comb carefully, and to avoid those who wear their garments tucked up.1 And should this comb bring you a fortune, I shall expect to be a guest at your feast!”

  The fisherman again thanked him and set out for the goldsmith’s house. The servants of the rich smith did not at first wish to admit one so poorly clad, but he was persistent in demanding to see their master, and at length they ushered him into a darkened room, where the goldsmith was lying on a divan, enjoying the coolness of a fan. The heat of the day was intense, and he was evidently angry at being disturbed.

  “Sir,” said the fisherman humbly, “I have here a comb which I desire to sell. I was directed to you by a trader named Oniyun.”

  On beholding the comb the goldsmith at once lost his air of indolence, and examined it with close attention.

  “How came you by this comb?” he demanded, frowning suspiciously.

  “Sir,” replied the fisherman with dignity, thrusting the comb into his garments, “I obtained the comb by no dishonest means, and if you hold me in suspicion, I have nothing to say to you but ‘Eku iyonu!’—Greetings to you on your inquisitiveness!—and to take my departure.”

  But the goldsmith begged him not to be offended, and made him sit down on a handsomely carved stool.

  “Pardon my rashness,” he said, “but in our trade we have to be suspicious. The comb you have shown me is of great value, and worthy to adorn the head of the King’s favourite wife.”

  The fisherman was so delighted that he desired to dance for joy, and only kept to his seat with difficulty.

  “Oniyun did well to direct your innocent steps to my dwelling,” pursued the goldsmith. “Many a one would offer you a bag of cowries for the comb, while concealing its true value from you; and then, after your departure, sell it to a wealthy chief for a large fortune.”

  “It is true,” agreed the fisherman, but somewhat impatiently, as he was so eager to learn the value of the comb.

  Finally, after much consideration, the goldsmith named a sum which caused the poor fisherman to go into a transport.

  “Sir!” he exclaimed, seizing the goldsmith’s feet, “you are indeed an elephant of justice! There are certainly many honest men in the world. May your generosity be rewarded!”

  All this time the fisherman’s family had been awaiting his return in great impatience. What was their surprise to see him arrive followed by a cart, drawn by two men, containing many bags of money.

  They overwhelmed him with questions and soon heard all the good news.

  “I must run to the market-place, and buy silk and velvet clothes to wear!” cried Ayo, his wife.

  “Not so fast!” said the fisherman with dignity. “Your days of running to and fro are ended, wife, and you shall not leave the hut until I have procured a ricksha and coolies, so that you may ride about the town like a great lady. The treasure which I found upon the sands has raised us from poverty to wealth, and we are now not poor fisherfolk, but people of importance. To-night we must give a feast which will ever be remembered by the owners of canoes and fishing-nets. Let us therefore prepare.”

  Within an hour six hired cooks were busy over the huge iron cooking-pots, and sellers of provisions in the market had received orders which made them open their eyes wide with astonishment, and wonder what fish this poor man had caught in his net, that he who had previously consumed only fish and gari should to-day make preparations for such a banquet.

  A whole ox, three sheep, and forty chickens were roasted or stewed at the fisherman’s hut, so that the savoury odour was carried far and wide. There were bowls of rice and yams, and the most delicious fruit in great abundance, while the best drummers of the town were engaged to play for the dancing.

  By the light of the moon the great feast took place, and the poor fishermen left their nets idle and their canoes drawn up on the beach. Never before or since was there such a memorable feast on that sea-shore.

  Meanwhile the mermaids were busy preparing to come up to the beach for their midnight revels.

  “Are you all ready, daughters?” asked the King of the Water-People. “Have you all got your coral beads and your pearls and your golden combs?”

  “Alas!” sobbed the Careless Mermaid, “I have lost my comb.”

  “What! Your beautiful golden comb?”

  “I have looked everywhere—in the caves, and among the seaweeds, but I could not find it. I have asked the shark and the swordfish if they have swallowed it, and they knew nothing about it. I asked the crab if he has tried to hide it in the gravel, but he was quite rude to me. And when I asked the octopus, he tried to grasp me with his horrible, twining arms, so I swam away.”

  The King of the Water-People looked very grave, and the mermaids all frowned upon their careless sister.

  “I have reigned here for thousands and thousands of years,” declared the King, shaking his head solemnly, “and not one comb has been lost during all that time. It is true that Land-People have dived into the sea and stolen some of our pearls, and it is true that now and again a broken coral necklace has been washed up on the shore, but a golden comb has never yet become the property of a Land-Maiden. Alas! alas! Oh, careless daughter, you must have left your comb upon the sands.”

