Archive for category Tales
It will be a long and far road
I came from far to search for far things. will you show me the way ?
You must come when the moon says goodnight to the sun, just before the white bull is in the blue land, at the other side of the hill.
The night before full moon?
Yes, then there will be enough light to travel into the shadow side of the hill…..There are places in the desert where we have to walk at night.
Do you have enemies there?
I want Twihi, my daughter, the child of the winds, to come with us.
Is she old enough for such a long road?
Others of her years, have children run around them.
Why do you want such a one to walk at night?
Where the great hunters of the desert lives, I first only want to show her footprints. Among us, you see a woman best, by her tracks. Beautiful little feet tread footprints in the sand that transfers into the hunter’s heart.
Do I hear you right Xameb, are you looking for a husband for your daughter?
First we must only show her footprints to the hunters White Father.
Then many of the White Fathers questions will be answered without him asking the questions. You just have to look with your eyes and listen with your ears.
Aren’t there any men here, where we are now, good enough for her?
The beggars of the big roads?
But they are your people…
They are just shadows of what their fathers were. Wait till you see Twihi, my daughter, and hear her speak. Then you will understand why these beggars of the big roads for your iron horses, no longer can put a bow in front of her shelter.
Where do you hide such a one that I have not seen her cook a meal for her father?
Xameb turned to look into the distant horizon and answered quietly.
Two nights before the full moon she will be here with me waiting for you White Father.
OK then Xameb, three nights before the full moon you will see the light of my fire on that hill. Then you will know that I have not forgotten.
Our eyes will be on the moon, White Father.
Day after day, Schoeman observed the waxing moon and impatiently consults his calendar. Four nights before full moon he could no longer wait and he packs his truck with provisions for the long journey. Among the contents are several bags of tobacco.
At the appointed hill he settles and wait. He gets out his binoculars with the setting sun and search the breath-taking panorama. In the distance he could hear the night cries of the Berg patryse. His eyes search the landscape, for the patryse. He spots them observing something quietly. In the distance he sees two figures following the truck tracks. They stop at intervals, to peer towards the hill. The older figure sits down. Giraffes cross the view. The smaller figure has disappeared. A lion roars close by. As the sun disappears behind the distant hills, he sees a fire flicker into being.
Schoeman struggles down the hill in the dark, towards the fire. On his way down he hears someone singing.
He arrives at the fire and sees Xameb sitting next to fire. Xameb does not even look up. He just adds another stick to the fire.
Who is singing?
The child of the winds.
Tell me in a language that I can understand, what is she singing about.
It is more beautiful just to listen to it, than to skin it.
Yes, for you who know the content
Xameb does not answer. Schoeman adds more wood on the fire. He walks towards the truck to fetch a kettle. He stops and listens entranced to the song.
Far and long ago….. before the white bull with his red horns tore the black blanket….before he could tear the black blanket covering the dark cave to allow the red morning to open a path for great blue eye of Eloib…..the dark lying deep and quiet…..under the dark waters in the deep cold mud. A child was blown out of the dark night to a seedhut of a white lily. Who among us will know why women are still like their first mother….she sings her song of loneliness in the night.
Xameb rubs his chin, stares into the dark, and speaks as if from far away.
The roads upon which the young hearts search are far roads, but beautiful paths. On those paths you can walk, with your eyes on the far mountains. You don’t bump your toes on rocks. You don’t step on thorns. There aren’t snakes in the vlei-grass with the many mouse paths. There is no tired voice of a mother that calls you to take a crying child, or to come and wash a pot. Beautiful are the roads the young heart visits with their dreams.
Did you yourself visit those roads?
Xameb does not answer. From the hill Twihi’s voice suddenly sounds clearer. The wind must have turned, because the smoke suddenly brought tears to Schoeman’s eyes. He gets up and stands with his back towards the fire. From the darkness he hears Xameb’s voice.
For two winters’ nights I felt Twihi’s mother’s warmth against my body. Then she was taken from me. Then I found another, she was also taken…What roads are left for me?
But there are men that build a third fire?
Not among the Heikum, White Father. Among us the a women will not take a man that has been left alone twice. They say that he has the hands of death. You can ask all the Heikum men that you will meet on the long road. It is an old law among our people. It is never broken.
Did Twihi learn about the beautiful roads from you?
For many winters only she was with me next to the fire and what child’s heart ever tires of stories? It is the sunshine and the rain from which a child’s heart grow. With whom else could I make the long nights shorter?
Now that your hair is white, do you still long?
Is it not at night that we want to be alone the least?
