The next morning, at dawn, the young woman picked up a little gourd water-bottle and went behind her hut. There she saw the frog. “Welcome, welcome, old fellow,” she said. She told him that she wanted to build a well. “And then all of you can come live in it and be close to me.”
“All right,” the frog said. “Tell your husband.” And she did.
And the chief’s son had a well dug for her, close to the hut. And the frogs came, climbed into the well, and there they lived. That’s all. Kungurus kan kusu.4
SOURCE: William Bascom, “Cinderella in Africa,” 56–59.
This tale remained a puzzle to twentieth-century folklorists, who encountered the story in a 1911 collection of Hausa folktales. Andrew Lang set the stage for the mystery by asserting, “One thing is plain, a naked and a shoeless race could not have invented Cinderella” (Dundes 1988, 165). Africa could therefore not possibly have served as the source of the tale, despite the fact that our earliest Cinderella is Rhodopis, the Greek courtesan who loses her sandal and marries the ruler of Egypt. That the tale hinges on the motif of a slipper-test rather than on the social elevation of the heroine is a questionable premise. What we have in the tale recorded by Bascom is a Cinderella story that may have sprung up from native soil but that may also have been, like all folktales, inspired by narratives that migrated from one place to another, picking up bits and pieces of the cultural surround as they moved.
“The Maiden, the Frog, and the Chief’s Son,” from William Bascom, Journal of the Folklore Institute 9 (1972): 56–59. Reprinted with permission of Indiana University Press.
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1 fura: a kind of gruel, usually eaten in the morning
2 tuwo: porridge made of millet or other grain, usually the evening meal
3 Bambara groundnut: a nut native to West Africa, somewhat like the peanut
4 Kungurus kan kusu: formulaic ending for a tale: “Off with the rat’s head!”
ADZANUMEE AND HER MOTHER
There once lived a woman who had one great wish. She longed to have a daughter—but alas! she remained childless. She was never able to feel joy because this one wish remained unfulfilled. Even during feasts the thought would be in her mind, “If only I had a daughter to share this with me.”
One day she was gathering yams in the field, and it happened that she pulled one up that was very long and well shaped. “If only this fine yam were a daughter, how happy I would be.”
To her astonishment the yam replied, “If I were to be your daughter, would you promise never to scold me for having once been a yam?” The woman agreed at once, and suddenly the yam turned into a beautiful, well-made girl. The woman was overjoyed and was very kind to the girl. She called her Adzanumee. The girl was always useful to her mother. She would make bread, gather yams, and sell them at the market place.
One day Adzanumee was away longer than usual. Her mother grew impatient and angry. “Where can Adzanumee be? She does not deserve such a beautiful name. After all, she is nothing but a yam.”
A bird singing nearby heard the mother’s words and flew away to the tree under which Adzanumee was sitting. There he began to sing:
Adzanumee! Adzanumee!
Your mother is unkind—she says that you are nothing but a yam.
You do not deserve your name!
Adzanumee! Adzanumee!
The girl heard the bird and returned home weeping. When the woman saw her, she said, “My daughter, my dear daughter! What is the matter?”
Adzanumee replied:
Oh Mother! Dear Mother!
You have scolded me for being a yam.
You said I did not deserve my name.
Oh Mother! Dear Mother!
As she spoke those words, she made her way back to the yam field. Her mother, filled with fear, followed her, wailing,
Adzanumee! Adzanumee!
Do not believe it—do not believe it.
You are my daughter, my dear daughter
Adzanumee!
But it was too late. Her daughter, still singing her sad little song, changed back into a yam. When the woman arrived at the field, the yam was lying on the ground. Nothing she could do or say would give her back the daughter she had so passionately wished for and treated so badly.
SOURCE: William Henry Barker and Cecilia Sinclair, West African Folk-Tales, 77–79.