  Anxiously the mermaids crept up the sands in the moonlight and searched vainly for their missing treasure. No trace of it could be found. The Careless Mermaid wept bitterly, and the rest scolded and slapped her. In the distance they could hear music and dancing; the feast of the fisherfolk was at its height.

  At dawn the mermaids had to glide back into their watery kingdom, and ever since then all day long they lash their tails and whip the waves into foam and froth, because they are wild with anger that the golden comb should have been taken from them. That is why the surf beats so fiercely all along the coast.

  But some day another careless water-mammy may leave her comb behind at dawn, and if you go to the sands early enough and quietly enough, before there is a single footprint, you too may find it gleaming there and make a great fortune, while the surf rages furiously and a little mermaid weeps sadly under the waves for her lost treasure.

  VII. The Farmer’s Daughter

  There once was a farmer who had a very
foolish daughter called Molara. She was so foolish that her brothers and sisters often made fun of her and teased her about her stupidity, until poor Molara would hide in a corner of the house and weep bitterly.

  Now her father, the farmer, was a rich man, and he had a great many cattle and goats, fields of maize and many fruit trees.

  Not far away lived a young farmer who had met with bad fortune. His crops were ruined and his cattle had fallen ill and died, so that he was very poor indeed.

  One day he was standing by the wall which divided his land from the fields of his rich neighbour, when he saw the farmer’s daughter walking in the field, weeping sadly.

  He called to her: “Why do you weep?”

  And she replied: “Because I am so ugly.”

  “If you will give me some good fat cows,” said the cunning young man, “I will tell you how to become beautiful.”

  “But I have no cows,” Molara replied sadly.

  “What are those animals I can see in the field?”

  “Those are my father’s cows.”

  “Well, if you will bring me half your father’s cows, I will tell you the secret.”

  Foolish Molara joyfully drove half the herd of cows into the young man’s field.

  “The secret is this,” said the young man. “To be beautiful you must smile all the time.”

  Molara ran smiling into the house, and her brothers and sisters exclaimed:

  “Just look at Molara! She is quite pretty tonight!”

  But when the farmer came home, he was in great distress, because half his cattle had disappeared and could not be found anywhere.

  Molara said nothing.

  The next day the young man stood at the wall again, and saw the farmer’s daughter walking in the field.

  “Are you happy now?” he called to her.

  “No,” she replied sadly, “I am still unhappy, because no one will marry me.”

  “Well,” said the crafty young man, “if you will bring me the rest of your father’s cattle, I will tell you how to get married.”

  So foolish Molara gaily drove the rest of the cattle into his field, and he said:

  “The secret is this: pretend that you do not wish to marry anyone, and all the young men will be anxious to marry you.”

  Molara ran into the house and found her eldest brother sitting with his friends.

  “Poor Molara!” said the brother. “She looks so pretty now, but no one will marry her.”

  “I shall never marry!” declared Molara, smiling brightly, and her brother’s friends were so much astonished that they all resolved to ask her father if one of them might marry her.

  But when the farmer came home, he would not listen to them. He was very angry and distressed because the rest of his cattle had disappeared and could not be found anywhere.

  And Molara said nothing.

  Next day the young man stood by the wall and called to her as she walked in the field:

  “Are you happy now?”

  “No,” said Molara sadly, “I am still unhappy, because everyone says I am so foolish.”

  “Well,” said the wicked young man, “if you will bring me your father’s goats, I will tell you the secret of wisdom.”

  Molara gladly drove her father’s goats into the young man’s field, and he said:

  “This is the secret of wisdom: remember that everybody else is more foolish than yourself.”

  Molara ran back into the house. She smiled, and turned her back on all the young men, and when anyone spoke to her, she had a wise look, as if to say: “Ah! You think I am foolish, but I know you are much more foolish than I!”

  So that everybody looked at her with pleasure and respect, and she was at last very happy.

  But when the farmer came home, he wept and said:

  “Alas, children! I am ruined. My cattle and goats have disappeared by magic, and I am sure that in the morning the harvest will be gone from my fields and the fruit from my trees. Alas! alas!”

  And still Molara said nothing.

  But she lay awake all night thinking of her father’s words, and as she was now much less foolish, she realized how wicked the young man was, in spite of his good advice, and she tried to think of some plan by which she could get back her father’s cattle and goats.