Twihi arrives at the fire. Xameb and Twihi speak together.
The White Father can now listen to the paths on which the young heart travels. I will translate for you.
Twihi stars to speak, Xameb translates, the story of Xa-xeib – the man with the full moon on his chest.
There once was a man. His name was Xa-xeib. He had a fullmoon on his chest.
He also had a wife. She was very beautiful.
The two of them was as if one person. Where he walked, there she walked too. There were not two foot paths to their hut. At night when the others were already asleep, the two played in the bright light that shone from his chest. The night was theirs. They never became tired.
But as her months became shorter, she could no longer walk the veldt with him. For the first few days he did not wander far. He found no pleasure in walking their old paths alone. With the days he had to walk further and further, for his wife wanted honey, then eland marrow.
So he arrives at one day at a rocky ridge, where he sees bees flying against the midday sun.
But there was another who also saw the bees against the midday sun. It was not a honey bird, nor a honey badger.
It was a woman.
The first afternoon he left her only one small cake of honey.
The next day he was there earlier, to take out more honey.
She was there too.
This time he gave her two honey cakes.
The next day he left earlier and the whole way he was argued with himself.
She was not there, but there were fresh footprints.
His heart said to him he must go and look to see whether she is not trying to show him a new nest with her fresh footprints.
His head turned, and his eyes looked to the path that was behind him.
He found her in the bush that was denser than it was at the honey nest.
They stayed together till late because he had the full moon on his chest.
When he arrived at home that night, his wife cried a lot. It was dark in her house.
There were clouds covering the moon. A woman sometimes knows without having seen.
That night he did not sleep.
The next morning he told his wife that he would only look for food on their old paths. At first he did only look for food near the hut. But when there were more and more trees between him and the house he did not look back so often.
Then his heart won again and he left for the bushes denser than the honey ridge..
Far behind him at the home where previously there was only one foot path, she that must become mother, waited and waited. Only when the evening breeze blew colder and colder, did she go inside and tied the door from the inside. She did not want the owls and the wolves to see her tears.
On the new road, ahead where the bush was denser than the honey ridge, a bright light shone all night. There was a lot of playing and laughter.
For the one the night was without beacons. For the two it was a few winks of the eye.
When the white bull with the red tipped horns, tore the black blanket to shreds, for the morning to climb out from behind the mountains, Xa-xeib – the man with the full moon on his chest – did not feel like drying tears for the second time. He was also clever. In the bright light that shone from his chest, he could see that one woman does not like to cry in front of another woman. So he brought Kai-oris, his new playmate with.
And Kai-oris the black tipped vulture, came, looked around a little and said to herself; this house is for two not for three.
He, who brought his wife company, then went to a place in the field where the wind did not blow, and the sun shone bright and went to sleep. His honey knife he left behind.
Kai-oris saw the knife; she took the knife and prepared the house for only two. Before she dragged the one that did not want to cry before another woman, behind the trees, she took out the baby.
Because the child now entered the world too early, she stuffed him into a milk-calabash. She closed it with a grass stopper and rocked it to and fro as if the fat was separated from the milk.
When the white bull arched his back on the mountain and tossed the black blanket with its red-tipped horns backward over the plains, Xa-xeib got up. He was well rested.
Kai-oris heard him coming and hid away the calabash.
In the light that shines from his chest, Xa-xeib saw the empty place in the house. But when the blackwinged-vulture’s eyes said that this house is not for three but only for two that plays all night, he did not hear the wolf crying for his mates behind the trees. His blood warmed. And he tied the door from inside.
Many days passed. And little red toes in the calabash kicked harder and harder against the round walls. Kai-oris heard it and kept Xa-xeib outside by day.
One day the calabash burst open. When she rubbed the child of another mother with fat, she saw the full moon on his chest. She tied a hard skin around his chest and hid him in a big hole.
One day Xa-xeib returned on his old footpaths and saw the child. Kai-oris was not close by. He picked up the child. The child’s one little foot kicked against his heart. It was a small little foot that still did not have hard toenails. But it caused a small drop of blood to drip from Xa-xeib’s heart. Then he knew whose child it was. In the pain that came to his heart he could see the child clearly. He could also see the little full moon under the hard chest-skin. And he became afraid that the black-winged vulture would cut out the full moon with the honey knife. He held the child tightly and looked around. When the little foot again kicked against his heart, he did not wait for Kai-oris to come back. He took the little full moon to his first wife’s sister. He told her that the child has a weak chest and that she must never remove the skin.
