THE METAL FORGER (A TRADITIONAL CONGOLESE FABLE)

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Africa, Metal Forging, Moral Lessons, The Congo, Traditional Fable

As always with these traditional fables, I acknowledge the Congolese storytellers, Pere Lepoutre who gathered them and published them in Lingala, and my gifted translator, Stan Hotalen, who has lived most of his life in the Congo. Quality translations from one language/culture to another always require a certain amount of retelling and editing. I have not shied away from that, but I believe that the end products are true to the original stories. The booklets in Lingala have some fun illustrations by an artist named simply Kalundi, a rather common name down that way. The consensus opinion in the murky world of copyright law is that folktales cannot be copyrighted, unless someone pretty much photocopies the text and then claims it for their own. However the same is not true for original artwork. I wish I was a competent illustrator, but then I also wish that I’d played first base for the St. Louis Cardinals. If any of you folks out there are wannabe illustrators and would like to join in on these folktales, leave a comment.

 

A young man named Lombo forged metal to make things for the local community. His forge was located near the forge of an elderly smith, since in villages similar businesses tended to be located together. After the old smith had watched Lombo work, he approached him: “Look, you are not casting and forging metal the best way. Let me teach you how to do it right.” Lombo replied: “How is my work any of your business? I don’t want your help. You do things the old fashioned way. We young folks have our own way of doing things.”

Everyday the old man approached Lombo again and offered to teach him, and everyday Lombo refused, while becoming more and more annoyed. Finally Lombo demanded why the old man kept bothering him. The smith replied: “And I must continue to do so. You are young and inexperienced.  You would benefit greatly from my knowledge. You see it is important to me that the work is done properly. You will never become a good smith without my help.” Lombo said: “Fine then, if you won’t leave me alone, I will move my forge out near the jungle where I can work in peace.”

So Lombo took  his wife and child out to the edge of the jungle and built a house and forge. One day as Lombo worked the forge, eight gorillas approached carrying a dead gorilla. The gorillas stopped: “Lombo, you must forge us eight strong hoes and eight strong axes, so we can bury our friend properly. If you refuse we will kill you right here and now.”

Lombo knew that he was not skilled enough to produce the quality hoes and axes that the gorillas demanded. So he sent his child to the smith to see if he knew how to forge those tools. The elderly metal forger replied: “I tried my best to help that young man and he insulted me. Forget it! Go tell him that I will not help him now that he has gotten himself into trouble.” The child returned and told Lombo what the old man had said. Lombo considered his problem, but he just couldn’t come up with another solution. So he instructed his wife to go and beg the smith to relent and teach Lombo proper metal working. The smith could not refuse Lombo’s distraught wife. Since he was all too aware of the poor quality of Lombo’s work, he told her to tell Lombo to send the gorillas down to the creek to fill eight of Lombo’s pots with water and bring them back. Lombo told the gorillas that he needed the water for his forging. The gorillas went down to the creek, but the water kept leaking out of Lombo’s pots. They tried and tried with no success. Of course that gave Lombo and his family the opportunity to escape to the village. Once they were safely back, even hard-headed Lombo realized that he should have accepted the experienced metal forger’s help in the first place.

MORAL: The neck cannot surpass the head.

I love the cryptic symbolism of that moral and didn’t want to alter it, so I conferred with Stan about its meaning. I was headed in the right direction, but I wanted to make sure. He explained that in the Congo traditionally a young man shouldn’t own land until his uncle owns land. And if they both own land, the young man shouldn’t build on his land until his uncle builds. Also back in the day young men were expected to walk a pace behind their elders, perhaps they still do. So as the neck follows the lead of the head and turns as the head turns, so the younger generation must always follow their elders and bow to their wisdom. He also felt that it was likely that the moral was a well-known proverb or possibly part of one, and that the meaning would be obvious to the Congolese.

 

 

THE TORTOISE AND THE EAGLE (A TRADITIONAL CONGOLESE FABLE)

Tags

Africa, Animal Tales, Congolese Fable

First let me acknowledge once again the Congolese storytellers, Pere Lepoutre who preserved these tales in Lingala, unfortunately increasingly archaic Lingala, and my great translator Stan Hotalen who has dedicated his life to missionary and community development work in the Congo. With these authentic fables I prefer to use a light editing touch, but I wrestled with this one. There was some gratuitous violence that in my opinion marred the story and was not germane. So after going back and forth in my mind, I decided to do some creative editing. Nevertheless, the vast majority of the text is unaltered in any significant way, and I believe the original storyline and moral comes through as intended.

When the Tortoise’s wife became pregnant, the Tortoise did everything he could to please her. One day she said: “None of the foods you’ve brought satisfy me. I have a craving for the heart of a chimpanzee.” Wow, the Tortoise thought, that’s a tall order. How on earth am I going to get one of those? However the Tortoise was a strong animal, much stronger than he looked, but more importantly he was also very very smart, having a great amount of hidden wisdom in his shell. So he thought long and hard until he came up with a plan. He dressed himself up in a costume just like a great and powerful witchdoctor might wear and headed off into the forest. It so happened that an elderly Chimpanzee was very ill, near death, and his sons were out searching desperately for a witchdoctor. The Tortoise and the sons met, and they took him back to their family’s little village. Earlier that day they had moved the sick Chimpanzee from the hot mud brick house and placed him out back on a small bed in the cool shade of a banana tree.

