Suksuku Revisited: A Collection Of Bura Tribal Stories, Folk Tales And Makumdla Dza, Dza/riddles And Quotes; Reflecting Their Belief Systems, Mores And The Supernatural 2j2y6p

SUKSUKU REVISITED

A Collection of Bura Tribal Stories, Folk Tales and Makumdla dza, dza/Riddles and Quotes; Reflecting Their Belief Systems, Mores and the Supernatural

AYUBA MSHELIA

AuthorHouse™ 1663 Liberty Drive Bloomington, IN 47403 www.authorhouse.com Phone: 1 (800) 839-8640

© 2017 Ayuba Mshelia. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/14/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5409-2 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-5246-5407-8 (hc) ISBN: 978-1-5246-5408-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016920479

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

Synopsis

Preface

Chapter One: The Day God Was Provoked

Chapter Two: Ŵaralêanĝ Liŷa Ĝirđzaƙ Liŷa: Ǩuƀili’s fairy tale

Chapter Three: The Singing Fig and Nŧaŵā Trees

Chapter Four: Ŷaƀilāramāŷa or Ĥūr Timā Timā

Chapter Five: Tŝaƙura Mađū: The Stubborn Grandson

Chapter Six: Ŷamōƀūlū and Ŷaŝħar: The Uncompromising Uncles

Chapter Seven: Ŷimir Jirƙanđūm Jirŵaƙŝhā

Chapter Eight: The Orphaned Brothers

Chapter Nine: The stubborn woman, her four daughters, and dragons

Chapter Ten: Ðaŵi and Aŵa

Chapter Eleven: Ĥarā pɗaƙƙūr aƙa ŝhanĝa mji apa tuĝa atŝoƙta

Chapter Twelve: Taŵūl ƙa Mālƙūm: The Lizard and the Lard

Chapter Thirteen: Bžirnƙŵa nā pđaƙtaŝhanĝ: The Town Belle

Chapter Fourteen: The Sesame-seed Farmer

Chapter Fifteen: The Origin of Death

Chapter Sixteen: Ǩilār Mtāƙū Ûmđla ƙa Tŝinĝi

Chapter Seventeen: Ňtŝiħil ƙu ɓara ōlƙur ƙa luƙŵa ŝili

Chapter Eighteen: Ðzamā aŧa ƙira sū ƙamɓila harā ŝūari

Chapter Nineteen: Mđa na ƙu mɓūrŝa ƙa ɗiɗūƙūr ƙirari ƙa mđa na ana nĝĝata ŝaūri

Chapter Twenty: Ňĝĝuƙur ƙum ana vūa Ŷamōƀūlū aƙŵa ɓoni

Chapter Twenty-One: Ĥŷivira ana nƙata ngĝeri sū: Ňciŵa ƙa Mŧiƙa lihar Ŷamōƀūlū.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Ǩilara ŝaƙa Ĥŷel aɓŵar mđir ħara pɗaƙƙūr

Chapter Twenty-Three: Mđir ŝħāmŧa mđa ana nzi ɗiɗū ŧa mđa ŧu ŧsa ŧa ŝħāmŧari

Chapter Twenty-Four: Aŵar Mūmā and Ĝaliŷa: A Story of Redemption

Chapter Twenty-Five: βŵalêyanĝ Aŧa ƙumā ĉiri

Chapter Twenty-Six: Ĥandā ƙa ňƙŵarni ƙa Ĉimā

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ǩuŧhlir ƙŵi ƙa Ǩuŧhlir Moɓūlū

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Mđir Ĝinā na ana Ňĝaŧa Mŷā Mōɓi

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Mūzūmāƙu ƙa Pŵapū

Chapter Thirty: Ǩa mđa ħara sū ƙalƙal ƙa đunā naŧu Ĥŷel ƙu na ālari

Chapter Thirty-One: Mđa na ƙu mɓurŝa ƙa đūnar ƙira ri: Mđir tŝuħŵa ƙa ɓuƙil

Chapter Thirty-Two: Mđa na ƙu mɓūrŝa ƙa Ĥŷel ana sūrđzi ƙa asār. Ǩilā, Mōɓūlū ƙa Tŝinĝi

Chapter Thirty-Three: Blood covenant between two caring Sister-wives

Chapter Thirty-Four: Makumdla Dza-dza/Riddles/Tribal quotes

A Brief Synopsis of My Life

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE BURA MEN AND WOMEN WHO HAVE LEFT US THESE STORIES, FOLK TALES AND MAǨUMÐLA ÐZA ÐZA IN THEIR ORAL FORM.

THEIR LEGACY FOR US IS VERY PRECIOUS INDEED AND WE INTEND TO THE SAME TO POSTERITY.

Synopsis

The book Suksuku Revisited … is a diverse collection of the stories, folk tales, and maƙumđla đza đza that the Bura people of Northeastern Nigeria use to transmit their cultural milieu, belief systems, and the supernatural to their youth. The book is permeated with how the tribe interacts with and is solely dependent upon the power and magnanimous symbiotic character of the creator, Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa (Grandpa/Ma God). This is most obvious in chapters 1, 7, and 9.

At other times, the tribe uses animals to express those values and social mores they intend to on; these are reflected in chapters 6, 12, 14, 16, 17, 20, 22, 26, and 29. Social conflicts are often resolved through the supernatural or other arcane powers of the shaman, such as in chapters, 2, 8, 10, 24, 27, and 28.

Suksuku Revisited … opens a door—which, until now, may have been closed to the outsider—into the tribal thoughts of the Bura people with regard to their conception of creation, the supernatural, and the symbiotic relationship between the creator and his people.

Preface

The act of trying to document the stories and folk tales and Maƙumđla đza đza of the Bura people of Northeastern Nigeria began for me more than two decades ago. Like every aspiring author, I had wanted to get my book, representing this research, out at a much earlier time, but necessary constraints have delayed this dream—until now.

One of these constraints was that I had my own family to raise and a career to build. It’s amazing how long it has taken me to accomplish both challenges— each happily and with amazing modest levels of success! Moreover, the sheer effort required to collect such a diverse compendium of work was challenging, to say the least, and needed time to be overcome.

The impulse and sense of urgency in writing this short book was based on my belief that a tribe—indeed, any ethnic group—that does not document its culture in a clearly delineated form is doomed to become a mere footnote in the annals of history.

Over time, one of the tools that has been used, as a social organization, to transmit cultural mores, morals, and practical ways of living that are culturally specific to a particular society has been the recitation of stories and folk tales. This is especially true for the Bura people, whose language is presently on the verge of suffering a slow, but certain, death given its lack of use, both in the domestic setting, that is the family, and in everyday discourse, such as in politics.

For many Bura youth, the tradition of sitting around the fire in the evening, listening to their parents, or grandparents, tell stories with both moral and

cultural import is regrettably lost. Their evenings have, instead, been taken over by watching television or listening to rap/pop music, while Mum and Dad sit on the biggest couch in the room—couch potatoes (just like their kids)—lethargic and exhausted, unable to move after a long day’s work.

They were alienated from their culture not solely because of the faults of their parents but also because of the insidious changes that were introduced in 1960, with Independence, when the Bura language, before a primary and efficacious tool of cultural transmission, suddenly became secondary, or even, supposedly, irrelevant. For many of the youth, English and Hausa have now replaced Bura as their preferred language. This meant that for many of them, their native culture (language, being the most important tool of cultural transmission) was almost dead or nonexistent.

The purpose of this book—a collection of short stories, folk tales, and Maƙūmđla đza đza (RIDDLES OR THOUGHT STORIES)—therefore, is to help revitalize and bring back the old Bura cultural practice of family storytelling in the evenings. It is hoped that the practice will bring back the strong family ties and cohesions that existed among the Bura people from time immemorial and thereby transfer such cohesions to the present Bura community who are scattered wide and large around the globe. These stories, folk tales, and Maƙūmđla đza đza have been very instrumental for centuries in inculcating valuable cultural mores and ways of living among the people. It is, therefore, envisaged that this will plausibly make storytelling central in the family life once more, especially as it relates to the present generation of Bura youth.

For the above goals to succeed, parents’ roles are indispensable and paramount. They need to take their time in the evenings to read these stories to the young children in order to verbally transmit these Bura cultural traditions and mores to the younger generation—now, while there is still time. The old adage that “A man without a culture is a dead man” is more relevant today than at any other time of human development, because of the myriad of conflicting impulses that are now bombarding one through the television, social media, cyberspace—with

its globally created “mass culture”—and other modern means of communication.

The same recommendation is proposed to researchers and others from other cultures who aspire to either understand or learn the Bura culture and its ways of life for academic purposes or mere friendships, including its religious orientations and belief systems in yesteryears. Their understanding of the past Bura ways of life, including their belief systems, is argued, will help them tremendously in understanding the Bura people of today, thereby making forging relationships easier.

Hence, for the Bura people, while English and Hausa do serve as practical language adjuncts and powerful carriers of their salient cultures, they should not, and must not, be a substitute for the authenticity of the Bura language and its culture.

It has not been an easy exercise to translate the stories and folk tales from Bura —in which most were narrated or written—into English, in part because of my limited knowledge of the daily, typically spoken Bura as used by most of my contemporaries and our other elders. But, more so, it is because of the variation of word uses between the Bura from the Ĝarƙiɗa area and the Western Bura, including those from Maramā, Ŝhaffā, and Ǩŵajaffā. There were times when I had to stop and Colonel Markus in Jos to check out the meaning and interpretation of certain concepts or phrases. But most difficult of all is the difficulty that all translations present: it’s sometimes impossible to translate the exact meaning of certain expressions from one language to the other—in this case, from Bura to English. Often when confronted with such a dilemma, I just leave those words in Bura or I enclose within parentheses a very close English representation. Most of the Bura words used, and sometimes names, are written in italics.

One last caveat is that, traditionally, Bura people don’t give names to their characters. For instance, “Waci ŵaci sal ƙu nzi ƙa mŵala …” or “vir laga, mŵala

maɗiya laga …” In these instances, (and they are numerous—practically in all the stories), I gave each character a name, be it the man, his wife, or their children; and I tried to make them all Bura names. There are instances where I had to use a name more than twice or thrice in different stories because of the shortage of Bura names that I am familiar with or could . Some of the stories didn’t have a title when I got them, so I had to create one after reading the whole story to grasp what the main points were. In these instances, some titles may appear strange to my readers who might have heard such story being story told but were not aware of its title.

I didn’t dare make any attempts to translate the Maƙūmđla đza đza statements; they are all completely left in Bura. However, because their meanings are often given in one word, I tried to present their English equivalences when possible in those cases. Acknowledgements

I would like to express my profound gratitude to my parents, Ŷaɓbilar and Ŷaƙŵamting, for instilling in me a respect for the value of tradition and, especially, gratitude to my grandmother—Ĵimɓala Ngŵazi Ŝħalangŵa—for her commitment and fortitude in sharing these rich and original traditional tales with me while sitting around a slow-burning bonfire on never-to-be-forgotten evenings (in spite of her being bone-tired after the days’ farm work and chores). For these, and so many other things, I owe her an eternal debt.

My special praise and gratitude go to the late Reverend Ishaku Mbaya and Mr. Mallum Ngaɗa, both of whom preserved some of the stories compiled here in a written form in Bura but were not able to publish them. All I had to do was translate, clarify, and embellish most, based on my knowledge of those stories, for my readers. Their efforts in preserving these stories are a living testament to the desire to have them read by the present generation and in posterity.

Of course, my expression of and inspiration would be incomplete without a well-deserved credit due to my brother Colonel Markus Mshelia (Rtd.)

for his unconditional and willingness to go the extra mile to satisfy my requests for more information about certain prints and some inherent differences in how some of the stories are being told, or the use of some Bura terminologies in the different communities of the Bura People.

I’m also indebted to Rev. James Zoaƙa, who had some of these stories and Maƙūmđla đza đza handwritten in Bura in a very short time after I made the request to him. But he, of course, benefited from from several people, including: Mr. Dauda Bŵala, the late Akau Talba, Mallam Bata Ghali, Mallam Musa Ðiƙa Nđahi, Mallam Obida Balami, Mr. Inuwa Bŵala, Mr. Haruna Jirdi, Mallam Yusufu Mŝheliā, Mr. Jibir Haruna, Ms. Comfort Zoaƙa, and, last but not least, Mallam Ibrahim Saŵa.

It is worth acknowledging the efforts and contributions of Engineer Emmanuel Mɓaya, Mrs. Haɓiɓa P. Amaza and Col. Markus Mŝhelia in going over the Maƙūmđla đza đza and making some invaluable comments and corrections.

There are many others whom I cannot mention here. To these numerous unnamed people, I express my deepest gratitude for their contribution and willingness to give their time for such a cause—a cause of getting some of our stories preserved permanently for posterity. Without the mass participation of such a group, the writing of the book would have taken much longer to produce.

