The Lion Lady

One day a Hottentot was travelling in the company of a Bush woman who carried a small child on her back. The way was long and weary and the travellers had run out of food. Presently the Hottentot saw some horses grazing in the distance, and looking sideways at the Bush woman he said: 'I could do with a nice bite of horsemeat, I am very hungry. I have heard tales about you, that you can turn yourself into a lion. Pray do so, so that we can eat!' He spoke almost in jest, but the woman looked at him strangely.
'If I did so, you would be afraid,' she said.
'All I am afraid of at this moment is dying of hunger,' he answered. But even as he spoke he saw the hairs growing out of her neck. Her nails became long and sharp, her face changed and grew furry and her eyes wild and golden. She dropped the child and threw off her skin petticoat. Meanwhile the man had scrambled up a tree in terror. With a roar and a twist of its tail, the lion bounded away after the horses and soon slew one with a dreadful blow of its paw. Growling and lashing its tail, the vicious animal, now bloodstained and terrifying, returned and stood beneath the tree staring up at the man with its wild eyes.
'Enough, enough!' he blubbered. 'Don't hurt me only change back again!' The lion just growled and lashed its tail all the more. 'If you do not change back, I will stay here until I die,' the man sobbed. Growing tired of teasing him, the woman allowed her form to materialize through that of the lion. There she stood, an ordinary Bush woman, putting on her petticoat and wrapping her crying baby up in its kaross once more. You may be sure that that man never travelled in her company again!

THE HIDDEN HUSBAND

There was once a woman who kept her son in a sack. No one had ever seen this son, but he was supposed to be a paragon of virtue. One day, his mother decided that he should be married and made the following proclamation: 'I am looking for a wife for my wonderful son. He is made up of manliness alone, and worthy of a woman's love. Blessed is she who would marry him.' Soon, many girls who were attracted by this fine proposition were married to him, but they were still never allowed to see him. Each day when the wives went out to gather roots and work in the fields, his mother would open the bag and let him out, and he would sing:
'I am but half a man Yet I have many wives Wherefore being no man I am yet a great man.'
When the wives came home, he would be back in the bag, and his mother would say that he had gone out hunting and was such a mighty hunter he would soon be home bearing a gemsbok on his back. One morning, however, one of the cleverest wives did not go to the fields, but hid behind the hut. She saw the mother take out the bag. From it came just an arm and a leg joined together, and this thing hopped about. She also heard it sing its song.
Then the strange creature saw the wife peeping round the door. 'Oh mother, put me back quickly!' he said, knowing he had been discovered. The young woman then came in, pretending she had forgotten to take her pipe with her. She said to the mother, 'Today I have seen your son, our husband. Is this the man you said was made up of manliness alone and worthy of a woman's love? Behold, it is only an arm and a leg.' Then she called all the others. 'Ah, foolish young wives of nothing! Is not a man made up of two arms and two legs? Today I have seen our husband. He is no man, behold! He is an arm and a leg, therefore he needs many wives to succour him.'
Then the women said, 'A woman may marry a man, but not a portion thereof. Today we will seek a whole man, for the comfort of a whole man's love.' And they all packed up and left. As they went, they passed the word around: 'If some day you should hear tell of a man who is made up of manliness alone, and worthy of a woman's love, go not to him for he is no man, but only a portion thereof. Behold! It is but an arm and a leg!'

How the Jackal got his Black Back

Like the Bushmen, the Hottentots were fond of telling tales of the animals around them. A good example is the story of how the jackal got his black back. One day, the jackal saw a little girl sitting up in a tree.
'Why are you sitting up there, pretty child?' he asked.
'I am tired, I must rest,' she replied.
'Come down, and I will carry you home on my back,' said the jackal.
'I am a sun child. I ride on no jackal's back,' was the haughty reply.
But the jackal coaxed and cajoled with such a sweet tongue that at last she relented and climbed down to seat herself on his back, and away they went. Now, although she was small and light, the jackal began to feel uncomfortable. This was due to the remarkable heat of the sun child.
'Jump down,' he said, 'I see a pretty bird that I will shoot for you with my bow and arrow.' But she refused. 'Jump down, jump down,' pleaded the jackal, pretending no more, for his fur was starting to singe. Still she refused. He grew frightened and started to use threats. 'I will jump into the water with you; I will sting you with my secret sting!' She just laughed and held tight. The jackal could stand no more, and with a howl leaped into a dense Bush and the little sun child was swept from his back. Then, singed and sorry, the jackal ran away into the veld, carrying with him forever the mark of the sun child.

