African Folktales

by Roger Abrahams

  Now there was a wicked wit in their town, who had determined, if possible, to make the friends quarrel. This man made a coat, one side or half of which was red in color, while the other was blue. And he walked past these two as they were busy on their farms, making enough noise to attract their attention. Each of the friends looked up to see who was going past, and then went on with his work.

  “Ugh, say! Did you see that man?” said one.

  “Yes,” answered the other.

  “Did you notice the bright coat he wore?”

  “Yes.”

  “What color would you say it was?”

  “Why, blue, of course.”

  “Blue, man! Why, it was a kind of red!”

  “No, friend, I am sure it was blue.”

  “Nonsense! I know it was red, but—”

  “Well! you are a fool!”

  “A fool. How now, we have been friends all our lives, and yet you call me a fool! We must settle this thing at once. Our friendship is at an end.”

  And the friends began to fight it out. But their women screamed and interfered, and managed to separate them.

  Then the wit walked quietly back, and saw the two friends seated, each on his own farm, with his elbows resting on his knees, and his head between his hands, and his eyes staring at the path. Then they saw the joke that had been played on them, and they were sorry. They ordered the wit never to come that way again, but the women cursed him and hoped that he would die.

  —Fiort

  77

  Talking Drums Discovered

  One story is coming!

  The guinea fowl’s best friend was the hawk. The hawk’s name was Setu or Laughter, the fowl was called Nmengu (at that time, all animals were known by names like ours). But something came between these two. The hawk went to make talking drums for them so they could dance the dogho, and the fowl agreed to help. They got to the bush and cut down a big oak tree. They made the talking drums and they put them in the sun. The fowl asked the hawk to take care of them. But the hawk was hungry and wanted to go away, the distance from here to Danko, to go and eat and return. He told the fowl, “When the drums are dried, don’t beat them until I have returned. If you beat the drums before I return, there will be trouble between us.” The fowl said, “All right!” The hawk went to Danko and found food to eat. The talking drums dried. The fowl went to inspect them and see whether they were dry. He stroked the talking drums. He beat them “gben-gben-gben.” He liked the sound. Then the fowl really beat them hard and the sound was very nice:

  Setu, Setu, Setu, Setu,

  Setu yee Setu

  Setu yee Setu

  Setu yee Setu

  Dzaan, dzaan, dzaan

  Dzaan, dzaan, dzaan

  The hawk was in Danko, but he heard the sound of the drums. He was annoyed and flew up very high to return. The fowl kept playing, not knowing that the more he beat the angrier the hawk grew. He beat again, and sang three times:

  Setu, Setu, Setu, Setu,

  Setu yee Setu

  Setu yee Setu

  Setu yee Setu

  Dzaan, dzaan, dzaan

  Dzaan, dzaan, dzaan

  The hawk flew very fast past the fowl. The fowl thought that the hawk was happy, so he beat the drums again:

  Setu, Setu, Setu, Setu,

  Setu yee Setu

  Setu yee Setu

  Setu yee Setu

  Dzaan, dzaan, dzaan

  Dzaan, dzaan, dzaan

  The hawk swooped down again to cut the fowl’s head off. As the hawk was coming, the fowl began to run, pi, pi, pi. This is how the friendship between the hawk and the fowl was spoiled, and they are enemies to this day. Neither the fowl nor the hawk took the talking drums. But the people of the village took them and used them in dancing dogho.

  My story is finished.

  —Wala

  Part IV

  Tales in Praise of Great Doings

  Introduction

  T

  here are a great many stories in Black Africa concerned with the origins of the people—not just creation stories and other mythical narratives of the way things were “in the beginning,” but stories concerned with historical progenitors and their heroic accomplishments. To be sure, as we see in a great many of the tales in this section, these deeds involve such supernatural powers and abilities that even allegedly historical narrative reads like myth.

  In the first story in this section, “Gassire’s Lute,” we see the hero of the title operating in response to the goddess Wagadu’s loss. The almost epic-like telling of his great doings gives us what is virtually an allegorical discussion of morality and human frailty, combined with a dazzling recounting of Gassire’s abilities to fight, endure, use his wits, and play and sing.