I’m also indebted to my son, Bilar Mshelia, Esq., and daughter, Gloria Mshelia, Esq., for their sincere encouragement and in documenting these stories. Their kinship, , and inspiration were both irreplaceable and invaluable in assisting me to persevere at odd and difficult times during the compilation of these stories.

Last but not least, I must express my gratitude to Stephanie Ann Michel (aka

Sam) From Schaumburg Illinois who read and edited the entire manuscript and provided some invaluable suggestions, making the stories succinct and easier to read and understand.

As a work of fiction, all the characters and places in the stories are fictional and are the author’s imaginative creation, and they have no direct reference to any living or dead persons.

AŶM

New York, 2017

Chapter One

The Day God Was Provoked

This is the story of the early covenant relationship between God and the Bura people. Throughout history, every tribe—or social group—had, with varying degrees of success, established methods of instilling its values, and, most importantly, its concept of divinity, into its younger generation. This is no less true for the Bura people who live in the northeastern part of Nigeria. The Bura God is known, or referred to, by different names or attributes; among the most common are Ĥŷel Nƙumande and Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa Tħamɓūram.

Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa could be found and worshipped by the surrounding rivers, in thick forests, on mountain slopes or tops, or in any other place deemed sacred by the people. Thus, before the coming of the White man— particularly the Missionaries with their insistence upon a colonially defined Christian God—the concept of God was nothing strange to the Bura people.

The Bura people have numerous stories and folk tales that are ed on to the younger generations by word of mouth. Several of these folk tales are palpably like some biblical tales of Genesis, especially those pertaining to the story of Adam and Eve and the “Garden of Eden.” These Genesis “creation myth” stories, which were transmitted orally thousands of years ago, now form part and parcel of the Judeo-Christian tradition and belief systems.

The Bura people are animistic and use animals or plants as the main characters in their stories, imbuing them with human characteristics. Nonetheless, they impart the same fundamental religious and moral teachings and never, despite

their supernatural quality, invalidate the import of these tenets to human experience.

ŜUǨŜUǨU MAĜIRI: ŜINTA (Gata gata nan: tazo ta wuce; Once upon a time…).

A long, long time ago, per our Bura tradition, God was simply just another kind next-door neighbor whom one could call upon at any time of the day—or night —to discuss personal needs and problems. Man, and God, now were in perfect harmony, and man did not have to do any work. All that was required was that he ask, and God would provide. God imposed very few obligations in reciprocity for the unlimited indulgencies and constant bliss that resulted from his abundant and free provision of victuals and care.

The covenant that God made with man was simple: do not stand up when using the pestle and mortar. Both the mortar and pestle were made of wood. The mortar is made from the trunk of a big tree that stands on its base and has been cut short and hollowed out. The pestle is also made of a slim wood that measures about two meters and could be lifted by one hand. It’s usually smoothed for easy grasping and pounding. Per the Webster’s dictionary, a mortar is “a strong vessel in which material is pounded or robbed with a pestle,” and a pestle is defined as a “club-shaped implement for pounding or grinding substances in a mortar.” The pestle and mortar were very important in the lives of the Bura people. It was by these two that they could thrash the sorghum they used as their mainstay. These were the only means of getting the flour needed for the daily preparation of diva (tuwo/Hausa), which was the Bura staple food.

This covenant was important to God because, per the Bura belief and religious practice, God looks like a human being with head, limbs, stomach, and all the other features of a human being. This anthropomorphic belief is central to the Bura ways of religious worship, and it transcends all everyday actions and associations. Because of their anthropomorphic belief, they reasoned that God was afraid the pestle would hurt his belly button if man could stand upright when

using it. The reason why God’s belly button was at stake was that, even though God looks like a human, he lies across the sky on his stomach—the whole of the sky is his stomach. This means that we never see his head or legs, just the stomach. This covenant, which was intended to test the free will of humankind, had been obeyed for thousands of years by the people, without any infringement or questioning. The people understandably feared that if they broke the covenant and went against God’s first injunction to his creation, they would have to pay a steep price for it. God, on his part, was happy with the people, if they did not disobey this lone commandment. Man, simply asked, and God provided.

Everything continued in divine harmony, and everybody was in perfect bliss with God. However, one sunny morning, an old widow named Ĵimɓalā Ngŵazi decided to test this covenant, which had stood unchallenged for thousands of years. The old woman told her grandson, Anjiƙŵi, that she was tired of having to stoop down every time she wanted to pound her grain in the mortar. She told him that God had provided her mother (his great grandmother) with the mortar, and her mother had ed it on to her so she could use it. She argued, convincingly, that, just the day before, in the afternoon, she had asked for grain, and God, through his mercy, had, with no questions asked, filled up her container.

“If God could do such things for me, a poor woman, without demanding sacrifices or libations,” she told Anjiƙŵi, “of course he can tolerate my desire to stand up and pound the corn he has provided me with instead of having to stoop, because of my age,” she surmised. “God is merciful,” she reasoned aloud, “and, surely, would not punish me for just this one infringement of his covenant.”

Anjiƙŵi wasn’t only shocked and mesmerized but also became scared and nervous with this line of argument that his grandma had seemingly adopted regarding Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa’s sole, but essential, prohibition to mankind. He knew that God intended this covenant to be fundamental and obeyed always. Anjiƙŵi was fearful, deeply fearful, of the consequences of any infraction by any mortal. Thus, he ran to Ŷamta, his father, to tell him what his grandma was allegedly contemplating doing. When Ŷamta heard what his mother was about to do, he

instantly stopped mending his fence, ran to her house in a rage, and vehemently condemned her for even thinking about disobeying this one crucial rule.

“Are you not thinking? Have you lost your senses?” he declared. “Do you know that by this mindless single action, should you carry it out, you would cause the annihilation of the whole land?! I will send Ĝana to come and pound your grain for you,” he proposed.

“No, Ĝana is always here running errands for me,” Ĵimɓalā Ngŵazi replied. “And, besides, she is tired.”

Ŷamta, however, temporarily prevailed, and Ĝana came that night to pound her grandmother’s grains.

But two days later, Ĵimɓalā again told Anjiƙŵi that she was going to pound grain because the batch that Ĝana had pounded had already run out.

Once more, she got her grains ready, brought the mortar and pestle outside, and was all ready to start pounding. But Anjiƙŵi appeared out of nowhere after taking the herd to the grazing area.

“What are you doing?” he shouted as Ĵimɓalā pulled herself up to pound. He moved with surprising agility, grabbed and pulled the mortar away from her with one hand and all the strength he could muster, and held the pestle with the other hand. The two of them struggled for control of the mortar and pestle until his younger strength prevailed and he was able to snatch the pestle and run off. He went straight to his father, but nobody was at home, so he went to their neighbor, Aji, and told him what his grandmother was about to do.

Aji, who normally was never moved by anything, was in that instant similarly awestruck and confused. He immediately dropped everything he was doing— including the mat he was thatching for his new and third wife’s room—and ran as fast as his old legs could carry him, breathing heavily until he reached Ĵimɓala’s hut, which was appended to Ŷamta’s house. Aji had been the fastest runner in the village in his youth, but at the age of fifty, he had slowed down tremendously. Anyway, when he came into the hut shaking and looking exhausted and wasted, he stooped and blew out a long sigh before he began to plead with and exhort the old woman.

“Ĵimɓala,” he said in a meek and gentle voice, “what are you trying to do? You know very well that if you do what you are about to do, it’s not only you, but the whole land, that will be punished—or even perish!”

“Nobody will be punished,” the old woman replied tersely. “God will not punish us if I do it just this once.”

Ĵanĝura and the other neighbors who came out to listen and observe what was going on were stunned with disbelief. Like Aji, they did all they could to persuade her to somehow agree not to stand up when she pounded─but they failed. Despite all their honest and concerted efforts to stop her, she stubbornly persisted with her intentions. The people were, it must be said, curious and perplexed about this thousand-year-old covenant. They were conflicted. On the one hand, they were afraid of the destruction of their land if she did it; but on the other hand, they were curious of what would happen if they allowed Ĵimɓalā Ngŵazi to do as she pleased. Their need to know whether “God would really punish the whole Bura-land for Mataĝi’s lone and asinine disobedience” seemed to prevail, as they all looked askance.

When their now-weakened position had failed, they were not disappointed, as

they watched Ĵimɓalā grab the basket of grain that she had received from God two nights previously and put it in the mortar. She took up her pestle, then she hesitated and gave her appalled audience a swift, melancholy smile before placing her body in an upright posture, standing up defiantly to ritually pound the corn.

Pam. . . pam. . . pam. . . the pounding went on three or four times. The villagers were stunned and mortified. Suddenly, in a split second, total darkness fell upon the village, encapsulating the entire Bura territories. Nothing, literally nothing, was visible. There were no stars in the sky. And the sun, which had been shining brightly a moment ago, was now nowhere to been seen. Nobody knew what was going on. Those standing near Ĵimɓalā Ngŵazi when she was pounding fell into a stupor, completely silent. Those who had not been around and were not aware of Ĵimɓalā’s mischief and arrogance staggered to their huts and shut their doors. For a long time, there was complete darkness, and nobody dared to go out. No one could tell whether it was day or night.

The village elders decided to call on God to find out just what had happened from him, but, on this occasion, their efforts were met with silence. They shouted, wailed, tore at their clothing, and offered sacrifices and libations of ɓurƙutū (locally brewed beer), but there was still no answer. Some of the villagers reasoned that God must have gone traveling and that the darkness was the result of a quarrel among the other heavenly bodies. Others thought that God had traveled to a distant place and had, perhaps, forgotten to instruct the other heavenly bodies—such as the sun, the moon, and the stars—to continue radiating their light even as he traveled to some far away land!

A prolonged period of uncertainty and suspense was followed by deafening thunder, lightning, and angry earth tremors. When the whole land began shaking, people huddled together, not knowing what to do or what to expect. Suddenly, during these catastrophic tremors, a loud voice thundered out, declaring: “Did I not instruct you not to stand up and pound? Do you imagine yourselves wiser than me? Why did you allow one of you to do what I have prohibited you to do?

Because of this disobedience, my relationship with you must irreversibly change. This repugnant and hideous behavior has compelled me to radically redefine our relationship. My new covenant with you will be this: You will continue to be my people, but, as of this day, behold this hour, you will never again be able to talk to me directly; I am going to be far away from you physically. You may still ask, but it will neither be given to you immediately and unconditionally nor directly. From now on, you must labor by digging in the ground and sweating (making some penance) before you get what you want.”

When the voice ceased, the people were delirious and seemed to wake from a bad dream. This couldn’t possibly be happening, they reasoned amongst themselves. The elders and the shaman among them tried to explain to God what had happened: they cried, wailed, and shouted, insisting that it was solely the old woman’s intransigence and dogged persistence that had caused the problem, but there was no answer—God was mute. God had spoken and had refused to answer their call. They bitterly lamented and offered sacrifices of their fattest animals, but still nothing came; their baskets remained empty. They genuflected, offering up all manner of libations, but nothing, no change of heart, happened. They could now pound if they wished─standing up or sitting down, it didn’t matter─but now nothing came for free; they had to sweat by tilling the soil to earn their sustenance and livelihood.

This singular event marked the end of the early, cordial, and personal covenant between God and man. God, the people recognized—and still believe—is not as vindictive or as petty as man, and that is why, despite humankind’s various transgressions, God still provides for them—although not without the necessity of hard labor—and he still allows his light to shine, indiscriminately, on everybody—both good and bad.

God’s age-long covenant with the Bura people still haunts us today; we may still ask and wait, but, more than that, we also have to make a living through toil and sweat.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA JIKILA AKWA MTAKU

Chapter Two

Ŵaralêanĝ Liŷa Ĝirđzaƙ Liŷa: Ǩuƀili’s fairy tale

Ǩuɓili was orphaned at a very tender age. Her father, Tāpĉhi, who was a distinguished military general, had died bravely fighting the neighboring hill tribe. In keeping with the tradition of the Bura people, her mother, Ɓintā, married Ŷarƙawa Ðawi (he answers to both names; therefore, at different times, we use one or the other in reference to him), her father’s younger brother—that is, Ǩuɓili’s uncle—thereby providing Ǩuɓili with a father figure. This tribal practice was essential for keeping the family intact.

Ǩuɓili’s uncle, Ŷarƙawa Ðaŵi, whom her mother had just married, was an austere and taciturn man who had already been married when his brother, the general, died. Many people who knew the family thought the two brothers were the antithesis of each other. While Ǩuɓili’s father, Tāpĉhi, was genial and outgoing—someone you would call a “man of the people “—her uncle, Ŷarƙawa Ðawi, was, as we stated earlier, reserved.

Binta, Ŷarƙawa Ðawi’s new wife, was one of those few women the age of time had left unscathed. Thanks to her excellent physical and mental constitution, she had preserved her beauty, to the envy of those half her age! Physically, she was active and agile; and mentally, she was sharp and smart. Of medium height, plump, and fresh in appearance, she had beautiful, straight shoulders and long, elegant, flowing black hair.