THE BABOON AND THE TORTOISE

There was a time when the baboon and the tortoise were friends, stealing figs from the farmers tree, braving the terrors of the farmer's gun and his fierce snarling dogs.

This exciting way of life did not appeal to the tortoise who suggested to the baboon one day that they would plant their own fig trees, far away from the farmer, his gun, and his fierce snarling dogs. The baboon agreed that this was a splendid idea but being a lazy animal he neglected his tree once he had planted it, while the tortoise watered his every day.

It is not surprising that while the tortoise's tree was sprouting branches and leaves, the tree belonging to the baboon seemed to be dying. Finally it wilted, withered and was no more than a dry stick in the ground.

When the figs appeared on the tortoise's tree, his mouth watered at the thought of eating them, and because he could not climb the tree himself he asked the baboon to help him. "Certainly," said the baboon, climbing up the tree, picking the ripest figs and munching them till the juice was running out of his mouth.

"But you are eating my figs," cried the tortoise, looking up. "Throw some down for me."

"I'm seeking the ripest ones for you," shouted back the baboon. "I'm testing them by tasting them. You'll get your share by and by." And he went on eating.

Finally, he came down. "I couldn't find any really ripe ones so I didn't bring any down for you." And turning three somersaults while he laughed and laughed, he ran off.

The tortoise was looking very sad indeed when a robin redbreast came a hop-hop-hopping along the sand towards him, asking, "Why so sad, tortoise? You look as if you've lost something."

"I have. All the figs are ripe on my tree but I can't climb up to get them. I asked baboon to help me but he clambered up and guzzled himself and didn't even give me the skin of one fig. Be a good citizen, robin redbreast, and help me now."

The robin winged his way up to the topmost branches and started pecking holes in the ripe figs. "Do you like ripe figs, tortoise?"

"Yes, indeed, the riper the better."

"Well, only unripe ones are left now, Do you like unripe figs, tortoise?"

"Yes, please, I like unripe figs as well."

"Sorry, there are no unripe figs left now."

And chirping merrily, the well-fed bird fluttered away, leaving the hungry tortoise with the corners of his mouth dropping farther down in his sadness and hunger. Since that day, it is said, tortoises have never lost their sad look, and nobody has ever seen a tortoise smiling or heard him laughing.

Next day the baboon was there again, eating his fill and mocking the tortoise who by now was hungry, miserable, and very very angry.

The day after that the shepherd came along, heard the tortoise's sad story, and offered to help him to get his own back on the crafty baboon. After he had plucked some figs for the tortoise he loaded his gun and placed it high in the tree. To the trigger he tied a long string that hung down to the ground.

In no time at all the baboon came to the tree and seeing the string asked the tortoise what it was for. "Well," said the tortoise, pointing to the gun in the tree, "do you see that stick up there? If I pull the string one way, it causes the stick to bring ripe figs falling down. If I pull it another way, it causes thunder and lightning and clouds."

"Thunder and lightning and clouds!" roared the baboon, "Ha! Ha! You must think me as foolish as the owl who let the swallow escape." And he pulled the string.

"Bang! Bang!" both barrels of the gun went off, and the baboon saw lightning and thunder and clouds and in his fright ran screaming across the sands. Since that time, baboons have always been frightened of guns. They can't stand the sight of them.

Deep down inside, the tortoise was laughing, but his face itself looked as sad as it will always. His revenge, he felt, was not complete, and he wanted to punish the baboon still further.

Next time they met, the tortoise was standing next to a bees-nest, listening.

"What are you listening to?" inquired the baboon.

"To the music that's coming from this hole."