But a child that does not drink from mother’s milk is no one’s child. Everyone speaks loudly to him. On no one’s lap is there a place to cry, for one such as he, when a thorn sticks in his foot. He had to carry wood for every one’s fire. He had to clean every one’s ash heaps.
When his shoulders became hard from all the loads of wood he had to carry, and a thorn could no longer penetrate the soles of his feet, he went to look for another house. He walked for many days.
One day he arrived at a big city. There was a rich king that needed a lot of wood for his fires.
There was also a beautiful princess. But the illness from the swamps wanted to take her away each summer. One day he had to help build her a high platform of Tambotie poles, where the little wings from the swamps could not reach her.
For the milk that comes from Tamboti wood, his shoulders was still not hard enough, and his shoulders became bloodied. And just once he carried a lighter load. The king’s men saw it and said that he was becoming lazy. They nearly beat him to death and dragged him away to a little hut just outside the city and left him in the forest.
The king’s daughter saw how he was beaten and dragged away. That night she thought she kept hearing something in the forest. She thought she heard someone cry and then she thought she heard someone sing.
She waited till everything was quiet in the big city, and sneaked out to the forest. The door of the hut was closed, but from the inside she could hear some one play on a bowstring. It was so beautiful that she opened a small gap to look inside. There was a great light inside the hut and she could see clearly who was making such beautiful music. He was for her more beautiful than any man she had ever heard from her mother’s stories was. His clothes were so beautiful that it took her breath away. She became afraid of the small voice in her heart that asked; This man, who was kicked and hit by everyone by day, this man with the bloody shoulders could he not be the one I have so often dreamed of, the great hunter from that will come from the desert?’
In the days that followed, she sat on a hill near the king’s city and her eyes searched on the roads of the great desert. Every night when it was quiet in the king’s city, she sneaked back to the little house in the forest.
One night the man with the full moon on his chest heard a finger opening a panel in the dark hut. In the bright light that shone from his chest, he saw who it was. He sang-spoke to her on the bowstring:
In the great desert there is a high mountaintop. Ahaa
A house with many windows will be built on top of it.
At night many eyes will look towards it, and will ask;
‘Whom of our princes built that house with many windows.
Many will ask but only she will know who built that house on the high mountaintop for her.
Only she will know that it is not lamps shinning in that high house.
She will know where the many light comes from.
The next night she was there earlier. On each of the following nights she was earlier, until one of the king’s men saw her.
Whom amongst us would have the heart to scold her because she went earlier each night?
Whom amongst us would have scolded her for staying later and later each night?
Did not our hearts entered with her, when first the little door was opened from the inside for her?
Did not our hearts form a wide guardian circle around the little house in the forest?
Only the king’s spies did not join us in the wide guardian circle, which we formed around the little house in the forest.
It was a dark night when the king and his spies encircled the bush house.
First he called his daughter.
In front of the people with the hearts of hyena’s, he lashed out at his daughter with his tongue, and said that she was no longer his daughter that from now on her job will be to carry away the ash heaps.
Then he told his hyena’s to quickly get rid of the dog in the bush house.
The dog, though, was a lion.
And what lion hits out at hyenas?
He slung her across his shoulders, and just opened a small section on his chest to light the way ahead. She whispered in his ear; ” Run, there is nothing here for me to look back to. Take me to the house on the mountain top.”
After not many days the people in the King’s city started to ask each other at night;” That house with the many lights…It must be a very rich man to afford so many lamps in his house?”
Some people went to look. And those that went did not return. Then more went.
One day the King saw that all his people were gone.
By then he was so poor that that he himself had to carry his winter skins.
He followed the footprints of his people. It was a hard road for one like him.
When he arrived there no one could believe that once he was a king.
He had to look for his food outside the city, where the ash was thrown.
Because he wanted to throw the two young hearts to the black bee, his hard heart made him eat ash.
When Schoeman looked up from the fire after a long silence, he saw that Twihi was no longer at the fire.
She went to the koppie. Tonight her dreams will visit far paths.
Did she make up the story herself?
There was an old skin that she made more beautiful with beads and shells of her own.
Will she tell us another story tomorrow night?
She is a child of the winds. Who would be able to say where she will be tomorrow night?
Do you still want her to come with to the far away land?
Did the beads and the shells on the old skin, not tell the White Father how she longs for the big hunter of the desert?
Then we will wait.
We will wait white Father …so that the two of us will not also eat ash.