Ǩwapĉhi, Ŷarƙawa Ðaŵi’s first wife, by contrast, was a tall, fat, bow-legged, and wrinkled old woman, whose fifty years of hard work and suffering could be

seen clearly imprinted on her jutted forehead. When she walked, she stooped a little, showing the effect of her age and physical decay. People who had known Ǩwapĉhi when she was growing up stated that, even as a child, she stooped when she walked.

Even before the marriage, Ǩuɓili and her mother were not happy with the arrangement, but they had very little choice—they had to succumb to traditional practice or face ostracism. One of their main fears was how to deal with Ǩwapĉhi and her children. To make matters worse, following a long drought, there was famine in the land and a raging tribal war. Life in their new family, thus, was anything but happy. The intensity of competition between the two women and their daughters became more personal and unbearable with sustained jealousy.

This avarice was a result of Ǩwapĉhi fearing that she would be relegated to the position of “mŵala đira” (least-favored wife). Traditionally, Ǩuɓili’s uncle would spend more time with Ɓintā, his new wife, because she was the new bride. However, since this was not a normal time, the groom was hardly ever around. There was a war to fight and little time for anything else, including attending to his new bride’s needs.

Consequently, Ǩwapĉhi and Ɓintā were left to fend for themselves. Ɓintā had to scrape and garner grain wherever she could to feed both Ǩuɓili and herself. Under these penurious circumstances, there was very little with which she could entice her new husband. Ǩwapĉhi was thus in a more advantageous position because most of her children were grown up and helped her on the farm. Moreover, she was determined to make life unnecessarily and unrelentingly more difficult and miserable for Ɓintā. This had to be done, she convinced herself and her children, because Ɓintā was younger, more beautiful, and, therefore, more attractive than her. In addition, Ǩuɓili was more beautiful, more circumspect, and more charming than Ǩwapĉhi’s daughters.

Normally in this society, wives took turns in preparing food for the whole family, but since these were not normal times, each woman’s immediate and urgent priority was feeding her children with whatever she could garner. The men, thus, depended on the indulgence of their wives for their daily meals of leftovers after the children were fed. This meant that the woman who had more leftovers to share with her man not only controlled his head but, invariably, his heart as well. There is a popular Bura saying which states that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Because Ɓintā did not have enough for her daughter and herself, she hardly ever invited her husband to dinner. Consequently, there was a chasm of some social distance between the newlyweds.

In short, Ŷarƙawa Ðaŵi, for all practical purposes, was socially removed from his young bride and her daughter. In fact, Ǩuɓili’s stepsisters always teased her that, although her mother was the younger wife and deserved to be the “mŵala miŵa” (favored wife), she was not because they were just as poor as church rats. In such instances, Ǩuɓili would usually run away crying and cursing her fate, asking Providence why her mother was “mŵala đira” even though she was much younger and more beautiful than Ǩwapĉhi. Ǩwapĉhi, Ɓintā would argue quietly with inner fervor, certainly would not deserve to be the “mŵala miŵa” if life were fair.

Things became so intense that, one day, Ǩuɓili decided to leave home and go seek her fortune somewhere else. In short, she sought to take control of her young life—something unheard of in this society. However, before she left, she planted a small tree and told her mother to observe it and water it every day. If the tree became lush and green, it meant Ǩuɓili was alive and well. However, if the tree withered and dried up, it meant she was dead.

When Ǩuɓili set out on this hazardous journey, she had only a small mpila (gourd) in which she carried her water. She was basically naked and barefoot. When Ǩwapĉhi and her children heard that Ǩuɓili was leaving the village, they laughed and teased both her and her mother.

The sun was just coming out from the east with a silvery, glistening, and luminous brightness—as is common in the tropics—when Ǩuɓili decided to leave home. It was very early in the morning, with rain drizzling gently, when she left home that day, so that, except for her mother, nobody saw her leaving.

Ǩuɓili’s choice of direction was simplified because there was only one path that led out of the village, and it was made easily visible by the glints of the rising sun shining on the dewy grasses that hung their heads toward the path on both sides. Outside the village, the road forked into two, and she decided to take the one that turned right. After walking the whole morning and part of the afternoon, Ǩuɓili got tired and decided to sit under a tree. It was so quiet, except for the sweet song of the birds in the trees that broke what otherwise was a monotonous silence. Ǩuɓili thought of the birds and wished she were like them: free, not having to worry about living. The birds, she reasoned, were also living things, “but God loves them so much that they do not have to work to survive. They are in a state of continuous bliss because all their needs are provided for.”

After dozing off for two or three hours, she woke up and ired the glistening silver and golden sun setting in the distant western horizon. The mixed rainbow colors of the sun’s rays shining through the misty and dusty sky gave her reason to smile. She then started on her journey; but, after walking for what seemed to be an eternity, she felt hungry and tired again.

However, she persisted, and a little further on, she came across a blind man who had lost his way. The blind man, sensing Ǩuɓili’s approaching footsteps, stood still and leaned in the direction of the moving object. When she came close to him, he greeted her and asked her where she was going and if she was in any trouble.

Ǩuɓili, not so sure of what to say, responded, “I am going wherever my fortune takes me.” Ǩuɓili could see the blind man was immediately charmed by her sweet and deferential tone, and she went on to tell him how her biological father

had died in the raging war and her mother had married his brother. The blind man listened with rapturous attention and expressed his misery at Ǩuɓili’s unfortunate situation. He told her, however, that he was certain she would succeed in her quest for a better life for her and her mother. He regretted that he could not help her financially or materially because he, too, was poor.

Then he asked her to show him the right path back to the village, and he said to her, ““Later in the day, you will experience an unusual phenomenon; there is going to be a strong but mild wind. Don’t look back or stop when the strong wind starts to blow; keep on walking, as if nothing is happening. However, when you feel the pressure of the wind on your back, find a rock at the foot of a hill and sit down.”

Ǩuɓili thanked him, and they bade each other farewell.

After walking in the sultry tropical sun for hours, Ǩuɓili was completely exhausted and desired nothing more than cool shade, but any time she was tempted to sit down, the blind man’s exhortation forced its will on her to “keep on walking” and not give in to her suffering. Weak, thirsty—but not daring to take a sip at her last drop of water—and tired, she saw dry leaves and grass being tossed in the air and the living trees and grasses bending down to kiss the ground. Instinctively, she knew what was taking place might well decide her future. Determined and resolved, she kept on walking. She skirted around trees and tall grasses that were tossed her way by the wind. As suddenly as it had begun, the wind ceased, and all was quiet.

The ferocious wind was immediately followed by a gentler wind, and at that exact spot where she found herself standing was a small tree at the foot of a hill. Ǩuƀili could not believe that everything the blind man had told her was coming true. She sat down, took out her mpila, and sipped from her last drops of water. Refreshed and ready to go on, she was surprised to see a man suddenly standing right next to her.

The man politely asked her what she was doing “sitting on his throne” and where she was going. Shaking with fear and amazement, Ǩuƀili narrated the history of her present predicament to the stranger standing before her. The mysterious man nodded and expressed his sympathy, but he said he had nothing to give her. As a matter of fact, he importuned her for her last drop of water! Hesitatingly and without malice, Ǩuɓili handed him her mpila, and the man sipped what little water she had left.

Before they parted, he exhorted her to be watchful of predators but, most importantly, to be on the lookout for “an old woman near a lonely, stagnant stream.” He told her not to argue with the woman but do everything she asked her to do. He also warned her not to drink from the stream. She thanked him, and, still somewhat perplexed at this magical encounter, she walked away with renewed promise and energy.

Meanwhile, the tree she’d planted at home was thriving, appearing evergreen, and this gave her mother some sort of satisfaction and hope that her wandering daughter was still alive.

On the second day of her sojourn, Ǩuɓili came to a small stream, in which, to her chagrin, an old woman had taken off her clothes and was having a bath. Ǩuɓili was terrified because it seemed to her that the woman probably hadn’t taken a bath for an entire year! But what surprised her the most was the woman’s skin. It seemed to be peeling off like the peel of an orange, and the aroma coming from her was reminiscent of the smell of rotten eggs or a decomposing corpse.

However, when the old woman saw her, she was delighted because, as she told Ǩuɓili, she had been “forewarned by an oracle “that Ǩuɓili was “coming to wash her,” and she was thus expecting her. She asked her, in fact, why she was so late

in coming. Ǩuɓili explained that, firstly, she had gotten lost, and, secondly, she was very weak because, for the past two days, she had not eaten. The woman appeared to sympathize with her but politely asked her to get a bark of a tree and scrub her back with it! She knew she was dirty and didn’t want Ǩuɓili to use her bare hands!

Ǩuɓili, however, refused; she scrubbed the old woman’s back and washed her with her hands, declaring, “My mother is just as dirty as you are, and people laugh at her, but am I going to laugh at her, too? Am I going to disdain her when she gets old like you?”

Thus, despite her inner revulsion for the woman’s smelly, rancid skin, Ǩuɓili washed her without the slightest repugnance, using her bare hands. She embraced her with both hands and washed her thoroughly. When she finished, the woman told her to go wash her hands before she sat down to eat.

But Ǩuɓili responded by saying, “Why should I? Why should I have to clean my hands before I eat? Is it because I just gave you a bath? You are a mother to me, and your body is no different or more abhorrent or more unclean than any other person’s.”

The old woman was flabbergasted, impressed, and touched. Walking slowly, but with deliberate steps, she led Ǩuɓili to a tree by the stream, where she gave her some food. The food consisted of janĝūli (a mixture of beans, peanuts, and corn cooked together) and some boiled fish. Ǩuɓili ate the food ravenously and later confessed it was the best food she had ever eaten in her life—smooth and tasty! The woman told Ǩuɓili that Mŵaɗa, her daughter, came once a week to cook her food for her, but she wouldn’t wash her.

After they had eaten and were relaxing, the woman asked Ǩuɓili what she was

doing traveling alone in an unknown country, “being such a sweet, innocent, young girl.” Ǩuɓili narrated her story, telling her about her father and how, through tradition, her mother had married Ǩuɓili’s uncle, how others despised her and her mother because of their poverty, and how they were treated, in her view, with perfidious cruelty.

The old woman listened somberly, and when Ǩuɓili had finished, she said, “Don’t blame yourself for what has befallen you; God will guide you with honor and give you blessing that will be the envy of all people. When you leave me here, go east, and don’t look back, even if you hear someone calling your name. Eventually, you will come to a small hill where the road forks; take the left one, and keep on going until you see a large steel fortress. Without saying a word, lie down and sleep. Wake up at dawn and continue your journey. As you approach the entrance, you will be tested for your heroism and conviction—don’t falter and don’t panic; just keep on walking. When you reach the gate, don’t hesitate; just say ŵaralênĝ liŷa, and when you are safely inside, say ĝirđzaƙ liŷa.”

Ǩuɓili’s heart throbbed rapidly, as if she might suffocate, over the sudden fear and noxious anxiety about an uncertain future. However, although frightened about the unpredictability of her fate and the possibility of an impending catastrophe, she thanked the mysterious old woman and continued on her sojourn. She walked the whole day without incident.

Toward sunset, however, she came to a hill where the road forked, and she took the one that turned left. Even though she was tired, thirsty, and hungry, she kept on going until she sighted the very fortress that the woman had warned her about. Ǩuƀili moved gently and cautiously until she found a spot under a small tree where she sat and, within a few minutes, she drifted off. In her sleep, she dreamt of food, honey, and jewelry. She also dreamt of her mother and the tree that she had planted.

Early the next morning, she woke and continued her journey. When the sun was

directly above her head, to her utter amazement, several dishes presented themselves to her, imploring her to eat from them! They offered her any kind of food she might choose; but, although she was hungry, Ǩuɓili didn’t pause, didn’t say a word, and just kept on walking. Meanwhile, back home, Ǩuɓili’s mother had begun to worry because the plant was showing signs of withering—it was beginning to turn a bit yellowish. She didn’t, however, panic; she continued to believe that everything would turn out well for her daughter.

Toward evening, Ǩuɓili was desperate to the point of almost collapsing, but she repeated to herself, “You can’t give up now; everything hangs on your survival.” Instead, she knelt and asked for inner strength, praying to Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa Tħamɓūram. As she got nearer to the castle, she was confronted by the specters of snakes of all types—such as the python—and of other predatory animals— like hyenas and lions—but Ǩuɓili gathered her courage and kept on going despite her inner turmoil, fear, and uncertainty. When, eventually, she made it to the gate of the castle, she suddenly realized she couldn’t the words she’d been instructed to use to get the gate open. She just sat there, quietly sobbing.

As she sat there weeping, a bird’s song came out of the trees. She wasn’t sure, but, as she listened, she thought she heard the bird say:

Ŵaralêanĝ liŷa an ta ŝha alaĝā ninĝa ĝirđzaƙ liŷa an ta ŝha alaĝā ri?

