African Folktales

by Roger Abrahams

  Now, it happened that a certain lion, who had also been hunting, was himself seeking shelter from the rain, and he came to that very cave. The man glanced up and saw the lion had come in. Fear gripped him, and his dog began to bark, but the man silenced him by holding his muzzle. Then he said, “Yes, O Lion, you may eat me, but I want to say that I am not a thief, I have not stolen people’s goods, nor taken from their granaries, neither have I ever killed anyone. I am just a man of the bush, a poor man with wife and children, and like you, I was looking for food, and the rain has brought you here, so now you can eat me.”

  Then the lion began to roar, until the tears fell from the man’s eyes, plop, plop, plop. He gripped his weapons with manly courage, but the lion set to roaring even more, until the cave shook and seemed about to collapse.

  Then the lion said to the man, “Oh, sir, give your dog those guinea fowl there, and when he has eaten, you can eat the dog, and finally I’ll eat you. What do you say?” The gentleman, whose insides had by this time turned to water, said, “Yes, today I’m going to die because of this hunting business of mine!”

  The lion told him again, “You sir, give your dog the guinea fowl, and when he has eaten, then you eat the dog, and then I’ll eat you. How about it?”

  At that moment, they heard a voice coming from somewhere in the cave, saying, “Yes, sir, give the dog those guinea fowl, and when he has eaten, you can eat the dog, and Mr. Lion can eat you, and when he has eaten, I’ll eat him.” When the muskrat had finished saying this, he added, “Well, my boys of the royal bodyguard, what do you say?”

  And the termites in the cave wall replied, “Mmmmmmm.”

  At this, the lion and the man were amazed, wondering who was speaking in there. Then they heard again, “You sir, give the dog the guinea fowl, and you eat the dog, and the lion will eat you, and then I will eat the lion. All right, men of the royal bodyguard?” The termites replied, “Mmmmmmmm.”

  Now, the lion was thinking more about being eaten than about eating anyone else, and the man said to him, “Hold up the cave so it doesn’t collapse, and I’ll go and cut some timber so we can shore it up.” The lion agreed. The man then left, with the lion still holding up the cave, thinking it would fall. The man hurried off as fast as he could go, and his dog likewise, and they didn’t stop until they reached home.

  One day, he met the muskrat again, and the rat said, “Did you know who it was speaking in the cave, saying, ‘Oh, sir, give the dog the guinea fowl and you eat the dog and the lion can eat you, then I’ll eat the lion?’ Did I not say I would save you when you helped me across the path? And indeed I scared the lion and rescued you.”

  The man thanked him very much, then went home and told his wife, and they were all happy.

  —Fipa

  10

  The Hare’s Hoe

  One day Hare said to Gray Antelope, “Let us go and sow peas,” but Antelope said, “I don’t like peas, I prefer wild beans,” so Hare went by himself. When the peas began to sprout, he noticed that they were disappearing, so he hid himself in the field, and caught Antelope digging up his peas. “Aha!” said he, “you are a thief. Pay the fine!” Antelope gave him a hoe and off he went.

  He met some women who were digging clay with sticks. He said to them, “Haven’t you got any hoes?” “No,” they said, “we haven’t a single one.” “Then take this one,” he said. “You can give it back to me later on.” When they had finished, the last one who used the hoe broke it. Then Hare sang the following song:

  Clay diggers, give back my hoe, my friends,

  My hoe that Antelope gave me,

  Antelope who paid the fine for my peas.

  The women took one of their pots, and gave it to him.

  He left, and met some men who were harvesting honey; they were putting it in a piece of tree bark. “Haven’t you got any pot to put your honey into?” he asked. “No,” said the men, “we haven’t got any.” So he gave them his pot. The last one who handled it, broke it. When it was broken Hare sang:

  Honey harvesters, give me back my pot.

  My pot that the clay diggers gave me;

  The clay diggers paid for my hoe,

  My hoe that antelope gave me,

  Antelope who paid the fine for my peas.

  So they took some of their honey and gave it to him.