This is perfect the Tortoise thought. The Chimpanzee is dying anyway and can’t put up a fight, and he is already outside where I can slip away quickly. He took the entire family back into the house and instructed them to sing and beat on drums as loudly as they could, never stopping until he was finished tending to the family patriarch. Then he went back outside and quickly cut out the Chimpanzee’s heart and disappeared into the forest with his prize. When the family finally tired of singing and beating on drums, they went outside and saw what had happened. They were stricken will grief. They quickly buried the body and placed a marker on top of the grave. In addition they all vowed revenge against the fake witchdoctor, but they didn’t know where he lived.

As was their custom, the family would mourn for several months, at the end of which they would hold a grand celebration to honor their deceased family member. When the time came for the grand party, everyone was invited, even the animals way out in the countryside, far beyond the Tortoise’s village: the Elephant, the Antelope, the Buffalo, the Leopard, the Squirrel, the Hippopotamus, Snakes of every kind, Crickets, the Porcupine, the Wild Boar, Bees, Mosquitoes, and even the Hyena, just to name a few. And everyone planned to go, except the Tortoise of course, for obvious reasons.

So on the day of the party, the tortoise stayed behind in his village. His best friend, the Eagle, saw him and asked why he wasn’t going to the party. “I can’t go,” the Tortoise replied. “My pregnant wife wanted to eat the heart of a chimpanzee, so I’m the one who killed the father Chimpanzee. If I go, they will see me and kill me.”

“Let’s take a walk and think about this,” the Eagle replied. “I don’t want to leave my good buddy behind.” Now this Eagle was famous in those parts for his magnificent crown of feathers. After they had strolled around the little village, the Eagle announced: “I’ve got a great idea. You can hide in my crown of feathers, and every now and then I will pour some palm wine on my head for you to drink.” At first the Tortoise was doubtful, but the Eagle convinced him that it was a good plan. “Don’t worry so much,” the Eagle said. “It will work out fine. You’ll see.” So the Tortoise climbed up and hid himself in the Eagle’s feathers.

When they arrived, the party was in full swing, and it was clear that several of the animals already had had quite a bit to drink. The Eagle found a place to sit and began drinking. The Eagle loved palm wine. Some of the animals noticed that every now and then the Eagle would pour some on his head, and they asked about it. The Eagle told them that his witchdoctor had recommended it to keep the feathers in his beautiful crown nice and fluffy. “Seems like a waste of good palm wine to me,”  someone growled.

Everybody at the party was drinking nonstop, including the Eagle. Because he was no longer thinking clearly, he grabbed a drum and began pounding on it. The Eagle was an accomplished drummer, and the other animals often asked him to send talking drum messages for them. At first the Eagle was just pounding out rhythms, but without even thinking about it he began to drum words. “You … animals … will … never … guess … what … I … have … hidden … within … my … crown … of … feathers.”

The Eagle and the Tortoise were lucky, because talking drums are not that easy to understand even when you are sober, but the other animals became curious and asked what message he was sending. Of course the Tortoise was terrified. Embarrassed by all the attention and realizing what he had almost done to his friend, the Eagle went outside for some fresh air. Once outside and by themselves, the Tortoise said, “Are you trying to get me killed? You’re drunk. I’m going back to my village. You can stay here if you want.” The Eagle apologized and said that he wouldn’t do any more drumming. He pleaded with the Tortoise to stay just a little while longer, and then they would go back together. Perhaps the Tortoise was feeling the palm wine too, because he let the Eagle talk him into staying.

So they went back inside, where the Eagle apologized and explained that he had drank too much and was just pounding out nonsense words. The Eagle began to drink heavily again and soon became restless. Suddenly he jumped up and began dancing and singing loudly, much to the amusement of the other animals. Then he grabbed a drum and began pounding away again. This time the oldest Chimpanzee son, who as the host had drank less than the others, was paying attention. Before long the Eagle was pounding out a message: “Hey … all … of … you … chimpanzee … children … the … Tortoise .. who … killed … your … father … is … hiding … in … my … crown.” Of course the Chimpanzee host yelled for his siblings, and they searched the Eagle’s crown and found the Tortoise.

“It is you, the fake witchdoctor who murdered our father,” all the chimpanzees screamed. “How dare you come here to the scene of your crime and drink our palm wine. You will die today. We will cut off your head.”

“I am guilty,” the Tortoise said, “but I wish no further harm to come to your family because of me. If you take me down to the river and let me stretch my neck out on a log, my family will know that you gave me a traditional tortoise death, and they will not seek revenge.”

That seemed like a good idea, so that is what they did. When the Tortoise stretched his neck out on the log, the other animals moved back a few paces so as not to get splattered by blood. The Chimpanzee raised his knife and slashed downward. At the last second the Tortoise zipped his head back inside his shell. Tortoises can do that very quickly. The knife sank deeply into the log and became stuck. In the confusion, the Tortoise slipped down the river bank into the water and escaped.

Moral: If you are smart, and use your brains, you can get away with a lot.