Ŵaralêanĝ liŷa an ta ŝha alaĝā ninĝa ĝirđzaƙ liŷa an ta ŝha alaĝā ri?

Ǩuɓili turned her head once more to where the sound was coming from and, suddenly, uttered the words “ĝirđzaƙ liŷa, ĝirđzaƙ liŷa,” but nothing happened. Then, miraculously, the word ŵaralêanĝ liŷa came to her, and, the moment she said it, the gates flung wide open and itted her. Then she repeated the word

“ĝirđzaƙ liŷa,” and the gates closed behind her.

When Ǩuɓili entered, she was welcomed by what looked to her to be a small child. He told her they had been expecting her and a table had already been prepared. Ǩuɓili gave him a quizzical smile, and the “boy,” for his part, looked on condescendingly. He showed her a place where she could wash herself—an exotic, glittering, golden wardrobe and a room fully furnished that faced a beautiful landscape of acacia and neem trees and roses and carnation flowers. She was ravished by the beauty of the scenery.

The bed in the main bedroom had silk covers and large, self-reflecting mirrors on the head and feet boards. It looked like it had been prepared for a queen. Ǩuɓili asked the “boy” whose house this was, but he didn’t answer; he just gazed mysteriously at her, giving her a melancholy smile. After washing and spraying herself with the most fragrant perfume that had been made instantly available, she dressed herself in a crimson silk dress which, simple tho’ it was, made her look very elegant—indeed, quite beautiful.

She sat down at the perfectly set table for one and hastily finished the first plate of rice cooked with honey with sumptuous and succulent lamb. There were so many dishes that she didn’t know which ones to choose. Ǩuɓili ate every dish that looked enticing to her ravenously and to her satisfaction: yams with beef soaked in old honey and rice and beans with chicken broiled with honey and eastern spices. She washed these down with water laced with more honey. When the “boy” was satisfied that she was comfortable, he snapped his finger, and an elderly maid appeared—seemingly from nowhere—to remove the dishes and clean the table.

“We are very glad you came,” the “boy” declared.

Ǩuɓili sat silently and nervously, reflecting on what he’d just said. “Who is this ‘we’?” she asked in a soft voice. But the boy, with deliberate pretense, entirely ignored her question. Instead, he introduced her to a young, beautiful lady, about five feet tall, with blonde, curly hair.

This young, beautiful lady, he told her, would attend to all her needs. Everything Ǩuɓili wanted should be communicated to the lady. Ǩuƀili was flabbergasted, but she showed no sign of it because she didn’t want the “boy” to notice her fear and anxiety. What she couldn’t figure out was who these maids were—where did they live or come from? She was told she merely had to snap her fingers and someone would appear to do her bidding. When her host disappeared from the scene—and nobody seemed to be looking—Ǩuɓili tried snapping the other fingers, but nothing happened, except when she did as she was instructed.

The following morning, the boy told one of the male servants to saddle his horse. “I’m going out with “our guest.”

Ǩuɓili was confused; she didn’t want to go out riding with such a small child, yet she could not fail to appreciate that he had been, and was, her benefactor, and, at least for now, her whole existence depended on him. She agreed and rode alongside the boy to a curious palace, in which, when they entered, all she could were gold bars and diamonds. She was so shocked and perplexed that she wasn’t sure whether all this was reality or a dream.

Consequently, she just stood there in utter stupefaction. The boy told her to take as many gold bars and diamonds as she wished. Greed took over for a moment, and Ǩuɓili wanted to grab everything, but there was too much. So, for a moment, she just stood there gazing. The “boy” gave a command and, suddenly, there were boxes of gold piling up, box upon box, so much so that Ǩuɓili could no longer endure the sight of it. She wanted to run, but she didn’t know where to.

Their next destination was a vault of silver and other ornaments. Just as before, an invisible figure loaded boxes upon boxes on a horse. And the last stop they made was to a clothing bunker. Ǩuɓili once again was overwhelmed by the excess—she could scarcely believe that there were so many clothes in the world that one could choose from! Once more, boxes upon boxes were filled up with expensive designer shoes of all types and sizes, including her mother’s. Ǩuɓili was mute all this time because she didn’t know what to say or how the whole thing was going to play out. Of course, the boy is cute and ionate, she thought to herself, but he is only a boy. Is it possible that he wants to marry me?

Before they came back to the castle that day, there were more than twenty horses with more than one hundred boxes of her “personal belongings” strapped to their backs. Ǩuƀili was a roller coaster of emotions—ecstatic, nervous, and even delirious—but she showed herself stoic.

After staying in this regal atmosphere for almost a week, she told her host that she would like to go back to her mother, who by this time must surely be wondering about Ǩuɓili’s whereabouts and safety.

The “boy” consented, acknowledging, “It has been destined that you stay here with us for only one week.”

“By whom?” Ǩuɓili queried, but, once more, the “boy” pointedly ignored her inquiry. With exemplary precision, he ordered everything be organized for the next day’s journey. He instructed Ĉhamŵasū, one of the male servants, to supply Ǩuɓili with ten male and female servants—this besides the special escort team of fifty men and horses.

As an expression of her gratitude, Ǩuɓili flashed a beatific smile and profusely thanked her benefactor. On his part, he bowed his head graciously and

commended her for the visit and, especially, for her courage and perseverance. He vilified and warned her about evil, greed, and the dangers of an impetuous temperament. He, furthermore, onished her to always seek the truth and be of generous disposition whenever possible, even toward those who despised her, but especially to those in dire need. She should give generously, as it was given to her. With these wise parting words, Ǩuɓili’s host once more evaporated.

When Ǩuɓili and her entourage left the castle, she turned back and sobbed inwardly with joy, but she did not allow her maids and servants the pleasure of seeing her in this condition. After leaving the castle, the gates were locked once more. She looked, but she could no longer see the castle. All that was left now was her memory.

When they reached the village, it was late in the evening and nobody was at home, except for her mother, who had been so worried about Ǩuɓili’s safety that she’d stopped going to the farm for a whole week. Those at home who saw her coming thought that it, perhaps, was an invading cavalry, and several villagers took swiftly to the bushes looking for sanctuary. As for Ǩuɓili’s mother, she was so confounded that she didn’t know how to express her joy at seeing her daughter. Instead of fear and panic, she just rolled about on the ground weeping; what an extraordinary sight to behold, seeing her wrenching herself crying.

After some protracted anxious moments, Ǩuɓili told her mother everything about her trip and about how God had guided her path and led her to the castle. She told her all about the little boy-prince, whom she had never been able to elicit a single word from, and how generous he had been to her.

When the whole household came back home from the farm, they, too, were stunned and amazed at seeing Ǩuɓili. Both Ǩuɓili and her mother had agreed to have the horses and the maids moved some place outside the immediate vicinity of their home. This, they contended, would not scare or surprise the of the household as if they were invaders, especially Ðaŵi, her husband. When the

other family came in from the farm, nobody told them of Ǩuɓili’s great fortune. They, for their part, had never expected much from her, and they still didn’t.

Her mother sent Ǩuɓili to call her stepfather to come into their hut so he could see what she had brought with her—they had left a few boxes of gold, silver, and diamonds inside the hut. But Ŷarƙawa Ðaŵi, her stepfather, said he wasn’t going. He said he was happy that Ǩuɓili was back safely after her “vagabond journey”—which “had only shown how lazy she was by evading going to help her mother on the farm”—but he had no desire or purpose to visit their “poor and empty hut.” They pleaded with him to come, but he stayed put in the other woman’s hut. Ǩwapĉhi and her children would not allow him to go.

When he got tired of Ǩuɓili’s mother’s insistent pleas, he finally relented, saying, “Okay, I’ll come, but only if you arrange stone paving from Ǩwapĉhi’s door to your door so I do not have to step on the ground.”

Ǩuɓili and her mother obliged and went out and arranged the stones accordingly, but even then, Ǩwapĉhi said he was not going! However, since they had fulfilled his demand, Ŷarƙawa Ðaŵi reluctantly realized he had to. There was no question about it—he had to honor his pledge. Slowly and deliberately, then, he walked on the stones across to the other hut.

When he reached the entrance, and went inside, he first stepped back in awe, gasping in total disbelief. He sighed and uttered a strange, joyous cry with his whole-body trembling. He didn’t wait to hear what Ǩuɓili wanted to tell him. Instead, he stepped outside and, with practiced agility, threw away the stones that Ǩuɓili and her mother had carefully piled for him to walk upon.

Next, he went to the other hut and demanded his cover sheets and quiver of

arrows, but Ǩwapĉhi and her children refused point blank to give them to him. He left without them and reed Ǩuɓili and her mother. Ǩuɓili explained everything to him and told him that nobody in the family needed to work on the farm anymore—there was now more than enough for all of them. She then took him to where her maids, servants, escorts, and horses were staying. The people were already clearing a large field to build a castle like the one that Ǩuɓili had stayed in. They said that this was the instruction that had been given to them. Ŷarƙawa Ðaŵi fainted instantly at the prospect of being rich, and he had to be resuscitated by Ɓintā.

When Ǩwapĉhi and her children learned, eventually, about how much Ǩuɓili had brought, they showed a mix of elation and rage. They wanted their own retinue, but they didn’t want to live off what Ǩuɓili had brought. They resolved that one of them should also plant a tree and, like Ǩuɓili, make her own sojourn to seek her fortune. Ǩuɓili, in her generosity and kindheartedness, objected, pledging to share everything she’d brought with her stepsisters, stepbrothers, and their mother, but Ǩwapĉhi refused and insisted that one of her children must also go on the sojourn, wherever it may lead, to seek her own destiny. As for Ŷarƙawa Ðaŵi, the father, he was no longer interested in what Ǩwapĉhi and her children were doing; he was already well-ensconced and busy directing the building of the castle.

Ǩuɓili’s sojourn was the talk of the village that evening and for many evenings to come. Everybody declared how brave and fortunate she had been. Some even suggested that she wasn’t really a normal child—that, on the day of her birth, the sun had dimmed and there had been complete darkness over the entire land. Others intimated that, when she was born, she had been wrapped in a special, silky white material, the likes of which had never been seen before. They blamed Tāpĉhi, her late biological father, for losing this special “birth bag,” which, it was presumed, was a divine symbol of her eminence.

“Did you find the plant?” Ǩwapĉhi asked her daughter, Batā.

“Yes, I did,” she retorted hoarsely.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Hastily, a plant was selected, uprooted, and planted, just as Ǩuɓili’s had been.

When Ǩuɓili eventually learned of Batā’s determination to make the same journey, she forewarned her about everything she might encounter. Batā dismissed her, saying that she didn’t need any condescending guidance from her! Meanwhile, the building of the castle continued with unsured speed, such that when Ŷarƙawa Ðaŵi heard about Ǩwapĉhi and her daughter’s plan, he just beamed with a big, broad smile but said nothing.

Early the following morning, with the sun still beyond the horizon thick with clouds and drizzling mildly, Batā said goodbye to her mother, sisters, and brothers, and she set out to search for her own destiny. She didn’t bother saying anything to anyone else. When she came to the forked road outside of the village, she recalled Ǩubili’s instructions and took the right-hand path. After walking the whole afternoon, as anticipated, she came across the strange, blind man.

At first, she didn’t want the blind man to notice her presence, but then he did. He asked her to show him the correct path back to the village because he’d lost his way. Batā was bitter and, at first, pretended not to hear him.

But when the blind man repeated his request, Batā barked back, “Hey! Be considerate; I have a place to get myself to, and if you can’t find your way back to the village, I don’t know why you’re asking me; it’s none of my business.”

The blind man explained that it wasn’t as though he wanted to torment her. On the contrary: he desperately needed her help.

“Well, alright,” Batā replied with an attitude, “but I know blind men with their quirky behavior, and this is what they do all the time, pretending they cannot see and unnecessarily wasting your time. It baffles me that even when someone is in a hurry, they just don’t seem to understand.” She then walked to the man briskly, grabbed his stick, and pretty much dragged him over, putting him on the right path without saying another word.

The blind man thanked her and declared, “As soon as you continue with your journey, you will experience a strong gale-force wind. When it stops blowing, don’t stop—keep on going. When it blows softly or becomes only a light breeze, find a small rock and sit yourself on it.”

Batā was dismayed and retained her contempt of the blind man, “I’ve always thought of blind men as stupid. How can I sit down when the wind is blowing softly yet walk when it’s blowing hard? Isn’t it common sense to do the reverse —to sit down when the wind is blowing hard and walk when it’s blowing softly? I’m not stupid, and I’m going to do not what you say but what’s logical.” And with this, she departed.