Adapted from “Jagters van die Woestyn” – PJ Schoeman
There once was a mouse
rare among mice
who dared to dream
beyong things such as seeds
One day this mouse
warming upon a rock
saw two fairies
on a cornflower blue
Oh, mouse of dreams
we too have a dream
of a castle whiter than
Will you help us gather
children’s first teeth
like you gather seeds
and in turn
give each child
We will build the castle
so high that it can reach into the dreamworld
so that each child may reach their dreams
for it is the children’s believe in magic
that keeps wonder alive in this world
To this day the tooth mouse
still gathers the milk teeth
from children’s shoes
higher and higher
does the castle towers grow
building the foundation of
Am I good or evil? If there be only me Could I be good or evil? The only evil I ever felt, I felt in my dreams. Does it mean that the only evil that exist, exist in me? Even a casual glance at history shows that ‘good and evil’ works together to create our collective evolution. “On the one hand evil is necessary for good, for were the imperfections not felt, there would be no striving after perfection; all defect and sin consist merely in privation; in the non-realisation of possible qualities. It would not be well were evil non-existent, for it makes for the necessity of good, since if evil were removed the desire of good would also cease.” (Bruno) J.L. Mc Intyre, Giordana Bruno. ”
Just as a cabbage does not grow unless it is manured, as little can beauty blossom on earth unless, the earth is manured with ugliness.” Rudolf Steiner What is the difference between what is good and what is evil? “Good is when you carry away somebody else’s wives and cows, and evil is when yours are carried away from you.” I think of the following old Russian tale of The Two Hermits ….
“Two hermits had gone out into the Nitrian Desert to save their souls. Their caves were not far distant from each other, but they themselves never talked together, except that they occasionally sang psalms, so that they could hear each other. In this way they spent many years, and their fame began to spread in Egypt and the surrounding countries. It came to pass that one day the Devil managed to put into both their minds simultaneously one and the same desire, and without saying a word to each other they collected their baskets and mats made of palm leaves and branches, and went off to Alexandria. They sold their work there and then for three days and three nights they sought pleasure in the company of drunkards and sinners, after which they went back to their desert.
And one of them cried out in bitterness and agony of the soul:” I am lost eternally! Cursed am I! No prayers and penance can atone for such madness, such abominations! All my years of fasting and prayer gone for nothing! I am ruined, body and soul!” The other man, however, was walking by his side, singing psalms in a cheerful voice. “Brother,” said the repentant one, “have you gone mad?” “Why do you ask that?” “But why aren’t you grieving?” “What should I grieve about?” “Listen to him! Have you forgotten Alexandria?” ‘ What about Alexandria? Glory to God who preserves that famous and God-fearing City!” “But we, what did we do in Alexandria?” “You know well enough yourself what we did; we sold our baskets, worshipped St. Mark, visited other churches, called on the pious governor of the city, conversed with the good prioress Leonilla who is always kind to monks…” “But didn’t we spend the night in a house of ill fame?” “God save us! No! We spent the evening and the night in the patriarch’s court.” “Holy martyrs! He has lost his mind…
Where then did we treat ourselves to wine?” “We partook of wine and food at the patriarch’s table on the occasion of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin.” “Poor, miserable creature! And who was it whom we kissed, not to mention worse things? Are you making a fool of me? Or has the Devil himself entered your soul as punishment for yesterday’s abominations? They were wretched libertines, you blackguard, that you kissed!” “Well, I don’t know which of us the Devil has entered; Whether he has entered me, who am rejoicing in the gifts of God and in the benevolence of the godly priests, and am praising my Creator-or whether he has entered you, who are now raving like a lunatic and calling the house of our blessed father and pastor a house of ill fame.” “Oh, you heretic! You offspring of Arian! Accursed mouth of Apollinarius!” At this the hermit who had been grieving over his lapse from virtue fell upon his comrade and began beating him. When the outburst was over they returned silently to their caves.
All night long the repentant one wore himself out with grief, filling the desert with his groans and cries, tearing out his hair, throwing himself on the ground and dashing his head against it, while the other quietly and happily sang his psalms. Next morning the repentant one was struck by a sudden thought: “By my many years of self-denial I had been granted a special blessing of the Holy Spirit which had already begun to reveal itself in miracles and apparitions. And if after this I gave myself up to the abominations of the flesh, I must have committed a sin against the Holy Spirit, which, according to the word of God, is for all eternity unpardonable. If, however, I am irrevocably doomed, what can I do in the desert?” And so he went to Alexandria and gave himself up to a wanton life.