  He came to a village, and there he saw women pounding maize flour. He said to them, “Haven’t you any honey to mix with your flour?” “No,” they said, “we have none.” So he gave them his honey, saying, “Take it, but be careful to leave me some of it.” But the last one finished it all. Then he sang:

  Pestle pounders, give me back my honey,

  The honey that the honey harvesters gave me;

  The honey harvesters paid for my pot,

  The pot that the clay diggers gave me;

  The clay diggers paid for my hoe,

  The hoe that antelope gave me,

  Antelope who paid the fine for my peas.

  They took some of their dough, and gave it to him.

  He went on, and met some boys herding goats. “Haven’t you anything to eat?” he said, “your lips look very dry.” “No,” they replied, “we have no food at all.” So he gave them the dough, saying, “Eat away! but leave some for me.” The last one ate the last bite. Then sang Hare:

  Goatherds, give me back my dough,

  The dough that the pestle pounders gave me;

  The pestle pounders paid for my honey,

  The honey that the honey harvesters gave me;

  The honey harvesters paid for my pot,

  The pot that the clay diggers gave me;

  The clay diggers paid for my hoe,

  The hoe that antelope gave me,

  Antelope who paid the fine for my peas.

  They took a goat, and gave it to him.

  He met some young men tending oxen. He said to them, “Your lips seem very dry; haven’t you anything to eat?” “No,” they said, “we have nothing.” So he said, “Take this goat, but be sure to leave some for me.” The last one devoured the last bite. Then Hare sang:

  Cattle men, give me back my goat

  My dough that the pestle pounders gave me;

  The pestle pounders paid for my honey,

  My honey that the honey harvesters gave me;

  The honey harvesters paid for my pot,

  My pot that the clay diggers gave me;

  The clay diggers paid for my hoe,

  My hoe that antelope gave me,

  Antelope who paid the fine for my peas.

  They seized him and beat him, and when he was quite unconscious, they took him out of the village, thinking he was dead. But he regained his senses and climbed up a tree, which was in the middle of the village, just on the spot where they were all drinking beer; no one noticed him and, when he reached the top of the tree, he attracted in his direction all the light beer and the water in the wells, in such a way that it all ran away into the ground, and folks soon found that there was nothing to drink. The little ones cried for water and there was none! The men and the women started to fetch water, but they could not find any; the rivers even were all dried up! The little ones died, and so did both women and men! Just a few survived. These went to Hare, and said to him, “My Lord, we ask for water, as we are dying of thirst.” “Pull up this reed by the roots,” said he. All the men, even the strongest, tried hard to pull up the reed, but could not succeed. “Now,” said Hare, and with one finger, he pulled it out of the ground, and forth flowed water and beer, light and strong. Then said he, “Give me five old women.” He plunged them in the pond, and drowned them. After this, they allotted him a small province, where he reigned as chief.

  —Thanga

  11

  Why the Hare Runs Away

  This is a story of the hare and the other animals.

  The dry weather was drying up the earth into hardness. There was no dew. Even the creatures of the water suffered from thirst. Famine soon followed, and th
e animals, having nothing to eat, assembled in council.

  “What shall we do,” said they, “to keep ourselves from dying of hunger and thirst?” And they deliberated a long time.

  At last it was decided that each animal should cut off the tips of its ears, and extract the fat from them. Then all the fat would be collected and sold, and with the money they would get for it, they would buy a hoe and dig a well, so as to get some water.

  And all cried, “It is well. Let us cut off the tips of our ears.”

  They did so, but when it came the hare’s turn he refused.

  The other animals were astonished, but they said nothing. They took up the ears, extracted the fat, went and sold all, and bought a hoe with the money.

  They brought back the hoe and began to dig a well in the dry bed of a lagoon, until at last they found water. They said, “Ha! At last we can slake our thirst a little.”

  The hare was not there, but when the sun was in the middle of the sky, he took a calabash and went towards the well.

  As he walked along, the calabash dragged on the ground and made a great noise. It said, “Chan-gañ-gañ-gañ, Chan-gañ-gañ-gañ.”