Toward midday, she became exhausted and sat down under a nice, cool fig tree to sleep. When she woke up, she took up her mpila (gourd), sipped some water, and resumed her journey. She walked on, gaily humming and whistling, until she felt the wind blowing hard upon her face, and, although she ed the blind man’s exhortations, she decided to sit down, convincing herself, Of course that’s not foolish; that’s the logical thing to do. When the wind started to subside, and blow more gently, she tried to get up, but, to her great horror and dismay, she discovered she couldn’t—her backside had become stuck to the rock! She

tried pulling herself once again, but the harder she tried, the firmer the hold became. Suddenly, she realized the danger she was in and started panicking and crying, but there was no help.

Eventually, she heard a somewhat fortuitous, familiar voice. When she looked up, she saw the blind man, and she felt relieved. He reminded her of his explicit instructions and exhorted her to listen and to strictly obey them in the future, because “I may not be there to rescue you next time.” He told her that, although she had flaunted her disregard of his instructions, his heart was pure toward her, and he would help her get free. But next time, she should be more respectful and humble and learn how to obey her elders.

“There is no fortitude in arrogance,” he chastised her.

Batā stubbornly responded that she didn’t need all of this lecturing—if he could help her, let him just do it, or else shut up; she would then just wait and hope someone without such a pompous, judgmental attitude would come along. The blind man just smiled and gave her his hand, which at first, she refused but, eventually, accepted, and the man pulled her up.

The blind man continued, “You are going to meet an old woman by a stream. I plead with you to do everything she asks you to do. Furthermore, don’t drink the stream water, even if you are thirsty.”

Batā looked at him with utter amazement. “Dear man, it seems to me that you are either crazy or completely ignorant of basic human needs. How can I not drink the water if I thirst? It’s like sex. It’s a primary appetite, simple as that; it needs to be satisfied. And not even my own mother ever demanded of me to do what I choose not to do. I have never done anything she tells me; how unlikely am I to follow the dictates of an old woman that I do not even know?!”

The man appeared strangely undisturbed. Just as he came to her, and just as Batā was defending her autonomy, he suddenly vanished.

Batā continued on her journey until she came across the old woman by the stream. The first thing she did was to explicitly ignore the blind man’s advice: she jumped in “to cool off” and, similarly, gulped down the water. After a nice, cooling bath, she came out and took a long look at the old crone. Instantly, she knew she didn’t like her; she despised her. In fact, she was repulsed by her smelly and scaly body. She couldn’t possibly stand to be near such an old, ugly, and dirty woman.

The woman welcomed her with a slurry, awkward speech. Batā just managed a wink—signaling that she certainly didn’t like the old woman—and stood some distance away. The woman invited her to come and sit next to her, but Batā refused.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come to clean me, and I’m glad that you were able to make it,” the woman declared solemnly.

Batā jumped up and down, letting out a peal of shrieking, derisive laughter. “How can you possibly be expecting me when I don’t even know you? Who do you take me for? Do you really think I’m going to touch your dirty, scabby, scaly skin with my hands? I can’t, and you’d better come to your senses because I’ve no obligations to you, and I am not going to wash your smelly, dirty body. By the way, when did you last have a bath?” Batā couldn’t repress a malicious giggle after her response to the old lady.

The old woman pleaded with her to come and wash her back, but Batā again

refused adamantly. After a prolonged silence, though, she relented and consented to washing the woman.

“Okay, I will wash you, but not with my hands—I will get the bark of the tree and wash you with it. If you don’t like it, it’s your tough luck.”

The old woman thanked Batā, saying she was grateful.

Batā went away, peeled off the bark from a mahogany tree, returned, and began to scrub the woman’s back so vigorously that she started bleeding. The woman cried out at the top of her voice, “Stop! Stop! Please, stop!”

Batā, grudgingly, stopped. “What do you expect?” She declared in a hoarse, unyielding voice. “This little episode has served you well. Next time, you should know whom to ask a favor from. You old women are all the same: always demanding, always asking people for some favor or service.”

Meanwhile, back home, the plant that Batā had planted was showing distinct signs of withering—it was looking sick and yellowish—but her mother didn’t care. She neither bothered to water it nor, seemingly, to show any concern for her daughter’s safety. She just carried on with her daily chores as if nothing was happening. Ǩuɓili’s mother kept on providing her and her children with food and clothes. At first, she had refused, saying that, very soon, Batā would bring some for them, but later, when she was convinced that Batā was not going to be back soon, she reluctantly accepted.

Even though the old woman was not in the least satisfied with Baŧā’s behavior, she gave her the very same instructions that she had given Ǩuɓili a fortnight

before. Batā continued her disrespectful behavior. She just laughed at the old woman’s injunctions and retorted by saying that she didn’t see why she couldn’t eat the food if she was hungry, especially if she had been asked to eat it. At nightfall, she slept soundly after polishing off all the old woman’s food, which, adding insult to injury, she felt no compunction in expressing her dislike for!

At dawn, she resumed her journey, although, curiously, she was more hungry and tired than ever before. At midday, she came across those tantalizing foods that the old woman had forewarned her about and expressly forbidden her from eating. However, before the foods themselves had requested her to eat them, she’d already had a mouthful and was gulping it down with some cold water. After she had eaten to her satisfaction, she sighed, gulped again, and irritably asked herself, What’s the matter with these people? Do they think I’m stupid? Even the foods know they are supposed to be eaten. Having satisfied her human needs, she lay down and slept. She woke up late in the afternoon and decided to eat some more food. No one was going to dictate what she could or couldn’t do! She drifted off to sleep again until the following morning.

Meanwhile, back at home, her mother had now begun to worry because the tree that Batā had planted had withered and was clearly dying, but Ǩwapĉhi refused to believe that her daughter was in any danger. She was just busy trying to win her husband, Ŷarƙawa Ðaŵi, back. He, in the meantime, had moved his meager belongings from Ǩwapĉhi’s, his first wife, to Ɓintā’s, his second wife, room.

The next morning, Batā continued her uncertain and already unpredictable and perplexing journey, hoping to reach the famous palace that had so changed her stepsister’s life and the lives of their immediate family forever. She spent the whole day walking, until evening was close, and, finally, she sighted the castle in the distance.

When she reached the gates of the palace, she realized with embarrassment that she had forgotten what she had been instructed to say. Suddenly, as if by instinct,

she ed that one of the words was “ĝirđzaƙ liŷa.” Delighted that she had at least ed one word, she kept on shouting it, repeating it: “ĝirđzaƙ liŷa.”

She was there for a whole day, repeating the same word over and over, until a dove flew up and came to remind her of what to say, but she remained intransigent, muttering silently to herself, “How could a bird know what I was told days ago by an old woman I didn’t even know and cannot even ?”

The bird tried several more times but, eventually, gave up and flew away, leaving Batā at the gates. By dusk, she was bone-tired, and she once again drifted off. In the middle of the quiet and lonely, moonless night, interrupted only by her heavy snoring, some night predators, including the hyena and the lion, snuck up on her, viciously goring her and tearing her weak and sinewy limbs into pieces.

Back home, at precisely the same hour of her death, the tree that she had planted withered completely and died. Ǩwapĉhi looked at it and knew, instinctively, that her daughter would never come back. Her husband, Ŷarƙaŵa Ðaŵi, never even peeped in to say hello or to inquire about Baŧā. Ǩuɓili and her mother tried to cheer Ǩwapĉhi up and comfort her, but she refused until, one morning, one of the children came to inform their father that their grieving mother was dead. Ǩuɓili, her mother, and the other children mourned for Ǩwapĉhi, but her supposedly “beloved” husband did not! He hardly showed any remorse. His life, Ɓintā’s, and Ǩuɓili’s had changed forever, and they lived happily thereafter.

THLAMTA FAR NAWA, THLAMTA FAR NGILUM

Chapter Three

The Singing Fig and Nŧaŵā Trees

In the far away land of the hill-tribes of Ɓalɓiŷa, there lived an eccentric man, called Aji, with his two wives, Ĵimɓalā and Manĝili, and their twelve children (ten boys and two girls). The village had enjoyed peace, prosperity, and calm for the last decade. The only major problem prevalent in the Aji family was that all the children belonged to the younger wife—Ĵimɓalā.

Manĝili, the elder wife, didn’t have any children, and this made her miserable. This was because among the Ɓalɓiŷa people, a woman’s worth was measured by the number of children she had. Children among the Ɓalɓiŷa tribe were like a safety net—they worked on the farm and ed their parents in old age.

Although friends, relatives, and neighbors tried as much as they could to persuade Aji to divorce Manĝili, he did not listen to their open exhortations or their innuendos; instead, he continued to love his elder wife as if everything were normal. He fixed her hut every year as he did that of Ĵimɓalā and her children without any prejudice or acrimony. Socially, though, it was difficult for Aji to do these things to Manĝili because everybody was saying the bulk of the work was done by Ĵimɓalā’s children.

However, despite these criticisms, Aji remained undeterred in his commitment of loving both wives as equally as he could. People often teased Ĵimɓalā that her children were the ones working their butts off on the farms or looking after the sheep and goats, and yet she didn’t get any special privileges or attention.

Whenever she heard such things being said, she would simply reply, “Children are a gift from God and belong to everybody. They belong to the whole clan.”

Very often, when both women were together and such tirades were thrown at them, they just laughed it off. As a matter of fact, it made them feel stronger and more ive of each other.

One day, when both were sitting after a day’s hard work in the hot and humid sun, Ĵimɓalā suggested—after some deep introspection—that they should make a solemn promise to each other that if anything should happen to one of them, the other should accept the full responsibility of taking care of the children. The pledge was sealed in the tribe’s traditional fashion of licking each other’s blood after piercing each person’s wrist with a sharp knife.

Just below the “valley of the dead,” where the Ɓalɓiŷa tribe lived, was a war-like tribe called the Nĝūi. The Ngui people could be compared to the ancient Spartans in the way they trained their youngsters and the way they fought. They had fought the Ɓalɓiŷa tribe from time immemorial and had always won, but they had never, in a real sense, subdued and subjugated them completely. Hence, war was nothing new to these neighboring tribes. Each one instructed its youth to consider the other as its perpetual enemy and, therefore, be at the ready all the time to defend their territory against any provocation by the other.

Whether by commission or omission, one of the Ɓalɓiŷa farmers, Dobi, let his herd stray into the adjacent farm, which belonged to Ĉhambū, a Nĝūi farmer. The animals—cows, sheep, and goats—had trampled over every crop, destroying the whole farm. And, to add insult to injury, the Ɓalɓiŷa tribe neither paid restitution to Dobi nor made an immediate courtesy call on the tribe’s elders as a gesture of their sincere apology.

These two omissions, the Ɓalɓiŷa tribe knew, were certainly going to lead to a war. Consequently, without any further ado, each tribe independently started to store food and animal feed in anticipation of an attack. The Ɓalɓiŷa people reasoned that, from their experience, the Ngui people were not interested in payment or compensation when such things occurred; rather, they were much more interested in retribution and revenge, hence their present posture and readiness.

The Nĝūi people, on the other hand, interpreted what had happened as an insult on their manhood. They justified their reasoning by arguing that the erring opposite side usually tried to make amends and redress immediately by sending an emissary with gifts of cattle for the tribe’s elders and for the aggrieved farmer. In their view, since this hadn’t been done, it was a sign that the other side was preparing for a war and that the whole episode was a deliberate provocation disguised as an honest mishap.

The preparation for war went on in earnest on both sides for two years, and each side stocked up on enough food and animal feed to last at least another two years. Both tribes knew it was going to be an extended war. Men would die and animals would be slaughtered on a massive scale; farms would be destroyed, and there would be nothing left for either the victor or the victim but famine and death by hunger on a scale yet unknown.

With food well stocked to last a long time, the Nĝūi tribe launched an early attack one sultry summer morning. The element of surprise was successful because, although the Ɓalɓiŷa people suspected an attack, they didn’t expect it so soon and, of course, not on such a large scale. Consequently, for the first few weeks, the Nĝūi tribesmen made a quick and devastating advance in the Ɓalɓiŷa territory. They slashed and macheted every object that moved in their path. Almost all the Ɓalɓiŷa villages on the border were destroyed and burnt down.

However, with the approach of the rainy season, the Nĝūi tribe’s fortunes began to diminish very rapidly because their advance became hampered by the wet and muddy surfaces. Their horses could not move as fast as they wished in the thick and damp forests, and, to make matters worse, their supply lines were cut because they were far from their nearest village.

The Ɓalɓiŷa people had also solicited the help of their brave and more-skillful northern kinsmen: The Bura. The Bura people were well known in the whole region for their weaponry skills and strategic war plans. The Bura’s experience had not been achieved overnight but through torturous years of war with their western hill neighbors, the Ǩilɓa tribe. It had taken the Bura people more than half a century of war to establish their present territory, the borders of which were manned daily by well-armed soldiers.

All these accumulated years of combat experience had hardened and made them indisputably the best warriors in the region. With them ing the war, the tide, as we already saw, turned abruptly against the Nĝūi tribe. Eventually, the Nĝūi people had to surrender. One of the of their surrender was that they move out of the region; they did with complacency.