It so happened that soon afterward he badly needed money, and, in company with other dissolute fellows like himself, murdered and robbed a wealthy merchant. The crime was discovered; he was tried by the city court, sentenced to death, and died an unrepentant sinner. At the same time his old friend, continuing his life of devotion, attained to the highest degree of saintliness and became famous for his great miracles. When finally the day of his death arrived, his decrepit and withered body suddenly became resplendent with the beauty of youth. A wondrous light surrounded it; from it proceeded the perfume of sweet spices. The pilgrims both committed every other crime, but only one met his doom – the one who became despondent.” Vladimir Slovyov – War, Progress and the End of History
Never give up.
Credo Vusamazulu Mutwa is not a man you will ever forget once you have met him. Larger than life in every way, he is by far the most unforgettable person I have met. Credo is a true Renaissance man; he is a Zulu lore master, High Priest, a prophet, a poet, a painter and sculptor, and the best story teller I have come across. You can sit and listen to him open mouthed, without ever tiring. I feel like a child in his presence, wanting to ask for more. You can ask him any question you can think of and he will come up with an amazing answer. I have been extremely fortunate to be able to sit around the camp-fire listening to his stories.
Credo had very little formal education, but experts often call on him to provide another perspective. He is a man of natural wisdom. On one occasion I was at Credo’s house on a Sunday morning, after a whole night of initiation ceremony. The drumming had quieten down and most of the attendees were trying to get a nap. a Gospel band named The Arch Bishops arrives and proceeded to march through the house in full swing, announcing their arrival. While they were waiting to speak to Credo I had a chance to speak to them. I was very curious as to why a Christian group would want to see Credo a known Pagan. Their answer surprised me, “we have come to learn more about God.”
In a world that is so specialized, with experts advising in every field, there is still no equal in insight compared to that of organic wisdom; knowledge that have grown through the tasting of life. In the experience of life we taste and absorb experience as nourishment of the soul. Its sweetness or bitterness both alike enrich our being and create depth to our insights. The mere accumulation of knowledge has no value unless it has been tried and tested.
I often mourn the loss of apprenticeships; generations of knowledge acquired through practice of the craft, lost, unless it is passed on. There are seemingly insignificant details that books do not mention as it is taken for granted. Yet, those little details make all the difference in the mastership of skill. Life is an apprenticeship to the craft of living. In learning the craft it is most often the mistakes, accidents and crisis experienced in the practice that refines the skill and brings new insights that thoughts alone could not achieve.
“It sometimes takes a crisis for parts to appreciate the value of the whole.”
The following article and the tale told exemplify for me organic wisdom. It contains timeless truth within the words of a simple man. It contains the kind of wisdom that we so sorely need in our times. We live in a time of crisis, a time where we have the opportunity to experience the value of the whole. All we have to do is reach out to one another with genuine caring. There was a time when we listened to the wisdom of the elders. Wisdom organically grown and harvested from experience is what we need most in these times.
Teller of tale
By Simao Kikamba
My father had two ways of teaching me: one by putting me through a test and one by telling me a story and drawing the relevant lesson from it. He never went to school and could not read or write but he was a gifted teacher
When I was young, he once let me touch fire. I remember burning my finger and crying from pain, thinking how cruel of him to let his son go through such an experience, wondering why he hadn’t kept me from the fire. Nevertheless, I never played with fire again.
“Why did you once let me touch fire?” I asked him once as I was growing up. I had never forgotten the experience.
“So you could learn to never play with fire,” he said.
This is how he taught me the virtue of patience…
One evening, as Mama was serving supper, just as I had finished washing my hands, impatiently waiting to be served my share, my father decided to send me out to collect the kola nuts he’d left at his friend’s place at the other end of the village.
“Can I please eat first, father?”
“Your meal can wait.”
“I am hungry.”
“Patience is a virtue.”
Reluctantly, I got to my feet and ran, tripped halfway there, fell and stood up again. When I finally reached the place, my father’s friend made me wait till he finished doing whatever he was doing what he was doing. When he finally handed me the kola nuts in a bowl, it was night.
I ran back and tripped and fell down, scattering the kola nuts all over the ground. I wasted more time trying to find the kola nuts. By the time I reached home, my father, my mother and my sisters had finished eating supper. Father thankfully took his bowl of kola nuts and made me sit down and wait.
My stomach was churning with hunger and I could have eaten my father if he were food. I waited and waited till he got to his feet, stepped inside the house and brought out double my normal share of supper. From that day on, I always waited whenever my father asked to do so. One evening, as we sat round a fire, he told me this story…
On a clay mound once inhabited by termites by the roadside on the fringe of the equatorial forest, lay a twinkling pair of eyes. The eyes were joined by the upper bone of the nose and resembled a pair of glasses. The eyelids were brownish, the eyelashes dark, the iris of sapphire blue and the cornea of diamond white colour.