  This ability to perform as well as fight is characteristic of most heroes in African stories. Not only do we see Gassire achieving identity as a bard, but it is often through song and dance that the heroes Mandu and, especially, Mwindo, are linked with powerful supernatural forces.

  In all of these stories, the hero lives as the leader of men—indeed of his people. Again and again, his doings are associated with the genesis and flourishing of his people—and his feats are set against those of other great heroes and the welfare of their peoples. The deeds are the songs and the songs are the deeds in the purest sense. For as in other epic traditions, the heroes would not be known had their exploits not been sung. In African tales, the audience is reminded of this through actual singing of the deeds when a character—often the hero himself—retells the hero’s story. Indeed, in the great Mwindo Epic, this is done twice: once when Mwindo recounts his deeds on returning to his aunt Iyangura’s house from his journey to the underworld; and again, when he returns to his village with his father-enemy and asks for judgment from the assembly.

  The major portion of this chapter is given over to The Mwindo Epic, as collected by Daniel Biebuyck and Kahombo C. Mateene from the Banyanga—the people of Nyanga—and appears as it was sung among them by the bard Shé-Kárisi Rureki in the early 1950s. I have attempted to maintain the sense of an imposing performance and an elevated, often ceremonial diction, while making the narrative somewhat easier to follow.

  I have given the story in toto, with all the songs in place, as a way of underscoring the performance character of African narrations. But more than this, I wish to introduce the reader to one of the great bardic traditions of the world. Here is a text that demonstrates that the epic form is very much alive, and that the deeds of great warriors and culture heroes continue to be sung. Throughout Africa, one still finds bards who are engaged to sing one person’s praises, to castigate another, or as in Mwindo, to char $$eatest stories of the people.

  The reader will notice that many of the episodes are reminiscent of the Mediterranean epic traditions. The hero is cast off by his father, Shemwindo, who attempts to have him killed as an infant. But Mwindo is born, full-strength and more, and he is able to outwit his father. In a series of adventures, he confronts his father’s allies and defeats them one by one. Shemwindo retreats to the underworld, and Mwindo pursues him there. They confront each other, and it is Mwindo’s magic that prevails in the epic battle. They return to earth and, in the midst of a great ceremony and celebration, Mwindo is given the kingship by his father.

  In the process, several other devices reminiscent of Homeric technique appear. For example, laudatory epithets are common, especially that used of Mwindo: “Little-One-Just-Born-He-Has-Walked.” And in the recounting of deeds that are embedded in the ceremony, we are given a number of epic catalogues.1

  1 These are detailed in Biebuyck-Mateene (see Bibliography of References), and even more in Biebuyck’s later book, Hero and Chief (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1978), where he provides other texts of The Mwindo Epic, as well.

  78

  Gassire’s Lute

  Four times Wagadu stood there in all her splendor. Four times Wagadu disappeared and was lost to human sigh
t: once through vanity, once through falsehood, once through greed, and once through dissension. Four times Wagadu changed her name. First she was called Dierra, then Agada, then Ganna, then Silla. Four times she turned her face. Once to the north, once to the west, once to the east, and once to the south. For Wagadu, whenever men have seen her, has always had four gates: one to the north, one to the west, one to the east, and one to the south. Those are the directions whence the strength of Wagadu comes, the strength in which she endures no matter whether she be built of stone, wood, or earth, or lives but as a shadow in the mind and longing of her children. For, really, Wagadu is the strength that lives in the hearts of men and is sometimes visible because eyes see her and ears hear the clash of swords and ring of shields, and is sometimes invisible because the indomitability of men has overtired her, so that she sleeps. Sleep came to Wagadu for the first time through vanity, for the second time through falsehood, for the third time through greed, and for the fourth time through dissension. Should Wagadu ever be found for the fifth time, then she will live so forcefully in the minds of men that she will never be lost again, so forcefully that vanity, falsehood, greed, and dissension will never be able to harm her.

  Hoooh! Dierra, Agada, Ganna, Silla! Hoooh! Fasa!