The end of the war was just the beginning of calamity for the hill tribe’s calamity and Aji’s family, though. A very serious and prolonged famine set in because of the years of fighting. Accompanying the famine were death and despondency.

The Aji family in particular was hit the worst because, at the time of the war, the entire male population of the village had been conscripted. Now they were all back, and there was nothing to feed them with. The meager harvest that had been garnered was consciously guarded and shared only with one’s immediate family. This meant that Manĝili had practically nothing whatsoever to eat. As for Ĵimɓalā, the little that her children could garner was shared with their father, Aji. There was hardly any left over to share with Manĝili.

Consequently, Aji became more attached to Ĵimɓalā and her children—a simple decision of survival. Manĝili had no relations to turn to, and nobody seemed to care about her. Manĝili’s father had died a decade before in a war with the Ǩilɓa tribe, and her mother had ed away three years before due to a “high fever” caused by a mosquito bite. She had no siblings to turn to and, as such, was left alone in her small hut. During this time, she became melancholic, depressed, mentally confused, and physically weak—ill and on the verge of dying. The only way Manĝili could have been saved was if she had been loved and nurtured, but there was nothing to nurture her with, and love itself was a hard and precious commodity to give or share now.

Thus, on one breezy afternoon, Aji smelled something offensive coming from Manĝili’s hut. He went and checked, and what he found shocked him.

“Manĝili has died and decomposed right inside her hut without anybody noticing it!” he lamented in tears. “She has been dead apparently for days!” However, instead of burying her in a manner befitting one’s first and elder wife, they simply closed and blocked the whole portion of the house that comprised her hut. The hut eventually collapsed on her, serving as her grave.

Aji, Ĵimɓalā, and the children kept together through the famine. They were happy to have survived it intact. A few months after Manĝili’s death, grass, shrubs, and trees started to grow on her “grave.” Among the few trees that grew were a fig tree and ntaŵa. The area was cleared and the trees cut several times, but, each time, these two trees would sprout up again, so Aji eventually gave up on cutting them down.

Eventually, Aji and his family moved out of the village, leaving the fig tree and the ntaŵa to the vagaries of the elements, but they still grew. As the years went by, both trees began to yield fruits. The fig tree especially grew beyond

anybody’s wildest imagination; it was huge, with numerous large branches. The branches spread for more than a quarter of a mile in a circular form. This provided a very cool and friendly gathering place for the villagers and travelers, especially during the summer’s tropical heat. Children climbed it and played on the branches, jumping from one branch to the other or just swinging. Ĵimɓalā’s children, meanwhile, were all grown up and had moved out of their father’s house, but, according to tradition, had built their houses next to his.

One day, however, Ĵimɓalā went out, saw the fig tree, and was impressed by its fruits, so she picked one and ate it. Ĵimɓalā could not suppress her delight—it was the best fig fruit she had tasted in years. When she went home, she told her husband and gave him some to taste. He also pronounced it to be the best fig he had ever eaten. Ĵimɓalā was happy Aji liked it, which confirmed her taste and judgment.

The following week, she went out to pick more fruits from the tree, but to her greatest amazement and disbelief, the fruits would not let go of the tree. She pulled and pulled until her palms bled and her muscles hurt, but to no avail; she still could not get the fruits off the tree. Instead, the tree emanated a shrill noise, which Ĵimɓalā thought was an illusion; she convinced herself by thinking, when has a tree ever talked?

Once more, she tried to pick the fruits. Again, the fruits refused to come off and, instead, a shrill, phantom sound came as she tried to force the fruits off the tree. She took out a long, blunt kitchen knife and began to remove the fruits with it, but she still could not do it. Instead, the noise coming from the tree grew louder and louder and more menacing.

Ĵimɓalā went home, brought an axe, and started cutting off the branch of the tree that had the most fruits. Suddenly, she heard a shrieking voice like she had never heard before in her entire existence. Dripping from the branch she’d cut down was real human blood—warm and really red! Ĵimɓalā was shocked and

momentarily became unconscious, but within seconds, she regained her consciousness and started to run home.

To her unbelievable emotional distress, she saw the fig tree and the ntaŵa following her. She ran as fast as her old age could possibly allow her to, but she could not outrun the trees. At a distance following her, she could hear the fig tree and the ntaŵa singing in a loud, trilling voice, saying:

“āmma ŧi mđa, mđaɗi ħiraŵa, āmma ŧi ƀŵala nŧi mđa ƙŵāŝiraŷa.” The other, smaller voice would respond, “êħ nŧaŵa ŧiƙŝhir, ƀŵala đhiĝđzir, êħ nŧaŵa ŧiƙŝhir, ƀŵala đhiĝđzi.”

Translated in English, the trees were saying, “When I was a living human, nobody loved me, but now that I’m a fig tree, that’s when somebody loves me.” And the response from the small tree was, “I am a small tree, and you are a big fig tree.”

Ĵimɓalā doubled up her efforts and ran faster, but to her utter disgust and shock, her husband was not at home. He was in the farm, she surmised.

On the way to her husband’s farm, she had to through several other farms. The first farm she came to was that of her husband’s friend Tāpĉhi. Tāpĉhi asked her where she was going in the hot sun, and Ĵimɓalā told him she was trying to reach her husband to share the misfortune that had befallen her and was now pursuing her.

Tāpĉhi said, “What can your husband do that I can’t? Don’t you when I single-handedly killed the leopard at the drinking pool?”

Ĵimɓalā answered that she didn’t doubt his bravery, which had been proven more than once, except that this “thing” was beyond any human comprehension.

Tāpĉhi said, “No, sit down. I will protect you, even if it means losing my life.”

Ĵimɓalā had been sitting for only a few minutes when Tāpĉhi noticed with fright, in the distance, something huge and ominous moving in their direction and accompanied by a loud and pernicious singing voice. He asked Ĵimɓalā what she thought that was, and Ĵimɓalā told him that was the “thing” she was running away from.

Tāpĉhi gestured towards her and said, “You can take some of my of water and food, but you need to go, because I have never seen a monster like this in my life.”

Ĵimɓalā took a good sip from the cool water in the gourd and started running toward her husband’s farm. The fig tree and the ntaŵa kept following her and singing their maddening song. When Ĵimɓalā finally reached her husband, she was completely out of breath and shaking. But before he could ask her what the matter was, she calmly narrated what had happened and how Tāpĉhi, despite his good intentions, could not help her.

Aji didn’t believe her story, but he did not contradict her either. Instead, he convinced himself to just wait and see for himself. Sure enough, like day and night, and as each season follows the preceding one in an irreversible sequence,

the fig tree and its companion, the ntaŵa, could be heard in the distance approaching.

Firstly, Aji could not conceive of a tree, of which he knew the beginning, suddenly changing into a monster of such magnitude. Secondly, the idea that a tree could even move of its own accord and sing songs seemed humanly impossible to fathom. But as the twin trees approached, he could clearly hear their song, and the words distinctly expressed an aggrieved and personal tragedy. As he sat there with Ĵimɓalā and contemplated what steps to take, the words came clearly to him:

“āmma ŧi mđa, mđaɗi ħiraŵa, āmma ŧi ƀŵala nŧi mđa ƙŵāŝiraŷa.” The other, smaller voice would respond, “êħ nŧaŵa ŧiƙŝhir, ƀŵala đhiĝđzir, êħ nŧaŵa ŧiƙŝhir, ƀŵala đhiĝđzi.”

Upon hearing these words and reflecting on his past life with Ĵimɓalā and Manĝili, he immediately inferred it was some heinous vengeance on how they had treated Manĝili over the famine years during which she eventually died without a proper burial, as befitting one’s elder and loving wife. He thus told Ĵimɓalā to get ready and follow him after grabbing his bow, quiver, and an axe. As soon as they started to run, the twin trees also picked up their speed and sang even louder than before.

Ĵimɓalā, on the other hand, was so despondent and didn’t share her husband’s optimism as to their chances of finding a refuge somewhere. To calm herself, she, too, started a song of her own as she followed her husband; her song ran like this:

māŷa ŷa ĝħūlla mŧa midarā, māŷa ŷa ĝħūlla mŧa midarā, māŷa ārna ŷanƙu ŝħa

midarā, maŷa ārna ŷanƙu ŝħa midarā.

(This translates as: Mother, I’m being pursued by death; mother, I’m a loveless woman, and I’m lost forever.)

After running for more than hour in the sultry, tropical sun, they came to Ŝarƙai’s family, which had several young men. Ŝarƙai, the patriarch of the family and Aji’s neighbor, asked Aji to tell them what it was that he and his wife were running away from and whether, with their number, they couldn’t attack and destroy any predator.

Aji responded by saying that “the thing” pursuing them was beyond anyone’s imagination: “It is menacing and overwhelming. It’s not your regular or normal predator. It’s a phenomenon the like of which I have never seen.” Aji continued by saying, “The ‘thing’ pursuing us is indescribable and non-destructible.”

However, after receiving some encouraging words of bravery from Ŝarƙai and his children, Aji was convinced, and they stayed. For ten or fifteen minutes, everything looked normal and as though the object of their fear had, after all, suddenly vanished into thin air. But their hope and tranquility was not to last long.

In the distance, a massive, moving phenomenon could be heard. On seeing and hearing the coming vengeful monster, Ŝarƙai started to offer some hasty excuses on behalf of his children and himself. He convinced Aji that the boys were still young and not hardened yet, and they also had left all of their bows and arrows at home and had practically nothing on them to inflict any pain on the coming monster. He advised Aji to take some diva/towu and mwađūɓū/kunu for him and his wife from their own dish since they hadn’t eaten yet and to run away.

Aji perfectly agreed with them and told his wife they had to go. At first, she frowned in disagreement and argued that she was tired and ready to surrender her life to despicable monster. But Aji eventually succeeded in convincing her that their only hope was to go on with their sojourn to the unknown.

They continued in their search for a safe haven as the fig tree and the ntaŵa pursued them relentlessly, going over natural obstacles such as hills, rivers, ponds, lakes, and forests. The next place they came to, they saw a wedding ceremony in progress, and they were heartily invited to it. When they explained their predicament to the elders, they were told to judge for themselves whether there was anything the group could not overcome by virtue of their sheer numbers. Aji and his wife felt like they had heard this story before, but they agreed to stay.

Having been served fine ɗivā/towu (mush-like), fresh fish, mwađūɓū/ƙunu, and a freshly brewed local pitaū and ɓurƙutu, they sat down to relax. Ĵimɓalā felt safe and strong after the good meal and lingered awhile to the point of dozing off, which was triggered by many sleepless days of searching for a safe haven.

Suddenly, Ŝhallūm, the bride’s father, alerted the leader of the elders of the impending peril. A whole forest, he was told, was on the move, and accompanying the forest was a strong and masculine voice singing an aggrieved song. Ĝasħaū, the senior elder, quickly gathered all the other elders around him and informed them about what he been told by Ŝhallūm. But the elders remained confident and persuaded him to the effect that nothing was beyond the force or power of this large gathering. Ĝasħaū accepted their argument and didn’t deem it appropriate to even alert the bride’s father or the groom again.

But when, eventually, the fig tree and its twin companion approached the group, everybody took to their heels looking for cover and a safe place. It was only then

that Ŝhallūm and Ĝasħaū, the tribal elder, told Aji and his wife that they could not guarantee their safety and that they better get moving—quickly! They were given more of the delicious and spicy wedding dishes and drink before they left, though.

As they continued their sojourn in search of a haven against the catastrophe that haunted them, Ĵimɓalā began to complain of tiredness and fatigue.

“I am tired,” she said. “I don’t know why such a fate should befall us; we have lived an honest, good life and raised our children well; now they are all happily married and live with our grandchildren. Why is this ‘thing’ trying to destroy us in our old age?”

Aji did not say anything. He was silent for a while. Eventually, he broke his silence and concurred with his wife’s observation. But he added in ing, “This incident may not be unconnected to Manĝili’s dead soul. It may be revenge against us for the way we treated her before and after her death. What is there in a dead soul that lives forever to torture the living? Is it possible that our suffering may pay for our sin against her, some sort of expiation for our sins, or is it possibly a sign of worse things to come to us after our death?” Aji continued by saying, “Suffering may be a punishment for bad deeds, but it does not absolve us from judgment in the next world.”

Ĵimɓalā did not answer, and silence persisted for what seemed to be an infinite time, only to be broken by the approaching song of the tree.

Concentrating on the journey ahead of them, they came to a group of people celebrating a farming festival on behalf of a young man for his father in-law; such practice was common in that society.

The elder of the group, Tāĝŵi, inquired why they seemed to be in a rush. “Why don’t you stop and get something to eat? We have lots of food here, such as lamb and fresh fish and well-brewed ɓurƙutu and pitaū. Go under the tree and rest for a while. The group will soon be with you for lunch.”

“No, we can’t,” answered Aji. “The evil that follows us has no comparison. Nobody can fight what you can’t see—the Soul is immortal, invincible, and invisible, and it is not subject to human destruction, hence our tragedy.”