"But it's so soft, no more than a gentle humming."

"Of course it's soft. That's a church."

"It's so soft you can hardly hear it."

"Well, if you like them to hum more loudly, take this stick, shove it through the door, move it up and down, and bang on the church with your fist."

The baboon did so. The humming grew suddenly louder, anger came in the sound, and the bees came swarming out of their nest, a cloud of angry bees who attacked the baboon, stinging him all over his head and body.

Screaming with pain, he staggered down to the river, the swarm buzzing after him. Splash! He dived into the water to escape from his pursuers, but every time his head came out of the water so that he could breathe, the hovering swarm was on him again, stinging, stinging, until their anger had died and they droned back to their nest.

Back on dry land, the baboon - who now had bumps all over his face and body - started to pull out the stings (for a bee always leaves a sting behind) and began scratching himself all over as the pain grew. And baboons, as you may have noticed, have been scratching themselves ever since.

By the time he returned to the tortoise, wishing to bite him for what he had done, the little fellow was gazing up at a mango tree. "You'll wish you'd never been born when I've finished with you," he shouted; but the tortoise said - calmly, though he was really trembling - "Just a moment, my friend. I did not tell you to move that stick up and down with such force, nor did I tell you to bang on the church so hard that you almost punched a hole through it. You cannot really blame me for what happened." And he went on gazing at the mango tree while the baboon's anger calmed down and he became inquisitive.

"What are you gazing at so intently, tortoise?"

"I'm looking up at the nice juicy mangoes hanging up there, almost crying to be eaten."

Now the baboon's eyelids were all swollen from the stinging so he couldn't see well enough to realize that what the tortoise said were mangoes were actually the nests of wasps hanging from the branches of the tree. His mouth watered and he forgot his pain and climbed into the tree, grabbing at the 'mangoes'. When the wasps attacked him, the pain was even greater than the stinging of the bees, and with cries of pain he fell to the ground and shouted at the tortoise, "You'll suffer for this. I'll bite off your head before I'm through with you."

"Please," said the tortoise, "again you are blaming me for something I haven't done. I pointed out the mangoes to you, and you go and grab the wasps' nests. No wonder they turned on you. Wouldn't you have done the same in their position?"

Before the baboon could reply, a cricket came hopping and chirping by. Now, as you know, baboons are fond of eating crickets, so the baboon chased the insect who went hop-hop into the hole in a hollow tree.

"Watch me catch him," said the baboon, putting his hand into the hole and groping around to find the cricket.

A big snake came out of the hole, bit the baboon and flung his long body around him and squeezed tight, saying while the baboon screamed for mercy, "Why are you baboons such busybodies, always disturbing other animals? Let me teach you a lesson that might help you to mend your ways." And he squeezed again while the poor baboon roared with pain. The tortoise felt that his revenge was now complete.

From that day on, bees, wasps, snakes and tortoises have all been friends together. And the bees, who ate of the sweetness of the tortoise's figs, have ever since then been mad about fruit and anything that is sweet. The snake who lived in the hole in the tree never went back there after being disturbed by the baboon, but decided to live instead in the branches of the tree so that he could always observe his enemies approaching. The baboon is much less of a busybody than he used to be. And, as I said before, he never stops scratching himself.

THE TWO FRIENDS

Two boys were born on the very same day in an African tribe, and they grew up to be firm friends. Ndemi was the rich one. Jinjo was poor. They looked so alike that nobody could tell the one from the other.

After spending his youth in the usual tribal pursuits - grass cutting, hunting of hares, mice and rats, and later bigger game - Ndemi had a yearning to see something of the world outside. It was only natural that he should ask his poor friend to go along with him.

When they reached the next village, Ndemi was so dazzled by the beauty of a most lovely girl called Malama that he immediately asked her to marry him, adding, "I would be prepared to give a hundred cattle for such loveliness."

"My father is Chief of the village," she replied, "and it is his wish that I should marry a man capable of doing superhuman things. He sets a task for my suitors, such a difficult one that I fear I shall grow old without ever being married."