  The animals, who were watching by the lagoon, heard this terrible noise and were frightened. They asked each other, “What is it?” then, as the noise kept coming nearer, they ran away. Reaching home, they said something terrible at the lagoon had put them to flight.

  When all the animals were gone, the hare could draw up water from the lagoon without interference. Then he went down into the well and bathed, so that the water was muddied.

  When the next day came, all the animals ran to get water, and they found it muddied.

  “Oh,” they cried, “who has spoiled our well?”

  Saying this, they went and took a dummy-image. They made birdlime and spread it over the image.

  Then, when the sun was again in the middle of the sky, all the animals went and hid in the bush near the well.

  Soon the hare came, his calabash crying, “Chan-gañ-gañ-gañ, Chan-gañ-gañ-gañ.” He approached the image. He never suspected that all the animals were hidden in the bush.

  The hare saluted the image. The image said nothing. He saluted again, and still the image said nothing.

  “Take care,” said the hare, “or I will give you a slap.”

  He gave it a slap, and his right hand was stuck fast in the birdlime. He slapped with his left hand, and that was held fast, too.

  “Oh! oh!” cried he, “I’ll kick with my feet,” and he did, but his feet became fixed, and he could not get away.

  Then the animals ran out of the bush and came to see the hare and his calabash.

  “Shame, shame, oh, hare!” they cried together. “Did you not agree with us to cut off the tips of your ears, and, when it came to your turn, did you not refuse? What! You refused, and yet you come to muddy our water?”

  They took whips, they fell upon the hare, and they beat him. They beat him so that they nearly killed him.

  “We ought to kill you, accursed hare,” they said. “But no—run.”

  They let him go, and the hare fled. Since then, he does not leave the grass.

  —Ewe

  12

  The Tortoise and the Falcon

  A chief at Vugha, named Kimweli, once had a beautiful daughter, and he told the people that no one should have her unless they competed for her. The one who surpassed his fellows would be his son-in-law. So there came forward a falcon and a tortoise who told the chief they wanted to compete. He said to them, “Go to Pangani and wait a day, and another day, and on the third day start in the morning, and in five days be at Vugha.”

  And off they went. Now the tortoise knew he could not travel that far that fast, and so he sought his companions, and said to them, “Help me in this business, for if I am beaten it will be as if you were beaten.” They consented and said, “We will help, but what can we do? None of us can travel that swiftly.” One of them said, “Let us make friends with the hare, and he will help us.” So they came to the hare, who was sitting at home, and greeted him, and explained the problem. The hare asked how he could help. They said, “We have ten halting places in the five days, two for each day. Now you go to Pangani and place one of us there, and then one at each halting place as you come to it; but each one is to be called Madalamba because the name of the one who is at Vugha is Madalamba.” So the hare went to Pangani, and he placed the first and told him his name was to be Madalamba. Then he went on and placed the rest, telling the same to each.

  Now it was the third day, the morning they were to leave Pangani. There, the tortoise set out with the falcon, himself on foot, the bird flying. When they had proceeded a little way, the tortoise hid himself. The falcon flew to the first halting place and settled on a tree, thinking, “Now I have left the tortoise a long way behind, but still I will just call him and see if he replies.” So he called, “Madalamba, Madalamba,” and he heard below, “Yoo,” and peeping down, he saw that the tortoise was there. The falcon said to Madalamba, “Let us go,” and he replied, “All right.” The falcon flew off and the tortoise waddled along slowly, and then hid himself. The falcon did not rest, “I shall have the chief’s daughter,” he said. He went on to the next stage.

  It was now evening, and the falcon peered about. He saw a creature jogging along below, looking for firewood to make a fire. The falcon kept silent till he saw the wood was burning, and then he said, “Let me try and call him, but I know it certainly cannot be Madalamba.” The falcon called, “Madalamba.” The tortoise replied, “Yoo.” He said, “When did you arrive?” He answered, “Did you not know that we arrived together?” They slept. In the morning the falcon called, “Madalamba.” He replied, “Yoo.” And the falcon said, “Let us go,” and the tortoise replied, “Right.” So they set out.