MAGAWA THE EVIL SORCERER (AN ORIGINAL AFRICAN FABLE)

Tags

Africa, Angels, Demons, Fable, Morality Tale, Sorcerer

When I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Chad I always had my ear out for myths, legends, and good stories. There was a Chadian tribe, name pronounced as bah-nah-nah (real spelling Banana believe it or not), that was always being accused of sorcery and shapeshifting. Many countries African and otherwise have one group that they blame for all the negative things that happen. It was claimed that their sorcerers would change into elephants at harvest to steal grain, and you could identify them by the red eyes of the elephant. Once in chatting with some UN or World Bank Ag people (I forget), they said that there might be a basis for that myth. Given the peculiar nature of an elephant’s digestive system, and assuming it was filled almost 100 percent with grain, some fermentation might be possible. Therefore during the harvest season theoretically an elephant could get drunk because of all the internally stored grain, and subsequently hung over with blood shot eyes. Highly doubtful but fun speculation. Anyway that is the seed of inspiration for this story.

There was a time long ago when supernatural beings were present on the earth more than they are today. Although frowned upon by the greater powers back in the home office, as human beings emerged contact between them happened all too frequently. Those immortals performed varied tasks. Some were elemental forces of fire and earth and wind and water, who moved continents, raised mountains and volcanic islands, and steered the currents of the great oceans. Others were the guardians of fish and birds and grasslands and forests and wild beasts, permitting those creatures to progress and develop at a measured pace according to a Grand Design of which they themselves had no ultimate knowledge. They had jobs to do, but where it all led was not in their purview. Some people called these entities spirits or elementals or angels or demons. One of the old words for those deemed benign was “eudaemon” — literally “good demon,” which later people translated as “angel.” Classfying them as good or bad, angel or demon, was often a result of how their individual actions affected the beholders. An earthquake is destructive but not evil, although the elemental causing it would most likely be labeled a demon by the people in a destroyed village.

However powerful, they were not immune to many of the same temptations faced by man. One of the great sins was having carnal relations with humans. A far worse sin was having children with humans. That almost always involved a male angel/demon and a human female, since the female immortals, though certainly not above lust, could prevent conception. It took a singularly rare act of definance for a female immortal to intentionally conceive a child. Perhaps because they were the progeny of two very different creatures, the children of a union between an immortal and human were always sterile. Their original name was Nephilim, and although they were not immortal and could be killed, they lived far longer and possessed powers far greater than ordinary people. Rare was the Nephilim who could resist the temptations such longevity and power entailed. No doubt they were the source of many of the legends of nightmare creatures like vampires and werewolves. Some of the famous conquerors of ancient history may well have been Nephilim. Fortunately there were never many of them living at any one time. Also in an era when great kings and conquerors often fought at the front leading their warriors, the more ambitious of them tended to lead risky lives. Nevertheless, if not for their sterility, there is little doubt that their descendents would have ruled the world. Apparently that was not part of the Grand Design.

Magawa was a Nephilim, the son of Chuila, the guardian spirit of the large wild animals of Africa. Over the countless years Chuila had become more and more drawn to the predators, especially the larger cats. In time he became cruel and arrogant and greedy and lustful. The big cats lusted mostly for blood, where he lusted for other things as well. One evening in the guise of a lion he spied a beautiful young woman, Miralu, bathing in a pond. Without thought he changed into a man, pounced on her, and raped her. Magawa was the result of that rape. The Grand Design of The Creator included a covenant guaranteeing Free Will to all the mortal creatures on earth. However since Chuila was immortal, he was subject to swift certain judgement for his horrible transgression. Chuila was walled away from the earth and imprisoned in the dark cold void between the stars for as near to forever as to make no never mind.

Miralu was never quite right after her rape. Although she tried, she couldn’t force herself to feel the love and affection of a normal mother toward her child. Listless and sad, she died when Magawa was just a boy. Magawa grew apace in strength and cunning, inheriting some of the powers of his father, including the ability to shapeshift into animal form. As a boy he had only a slight reddish tint to his eyes, but as he aged and the evil within him grew as well, his eyes became the color of blood. He would have been considered handsome if not for those eyes. Increasingly he was shunned by everyone, including the young women he desired. Nevertheless his powers enabled him to become wealthy. Eventually he lived apart in a grand house in a large compound guarded by fierce animals. At times he would change into a lion or leopard to kill his enemies and to abduct women in the night, women who would never return to their villages. During the harvest season he would become an elephant in order to steal grain that he would carry home in his large stomach, which could hold undigested for many hours around twenty-five gallons of grain. The people always knew that the elephant stealing their grain was Magawa because of its blood red eyes. Thus he became known and feared as an evil sorcerer.

Harmattan was a wind elemental whose domain in the north of Africa was mostly desert. In the winter he blew cold dry air, often filled with fine dust, far southward to peopled lands. Those dust storms irritated eyes, throats and lungs and caused illness. In the desert he could whip up a quick sandstorm that could scour the skin of men and animals. In the summer when moister air moved up from rains far to the south, he would toss it high and create thunderstorms that he would push westward into the sea to strenghten as they moved across the warm waters and sometimes became hurricanes that devastated distant lands. Harmattan was not beloved, but he was not evil. Although there were times when he enjoyed flexing his powers to excess, causing great destruction to lands and peoples and pushing his barren domain ever southward. He did this because he had no empathy with living things. However gradually over the long years he began to delight in the flight of birds. He loved the way they played in his winds. One species of bird became especially precious to him. We might even call them pets. However because the birds ate grain, and there was little of that in the desert, they often flew south to find food. For the first time Harmattan experienced loneliness when his pets left him, and for the first time he experienced happiness when they returned.