  Every time that the guilt of man caused Wagadu to disappear she won a new beauty which made the splendor of her next appearance still more glorious. Vanity brought the song of the bards that all peoples [of the Sudan] imitate and value today. Falsehood brought a rain of gold and pearls. Greed brought writing as the Burdama still practice it today, and which in Wagadu was the business of the women. Dissension will enable the fifth Wagadu to be as enduring as the rain of the south and as the rocks of the Sahara, for every man will then have Wagadu in his heart and every woman a Wagadu in her womb.

  Hoooh! Dierra, Agada, Ganna, Silla! Hoooh! Fasa!

  Wagadu was lost for the first time through vanity. At that time Wagadu faced north and was called Dierra. Her last king was called Nganamba Fasa. The Fasa were strong. But the Fasa were growing old. Daily they fought against the Burdama and the Boroma. They fought every day and every month. Never was there an end to the fighting. And out of the fighting the strength of the Fasa grew. All Nganamda’s men were hereos, all the women were lovely and proud of the strength and the heroism of the men of Wagadu.

  All the Fasa who had not fallen in single combat with the Burdama were growing old. Nganamba was very old. Nganamba had a son, Gassire, and he was old enough, for he already had eight grown sons with children of their own. They were all living and Nganamba ruled in his family and reigned as a king over the Fasa and the dog-like Boroma. Nganamba grew so old that Wagadu was lost because of him and the Boroma became slaves again to the Burdama, who seized power with the sword. Had Nganamba died earlier would Wagadu then have disappeared for the first time?

  Hoooh! Dierra, Agada, Ganna, Silla! Hoooh! Fasa!

  Nganamba did not die. A jackal gnawed at Gassire’s heart. Daily Gassire asked his heart: “When will Nganamba die? When will Gassire be king?” Every day Gassire watched for the death of his father as a lover watches for the evening star to rise. By day, when Gassire fought as a hero against the Burdama and drove the false Boroma before him with a leather girth, he thought only of the fighting, of his sword, of his shield, of his horse. By night, when he rode with the evening into the city and sat in the circle of men and his sons, Gassire heard how the heroes praised his deeds. But his heart was not in the talking; his heart listened for the strains of Nganambas breathing; his heart full of misery and longing.

  Gassire’s heart was full of longing for the shield of his father, the shield that he could carry only when his father was dead, and also for the sword that he might draw only when he was king. Day by day Gassire’s rage and longing grew. Sleep passed him by. Gassire lay, and a jackal gnawed at his heart. Gassire felt the misery climbing into his throat. One night Gassire sprang out of bed, left the house, and went to an old wise man, a man who knew more than other people. He entered the wise man’s house and said: “Ah, Gassire, Nganamba will die; but he will not leave you his sword and shield. You will carry a lute. Shield and sword shall others inherit. But your lute shall cause the loss of Wagadu! Ah, Gassire!” Gassire said: “Kiekorro, you lie! I see that you are not wise. How can Wagadu be lost when her heroes triumph daily? Kiekorro, you are a fool!” The old wise man said, “Ah, Gassire, you cannot believe me. But your path will lead you to the partridges in the fields, and you will understand what they say, and that will be your way and the way of Wagadu.”

  Hoooh! Dierra, Agada, Ganna, Silla! Hoooh! Fasa!

  The next morning Gassire went with the heroes again to battle against the Burdama. Gassire was angry. Gassire called to the heroes: “Stay here behind. Today I will battle with the Burdama alone.” The heroes stayed behind and Gassire went on alone to do battle with the Burdama. Gassire hurled his spear. Gassire charged the Burdama. Gassire swung his sword. He struck home to the right, he struck home to the left. Gassire’s sword was as a sickle in the wheat. The Burdama were afraid. Shocked, they cried: “That is no Fasa, that is no hero, that is a Damo” [a being unknown to the singer himself]. The Burdama turned their horses. The Burdama threw away their spears, each man his two spears, and fled. Gassire called the knights. Gassire said: “Gather the spears.” The knights gathered the spears. The knights sang: “The Fasa are heroes. Gassire has always been the Fasa’s greatest hero. Gassire has always done great deeds. But today Gassire was greater than Gassire!” Gassire rode into the city and the heroes rode behind him. The heroes sang: “Never before has Wagadu won so many spears as today.”