As they shone with the vermilion rays of the rising sun, they glinted with flashes of green sprinkling from the surrounding foliage. None of the inhabitants of the forest t-moths, butterflies, bees, rats, antelopes and so on, could resist such beauty and would each stop to admire such alluring creatures.
“Shame!” they would exclaim. “What adorable little eyes!”
“How strange!” thought the eyes, basking in their admiration and wishing they, too, possessed feet to walk and arms to hug each of their admirers. “How strange that although they all have feet to walk and hands to touch, a mouth to speak, they will covet two lovely eyes stuck on a mound!”
As the sun gradually rose towards the zenith, the eyes rolled, blinked, winked and even dozed off from heat. A large grey cloud soon appeared up in the sky, and the sky growled and thunderbolt after thunderbolt crackled, and a storm fell, washing the eyes off their resting place all the way down to the foot of the mound.
Covered in mud, the eyes could no longer see and they cried and cried and swelled up from crying. Night fell and morning dawned and the early morning dew drizzled over the eyes and washed them clean so they could see again. It was a bright morning, with swallows skipping from tree to tree. Then came, bouncing along and tumbling a pair of legs. Near the mound they stopped and as if they could see with invisible eyes, they thought to themselves:
“What beautiful eyes!”
“What pretty legs!” thought the eyes. Neither of them had a mouth to speak to the other.
The legs, bruised from tumbling along a thorny path without seeing, leaned against the mound to gather strength before they could resume their long journey. As the legs walked around the mound after resting, the eyes were struck at the harmony of the legs, one never walking without the other.
For a while, the eyes and the legs shared the comfort of the mound, next to each other, without a word passing between them, each confined to their own thoughts, until came the mouth to serve as their interpreter.
“How do you do?” asked the eyes through the mouth.
“How do you do?” replied the legs through the interpreter.
“Do you always walk like this?” asked the eyes.
“Always,” replied the legs quite proudly. “I throw one step, then another, left and right, right and left.”
“Why?” asked the eyes, rolling with admiration.
“For balance,” said the legs, a little irritated.
“For balance?” echoed the eyes. “You have been tumbling along like a loose barrel.”
“As you can see, I can’t see,” said the legs with a choking voice. “It takes eyes to see.”
“It takes legs to walk,” said the eyes.
“You could see for us,” said the legs.
“And you could walk for us,” appended the eyes.
The eyes rolled and twinkled with joy, while the legs leapt about the foot of the mound with excitement. The eyes seeing, the mouth speaking and the legs walking, they set in search of other parts of the body.
However, a dispute broke out. The mouth had eaten too much and the stomach complained of pain, the legs of tiredness and the eyes of dizziness. The body disintegrated with each part going its own way.
“But because no part could function properly without the rest of the body, they decided to reintegrate the body, each deciding to never leave the body ever again.
“It sometimes takes a crisis for parts to appreciate the value of the whole,” my father concluded.
- Simao Kikamba grew up in Zaire. His début novel, Going Home, is being published by Kwela Books
When the world was still wet and covered with marshes, one night a big black bee – the ones with the red-hot needle – carried a dull mantis to a dark clay house, there to lay an egg inside him. But tonight she would not reach her dark little clay house, for a teeth-chattering wind blew over the vast dark waters. The freezing wind made the black wings stiffer and the drab bundle, heavier and heavier. The carrier looked for a resting-place, but of all grasses sticking out of the wide world of swamp waters, pointing towards the sun, not one blade was stiff enough to carry a double load. The eyes of the black one with its load of death and life, searched the endless stretch of water for a resting-place. But all there was, was an endless stretch of swamp waters and more limp grasses.
The dull bundle forced the bee lower and lower. When the black eyes could see the ripples on the waters from the little folk that lived below, in anticipation of their nearing meal, she saw a big white flower, on the dark waters. The inner leaves, in anticipation of the rising sun, still upright. Tired wings, a heavy load, and the nearing death under the marsh-waters, made her who carried life and death, dive headfirst into the still open lily. She crawled deep inside the stiff leaves, deep, to where the seedhut have never been touched by the rays of the sun. And there, where the cold from the deep mud still waited upon the rays of the sun, from a new day, the bearer of the hot arrow head, was pressed firmly between the tight lips. And she died in the kiss of death…the kiss of death from which the first Heikum was born.