Desire becomes so explosive in this story that it can turn a yam into a child. The mother’s failure to keep her promise to protect the girl’s origins has tragic consequences. Most European fairy tales with children in them have a cautionary edge, designed to teach a lesson to the child in the story and outside it. By contrast, the parent in this story receives a strong message about preserving an affirmative, loving relationship to her offspring.
THE STORY OF THE CANNIBAL MOTHER AND HER CHILDREN
There once lived a man and a woman with two children, a boy and a girl. The children went to live with their grandfather. Their mother was a cannibal, but not their father.1
One day they said to their grandfather, “We have stayed with you long enough. Now we would like very much to go and see our parents.”
Their grandfather said: “Ha! Will you be able to return? Don’t you realize that your mother is a cannibal?”
After a while the grandfather gave his consent. He said, “You have to plan to arrive there in the evening so that your mother will not be able to see you, only your father.”
The boy’s name was Hinazinci. He said: “Let us go now, sister.”
They left at sunset. When they arrived at their father’s hut, they listened outside to find out if their mother was at home. They heard only their father’s voice, so they called to him. He came out, and when he saw them he felt bad and said: “Why did you come here, dear children? Don’t you know that your mother is a cannibal?”
Just then they heard what sounded like thunder. It was their mother returning home. Their father took them indoors and hid them in a dark corner, where he covered them with skins. Their mother came in with an animal carcass and the body of a man. She said: “There’s something in here. What a nice smell it has!”2
The woman said to her husband, “Sohinazinci, what can you tell me about the nice smell in the hut? You must tell me whether my children are here.”
Her husband replied: “You must be dreaming. They are not here.”
The mother went over to the corner where the children were hiding and took the skins away. When she saw them, she said, “Children, I am very sorry that you are here, because I have to eat people up, no matter what.”
She cooked the animal she had brought home as a meal for the children and their father, and the dead man she kept for herself. After they had eaten, she went out.
The father said to the children, “When we lie down to go to sleep, you must be watchful. You will hear people dancing, wild beasts roaring, and dogs barking in your mother’s stomach. You will know by those sounds that she is sleeping, and you must then get up at once and leave.”
They lay down, but the man and the children only pretended to go to sleep. The children listened for the sounds their father had described. After a while, they heard people dancing, wild beasts roaring, and dogs barking. Then their father shook them and told them they must leave while their mother was still sleeping. They said their farewells and crept out quietly so that their mother would not hear them.
At midnight, the woman woke up, and when she found that the children had left, she took her ax and ran after them. They had already gone a long way on their journey when they saw her in pursuit. They were so tired that they could no longer run. As she came closer, the boy said to the girl, “Sister, sing your beautiful song. Perhaps she will take pity on us when she hears it and return home without hurting us.”
The girl replied, “She will not listen to anything now because she needs meat.”
Hinazinci said, “Try anyway, sister. It may not be in vain.”
&nbs
p; So she sang her song, and when the cannibal heard it, she ran backward to her own hut. There she attacked her husband and wanted to chop him up with the ax. Her husband grabbed her arm and said, “Ho! If you kill me, who will be your husband?”
The woman left him and ran after the children again.
The children were now close to their grandfather’s village. They were very weak, and their mother soon overtook them. The girl fell down, and the cannibal caught her and swallowed her. The mother ran after her son. He fell down at the entrance to his grandfather’s hut, and she picked him up and swallowed him too. She found only the old people and the children of the village at home, all the others being at work in the fields. She ate all the people who were at home and also all the cattle that were there.
Toward evening, she left to return home. There was a deep valley in the way, and when she came to it she saw a beautiful bird.3 As she approached it, the bird grew larger and larger, until at last, when she was very close to it, it was the size of a hut.
The bird began to sing. The woman looked at it, and said to herself, “I shall take this bird home to my husband.”
The bird continued its song, and sang:
I am a pretty bird of the valley,
And you have brought trouble.
The bird flew slowly toward her, still singing its song. When they met, the bird took the ax from the woman and continued singing.