To the Chief the young man said, "Sir, I wish to marry your daughter, surely the most beautiful woman in the whole of Africa. Tell me what to do and it shall be done. Where others have failed, I shall succeed, because my love for your daughter is boundless."

But the young man became despondent when the Chief told him what his task would be. Guarded by an old woman, he would have to spend six days and six nights in a hut - without any food or water to sustain him. And if he did not succeed, if he cried for food or water before the time was up, he would be killed. So consumed with love was he that he accepted the conditions.

They put him in a prison-like hut that had no windows. And in the long and narrow doorway, the old woman slept on her mat like a human watchdog. Ndemi put his bed-mat against the wall that faced the street, and so the first long day crawled slowly from sunrise to sunset.

When the night was dark and the villagers asleep, Ndemi's prearranged plan came into operation. After wetting the wall, Jinjo made a small hole in it with his knife, and through this hole he quietly pushed a hollow reed, dipping its end into the calabash of water. On the other end, Ndemi was able to drink the sweet, life-giving liquid without even rising from his mat, and when the calabash was drained, Jinjo removed the reed, plastered the wall with mud to hide the hole, and quietly stole off into the darkness.

Every night he did this, while the old woman became more and more suspicious, for no previous suitor had lasted more than three days before crying for food and water. On the fifth night she commanded Ndemi to sleep against the other wall of the hut while she lay down on his bed-mat. For the first time in his life the young man knew fear.

While the village was sleeping and the bullfrogs croaked down at the river, the old woman heard a soft scraping noise and after a few minutes a hollow reed poked through and she drank the water from Jinjo's calabash. In triumph she shouted, 'So that's how you've sustained yourself these past five days - by cheating! The Chief will hear of this in the morning, my own calabash filled with water will be the evidence that will end your life.'

Jinjo heard this as he withdrew the reed with trembling fingers. He also heard his friend weeping with sorrow, and he knew a mingling of sadness and fear. Stealing back into the darkness, he wondered how he could help the friend who was to him as a brother.

Suddenly a voice came squeaking out of the darkness: "Young man, you are worried. Can I be of assistance?" Jinjo looked hard in all directions but could not see anybody. "Look down," squeaked the voice, "I am Davyaga, the rat. Tell me your problem and I will try to find a solution."

When Jinjo had told his tale, Davyaga said, "Leave it to me. You sleep well tonight. Your friend is no longer in danger." And he was gone, rustling through the dry grass. Reaching the old woman's hut, Davyaga gnawed a hole through the wall, and while the old woman went on sleeping, a horrible leer of triumph creasing her face, he pushed the calabash through the hole where his friends, the white ants, stood waiting in rows, drawn up like soldiers on a parade-ground. When they had finished eating the calabash, not even the smallest chip remained.

The sun came up and the old woman found that she had no evidence, and as nobody would believe her fantastic story, Ndemi was able to marry Malama and take her back to his village with him. There his father built a house for them, and a house for the poor Jinjo. To Ndemi and Jinjo, he gave magic knives, made by the giants in the far-off mountains and so alike that nobody could possibly tell the difference between them. "One day you will need the magic of the knives," he said to them.

After some months Jinjo the poor one, announced that he had a desire to travel to a faraway village and find a wife for himself so that he could be as radiantly happy as Malama and Ndemi. But first he planted a silk-cotton tree, and said that he would leave when it was as high as his knee.

When the tree had grown and he was about to set off on his travels, he said to Ndemi, "See how it flowers, this cotton-seed tree of mine that I planted in a hole cut out by magic knife given me by your father. If these leaves become withered and dry, it will be a sign that I am either dead or in the most desperate trouble. Good-bye, and may your happiness grow during my absence."

For days he traveled across plains until he could see in the distance a village. Approaching, he heard the sound of weeping and wailing, a vast sad sound coming from the throats of hundreds of people. And just ahead of him he could see a lonely girl sitting in the dry riverbed. She was as beautiful as Malama, and he was in love with her before he even came close to ask her what was causing the misery in the village.