It was a woman. Her name was Kai-a-xamabis. Never was there a woman so beautiful, nor so wise. But she was very alone among the marshes of cold mud. And that, is the story about the great night from which our first mother was born. It is the story of the drab-grey world, of the time when the cold winds blew the black bee with its red-hot arrowhead-sting, far from its course. We the Heikum were born from the winds. The!Kung, and all the other San, heard the song of the wind over the grass, from us, the Heikum.
Do you mean the song of the wind over the swamp waters?
You ask many questions White Father. It is now the third day that you want to know from me, where us yellow people come from, how we live and which of our old laws we still have. For every answer I give, you just ask more questions. Listen now to this answer, and thereafter do not tire me with more questions.
I will listen carefully, Xameb.
The three stories about the Heikum-people are no longer told in full by the menfolk.
Yes the story about our birth, the story of our great suffering, and the … story about our slow death – the hunger death of the yellow orphans of the desertland.
Xameb, I came from far, far away to search for the still living yellow orphans of the desert There are many of my kind, who carries a deep hurt in their hearts, because they heard that there are less and less of you in this great waterless desert land. If you give me the answers to my questions that I seek, I will have enough firewood to make a big fire in my land. And when the people are drawn to my fire, and hear the three stories, their hearts will open to you. Can you at least tell me one of the stories in full?
Yes… maybe the second one… the one about our great suffering today. But you must wait until I am finished with braaing this Puff adder, and have eaten it.
And since when do you, the great hunters of the desert eat Puff Adders?
Since we live like we do now….Since you white people, and the black people, drove us from the land of running waters.
Wait a moment, let us understand each other well, because I came from far. If you did not steal our cattle, we could have lived in peace together.
Aai….White Father, must you who came from so far, who have seen so many of us hungry and thirsty and dead here in the desert land, also echo such a lie?
What is written in books Xameb, does not have a short memory.
Are there also written in your books with the long memories about who slaughtered whose cattle first?
But you have never had cattle and sheep, how could anyone ever slaughter anything that is yours?
Aa…all the. buck of the plains and mountains were ours. They were our food, our clothes, and that with which we won our women. Then you came, and started shooting until not even the vultures could eat it all…In those days it was the law of my people; one buck for another buck…one skin for another skin. When you exterminated our livestock like that, and we had to watch our children get thinner and thinner, from eating Puff Adders, we aimed our arrows on your livestock and you live. That was the only law we knew in those days. You did not teach us another law, only the law of death. You made us into a nation of scaterlings and fugitives. Our pregnant women had to give birth on the run. In flight we had to leave our old ones of many days to the wolves. Ugly footprints mark the trail of our flight…the scattered bones of our old ones, and our infants for whom the road was too long.
Ai, Xameb…let us not first begin with the story of death. Let us go back to the story of your birth.
The story of our birth? That you have to ask the oldest of our mothers.
Why from them? Why a new search? Here the two of us are together. Every day I will shoot a springbok for you, then you do not have to go hunting for Puff Adders.
Go to the very old mothers.
But the hearts of the very old mothers is in desert land.
The breeding ground may have turned to desert, but still the wind-blown seeds roll, searching, searching for a damp fertile spot….Go to the deep cold mud out of which the sun of tomorrow and the day after, may call a seed to life…a second Kai-a-xamabis can be brought forth as a new mother for my scattered people. For the old people like me the sand dunes have blown too high. Their arrowheads are rusted and blunt. They are now moving to the great roads to hold out their hands, where you and your iron horses put the game to flight – holding out hands for bit tobacco and some old clothes. That is what the rusted arrowhead and the Puff Adders do to us old men.
But why have the old mothers retained their folk pride?
Say that thing again, my White Father.
Why didn’t the old mothers also become beggars at the roadsides? Do the old days live stronger and warmer in the hearts of the old mothers than in the hearts of the old fathers?
I have asked myself that question, next to more ash heaps than I can remember …
And what answers did your heart bring you in dark hours of the quiet night?
In the late hours, I hear two voices calling….the one voice calls from this side of the hill, the other voice on the other side of the hill. It is as if the two who are looking for each other, lost the way… as if the dull-grey rain winds covered the tracks before the seekers could find each other….Then the old stories from my mothers mouth comes back to me and I think; The Black bee that carried the grey mantis to a dark clay house, blown from its course…The cold and the night once was stronger than the day, but out of the deep cold, black mud a white lily grew….If I understand the far voice, the one on the other side of the hill, then it says; ‘ The white fen lilly can not die, because it is stronger than the night’…..Can the White Father now see the way?