Cramcrami was the guardian of the vast savannahs of Africa. She loved all things grass, even the little burr grass that thinly blanketed the dunes on the borders of the true desert during the rainy season, only to die completely away in the hot dry months. It is said that grass and grain have the same mother, and for all intents and purposes that mother was Cramcrami. She came into contact with humans early on when nomadic women first gathered the seeds of wild grasses. She helped when humans began to settle and farm. She sang long over the grasses favored by humans, and her powers increased the size of the grains and the yield per plant. Cramcrami was gentle by nature and lacked the physical strength of elementals like Harmattan, although still quite strong by human standards. Nonetheless she was in fact one of the most powerful entities on earth, for in addition to grasses, grains, and herbs, she also had great influence over bushes and small trees. Most importantly, she was thoughtful and did nothing without considering the consequences, which distinguished her from most of the other supernatural entities on earth at that time, and was a kind of power in and of itself. She was called by many different names in many places. She was credited for giving olive trees and fig trees and many berries and fruit to mankind. She 

LILOMBO AND NKUMBA (A TRADITIONAL CONGOLESE FABLE)

Tags

Africa, Congolese Fable, Humor, Morality Tale

Folks this one requires a little introduction. I did not write this. I exercised a light editorial touch, preserved the source material for almost thirty years, arranged for the translation, supplied the Congolese artwork, and put it all together. However real credit goes to the original Congolese story tellers, Pere Paul Lepoutre who assembled and transcribed these stories into written Lingala, and then published them, thus saving them from oblivion, as well as to Stan Hotalen who translated the story from what he described as esoteric King James Lingala. Stan has spent most of his life in the Congo, with some years stateside for college, grad studies and work experience in the middle. He has traversed the Congo teaching the Bible, health programs and community development. I had no luck trying to translate the stories. Lingala dictionaries and the online translation services could only translate about forty percent of the words. Modern street Lingala is very different. I appealed for help on the RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers) Facebook page. Someone pointed me toward Stan and Stan toward me. Thanks. So those guys deserve the credit. Enjoy!

Lilombo and Nkumba lived in the same village. One year during the rainy season, they went hunting with some friends from their village. An animal got caught in Nkumba’s trap. Nkumba cast his spear killing the animal, and then yelled, “Clap your hands! Clap your hands!” But his fiends didn’t hear him because Nkumba had a weak voice. Lilombo happened to be standing next to Nkumba and he yelled loudly, “Clap your hands! Clap your hands! Clap your hands for me, Lilombo!” Everyone heard him and they said to themselves, “Lilombo has killed an animal!” When it was time to divide things up, they gave Lilombo the heart of the animal because he was the one who killed it. When Nkumba saw that he was angry and said, “The heart is mine because I am the one who killed it.” But Lilombo replied, “Whose voice did all of you hear?”  All of their friends answered, “We heard only Lilombo’s voice.” So they gave the heart to him.

The next time the men went hunting, Lilombo used the same strategy and stayed close to Nkumba. Nkumba again killed an animal and cried out, “Clap your hands! Clap your hands!”  His friends heard nothing. So Lilombo yelled again in his very strong and loud voice and everyone heard him. They came together and again divided up the animal, and again they gave the heart to Lilombo. Each time they hunted Lilombo did the same thing to Nkumba.

Nkumba became depressed and frustrated. “What can I do to resolve this problem?” he wondered. “Every animal that I kill, Lilombo ends up getting credit for it.” When they went out hunting again, Nkumba saw an animal moving nearby. He threw his spear, but this time he missed. The spear flew past the animal, striking and killing another hunter who had been stalking it. Thinking quickly, Nkumba called out, “Clap your hands! Clap your hands!” When Lilombo heard Nkumba he did as he always did and yelled loudly,  “Clap your hands! Clap your hands! Clap for me Lilombo.” All of the other hunters said among themselves, “Oh! Lilombo has again killed an animal!” They went to see and divide up the animal, however what they found dead on the ground was a human. Everyone was shocked and began to cry out, “Brothers! Lilombo has killed a man!” Lilombo responded and said, “What are you talking about? I didn’t kill him. It was Nkumba who killed him!”  However Nkumba denied it and played dumb.

The two of them began to fight, until the other hunters broke it up and took them before the Mokonzi (the village chief) to be judged. Lilombo spoke first: “Mokonzi, every animal that people thought I killed was really killed by Nkumba. I just outsmarted him. He is the one who killed that man, not me.” Then Nkumba responded, “Mokonzi ask the other hunters whose voice they heard claiming credit for the kill?” All the others answered, “We only heard Lilombo. From the start of the hunt until the end we never heard Nkumba’s voice.” Then the Mokonzi decided the matter and pronounced his punishment on Lilombo: that Lilombo should pay a large sum of money to the family of the dead man. When Lilombo couldn’t come up with the money, the Mokonzi ruled: “Since you don’t have the money, it is just and fair that you become a slave to the family of the dead man.” From that day on Lilombo remained a slave. Eventually he lost all of his hair because of the hard work and shame of slavery, and now he lives in the village of slaves down by the water.