“What do you mean by saying you are being pursued by a Soul?” Tāĝŵi asked. “The Soul is you, and when you are no more, it leaves this body and continues in a pure state of perfection and bliss for eternity; it is not subjected to any form of human or natural restraints. The Soul does not torture; it does not seek revenge for its sake. Only Shatan (the devil) tortures and seeks its own revenge. Is it possible you are being pursued by the evil spirit of the dead? Go and sit in the shade yonder, and do not worry about anything. This group can annihilate anything, natural or of evil design.”

Aji and Ĵimɓalā acquiesced, went and sat in the shade, and they began to savor their newly found hope. A moment later, one of the elders in charge of the ceremony went to both the village head and the bride’s father, Ðzanƙar, and told them that some of the people present had sighted a whole forest moving toward them, but they were not sure what it was.

“Is it an illusion?” somebody asked.

But the truth of the matter was that it was not an illusion but reality. The group gathered in small groups and talked in agitated whispers as to the real meaning

of what was taking place right before their eyes. Some speculated that it was the end of the world, while others thought it was an invasion from some alien place. Notwithstanding their observations, the trees continued to move toward them, and their song could be heard in the distance.

The people answered in chorus that this must be shatan himself—when had anybody seen a whole forest moving and singing? Tāĝŵi, the elder in charge of the ceremony, again ran to Ðzanƙar, the bride’s father, and to the villagers, informing them that the people were beginning to get scared and a few had already run to the bush to hide.

“Something must be done, or else everybody will desert the ceremony,” the village head said.

The bride’s father and a handful of the village head’s counselors hastily went out to see for themselves. The group was completely mesmerized by what they saw.

“Remarkable! A whole forest on the move!” they all shouted. These were their unconscious and spontaneous comments. The village head held a brief court with his counselors and ruled that Tāĝŵi should instruct Aji and his wife to leave if it was the coming monster forest they were running from. When Aji answered in the affirmative, they were immediately given some of the food and drink and led away by Tāĝŵi and a few counselors: “Go and seek your safety under another roof, and may Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa protect you and your wife!”

Both Aji and his wife were aghast and disappointed at what they were told.

“We could have been somewhere far away by now,” Ĵimɓalā finally spoke what

Aji was silently thinking for himself. Despite their reluctance, they took what was offered to them and started on their uncertain search for a haven.

As soon as they turned their back to the group, Ĵimɓalā began to sing her song, which runs like this:

māŷa ŷa ĝħūlla mŧa midarā, māŷa ŷa ĝħūlla mŧa midarā, māŷa ārna ŷanƙu ŝħa midarā, maŷa ārna ŷanƙu ŝħa midarā.

Which when translated means: Mother I’m being chased by death, and I’m perished. Mother, I’m being pursued by death, and I’m perished.

After what seemed like an eternity, they came to a house at the foot of a rugged but luxuriant escarpment, which dropped precipitously to the valley below it. They knocked, but nobody answered, so they knocked again, this time harder and more forcefully. A small and stout-looking “boy” came to the gate and inquired what they wanted. Instead of answering the “boy” directly, Aji responded by asking him where the owner of the house was or, possibly, his parents.

“I have no parents,” was the terse, unapologetic answer.

“What do you mean?” Aji asked.

“I mean precisely what I said.”

Aji demanded in a more serious voice, “Who owns this house? I have to speak to him urgently.”

“It’s mine. I own it. Is there anything I can do for you?” The “boy” simply stared at them with a disionate attitude.

Ĵimɓalā was quite angry at Aji for wasting what she thought was precious time with this arrogant child.

“Tell him,” she whispered, “nothing. If a large group of grown-up men couldn’t help us, how do you expect this little thing to save us?”

The “boy” heard her subdued remark to Aji, and he said, “You never know; don’t judge people by their size or looks. I may be small, but I know I’ll be of service to you. I have helped several travelers like you in the past.”

Reluctantly, Aji told him their predicament.

“Don’t worry about anything,” he said. “My name is Ŷamŧa, Ŷamŧaraŵala, and I have anxiously been looking for an opportunity to fight such enigmas. I have killed lions, elephants, and other monsters single-handedly, but I have never had the privilege or fortune of fighting a moving forest! It may well be Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa’s gift to me to test my fighting skills and fulfill my long-delayed self-indulgence and gratification.”

Both Aji and Ĵimɓalā were stunned at Ŷamŧaraŵala’s claim of bravery and arrogance. But they kept these thoughts to themselves.

Ŷamŧaraŵala told his visitors to go inside the house and make themselves comfortable. “Don’t you worry about a thing until I call you; stay as long as it takes.”

Aji and his wife went in and closed the gate behind them. Ŷamŧaraŵala went inside the nearer hut, took out a miniature bow and arrow and a sword, and came out and sat down.

In the distance, he could see a thick cloud of dust and a colossal evergreen forest moving fiercely in his direction. As the deathly and ferocious monster came closer, he could hear the menacing song clearly, but he didn’t budge or show any concern.

When the monster came close to him, it stopped, and a thunderous, mean voice was heard, asking him if he had seen a man and a woman ing this way. The short, stout, and bow-legged midget with an eye slanted to the right of his jutted forehead just looked on, unfazed, and didn’t even bother to respond. The voice thundered again, only to be followed with complete, unconcerned, and nonchalant silence.

“Where are the man and the woman?” the phantom demanded, but, again, there was only a stilled silence.

Ŷamŧaraŵala was just toying with his “toy” weapons.

“I am talking to you,” came the angry and vehement voice from the tree. “Don’t you know I have the power to annihilate you? Answer me now, or you perish.”

Ŷamŧaraŵala burped, looking angry and indignant, but he said nothing. The “tree” moved closer and stretched out one thorny branch with the intent of scaring the “boy,” but he didn’t budge an inch.

Instead, he said in a violent and mean voice; “If you don’t move out of my face, I will make you regret this day forever. I’ll slaughter you and throw your pieces to the birds of the sky.”

The “tree” was aghast and retreated a little.

“How dare you talk to me in this rogue manner?” the voices from the “tree” exclaimed. The leaves started to sing in chorus and to dance; some branches stretched out and gripped the “boy,” endeavoring to squeeze him, but he just dusted them off and slipped out easily.

Once more, Ŷamŧaraŵala warned the “tree” of the consequences of messing with him.

“You have the man and the woman I want,” the voice thundered.

“Nobody is here. Anyway, even if they were, it’s none of your business; they are my guests, and nobody—nobody—should ever dare disturb my guests!” was the

“boy’s” gutsy response. The “tree” breathed and yawned very hard, and a strong, gutsy whirlwind engulfed and sucked the whole house, including Ŷamta. But just as it happened, Ŷamŧaraŵala was immediately up before the “tree” could squeeze him, and the house was still standing intact as if nothing had happened.

Ŷamŧaraŵala was still frantically “toying” with his “weapons,” but the tree had miraculously been kicked more than a hundred meters away. Furiously, the “tree” dashed toward him in an absolute daredevil style, with the intention to kill and liquidate a hostile and menacing enemy. From a command from the “tree,” the earth opened and sucked the “boy” and the surroundings in again. But, in an instant, Ŷamta was seen seated calmly, as if nothing had happened.

Surreptitiously, while the “tree” was trying to squeeze and suck the blood out Ŷamta’s small, thin, and emaciated body, he snatched his miniature bow and arrow and shot the trunk of the “tree.” In an instant, a loud, scintillating, and frightening moan was heard, followed by painful sobbing as the “tree” bled profusely. Immediately, the individual branches started to yell and cry like small children. The leaves suddenly turned yellow and, within an instant, dried up.

The “trunk” charged again with renewed vigor and force, but, once again, Ŷamŧaraŵala countered with increased anguish and tenacity by shooting the “tree” with his arrow and cutting off the branches with his sword. Suddenly, the “tree” collapsed. Ŷamta thought that was the end and began to strip the remaining branches off the “tree,” unmindful of the ntaŵa.

But the nŧaŵa smacked him on the head—knocking him unconscious momentarily—and then charged past its unconscious victim, almost reaching the gate of the house in continued pursuit of Aji and Ĵimɓalā. But, in an instant, Ŷamta regained consciousness again and, with tremendous force, slashed the ntaŵa into tiny pieces with his sword. He then gathered all the leaves, branches, and trunks of both the “fig tree” and the ntaŵa and soaked them in a special potion made of the fat of the private parts of some his victims—which included a

hyena, a lioness, and a monkey—mixed these with the barks of sura and kavil trees, and burned them.

As the debris burned, one could hear wailing and crying emanating from the “tree” and its accomplice for miles. After every bit of both trees had been thoroughly incinerated, he collected the ashes and put them in a special pouch, fashioned from the testicles of a monkey, and flew more than a hundred miles away to ħŷehar (river) ɓeniŵi and dumped it in the water. Instantly, all the water turned red.

When he returned, he called Aji and his wife and told them of the end of their terrible saga. But they were completely confused and disbelieving. They demanded evidence and assurance that they were, indeed, safe now. Ŷamŧaraŵala dutifully showed them a portion of the trunk and barks of trees, which he had kept for himself as a souvenir.

“This,” he said, “is the proof of the miraculous demise of both trees. I always keep some parts of my victims for posterity,” he concluded with a joyous flush.

Both husband and wife were shocked and horrified at the news, but they were elated at the prospect of the new freedom that awaited them.

They thanked Ŷamŧaraŵala and invited him to come to their village, but he politely declined, declaring, “At this very instant, there is a girl coming to seek my help, and I have to stay around to save her from her tormentors.”

A year later, Aji and Ĵimɓalā made a pilgrimage to the site, but to their greatest surprise, there was no evidence of a house ever having been there. Instead, there

was just a massive, bare mountain. They tried to inquire from people in the neighborhood about Ŷamŧaraŵala, but nobody seemed to have ever heard the name or seeing a house in the location they purported to have stayed in only a year ago. To their amazement, all they could see was a small, yellow bird, which constantly hovered above the peak of the mountain.

THLAMTA FAR NAWA, THLAMTA KIKKAR MJIR NVWA

Chapter Four

Ŷaƀilāramāŷa or Ĥūr Timā Timā

The Miracle Child

Ĵanĝurā and his wife, Ŷapinđār, (in this culture, an older person will just call her Pinđār; the “Ŷa” is a sign of respect used by the younger people when referring to their elders) were happily married even though they had no child, which was a rarity in the culture. An Oracle had divined they would eventually have a baby boy, whom they should name “Ŷaƀilaramāŷa,” but they would not have him in a natural way. Consequently, they visited all the medicine men in the village, and even in some distant ones, to help them get Ŷapinđār pregnant, but all to no avail. Thus, they resigned themselves to a blissful living where, one day, both would die, and their names would be forgotten forever with no heir to propagate their existence through gene transmission.

The prospect of leaving no heir to continue his genes at times caused Ĵanĝurā some consternation, but he had learned not to dwell on it by adopting a local tribal strategy that states, “Don’t dwell on a problem if you don’t have control over its outcome.” Friends and relatives had counseled Ĵanĝurā to marry a second wife, who would probably give him a child that would carry his name and the clan’s name, thus ensuring his place in history for posterity. The friends and relatives argued that, since an Oracle had already cursed Ŷapinđār at birth by saying she would remain a barren woman throughout her life, Ĵanĝurā had the legitimate right to remarry. After all, the reasoning went, he was entitled to as many wives as he wanted.

Despite all these exhortations—and despite being the laughing stock of the entire village and its surroundings—Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār were unaffected and remained happy and faithful to each other. At times, they responded to their tormentors by laughing and joking about their situation.

On one sultry summer day, Ŷapinđār took her hoe, axe, and water gourd, loaded everything into her ƙuĝŵa ƙŵatiratħhlu, calabash, and set out to go meet her husband at the farm; he had left very early, at the rooster’s crow. Ŷapinđār had a plan of getting firewood on her way back from the farm. However, a miracle of untold dimensions was lurking in the dark over her fate on this day. Halfway to the farm, she came across what she thought was large firewood; and, not wanting to lose it to other women who might be looking for the same thing, she took out her axe to cut the wood into pieces.

Lo and behold, to her most profound surprise, she found an “abandoned” infant lying in the grass next to the wood and a few feet from her path, still dripping with fresh blood all over its body. She was in utter shock and, for a time—which seemed to her like an eternity—she was completely lost in thought and confused on what to do.

She looked at the infant again—neatly wrapped up in a white, silky cloth with a tiny ring on his index finger—in awe. Ŷapinđār was so stunned and wanted to run back to the village to report her find to an oracle because, among her people, it is culturally an anathema to abandon a baby; it’s just not done. Thus if one is found, the assumption is that it must be the phantom/satan that’s tempting or trying to lure someone into taking its child. In her consternation over what action to take, something miraculous and inexplicable happened that shocked and changed her life forever. It was akin to an epiphany.