The cannibal grew fearful.
She said to the bird, “Give me my ax; I don’t want your flesh now.”
The bird tore one of her arms off.
She said, “I am going away now. Give me what is mine.”
The bird would not listen to her and continued its song.
She said again, “Give me my ax and let me go. My husband is at home, and he is very hungry. I want to go and cook some food for him.”
The bird sang louder than before and tore one of her legs off.
The woman fell down and cried out, “My master, I am in a hurry to reach home. I do not want anything that belongs to you.”
She saw that she was in danger. She said to the bird again, “You don’t know how to sing your song nicely. Let me go, and I will sing it for you.”
The bird spread its wings and tore open her stomach. Many people came running out, most of them still alive, but some were dead. As they emerged she caught them and swallowed them again. The two children were alive, and they ran away. The woman was dead.
There was great rejoicing in that country. The children returned to their grandfather, and the people came there and made them rulers of the land, because it was through them that the cannibal had met her death.
The girl was married to the son of a great chief, and Hinazinci’s wife was the daughter of that great chief.
SOURCE: Adapted from George McCall Theal, Kaffir Folk-Lore, 68–71.
This tale offers many challenges, not the least of which has to do with identifying its origins. Is it a European import, a version of “The Juniper Tree”? Or is it an African tale that made its way to Europe? Or were both tales invented independently of each other? Maternal tenderness is here transformed into treachery, with a mother matter-of-factly described as a cannibal. Beauty and song are the two elements that will lead to redemption and resurrection.
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1 Their mother was a cannibal, but not their father: As in many European tales about siblings, threat comes from a mother, a mother-in-law, or a witch, each with homicidal drives or a taste for human flesh.
2 “What a nice smell it has!”: Like the giant in “Jack and the Beanstalk,” the mother’s appetite is aroused by the presence of humans.
3 she saw a beautiful bird: This bird, like the singing bird in “The Juniper Tree” (a tale well-known in European cultures) seeks revenge. Dismemberment becomes the penalty for the mother’s excessive appetite, and the bird not only punishes but also rescues the living dead swallowed by the cannibalistic ogre.
TSÉLANÉ AND THE MARIMO
A man had a daughter named Tsélané. One day he set off with his family and his flocks to find fresh pastures. But his daughter refused to go with him. She said to her mother, “I’m not going. Our house is so pretty, with its white and red beads, that I can’t leave.”
Her mother said, “My child, since you are naughty, you will have to stay here all alone. But shut the door tight in case the Marimos1 come and want to eat you.” With that she went away. But in a few days she came back, bringing food for her daughter.
“Tsélané, my child, Tsélané, my child, take this bread, and eat it.”
“I can hear my mother, I can hear her. My mother speaks like an ataga bird, like the tsuere coming out of the woods.”
For a long time the mother brought food to Tsélané. One day Tsélané heard a gruff voice saying, “Tsélané, my child, Tsélané, my child, take this bread and eat it.” But she laughed and said, “That gruff voice is not my mother’s voice. Go away, naughty Marimo.” The Marimo went away. He lit a big fire, took an iron hoe, made it red hot, and swallowed it to clear his voice. Then he came back and tried to fool Tsélané again. But he could not, for his voice was still not soft enough. So he heated another hoe, and swallowed it red-hot like the first. Then he came back and said in a still soft voice, “Tsélané, my child, Tsélané, my chee-ild, take this bread and eat it.”
Tsélané thought it was her mother’s voice and opened the door. The Marimo put her in his sack and walked off. Soon he felt thirsty, and, leaving his sack in the care of some little girls, he went to get some spirits in a village. The girls peeped into the sack, saw Tsélané in it, and ran to tell her mother, who happened to be nearby. The mother let her daughter out of the sack, and stuffed it with a dog, scorpions, vipers, bits of broken pots, and stones.