The moral: One way or the other, in the end theft and deception don’t go unpunished.

IDRIS AND THE RIVER PEOPLE

Tags

Africa, Bagirmi tribe, Cameroon, Capitaine Fish, Chad, Fable, French, Slave Raiders

This story takes place sometime in the nineteen twenties. It is about a young fisherman named Idris who lived in a village on the east bank of the Chari River between the city of Fort Lamy a little ways to the south and Lake Chad much farther to the north. A member of the Bagirmi tribe, his family was poor because his father had lost an arm. They depended on Idris who was an excellent fisherman. His best friend Moussa came from a wealthier family. In fact Moussa’s family was distantly related to Sultan Moustapha of the Bagirmi Tribe. Most days, especially in the dry season when the river was shallow everywhere but in the very center, Idriss and Moussa would go out on the river in a fine pirogue that belonged to Moussa’s father Aboubakar and try to net or spear fish in the shallows. Aboubakar spent his days tending his herds of cattle and goats and riding his handsome horse. Idris’s family owned an old leaky pirouge that he used only in Moussa’s absence, for fear of it sinking. Their prize catch was the large capitaine (a.k.a. Nile perch) so highly valued by nasaras (white people, mostly French), who lived in Fort Lamy. One large capitaine would sell for enough money to feed a family for a week, maybe two.

It had been the Bagirmi Tribe that had appealed to the French for help against the Arabic slave raiders. We sometimes think of slave raiders as small gangs of outlaws, but in those days some commanded what amounted to small armies. In fact in Idris’s day many of the older Bagirmi women had plugs in their lips intended to make them unattractive to the raiders. Idris was happy that girls no longer had to do that. A few years before Idris was born, a combined and badly outnumbered but better armed French and Bagirmi force had defeated Rabah, the last and greatest of the slave raiders, at Kousseri, a small town on the Cameroonian side of the river across from the eventual Chadian capital city of Fort Lamy, named after the commanding French officer who had died heroically in that battle. Many years later it would be renamed N’Djamena following Chad’s independence from France. Idris’s father had lost his arm at Kousseri, and from then on could only fish with line from the river bank. In addition to his father’s arm, the price of that victory had been that the French settled in to govern that vast area known as The Chad, the last significant area in Africa to be colonized. And now the Bagirmi were less than they once were, just one of many tribes, but they no longer had to worry about slavers. Whether things were better or worse under the French was something the old men argued about over millet beer.

Fishing on the Chari was dangerous. Hippos would sometimes overturn pirogues and kill fishermen. Drowning when the river was flooding was always a danger, for very few people knew how to swim. It is easy to learn to swim in a nice swimming pool or a safe little lake or pond, but not so easy in swift rivers or in ponds infested with poisonous snakes. And once in a while a large crocodile would slip down the river from the endless reeds on Lake Chad or the seasonal swamps and ponds on the west side of the river in Cameroon. In fact the west bank of the river was a favorite place to fish. Lines on paper drawn by nasaras didn’t mean much to the Bagirmi. Also Idris and Moussa were always on the lookout for the river people, not that they saw them often. In fact Idris had seen one only twice in his life. The river people looked something like nasaras, with their pale skin and long flowing blonde hair. They also had angled emerald-colored eyes, many small pointed teeth, gills, narrow heads, and webbed hands and feet. That they were seen so rarely was thought to be due to the magical powers that some thought they possessed. No nasara had ever seen one, at least as far as anyone knew. They doubted that the river people existed at all, believing them to be folk legends. But then no nasaras spent days on end searching the river for fish. Seeing one of the river people was considered to be an omen of some sort, whether good or bad was a matter of debate, probably because hippo attacks sometimes followed sightings. Some thought that the hippos were like cattle to the river people.

Now Idris thought more deeply about the river people and things in general than Moussa and the other young men in his village. Except for their long blonde hair everything about the river people seemed designed for swift movement in water. That bothered him, so one day he asked Hussein about it, the wisest old man he knew. Hussein said he didn’t know for sure, but the hair could just be vanity. He’d seen many a strutting bird and preening animal, so why not river people? However he then asked Idris to think about how few times river people had been spotted. Hussein smiled and said that with the sun shining down and his hair fanning out above him as he sat on the sandy river bottom, a river person might be pretty hard to see. Also since the river wasn’t deep all year long, often Idris had wondered where the river people lived. Moussa’s father believed that they lived in cavelike villages under the banks of the river, although no one had ever seen such a village. Others said that they lived under the reed mats floating in Lake Chad and only came down on occasion, which is what the members of the Kanembou Tribe around Lake Chad claimed, but then the Kamembous were known for telling tall tales. Anyway no one knew for certain, not even old Hussein.

One day while Idris and Moussa were fishing, a giant crocodile broke the surface holding a struggling river man in its jaws. Moussa wanted to paddle away, but Idris stood up and threw a spear that pierced the crocodile’s eye. The crocodile released the river man and disappeared beneath the water. Although bleeding violet blood from several wounds, the river man stared at Idris, as if memorizing his features, then he’d nodded once and rolled beneath the water. When the villagers heard the story, they were amazed. No one knew whether it meant good fortune or ill fortune for Idris, but everybody agreed that it had to mean something.

