When the ogres were out of sight, Uthlakanyana called down to the old woman and said that he was dry and ready to be cooked and she should bring him down from the roof. As she filled the pot with water and placed it on the stones over the fire, he proposed a game: he should boil her a bit, and then she should boil him. Since he seemed to know how things should be done, she agreed. He put his finger into the water after a time and said, ‘Yes, it is ready for boiling now. You must put me into the pot and boil me for a time, and then I shall come out and it shall be your turn.’ She agreed, and put him into the pot. He sat there for a time and then told her it was time for her to come into the pot. He helped her undress; when she observed this was not proper, he reminded her that he was to be cooked and eaten, and so was only food. He didn’t count for anything, and her nakedness would not matter. Before she got in, however, he added wood to the fire. Then he put her in.
The water began to boil and she began to feel scalded. ‘Let me out,’ she called, ‘the water is scalding me!’
‘That can’t be true,’ he said. ‘If you were really scalded you wouldn’t be able to talk at all. You are lying.’ After a while, though, she stopped crying out. He looked into the pot and she was there, boiled and dead. ‘Now you truly are scalded,’ he said, and he stirred the pot. Then he dressed himself in her clothes and swelled out to fill them, and lay down on her mat and waited for the two other ogres to return.
They came back in the evening, and without rising Uthlakanyana told them to feed themselves from the pot where their game had been boiling all day. They reached in and one of them pulled out a hand. ‘This looks like our mother’s hand,’ said the younger ogre, but Uthlakanyana protested and said the younger ogre was cooking his mother in his thoughts. But when they pulled out another limb, the ogre repeated the thought. Again, Uthlakanyana protested. Then he slipped out of the house and escaped, shedding the mother-ogre’s clothes as he went. At some distance from the house he called back to the man-eaters and told them what they were really eating, and then he raced away. He came to a river, too deep to cross easily, and changed himself to a stick by the path. The ogres pursued him and came to the river. There the trail of footprints ended. ‘He must have leaped across,’ said the older man-eater, and in frustration he picked up the stick lying there and threw it across the river.
Some time later, Uthlakanyana came across the den of a leopardess, in which there were two cubs. He waited until the mother returned with her prey, and when she prepared to kill him, he addressed her and promised to take care of her children while she went off hunting, and to build them a shelter, if she would only spare him and share her food. So she agreed. At the start of his duties he would bring the cubs to be suckled. But he brought them one at a time, where before the mother had suckled both together. He would hand her a cub, and then when she returned it he would hand her the other.
The next day the leopardess went off hunting, and Uthlakanyana busied himself building the shelter. He made it with a narrow door and a long passage through the back, leading to a small hole, and at the end he left four spears. And then, to reward himself, he ate one of the leopard cubs. At the end of the day the mother returned with a small deer. Uthlakanyana prepared the deer for dinner, and the leopardess asked for her cubs. Uthlakanyana handed her the one, and it suckled for a time, and then he took it back, and then he handed it to her again. Then the two adults ate the deer. Uthlakanyana went back into the shelter, and then crawled quickly down the passage, for he knew the leopardess would recognize that he had killed the cub. But he counted on the narrow door to delay her while he escaped. That is how it happened: the leopardess had trouble squeezing through the door, and when she got in she found only one cub: the other was missing. So she knew that Uthlakanyana had killed her other cub and escaped down the passage. She followed him. But when he reached the end, Uthlakanyana had fixed the four spears to block the entrance, and when the leopardess reached them they pierced her and she was dead. So Uthlakanyana was able to eat the other cub and then the mother as well.
Further on, Uthlakanyana met another ogre. This one possessed a drum made from a calabash, but although Uthlakanyana greeted him politely as a kinsman, the ogre refused to recognize any relationship and wouldn’t let him use the drum. So Uthlakanyana went on ahead and found another man-eater living in a house. The man-eater was working on a skin, and after Uthlakanyana had greeted him he suggested they should flap the skin. They did so and it made a great noise, and in answer the ogre with the drum who was coming that way beat his drum. The ogre living in the house took fright at the noise and ran away, and Uthlakanyana was left to await the drum-bearing ogre. Uthlakanyana asked his name, and he said he was ‘Eat-all, who consumes bushes of wild greens and swallows men whole’.