"The River God is cruel and demanding. So the river flows only when a young girl is sacrificed. One by one, all the young maidens have been devoured by the River God, and now it is my turn, I, Kalima, the daughter of the chief, for I am the last one left, and my people will die without the water that only my sacrifice will bring them. So go away and leave me, before the River God comes at sunset to devour me.

But Jinjo refused to go, for what man will leave the woman he loves when she is in danger? All day he sat with her, telling her of his love for her, and how he would take her back to his village as his wife after he dealt with the cruel River God.

As the sun sank, there was a rumbling in the sand near them, and out of the earth came the biggest snake Jinjo had ever seen. It was as thick as the mighty baobab tree, and the young man was filled with fear, but he dashed forward and with a sweep of his magic knife he cut off the monster's head. Water came gushing out of the huge headless snake, and even as it tried to slither back into its hole Jinjo was cutting it into pieces. Out of each piece the water flowed unceasingly. Laughing with joy and relief, Jinjo and Kalima ran out of the river-bed as it filled with the sweet life-giving water until the river was flowing through the village and the thirsty villagers were drinking greedily.

Of course, Kalima and Jinjo married immediately, but because she had - according to tribal law - already been sacrificed to the River God and therefore no longer really living - they had to build their hut some distance from the village. This did not worry them, as they were able to entertain their friends in their hut, and many grateful villagers came to pass the time of day with them.

A few weeks after the marriage there was an astonishing happening. Every piece of meat in the village - chops, steaks, even sausage sizzling in the pan - suddenly jumped up and ran towards the distant hill. The young man could not believe his eyes. Never before had he seen meat actually running.

"This happens quite often," Kalima explained to him. "The meat runs to that distant hill. It swallows the meat, and will do the same, it is said, to anybody who goes near the mighty rock at its foot. This has never happened, for all are afraid of that rock and never go close enough to be engulfed."

A few days later Jinjo went hunting with ten young men from the village. Seeing an antelope, they gave chase, and in their excitement kept running even when the animal passed the dreaded rock, which opened its stony mouth wide and swallowed them all.

At that very moment, many miles away, Ndemi happened to be standing at the cotton-seed tree planted by Jinjo and now as high as his chest. Even as he looked, the leaves withered and dried up, and he knew that his friend was either dead or in great danger. He set out immediately.

Three days later he reached the hut where Kalima and Jinjo lived. He looked so much so much like Jinjo that Kalima thought her husband had returned from the hunt.

"Three days you have been gone," she cried. "You must have hunted many animals for the pots of the villagers." "Yes," he replied, pretending to be Jinjo so that she would not be alarmed. "It was a splendid hunt and we were very successful, but I must go away again immediately, for a great herd of buffalo is moving across the plain and we need all the meat we can get before the winter comes on."

And in spite of her pleadings, he ran to the village and spoke with the chief who said sadly to him, "Of course, we haven't told Kalima what happened, but ten young men and Jinjo have disappeared. They haven't been seen for three days and it is believed that they were swallowed up by the rock on the sacred hill."

"Jinjo is my dearest friend," said Ndemi. "I must rescue him. Let some young men guide me to this abominable rock and I shall see what I can do." They tried to dissuade him, but he was persistent, and ten young hunters led him to the rock. "There it is," they said. "We admire your bravery, but we ourselves are too afraid to go any farther."

Ndemi strode up to the rock, and the watchers saw it bending over to swallow him. But he stabbed at it with his magic knife, and the watchers cheered as the rock broke into two halves, and the ten lost hunters and Jinjo marched out, singing, laughing, happy to be back with their friends in the sunlight again.

"Which one is my husband?" cried Kalima as the two young men, looking exactly alike, stood before her.

"I am your husband," said Jinjo, "and this is my dear friend Ndemi who saved us all." And he told her of their friendship and adventures together, and how Ndemi had come to help him when the cotton-seed tree's leaves withered and dried up.

"Such likeness!" she cried. "Such friendship and devotion! How truly wonderful it is and how proud I am of both of you."

They went back home with Ndemi, built a house near his, and the two young men and Malama and Kalima remained dear friends for the rest of their long lives.