Now it so happened that all the sultan’s daughters had been married off one by one, save for his youngest, a gazelle-eyed beauty named Aisha. Whenever Idris and Moussa encountered Aisha, Idris thought her shy smile drifted his way more than Moussa’s, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. For each daughter in turn the sultan had held a contest to determine the lucky young groom. The first had been a horse race. The second had been the longest crocodile skin. And the third had been a hunt for meat for the bridal feast. A renowned hunter had brought in a magnificent antelope cheval, but the prize had gone to a handsome younger man who had brought in a warthog. Turned out that the Sultan just loved roasted warthog. Who knew? That night at the feast, although his portion was small and not choice, Idris discovered that roasted warthog really is delicious. Later he watched as the daughter in question gave a quick sly wink to her husband to be. For Aisha’s contest the Sultan had decided on the largest capitaine. The suitors were given one week with prizes measured every evening. That gave Idris hope, for everyone knew he was the best fisherman for many miles around. Briefly he wondered if maybe Aisha had had something to do with that.

Over the first five days of the contest Idris and Moussa fished together as usual. Both had caught capitaine, but Idris had caught the largest. It was part of the contest ritual to gut and clean the fish in the late afternoon with all the villagers present. On the sixth morning Idris discovered that Moussa had taken his pirogue out earlier by himself. So Idris took his old pirogue out that day. He didn’t catch anything. In fact Moussa had left in the middle of the night and paddled the ten miles or so against the north flowing current all the way to Fort Lamy. There in the fish market he had spent all his money to purchase the largest capitaine he could find, one larger than the one Idris had caught earlier. He thought Aisha was a fine looking girl, but really for him it was all about marrying the sultan’s daughter. Paddling back with the current was much easier. When he presented the fish there were murmurs because the fish had already been gutted and cleaned. Moussa explained that he had caught the fish early in the morning and was afraid it would spoil laying ungutted in the pirogue all day. Idris was suspicious, but he had no proof.

He decided to go out by himself the next and final day of the contest, his old pirogue notwithstanding. He no longer trusted his friend. He fished vainly all that day and began to despair when suddenly the water around the boat began to roil. That frightened him because that often happened just before a hippo attack. But soon the water on both sides of the pirogue filled with river people. That was frightening too, but there was little he could do about it, so he sat quietly. The river people on one side grabbed the pirogue and held it steady, while the river people on the other side hoisted up and dumped over into the center of the pirogue the largest capitaine that Idris had ever seen, maybe that anybody had ever seen. The fish was so heavy that the pirogue sank down until only a couple inches remained above the water line. It would later measure out at just under six foot and three hundred and sixty pounds. And it was beautiful with silver scintillating scales blue tinged in places and black eyes surrounded by bright yellow eye walls. When he looked back up all but one of the river people had disappeared. Of course it was the one whose life he had saved. The river man smiled. That was a pretty scary too with all those little pointed teeth, but a smile is a smile for all that. Idris smiled back and this time the river man nodded his thanks. Then he turned gracefully and slipped beneath the water.

When Idris returned oh so carefully in his pirogue, he became the toast of the village. The sultan himself came down to gut the fish, quite an honor. Idriss heard some old men mutter that it was the biggest capitaine anyone had caught since the days of their great great grandfathers, which made him smile. In his experience when it came to fish stories, great great grandfathers, great grandfathers, grandfathers, and old men in general were not exactly wedded to the truth. When the sultan sliced the fish’s belly open, a large emerald fell out. After some oohing and ahhing, the sultan announced that much of the money from its sale would be used as a dowry for Aisha. He bought them a plot of land on a hill overlooking the river, with a nice mud brick house that had a real tin roof, and he gave Idris a fine new pirogue. The land behind the house was flat and fertile so Aisha could grow spices and hot peppers and gumbo and ground nuts among other things. In the years that followed, Idris and Aisha had four healthy children. Surprisingly they all had green eyes and just the tiniest bit of webbing between their toes and fingers. They loved the water and were all fine fishermen and fisherwomen. His two girls were strong limbed and fished as well as the two boys. As for Moussa, from that day on he had no luck fishing. He became a herder like his father.

Moral: You know, every great once in a while, just to keep the universe honest, a good deed really does go unpunished.

THE LEOPARD, THE TORTOISE, AND THE GAZELLE (AN ORIGINAL AFRICAN FABLE)

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Africa, Animals, Fable

In Africa a long long time ago there were places where people had yet to come and animals ruled supreme. In one such place the chief of all the animals, the mokonsi, was the leopard. Some other animals were bigger and stronger like the elephants and hippos and crocodiles, but the animals considered the leopard the most dangerous and didn’t want to get on his bad side. No one feared the peaceful elephants, and the hippos and crocodiles were only dangerous in or near rivers and lakes. The leopard could climb trees, and see at night better than most of the other animals, moving quickly and quietly through the trees, and he was strong with long teeth and flashing claws. So the leopard ruled the deep forest.