The drum-bearing ogre took possession of the now empty house, but since Uthlakanyana said he had been living there the ogre allowed him to continue, on condition that he watch the house carefully and prevent the former owner from returning. Then he went off hunting. But Uthlakanyana also went hunting; he took a sack and went into the fields. He found a snake; he caught it and put it in his bag. He found wasps; he caught them and put them in his bag. He found scorpions; he caught them and put them in his bag. He filled the bag with all sorts of biting and poisonous animals and brought them back to the kraal. He placed them just inside the doorway.
When the ogre returned, Uthlakanyana told him he was worried about the large size of the doorway; it offered no security. But the ogre told him not to worry, that the large doorway was all right. But that night Uthlakanyana sneaked out of the house and fetched staves and limber boughs and with them he made the doorway quite narrow, so that he could pass through easily, but the ogre might find it difficult. In the morning he called out to the man-eater, and the man-eater came to the door of the kraal and wished to come out, but he could not, for Uthlakanyana had made the doorway too narrow. So the ogre called to Uthlakanyana, and the boy told him he should take the sack that he had left inside the doorway and open it, and he would be able to get through the door. But when the man-eater opened the sack, all the poisonous and biting creatures that Uthlakanyana had placed inside it came out and bit and stung and pierced and jabbed him and he began to cry out and then he swelled up and died and the creatures ate him.
So Uthlakanyana gained possession of the calabash drum, and later he retrieved a flute he had made earlier, from the iguana which had stolen it. Then he decided it was time to return to his mother. On the way he found some umjanjan, a root, and he took it back. At home he asked his mother to cook the umjanjan while he took his instruments to a wedding dance. His mother did so, and when it was ready she tasted it to see if it was all right, and it was so good she could not stop herself: she ate it all.
Uthlakanyana returned and asked his mother for his umjanjan, but she had to admit that she had eaten it all. He complained that she had taken what was not hers, and so in exchange she gave him a gourd to carry milk. He left his home and went out.
On the way he found some boys trying to milk their cow. But they had no pot to hold the milk; it had broken. So Uthlakanyana said they might use his gourd if they also gave him some milk. But one of them broke the gourd while they were milking the cow, and Uthlakanyana complained that they had deprived him of his gourd, the gourd his mother had given to him after she ate the umjanjan that was his while he was away at a wedding dance. So the boys gave him a small spear.
Further on, he met some other boys trying to cut meat. They had no knife, and so they were using the rind of a sugar cane. He told them they might use the cutting edge of his spear if they gave him some of their meat, and they agreed. Each cut off a piece of meat. But the last boy to use the spear broke the haft. Uthlakanyana complained that they had broken his spear, the spear given to him by the boys who had broken his gourd, the gourd his mother had given to him after she ate the umjanjan that was his while he was away at a wedding dance. So the boys gave him an axe, and he went on.
Further on, he met some women collecting firewood, but they had no tool to cut the wood. He told them they might use his axe. So each of the women cut some wood, enough for one load, but the last woman broke the axe. They told Uthlakanyana and he complained that they had broken the axe, the axe given to him by the boys who had broken his spear, the spear given to him by the boys who had broken his gourd, the gourd his mother had given to him after she ate the umjanjan that was his while he was away at a wedding dance. So the women gave him a blanket and he went on.
Further on, he met two young men; they were sleeping naked on the ground. He offered them the use of his blanket and spent the night there with them. But during the night the young men rolled back and forth, each pulling at the blanket to cover himself, and in the morning the blanket was so worn and torn that it could not be recognized. Uthlakanyana complained that they had ruined his blanket, the blanket given to him by the women who had broken his axe, the axe given to him by the boys who had broken his spear, the spear given to him by the boys who had broken his gourd, the gourd his mother had given to him after she ate the umjanjan that was his while he was away at a wedding dance. So the young men gave him a shield and he went on.