  Gassire let the women bathe him. The men gathered. But Gassire did not seat himself in their circle. Gassire went into the fields. Gassire heard the partridges. Gassire went close to them. A partridge sat under a bush and sang: “Hear the Dausi! Hear my deeds!” The partridge sang of its battle with the snake. The partridge sang: “All creatures must die, be buried and rot. Kings and heroes die, are buried and rot. I, too, shall die, shall be buried and rot. But the Dausi, the song of my battles, shall not die. It shall be sung again and again and shall outlive all kings and heroes. Hoooh, that I might do such deeds! Hoooh, that I may sing the Dausi! Wagadu will be lost. But the Dausi shall endure and shall live!”

  Hoooh! Dierra, Agada, Ganna, Silla! Hoooh! Fasa!

  Gassire went to the old wise man. Gassire said: “Kiekorro! I was in the fields. I understood the partridges. The partridge boasted that the song of its deeds would live longer than Wagadu. The partridge sang the Dausi. Tell me whether men also know the Dausi and whether the Dausi can outlive life and death?” The old wise man said: “Gassire, you are hastening to your end. No one can stop you. And since you cannot be a king you shall be a bard. Ah! Gassire. When the kings of the Fasa lived by the sea they were also great heroes and they fought with men who had lutes and sang the Dausi. Oft struck the enemy Dausi fear into the hearts of the Fasa, who were themselves heroes. But they never sang the Dausi because they were of the first rank, of the Horro, and because Dausi was only sung by those of the second rank, of the Diare. The Diare fought not so much as heroes, for the sport of the day, but as drinkers for the fame of the evening. But you, Gassire, now that you can no longer be the second of the first [i.e., king], shall be lost because of it.” Gassire said: “Wagadu can go to hell!”

  Hoooh! Dierra, Agada, Ganna, Silla! Hoooh! Fasa!

  Gassire went to a smith. Gassire said: “Make me a lute.” The smith said: “I will, but the lute will not sing.” Gassire said: “Smith, do your work. The rest is my affair.” The smith made the lute. The smith brought the lute to Gassire. Gassire struck the lute. The lute did not sing. Gassire said: “Look here, the lute does not sing.” The smith said: “I told you it would not.” Gassire said: “Well, make it sing.” The smith said: “I cannot do anything more about it. The rest is your affair.” Gassire said: “What can I do, then?” The smith said: “This is a piece of wood. It cannot sing i
f it has no heart. You must give it a heart. Carry this piece of wood on your back when you go into battle. The wood must ring with the stroke of your sword. The wood must absorb down-dripping blood, blood of your blood, breath of your breath. Your pain must be its pain, your fame its fame. The wood may no longer be like the wood of a tree, but must be penetrated by and be a part of your people. Therefore it must live not only with you but with your sons. Then will the tone that comes from your heart echo in the ear of your son and live on in the people, and your son’s life’s blood, oozing out of his heart, will run down your body and live on in this piece of wood. But Wagadu will be lost because of it.” Gassire said: “Wagadu can go to hell!”

  Hoooh! Dierra, Agada, Ganna, Silla! Hoooh! Fasa!

  Gassire called his eight sons. Gassire said: “My sons, today we go to battle. But the strokes of our swords shall echo no longer in the Sahel alone, but shall retain their ring for the ages. You and I, my sons, will that we live on and endure before all other heroes in the Dausi. My eldest son, today we two, thou and I, will be the first in battle!”

  Gassire and his eldest son went into the battle ahead of the heroes. Gassire had thrown the lute over his shoulder. The Burdama came closer. Gassire and his eldest son charged. Gassire and his eldest son fought as the first. Gassire and his eldest son left the other heroes far behind them. Gassire fought not like a human being, but rather like a Damo. His eldest son fought not like a human being, but like a Damo. Gassire came into a tussle with eight Burdama. The eight Burdama pressed him hard. His son came to help him and struck four of them down. But one of the Burdama thrust a spear through his heart. Gassire’s eldest son fell dead from his horse. Gassire was angry, and shouted. The Burdama fled. Gassire dismounted and took the body of his eldest son upon his back. Then he mounted and rode slowly back to the other heroes. The eldest son’s heart’s blood dropped on the lute, which was also hanging on Gassire’s back. And so Gassire, at the head of his heroes, rode into Dierra.