THE TWIN BROTHERS

From Folklore and Mythology siteA certain Yoruba king, Ajaka, had a favorite wife of whom he was very fond. But alas for his hopes! She gave birth to twins. At that time it was the universal custom to destroy twins immediately at birth, and the mother with them. But the king had not the heart to put this cruel law into execution, and he secretly charged one of his nobles to conduct the royal mother and her babes to a remote place where they might live in safety. Here the twin brothers grew to manhood, and loved one another greatly. They were inseparable, and neither of them had any pleasure except in the company of the other. When one brother began to speak, the other completed his phrase, so harmonious were their thoughts and inclinations. Their mother, before she died, informed them of their royal birth, and from this moment they spent the time vainly regretting their exile, and wishing that the law of the country had made it possible for them to reign. At last they received the news that the king their father was dead, leaving no heir, and it seemed to the brothers that one of them ought to go to the capital and claim the throne. But which? To settle this point they decided to cast stones, and the one who made the longer throw should claim the throne, and afterwards send for his brother to share in his splendor. The lot fell on the younger of the twins, and he set off to the capital, announced himself as the Olofin's [king's] son, and soon became king with the consent of all the people. As soon as possible he sent for his brother, who henceforth lived with him in the palace and was treated with honor and distinction. But alas! jealousy began to overcome his brotherly affection, and one day as he walked with the king by the side of the river, he pushed his brother suddenly into the water, where he was drowned. He then gave out in the palace that his brother was weary of kingship, and had left the country, desiring him to reign in his stead. The king had certainly disappeared, and as no suspicion fell on the twin brother, he was made king and so realized his secret ambition. Some time later, happening to pass by the very spot where his brother had been drowned, he saw a fish rise to the surface of the water and begin to sing:

Your brother lies here,
Your brother lies here.

The king was very much afraid. He took up a sharp stone and killed the fish. But another day when he passed the spot, attended by his nobles and shielded by the royal umbrella made of the skins of rare animals, the river itself rose into waves and sang:

Your brother lies here,
Your brother lies here.

In astonishment the courtiers stopped to listen. Their suspicions were aroused, and when they looked into the water they found the body of the king. Thus the secret of his disappearance was disclosed, and the wicked brother was rejected in horror by his people. At this disgrace he took poison and so died.

Source: Joseph Jacobs, Indian Fairy Tales (London: David Nutt, 1892), no. 6, pp. 40-45

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE TOAD

Grasshopper and Toad appeared to be good friends. People always saw them together. Yet they had never dined at each other's houses. One day Toad said to Grasshopper, "Dear friend, tomorrow come and dine at my house. My wife and I will prepare a special meal. We will eat it together." The next day Grasshopper arrived at Toad's house. Before sitting down to eat, Toad washed his forelegs, and invited Grasshopper to do the same. Grasshopper did so, and it made a loud noise. "Friend Grasshopper, can't you leave your chirping behind. I cannot eat with such a noise," said Toad. Grasshopper tried to eat without rubbing his forelegs together, but it was impossible. Each time he gave a chirp, Toad complained and asked him to be quiet. Grasshopper was angry and could not eat. Finally, he said to Toad: "I invite you to my house for dinner, tomorrow." The next day, Toad arrived at Grasshopper's home. As soon as the meal was ready, Grasshopper washed his forelegs, and invited Toad to do the same. Toad did so, and then hopped toward the food. "You had better go back and wash again," said Grasshopper. "All that hopping in the dirt has made your forelegs dirty again." Toad hopped back to the water jar, washed again, then hopped back to the table, and was ready to reach out for some food from one of the platters when Grasshopper stopped him: "Please dorit put your dirty paws into the food. Go and wash them again." Toad was furious. "You just don't want me to eat with you!" he cried. "You know very well that I must use my paws and forelegs in hopping about. I cannot help it if they get a bit dirty between the water jar and the table." Grasshopper responded, "You are the one who started it yesterday. You know I cannot rub my forelegs together without making a noise." From then on, they were no longer friends.

Moral: If you wish to have true friendship with someone, learn to accept each other's faults, as well as each other's good qualities.