Further on, he found some men hunting a leopard. They had cornered it and were trying to get close enough to spear it, but they could not because of its sharp claws. So Uthlakanyana offered them his shield and they took it, and with the shield they were able to get close enough to spear the leopard and kill it. But in the last struggle, one of the men twisted the shield and the handle broke. Uthlakanyana complained that they had broken his shield, the shield given to him by the young men who had ruined his blanket, the blanket given to him by the women who had broken his axe, the axe given to him by the boys who had broken his spear, the spear given to him by the boys who had broken his gourd, the gourd his mother had given to him after she ate the umjanjan that was his while he was away at a wedding dance. So the men gave him a large war-spear.
And with the war-spear he went home. Later he had many more adventures.
15
STORIES OF MONI-MAMBU OF THE BAKONGO
The stories of Moni-Mambu are told among the eastern BaKongo of the Congo. The BaKongo are known for their early contacts with the Portuguese and their powerful kingdoms with complex political history (see Chapter 40); Moni-Mambu comes from the periphery of that culture, from a world of forest villages and small chiefs. The stories of Moni-Mambu are adapted from a collection published in 1940.
Moni-Mambu’s parents met when his father saved his mother from some ghouls. She had gone out fishing with some other women, but when they paired up in teams she was left alone. A man who was really a ghoul came from the bush to help her, and they caught lots of fish. At the end of the day, when she divided their catch, the ghoul refused to accept its share and demanded that she try again and again. Meanwhile, other ghouls were coming out of the dusk and joining them. When the chief came, they said they would eat her.
Luckily, a young man was hidden in a tree above this gathering, and he had a calabash of palm wine. Just as things were getting critical for the woman, he dropped the calabash on the head of the chief ghoul, and they all ran away. He came down out of the tree, brought the woman and all the fish home, and they became man and wife.
When Moni-Mambu grew up, he went off on adventures. He came once to a village where there lived two brothers, born of the same mother, who had never quarrelled. One was a fisherman, the other a palm-wine tapster. Moni-Mambu learned this when he was bathing in the river and enquired about the fish-traps he saw.
In the middle of the night, Moni-Mambu got up and took a lukamba (the strap used by climbers to allow them to walk up the tall and slender trunks of palm trees) and climbed up the palm trees. He took down the calabashes that had been hung there to collect the palm wine, and brought them all down to the river. There he placed the calabashes at the ends of the fish-trap lines, where little baskets held the captured fish, and he removed the baskets with all the fish that had been caught. Then he went back into the forest, and climbed the palm trees and hung the fish-baskets where the calabashes had been.
The next morning, the elder brother went off to draw palm wine and the younger went off to tend his fish-traps. And by the river, the young man asked himself, ‘Who could have replaced my fish-baskets with these calabashes?’ And meanwhile, the elder was also wondering, ‘Who could have replaced my calabashes with these fish-traps?’ When they met in the village, each blamed the other and they quarrelled.
Moni-Mambu came out while they were fighting and mocked them. ‘You said you never quarrelled,’ he called, ‘and yet with a simple trick I have made you fight each other in the village square!’ And after taunting them some more, he went on.
One day he came to a village where women were harvesting peanuts and he greeted them. The rules of hospitality required them to offer him food. So the women called to Moni-Mambu, and one of them told him that at her house she had some peanut-stew simmering, and if he wished he could go and eat it with her children for lunch.
Moni-Mambu asked, ‘Really, I can go and have the peanut-stew with your children for lunch?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘Go and eat it with the children.’
So Moni-Mambu went to her hut and found the peanut-stew and the children. They ate the peanut-stew together. And when they finished the stew, Moni-Mambu roasted the children and ate them for lunch.