Now the leopard was not content just to be the mokonsi of the deep forest. He claimed to rule the vast grassy plains on the borders of the forest as well. Most of the animals there, the antelopes, warthogs, jackals, and even the big strong buffalos feared the leopard and accepted him as the mokonsi. All but the gazelle and his wife. The gazelles were so fast and nimble that the leopard could never catch them, although he often tried to sneak up on them in the night. The female gazelle grew tired of being stalked by the leopard, so she decided to ask her old friend the tortoise for help.

This was no ordinary tortoise. She was called the mother of all tortoises because she was the eldest of all the tortoises living in the entire world. She was hundreds and hundreds of years old and her shell was as big as a very large house and even had bushes and grassses growing on top of it. Animals often walked right by her thinking she was just another hill. All the animals respected her for her wisdom, and some even claimed that she had secret magical powers. In fact she possessed no magic, if by that you mean something supernatural, but her shell did contain wonders, wonders called books and scrolls. Long ago the tortoises had learned to chew and pound reeds to make paper, and they’d learned to read and wright in tortoise fashion. Now their loosely bound books made with crude paper weren’t as fancy as our modern books, but it is what is written inside a book that counts. In fact the inside of her shell was really an enormous library containing all the tortoise wisdom of the ages, which was a lot because they live so long, are very observent, and do a lot of thinking in their quiet shells. It was considered an honor, almost a holy pilgrimage, for elderly tortoises to make the long slow journey to give her the book they had assembled over the course of their lives.

All that aside, to the lady gazelle the tortoise was just an old and treasured friend who lived nearby, and a very wise one. She told the tortoise about their problem and asked for her advice. Her friend replied that she would think about it and to come back in a week. During that week the tortoise read a lot and thought about the problem, paying special attention to the section of her library labeled psychology. When she had a plan that she thought would work, she told the gazelle what to do.

A few days later the leopard came slinking around and asked the lady gazelle where her husband was. While staying out of leaping range, she told him the tortoise was using her magic to send her husband up to the gods to ask them to kill the leopard. The leopard was furious and took off at a run to find the tortoise. As soon as he left the male gazelle came out of hiding and they both raced off and got there well before the leopard. When the leopard arrived he saw the head of the male gazelle on the ground covered in blood and the tortoise holding a bloody axe in her mouth.

“Is he dead?” The leopard asked.

“No,” she replied after setting down the axe. “This is how I use my magic to send someone to the gods to appeal for help. He wants to replace you as mokonsi.  I’ve done this countless times through the years. He will be fully restored shortly.”

The leopard padded around huffing and puffing. “Then you must do the same for me so that they can hear my side.”

The tortoise obliged. The lady gazelle came out of hiding and dug her husband out of the dirt and washed off the red berry juice. They thanked the tortoise. And for awhile peace reigned over the forest and the grassy plains. But sooner or later another mokonsi always comes along.

Moral: While the distant gods are often deaf to our appeals, the axes here on earth are rather sharp.

THE ELEPHANT AND THE SONGBIRD (AN ORIGINAL AFRICAN FABLE)

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Africa, Animals, Fable, Humor, Modern Folktale

This fable was inspired by my puzzling out a few Congolese fables published in 1966 in Lingala, I think as a grammar school primer, by Pere Paul Lepoutre. The originals were rather cryptic authentic oral tradition folktales and bear almost no resemblance to my stories. My stories were written for an American audience, and the writing is entirely mine. However I did fall in love with the delightful anthropomorphic animal characters in those tales. The good father deserves a mention, as do the anonymous Congolese story tellers who kept their folktales and culture alive. Special thanks to Susannah Glover Black for her illustration.

Before the Sahara Desert was fully formed, when there were still vast grasslands and even a few rivers and lakes in what is now almost all desert, along the borderland between the jungle in the center of Africa and those grassy plains, lived two unusual friends, an elephant and a songbird. They were unusual friends because most animals, including people who are just another kind of animal, prefer the company of those who look and act like they do. That way they don’t have to learn new ways of thinking and behaving. Learning how to get along with and appreciate others who are different takes some effort, but it is always worth it.

Big and strong with a voice of thunder or a thousand trumpets all sounding at once, the elephant was a dull gray color, except when he covered himself with brown mud or red dust, which he liked to do when the sun was hot or now and again just for the fun of it. The songbird was mostly green up top, and mostly yellow on the bottom, and really quite pretty. So tiny compared to his friend, the songbird could crawl into the elephant’s trunk and tickle it with his feathers, which caused the elephant to sneeze him up high in the air. The songbird thought that was great fun, and the fall back down didn’t hurt at all, because of course the he could fly. The elephant loved listening to his friend sing. It put him in such a good mood that he didn’t mind the sneezing, at least until his trunk became red and sore, which happened sometimes if they played the game too long. This elephant had four wives, because that is the way of elephants, while the songbird had just one wife. The elephant’s wives got along well. He was careful to treat them all the same. Making a lady elephant angry can be downright dangerous, even for another elephant.

Everyday the two friends searched for food together. Although he was too small to fly high or far, the little bird could fly to the tops of trees and spot ripe berries and other fruit. Then the elephant would butt the trees to shake down fruit or rake berries with his long trunk. Above all the elephant loved the cinnamon flavored bark of certain thorn trees, a species of acacia tree. Whenever they found the right kind of acacias that were just the right size, the elephant would slice the bark with his tusks and peel it off with his trunk. Usually butting trees and raking vines didn’t hurt them, but peeling the bark killed the acacias. The bark from the older larger trees didn’t taste nearly as good to the elephant, so he left them alone. Therefore there were always seeds falling and new trees sprouting, but it took at least ten years for the trees to reach the size the elephant liked best. He ate them much faster than they grew. Soon acacias of the right size were very hard to find. The elephant could have saved some of them to eat later. That is called conservation. Elephants don’t know how to do that. Neither do some people.