  Very early next morning she went to the market, and saw the young man’s wife buying rice for the day. Molara went up to her and said:

  “If you will give me the goats which are in your husband’s field, I will tell you a great secret about him.”

  The wife was at once filled with curiosity to know the secret about her husband, and finally she agreed to drive back the goats. When Molara had counted them and seen that they were all safe in her father’s field, she said:

  “This is the secret: your husband is a dishonest man.”

  The wife was very angry to hear this, and wished she had not handed over the goats, but it was too late. That evening Molara’s father returned home rejoicing.

  “Wonderful! My goats have returned! . . . Molara, how pretty you look!”

  And Molara went to bed smiling.

  Early next morning she went again to the market and saw the young mans’ wife.

  “If you give me half of the cattle in your husband’s field,” she said, “I will tell you an even greater secret about him.”

  The wife was very eager to know the secret, and could not help driving half the cattle into Molara’s field. When she had counted them, Molara said:

  “This is the secret: your husband will always be poor while he is dishonest.”

  The wife went away in a fury, wishing she had not given up the cattle.

  That night the farmer came home in high spirits.

  “Still more wonderful!” he declared. “Half my cattle have returned. I am a very lucky man! . . . Molara, these three young men have asked me if they can marry you, and I cannot decide which of them will be the best husband.”

  Molara turned her back on them all and went to bed smiling.

  The next morning she saw the young man’s wife and said:

  “If you will give me the rest of the cattle in your husband’s field, I will tell you the most important secret of all about him.”

  “I do not wish to know your secrets!” said the wife rudely. “And besides, my husband will beat me when he comes home and finds his field empty.”

  “Very well, then,” said Molara, and pretended to go away. But the wife was really devoured with anxiety to know the secret, and she ran after Molara and promised to drive back all the remaining cattle.

  When Molara had counted them all, she said:

  “This is the secret, and I hope you will repeat my words to your husband, if he asks you what has happened to the cattle and goats. Your husband thinks he is wise, but he is much more foolish than I!”

  That night there was great rejoicing and feasting in the rich farmer’s house.

  “All my cattle and goats have returned by magic!” cried the farmer, embracing his children. “I am a lucky man. . . . Molara, you look so wise and pretty; I shall not accept any man as a son-in-law unless he has at least twenty cows and ten servants, because really I have a very good daughter.”

  Molara smiled as she went to bed. But no one ever knew just how foolish and just how wise she had been!

  VIII. The Seven Brothers

  Once there lived a man—a very old man—who had seven handsome sons, a large house and many tall trees around it.

  One morning he said to his eldest son:

  “Adekunle, I would like you to climb that tree opposite the house and bring me down some fruit.”

  “With pleasure, father,” replied the boy, and going out of the house he began to climb the tree.

  But when he had climbed only half way up, he suddenly gave a cry and fell down to the ground, and when the second son ran to him, he found that he was dead.

  “Alas, father!” cried the second son. “Adekunle is dead! I will climb up and get the fruit.”<
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  But when the second son was only half way up the tree, he too gave a cry and fell to the ground, and when the third brother ran to him he was dead.

  “Alas, father!” cried the third son. “My two brothers are dead. I will get you the fruit.”

  But the same thing happened to him and to all the brothers in turn, even to the youngest. There they lay in a row on the ground, and their father and mother wept to see what had befallen.

  “This is terrible!” said the father. “I will climb up myself to get the fruit.”

  But his wife begged him not to climb the tree.

  “There is some mystery in this,” she said. “Let us go to the King and tell him what has happened.”

  The old man agreed, and they went together to the King’s palace. The King declared that it was the strangest thing he had ever heard of, and that he would give a quarter of his kingdom to anyone who could solve the mystery of the seven brothers, and why they fell dead when they reached the same place in climbing the tree.

  All the magicians of the country resolved to find out the reason, and they set off in great haste from every direction to the old man’s house.

  There stood the tree, and there lay the seven brothers, just as he had said. The magicians were all eager to climb the tree, but one who was considered more powerful than the rest was at length allowed to climb the tree.

  When he was half way up, he too gave a cry and fell to the ground dead.

  At this the other magicians were filled with horror and ran away from the place—all except one, a very wise man, who waited until all the others had gone far away, and then went by himself to look at the seven brothers and the first magician, who lay in a row on the ground at the foot of the tree.

  But he was much too cautious to climb the tree.

  Instead, he brought an axe and chopped the tree down. It fell with a crash, and after looking at it carefully, and putting something in a basket which he carried, the magician hurried away, laughing gleefully.