When she came back from the fields, the woman was horrified and called all the other villagers. They assembled and argued late into the night. She complained that Moni-Mambu had eaten her children, and he replied that he had only done what she told him to do. ‘She told me to eat the stew with the children for lunch,’ he said, ‘and that is what I did.’ And when the woman admitted that she had said that, the village eventually agreed that Moni-Mambu was not to blame and they let him go.
Another time he came to a village where they were planning a hunt. The chief was hungry for meat, and so he declared they would have a big round-up of the game; the entire village would go out and beat the bush and drive the game to the hunters who lay in wait. And he warned any witches who might wish to try to kill humans to be off, and he activated his magics against any witchcraft. And the chief welcomed Moni-Mambu, saying that Nzambi-Mpungu (the BaKongo name for God) must have sent him, for his skill at shooting was well known and he could be placed to shoot the game.
The chief took Moni-Mambu to his station and gave him a rifle and ammunition, and told him to shoot everything that came along: ‘Everything, I say. I don’t care if it has feathers or scales or fur or not, just shoot it. The only things I want left in this bush are snails and millipedes.’ Moni-Mambu questioned this order, but the chief repeated his command. ‘With or without fur or feathers or scales, edible or not, I want you to shoot it.’ And so the hunters all agreed.
Then the chief went off and organized his villagers for the drive, and they lit fires, and the chief called on his magics to bring them success in the hunt. As the villagers drove the game on, each thought he or she should seize something then, because if they waited until the spoils were divided out in the village they wouldn’t get so good a share. The fire spread and the game ran, and at the other end Moni-Mambu was shooting away at everything he saw. If a fowl came by, he shot it, if a lizard came by, he shot it, if a snake came by, he shot it. Then when hunting dogs came by, he shot them, and then he shot the hunter and he shot some children. And he shot the chief’s favourite wife, the one with six heavy copper bracelets.
The other hunters heard Moni-Mambu shooting, and one of them went to see what was going on. Moni-Mambu shot him too, but another hunter realized what was happening and saw the heap of Moni-Mambu’s victims. He brought word to the village. They went out and brought Moni-Mambu back.
Moni-Mambu said he had only obeyed the chief’s instructions, but the chief did not accept that answer. He ordered his men to kill Moni-Mambu.
So Moni-Mambu said, ‘Ve
ry well, but it is useless to kill me with a rifle. In my land we are born with protections against bullets. If you want to kill me, you must drown me in a fish-trap. Then I will get taken up into the sky. But if you try bullets or a knife, it will be useless. You must build a large fish-trap, big enough to hold me, and carry me to the river and throw me in.’
So they built the fish-trap out of bamboo and vines and raffia, and then they tied up Moni-Mambu and carried him off towards the river. But the river was quite a way off, and Moni-Mambu was heavy. Halfway there, everybody got hot and thirsty, and so they put Moni-Mambu down and went looking for good drinking water. But there was none nearby and they went further and further away. Meanwhile, Moni-Mambu was thinking to himself that he had to get out of this fish-trap.
Along came a party of traders from a neighbouring people. Moni-Mambu addressed them, ‘Hey, who is the chief among you?’ The traders pointed him out, and Moni-Mambu announced that he was the ritual specialist for anointing kings, and he was waiting by the path because the time had come to anoint their chief and make him a true king. Their chief said he would like that very much.
‘Then take me out of this magic fish-trap and untie me,’ said Moni-Mambu, and the men did so. ‘Now you must get in,’ said Moni-Mambu, ‘and you will be taken to the river and dipped, and when you come out of the water you will wear the regalia of kings and all men will respect you and hail you as a great chief. We shall go and wait for you in the village while the spirits do their work.’
Then Moni-Mambu took all of the chief’s trade goods, and he and the others went down the path. When the men who had been carrying Moni-Mambu returned from drinking, they were a little bit surprised to find a different man in the fish-trap, but they knew how cunning Moni-Mambu was and they thought he might simply have disguised himself. So they took the trader and threw him in the river.
African Myths of Origin (Penguin Classics) Page 10