When the Marimo returned home with his sack, he opened it and was planning to cook and eat Tsélané. The dog and the vipers bit him, the scorpions stung him, the potshards wounded him, and the stones bruised him. He rushed out, threw himself into a mud heap, and was changed into a tree. Bees made honey in its bark, and in the springtime young girls came and gathered the honey for honey-cakes.
SOURCE: James G. Frazer, “A South African Red Riding-Hood,” Folk-Lore Journal 7 (1889), 167.
This Bechuanan tale from South Africa resembles “The Wolf and the Kids” as well as “Little Red Riding Hood.” It was recorded in 1842 by two French missionaries, who, as they stated in the preface to the account of their travels, hoped to “seek out unknown tribes, to open up communication with their chiefs, to mark out plans suitable for missionary stations, to extend the influence of Christianity and civilization” (Arbousset and Daumas 1968, vi). They also wished to give their readers some instances of the “old wives’ stories with which mothers put their little ones to sleep, and inculcate betimes the first principles of Bechuana morality,—that is, submission to parental authority, and dread of the Marimos.” The story was translated into English by the anthropologist James G. Frazer, author of The Golden Bough, who published it in the British Folk-Lore Journal in 1888.
Postcard showing a griot, or storyteller, with his calabash harp, an instrument that has as many as twenty-one strings. The photograph was taken by French ethnographer François-Edmond Fortier in Senegal, ca. 1904. Courtesy of Daniela Moreau / Acervo África, São Paulo, Brazil.
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1 Marimos: cannibals
PART IV
TELLING TALES TODAY: ORAL NARRATIVES FROM AFRICA
In one of several rare instances of twentieth-century fieldwork that tried to capture story and context in an African culture, Mona Fikry-Atallah collected more than one hundred tales from the Wala of Wa (what is now northwestern Ghana). The quartet of tales below from the collection reminds us that passions run high when stories are told, and that the preoccupations of storytellers in Wa are not so very different from those of other cultures. “The Filial Son” stages oed
ipal dramas; “Men Deceive Women” takes us into the arena of sexual politics; “Know Your Relatives or Else You’ll Be Mistaken for a Slave” resonates with the Grimms’ story known as “The Goose Girl”; and “Which of the Three Men Was the Most Powerful?” rehearses a conundrum that can be found in many cultures.
For the Wala, tales are divided into silima (tales for entertainment) and lasire (historical narratives and legends). These narratives, as one elder put it, are “lies” that sound like “actual things.” Fikry-Atallah describes the storytelling sessions she attended from 1966 to 1967 as follows: “Children are encouraged to tell tales; yet, invariably, in a group in which many men were present, the men would enthusiastically take over the session. Thus, most of the tales collected have been told by men. The tale sessions were always held in the evening after the men had returned from the farm and had had dinner. Huddled in a group in the center of the compound, men, women, and children (the latter two mainly listening) would tell their tales, one after the other, for several hours at a stretch, with hardly any interruptions between tales. Tales would almost always begin with the simple phrase N sinnii be: ‘My story exists, or, this is my story’ ” (Dorson 1972, 397–98). Many of the tales were interspersed with songs, and occasionally sessions began with riddles. The four tales that follow from Fikry-Atallah’s fieldwork show us the mythical power and practical side to tales told at communal gatherings.
Two West African griots are shown with their musical instruments in an illustration from Travels in the Timannee, Kooranko, and Soolima Countries in Western Africa, the travel journal of British major Alexander Gordon Laing, published in London in 1825.
“The Filial Son” gives us a focused look at Freud’s primal horde in Totem and Taboo, revealing the perils of throwing restraint to the winds and casting off the wisdom of tribal elders. Without them, the proverbial truths encapsulated in the coda to the tale would be lost. That wisdom, however, undermines itself by asserting that the tongue, producer of language, divides rather than binding and uniting. The storyteller calls his own words into question with a moral that makes language an instrument of divisiveness and discord.
The Annotated African American Folktales Page 16