They ate other things too. Their wives made foofoo for them everyday. Foofoo has many names and is made from different grains or roots in different places. It usually looks like a mound of soft jiggly bread. You eat it by tearing off a small piece with your fingers (after washing your hands) and dipping it into the stew. Our two friends didn’t have hands, but a handy trunk and tiny beak worked just fine. Regardless of what it is made from, it takes time and hard work to make foofoo. African wives clean roots and grain thoroughly. Some root pieces have to be soaked several times to remove harmful toxins (things that would make you sick). Then they spread them out to dry, watching to make sure no animals steal them. Then the wives use big sticks (pestles) and large wooden bowls (mortars) to pound the grain or roots into a fine flour. The wives often work together, pounding the sticks in turn, clapping their hands to keep time like a jump rope chant. When the flour is ready they slowly add water until they get the consistency they want. Then they cook it slowly in pots. The foofoo was always delicious, as well as the sauces and stews the wives made.

However, since they had it everyday, the two friends didn’t really appreciate it. One starry evening they ate their supper under a knobby old tree. As usual the foofoo and sauce were perfect, but there was no cinnamon flavored bark for the elephant’s dessert. The elephant turned to his little friend: “Tomorrow we’ll go to a far place on the edge of the grassy plain. Not many big trees grow there. It’s a perfect place to find acacias. “Fine,” replied the songbird, “but let’s take our wives so that they can make foofoo.” “No,” trumpeted the elephant, as he stomped around causing leaves and small branches to shake down from the tree. “I’m tired of bothering with wives! I need a vacation! We’ll have bark and berries and fruit. We can do without foofoo for a few days.” When the two friends had an argument, which wasn’t very often, the elephant usually got his way because he could shout so loud and stomp the ground so hard.

So the next morning they started off and walked all day until they reached a lovely spot with plenty of fruit and acacia trees of just the right size. Soon they gathered all they could eat. The fruit and acacia bark was tasty, but it would have tasted even better if they had had some foofoo too and maybe a nice sauce. The next day the fruit and bark didn’t taste quite as good. It was exactly the same as the day before. Their wives made many different sauces and stews. Also they missed their foofoo. They’d eaten foofoo all their lives, at every meal, and supper didn’t seem right without it. For us it would be like eating a sandwich without bread. Yuk! By the third day they were so tired of food without foofoo, they hardly ate anything. That night they dreamed about platters of foofoo.

In the morning the elephant decided to call their wives. He stomped around and bellowed as loud as he could, “Wives, oh wives!!! Come to us and bring some foofoo!” They waited all day, but the wives never came.  The village was too far away even for the elephant’s great voice to reach. That night they nibbled on some fruit, but they went to bed hungry for foofoo.

The next morning the songbird announced, “Today I’ll call our wives.” The elephant laughed, “If our wives can’t hear me, how can they possibly hear you?” “Nevertheless,” replied the little bird in his gentle way, “I have a right to try too.” “Oh go ahead,” said the elephant. “But don’t blame me if we go hungry again tonight.” They went a bit deeper into the forest until they found a very tall tree. The songbird flew to the first branch, then the next and the next, until he couldn’t see his friend or even the ground. When he finally reached the very top, he perched on a branch and sang his sweetest song.

Two African fish eagles, which closely resemble bald eagles, were flying by. With their keen hearing and even keener eyes, they heard and saw the little bird. This pair had mated recently and were carrying twigs to build a nest. The female eagle dropped down to the tree, and the male eagle followed her. The male thought that they should be on about their business, but they were newlyweds, and if his mate wanted to listen to a songbird, well he would go along, at least for a little while. Because the eagles were carrying twigs for a nest, the songbird sang about how much he missed his wife and their comfortable nest, which he hoped would soon be full of tiny blue eggs. When he finished, the female eagle had tears in her eyes. Then the songbird asked her to use her powerful wings to fly to their little village and ask their wives to come at once, bringing everything they needed to make foofoo. Of course the lady eagle agreed to help. We can only guess what the male eagle thought, but seeing the mist in his mate’s eyes, he wisely decided to keep his mouth shut. It was full of twigs anyway.

The songbird fluttered down and rejoined his friend. They waited all day. The elephant was certain that their wives couldn’t have heard his tiny friend. The elephant had barely heard something, not even enough to make out the words, and he’d been standing right at the bottom of the big tree. Just at sunset the wives arrived. The elephant’s jaw dropped open in amazement. They had even brought some foofoo wrapped in big banana leaves. It wasn’t as fresh as usual, but it still tasted great to the songbird and the elephant. They praised their wives and told them how much they missed them.

Later they sat out under the stars rubbing their full bellies from time to time. Finally the elephant said, “I still don’t understand how our wives heard you and not me.” The little bird laughed, “My friend you have legs like tree trunks and a voice of thunder, but I can sing, and I . . . I have wings!”