Translated and adapted from P.J.Schoeman’s “Jagters van die Woestynland”
Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a far off distant corner of Rajasthan, there lived a Maharaja. The Maharaja was a humble and pious man and did his best to rule with fairness and firmness. And he was well loved.
The Maharaja possessed a magnificent estate. As far as the eye could see from his palace, the grounds and gardens extended away on all sides. Down to a lake, squawking, quacking and squeaking with wild creatures; along rushing streams, cascading waterfalls and bubbling rivulets; to ornate flowered gardens; to a wilderness of ancient trees, thick jungle undergrowth and wild animals – all these spread out around his central dwelling. And the Maharaja was contented.
His household included many servants, as well as innumerable cousins, brothers, in-laws, salaried courtiers and even a few bureaucrats. There were also many tamed wild wild animals. He was married to a charming wife, the Maharana. And they were all more or less content with their lives.
Amongst the animals was one grand old elephant named Raj, the Maharaja’s favourite, who carried him and his father before him on many ceremonial processions, as well as on frequent outings into his wide estate.
The elephant like his master, had an observant eye and a kind heart, as well as enjoying the fuss and pomp which was invariably made of him. He lived, with his mahout, nearby to the main palace and had for company a number of less-aged elephants. They all lived together in a large paddock, while the mahouts lived in a neat collection of small Indian cottages, alongside. And they too, were all quite contented.
One day, a group of Indians from the open plains came to visit the Maharaja. Amongst them came five blind men. The group had many things to discuss with the Maharaja, as men do, but one of their more innocent wishes was that their small number of blind brothers should be permitted to meet the great elephant, Raj. For they had never, in all their life, ever before met an elephant.
The Maharaja was, of course, delighted to be able to offer this small service to his quests and in the cool of the late afternoon, he personally conducted them to the paddock where the elephants lived.
Raj was dutifully led out by his mahout and presented to the five blind men. These five went forward, each encountering a different part of the beast.
“Ah,” said one, bumping into the flank of the animal.
“An elephant is large and mostly flat, like the side of a tent.”
Another, who had taken hold of Raj’s tusk, exclaimed,
“But no, the elephant is long, hard, curved and pointed.
Rather like a warped fencing post.”
But the third had stumbled into one of the front legs of the great creature and proclaimed that the elephant was,
“No more than a large, tall pillar – yet strangely capable of self-activated movement.” This man was clearly a philosopher and observer of life.
The fourth, catching hold of the tail, decided that an elephant was a kind of snake, whilst the fifth finding himself mischievously teased by Raj’s long trunk was firmly of the belief that an elephant was more like an animated, but intelligent rope. Probably self-organizing.
These five, standing around the elephant, each with his own honest yet limited perception and experience, began to debate the nature of the beast, while those who had eyes kept quiet and looked on with both affection and some considerable humour.
Being blind to the visual nature of the physical world, the five men were used to discussions concerning the nature of things they were unable to see. Indeed, this occupied much of their time. And so they happily debated the true nature of the elephant, while all the time Raj stood by quietly, whisking his tail to drive off flies, teasing the man who was in the region of his trunk, and occasionally adjusting the weight upon his legs.
The informal parliament continued and new insights were received by this leisurely group. Suddenly, Raj, flapping his ears, brushed the top of the head of the man holding fast to one of his front legs. ( he was a very tall man, I have to admit). “Ah hah,” said the philosopher,
“An elephant is not just a self-activating, mobile pillar but has wavy, floppy characteristics too.” This gave the discussion even greater interest, as you can imagine!
Well, the Maharaja and his court watched them with amusement while he, his courtiers and the remainder of the visitors had a cup of tea. Finally, he thought that it might be kind to let the five men know where they were going wrong. Accordingly, he asked one of his entourage to gently inform them the true situation.
But the result was not as he had expected. For while one or two of the group had begun to suspect that perhaps they were all correct and yet incomplete in their perceptions, the remainder had become so heavily entrenched in their position and so identified with their own point of view, that they rounded on the poor courtier and with one accord told him to go away. “ After all”, they said, “You aren’t even touching the elephant, and you certainly haven’t been considering the problem as long as we have. So how can you know anything about it?”
And so the Maharaja and his party left both them and the long-suffering Raj, to enjoy the remainder of the afternoon and evening in what had by then become a formalized philosophical debate, with a variety of possible, yet conflicting theories.
But the Maharaja and his party had a good walk around, thoroughly enjoying the beauties of nature and each other’s companionship. And to this day, at least as far as I have been told, the five blind men are still vigorously debating the nature of elephants. Whilst those with eyes are quite contented.
From – The Secret of the Creative Vacuum by John Davidson