  The falcon flew to the third halting place, and looked down but saw nothing. He kept silent awhile, and saw Madalamba appear; he asked him, “Where were you?” Madalamba said, “You left me a little way behind.” They rested, and having rested they went a little way, and the tortoise hid himself. In the evening, the falcon flew on to the fourth stage, and he saw the tortoise was there. So it was at every stage, until the fifth, near to Vugha. There, he met his companion on the ground. The tortoise said to the falcon, “Tomorrow we shall enter Vugha early,” and the falcon agreed.

  Now, where they were, if a drum sounded, you could hear it. The falcon thought—“This person is with me everywhere. So tomorrow I will run off very early.”

  Now the real Madalamba—the tortoise who had entered the competition—was in Vugha already, hiding in the chiefs court, though no one knew it; everyone supposed he was at Pangani. In the very early morning of the fifth day, the falcon did not ask the tortoise to start with him, so, when the tortoise awoke from sleep, his companion had gone. Madalamba, there in the chiefs court, came out early and entered the forest, and when it was light the falcon was seen coming in the distance, and all the people in the town of Yugha cried out, “The falcon will beat the tortoise.” Now, when the falcon was getting near, the tortoise came out of the forest, into the inner end of Vugha, while all the people were at the entrance, looking at the falcon. The tortoise proceeded to the chief’s door, where there was a pile of firewood, and hid himself in that wood. The falcon came crying, as he flew round the town, “I have beaten him.” The chiefs daughter laughed, saying, “The falcon has beaten the tortoise.” The falcon came to the chief’s house and settled on the central point, and said to the people, “You see I have passed the tortoise. However, even though I have passed him, I will call him, so that everyone may know that I have beaten Madalamba.” So the falcon called, “You, Madalamba, You, Madalamba!” Immediately, the people saw the tortoise come out from the firewood. The falcon was still calling him, “You Madalamba,” when he replied, “Yoooo.” The falcon was startled. “When did you get here?” He said, “I came some time before you.” The face of the chief’s daughter grew dark quickly, for her fath
er said, “This is your husband. I do not know the other one.” The marriage was celebrated.

  Now Madalamba, though a tortoise, was really a fine young man who had taken on the tortoise shell on purpose. But his wife didn’t know this yet, and so they sat. But each night, at midnight, Madalamba came out of his shell while his wife slept, warmed himself at the fire, and then entered his shell again. One night, by chance, the girl awoke and saw a bright fire, and looking at her husband, she saw what a fine fellow he really was. It dazzled her to look at him. She searched for the shell and saw it there behind him. She remained quite quiet until the next evening. Then, she did not go to sleep, but only pretended to, and at midnight she saw him come out of the shell and warm himself. Then the girl arose from the bed and took the shell and put it on the fire. Then Madalamba said, “You have killed me.” She said, “No, I have not killed you; you are a fine person and you have done this purposely.” So they slept, and in the morning, the chief’s daughter said to her father, Kimweli, “Behold, father, my husband is a man, and a fine one. Now we shall not come out of this house until you have killed an ox, and we will step over it when we pass out.” Kimweli brought an ox, it was slaughtered there at the door, and his son-in-law and his daughter stepped over it as they came out. And all the people noted that Madalamba was a stranger.

  Now when you first see a person, let him not be despised in your eyes, for you do not know where he comes from, what he is, or where he is going.

  —Bondei

  13

  Rubiya

  A certain sultan gave orders that all the male children born in his kingdom should be put to death, and that only the female infants should be preserved. Shortly after this order came into force, a son was born to a man and his wife who lived in the capital of that land. Since the child was huge and strong, his parents said, “It is a pity that he should die. We’ll keep him within the house, and when he is grown we will send him out into the forest to fend for himself.” The child grew exceedingly quickly, and as soon as he could speak, he said to his parents, “My name is Rubiya.”