The infant called her by her maiden name! And he implored her not to report her find to the oracle but to take him.

“Please pick me. Don’t leave me here to the vagaries of this weather; I have had enough,” the infant pleaded. He said to Ŷapinđār, “My name is ‘Ŷaƀilaramāŷa,’” and he counseled her on what to tell her husband and friends if they should be curious to ask her how she came to have a baby boy. Ŷapinđār almost fainted, but she woke up to reality immediately and asked herself about the name: Where did I hear this name before? It didn’t take her long. She ed what, more than a decade ago, an Oracle had revealed to her and her husband: they would get “a baby boy,” and he would be called Ŷaƀilaramāŷa.

“But how can an infant know his own name?” she asked rhetorically.

Ŷapinđār hesitantly, and fearfully, complied. She picked the infant up, walked to the next stream, and gave him a bath before wrapping him up in her clothes and carrying him on her back in the traditional way. Following Ŷaƀilaramāŷa’s advice meticulously, she went to a stump of a mahogany tree and forced herself to bleed. Instantly, she began to bleed very profusely, like a woman who had given actual birth. She was forced to use some of her clothes as a rag to stop the bleeding by stuffing it underneath herself. On her way home, she began to sing the following song:

Ai maɗara, mŷa mji ku nƙir ƙa nƙir ra ƙa ĝhū ra aƀur ệĥ ana ŷa ŵa, nkiđgzā jā Ĥŷel ku hara ƙithlir ni. Mā ệĥ ƙita hūr, mamŝhi ana mŧħlinĝƙirđzi ali, amma tsū ệĥ na nĝata apa ŧŝū maŧħlir aƙŵa đzi

(English translation: To all that have been talking about me, gossiping that I can’t have a child, look at me—God has performed his miracle. Every time I become pregnant, I miscarry, but I always feel a remnant of the child inside me.)

When she finally reached home, she sent a neighbor’s child to go call her husband from the farm. Ĵanĝurā was mystified when the young man told him his wife had sent for him. He began to reason internally, what could be the reason for this rare and unusual occurrence? When I left home this morning, Pinđār was fine, and everything seemed normal. Is it possible she fell ill after my departure to the farm? Or might this be the sudden death of a close relative? Uncle Ðaŵi was sick for a long time, but he recovered, because I saw him in the market last week.

Ĵanĝurā didn’t expect an immediate answer to any of the questions he posed himself. Hurriedly, he dusted off his hoe, and himself, and then he ran to the stream next to his farm. He dove into the warm summer water twice and quickly came out; he was still full of anxiety and fear and dripping with water, but he put on his clothes anyway and hurried home as fast as his tired legs allowed him to.

Upon approaching the village, he noticed his house was full of women going in and out, some murmuring and seeming to be in a great hurry. Before he entered the house, he met Aji and stopped to ask him if he knew why so many women were running in and out of his house.

Aji barely broke his steps and answered, “Oh, women stuff,” before Ĵanĝurā could process the information. Aji was rushing toward the stream for a quick bath because it was getting late. Most of the villagers avoided being at the stream late after dark because of beliefs that phantoms inhabit the trees and the surroundings of the stream then. The consequences of meeting one of these phantoms could range from sudden death to the loss of one’s manhood. Ĵanĝurā, therefore, understood why Aji was in a rush.

When Ĵanĝurā finally entered the house, he nervously asked the first woman he met at the gate what was going on.

“Oh! She didn’t tell you yet?” the woman responded tersely as she rushed past him.

“Tell me what?” he shouted, practically chasing after the woman, but to no avail; she was already at the gate of her house. He asked the next woman he met rushing out the same question.

“Pinđār had her baby,” she shouted back, disappearing in the shadow of some barns.

Ĵanĝurā was stunned and confused upon hearing the news. All this time, Pinđār was pregnant, and I didn’t know? he pondered alone in complete silence, asking himself if this sort of thing was common among women. Full of fear and anxiety, he resigned himself to the fact that he had to ask his friend Ǩaɓūra at the appropriate moment. In the meantime, he had to take care of Pinđār.

Still shaking with disbelief, he entered the room where Ŷapinđār and the infant were together with the women nursing her. Upon seeing him, the women quietly filed out one by one, each time on the pretense of either going home to get the family evening dinner ready or hurrying to go get water from the Hawul River. Some rushed out on the excuse of having some errand to run.

When they were alone, Ŷapinđār tearfully began to explain how, all this time that she had been having miscarriages, the remnants of the pregnancies had remained inside of her, even though she didn’t know herself: “This is not unusual among women. It happens more often than you think,” she said. “Just two years ago, Mŵajim went through the same thing,” Ŷapinđār candidly explained, strictly following the script provided by Ŷaƀilaramāŷa. It’s called

hurpipi pipi/hur tima tima (a dormant pregnancy/pseudocyesis).”

“I didn’t know that hurpipi pipi/hur tima tima actually results in a real child,” he observed in a hushed voice when he eventually broke his silence.

“When I woke up this morning, I was not feeling well; I felt dizzy and nauseous and like throwing up, but I didn’t want to tell you because there was nothing specific I could point to as a cause. Additionally, I know if I tell you I’m not feeling well, you will worry too much. However, after I left the house to go you on the farm, as I drew near the Mɓeŵa stream—which we often cross to go to our bean farm—I felt an irresistible, throbbing abdominal pain that I had never experienced before. Immediately, I knelt, feeling like throwing up, and lo and behold! Before I knew it, I had a baby! Can’t you see me bleeding? Aren’t you happy for us? Now, please, go and get cow legs, spices, and chickens, and all the things a new mother needs and deserves,” she concluded in a hushed but determined voice.

Ĵanĝurā had some serious doubts and difficulty comprehending all of this at once, let alone believing his wife; but he decided to oblige and do her bidding. It was not the time to try and figure out the complications of hur pupi as explained by his wife. A time would come for that. In the meantime, Ŷapinđār’s needs as a new mother were paramount and most urgent.

Ĵanĝurā and his friend Ǩaɓūra ran to the local market and, even though most of the traders had packed up their goods, they were able to get all the necessary tribal ritual things associated with a firstborn: things like cow legs, which must be boiled for the new mother, and the specific spices that must be used, chickens that must be cooked for her alone, and several other rituals. The ritual bath and cleansing, including the shaving of the pubic hair, were performed meticulously by the village elder man and woman.

Some other rituals included slaughtering a fat bull and bathing the child in its blood while the meat was shared by the whole village, enjoying a lavish celebration lasting seven days, after which the child was given a name by an oracle. The oracle always named the first male child. Of course, in this instance, the child had already told them his name, even before the oracle made it public. Everybody who saw Ŷaɓilaramaŷā proclaimed him “intuitive for his age, healthy, big, and handsome like his ‘father.’” Ĵanĝurā had reservations but, for the moment, glowed in being a father and in the miracle child’s unexpected deliverance. At least now nobody could call him a eunuch or deem him incapable of getting a woman pregnant.

The gossip going around in the village, and in the neighboring ones, was virtually all about Ĵanĝurā and his wife, Ŷapinđār: “Azħa ŝħhanĝ mŵala ni ƙusi ƙita hūr āmmā aɗi ncanŧađziŵa. Ŷa azħa ŧsa ƙa Ĥūr Timā Timā.” (Nobody ever knew the woman was pregnant; it never showed itself. Nobody knew she had pseudocyesis.)

The idea of hur pipi pipi, pseudocyesis, was not novel to this tribe, but what surprised them the most was the fact that it could lead to real childbirth, and that without anybody, including the husband, noticing it! This remained the primary and most intriguing dilemma they could not solve. Whatever people’s disbeliefs and reservations might have been, they didn’t display them to the couple, though; it was something discussed behind their backs.

Ĵanĝurā himself was perturbed with gnawing questions, but he dared not fault his wife for getting them a baby, whatever the source may be. Infidelity by a married woman among the tribe was punishable by death if revealed. In the village, there were many children who looked more like the next-door neighbor than their biological father, but no one dared say it openly or even discuss it in public. The children themselves accepted the fact that they looked neither like their siblings nor their biological fathers but like the next door “Ŷa or Pa” and his children!

Now Ĵanĝurā was elated and could talk like a man! The baby was living proof of his uncompromising manhood. He was no more a cuckold or “a man who is weak between his legs.” The whole village had been teasing him as such during his thirty years of married life, but now, no more. He had gained his respect and place in society!

Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār shared their time caring for the child.

After the seven-day feast, it was customarily the time to officially name the child and circumcise him. Therefore, arrangements were made in accordance with tradition and the beliefs of the people. An Oracle/ɗêhha was at hand to perform the ceremony. The Oracle stood up and belched before proudly calling the child “Ŷaƀilaramāŷa/Ðaŵi.” Ŷapinđār was stunned because that was the very name the child had asked her to call him. Ĵanĝurā and the rest of the villagers applauded the name as “the most befitting.” On reflection, Ĵanĝurā also recalled that, a decade ago, that was the name the other Oracle had told them when he divined they would have a male child.

What the Oracle/ɗêhha was most perplexed about—and what the whole tribe never could understand—came when it was time to circumcise the child. The Oracle froze with fear because Ŷaƀilaramāŷa/Ðaŵi had already been circumcised! Ŷapinđār was equally shocked. Even though all this time she had cared for the child every day, she had never seen him be circumcised. As for Ĵanĝurā, he remained mute and completely confused.

The planting season was fast approaching, so both Ĵanĝurā and his wife, Ŷapinđār, began trying to figure out how to get a babysitter for Ŷaƀilaramāŷa. Ĵanĝurā ed his cousin, Nƙŵāŧir, who was about eight years old and not ready to go to Ŷamta, her chosen husband, yet. Both Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār decided it was worth asking her mother for Nƙŵāŧir to come and babysit her second cousin, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa.

The following evening, Ĵanĝurā went to Ŝarƙai’s house and asked him and his wife, Mataĝi, if Nƙŵāŧir could come and live with them to look after her cousin while they went to the farm. Ŝarƙai and his wife were unanimous in their consent. It was agreed that Ĵanĝurā should return in a fortnight to pick up Nƙŵāŧir to go look after Ŷaƀilaramaŷā.

Ĵanĝurā woke up early on the date set for him to go pick up Nƙŵāŧir. The journey took him some six hours of walking, but by noon, he was already at Ŝarƙai’s house in the village of Wuyaku. Before his arrival, Nƙŵāŧir had packed all her things: one wraparound—besides the one she was wearing—two brass bracelets, two local blouses, and slippers made from cow leather. The things she wasn’t wearing were packed in a small, decorated leopard-skin bag. After a brief exchange of niceties and greetings, Ŝarƙai and his wife reminded Nƙŵāŧir about what they had told her earlier: she was to obey her “parents” and look after her cousin with diligence. She should also help Ŷapinđār in doing some house chores, especially when she wasn’t busy with her cousin. After all had been said, Ĵanĝurā and his cousin took off. By evening time, they’d arrived home.

As soon as they arrived, Nƙŵāŧir was introduced to her infant cousin. She tried to pick Ŷaƀilaramaŷā up, but she couldn’t; he’d turned into a phantom baby and became dense as a boulder. Ŷapinđār was surprised and asked how Nƙŵāŧir would be able to look after Ŷaƀilaramāŷa if she couldn’t even carry him. Before she could finish her comments, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa screamed and, immediately, Nƙŵāŧir rushed to pick him up. To her immense surprise, he’d become as light as a dry leaf, such that she almost fell backward. It was then that both Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār laughed and said maybe she had been scared the first time she’d tried to lift him.

While this was going on, the sky was filled with thunderous lightning and heavy downpours, indicating the onset of the planting season. Soon, Ĵanĝurā and his wife began to plan for tomorrow’s trip to the farm to clear and burn the dry grass for the coming planting of crops. Meanwhile, Nƙŵāŧir was left alone with

Ŷaƀilaramaŷā, who was already threatening her by saying that, if his parents left for the farm, she would see what he was going to do to her. Nƙŵāŧir was shocked because she had never seen a six-month-old baby talking in this way.

She murmured to herself, “This is no baby; he must be a specter or a ghost/apparition.” But she had already been ominously warned by Ŷaƀilaramaŷā that if she, in any way, told his parents anything, he would not only beat her but kill her when they were away. In the meantime, Nƙŵāŧir decided to keep mute and pray that maybe a chance would open up for her to someday escape intact to her parents’ safety.

With the first rains, both Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār got up early the following morning to go and clear their farms and ready them for planting, as they’d discussed the previous night. Before they left for the farm, Ŷapinđār set apart Ŷaƀilaramaŷā’s food and specified the times Nƙŵāŧir should feed him. Thus, Nƙŵāŧir was left at home with Ŷaƀilaramaŷā for the first time.

Nƙŵāŧir had strapped and wrapped the child on her back while doing some chores around the house. Suddenly, it appeared to her as if she heard the baby coughing and yawning like a grown up. She listened and pretended it was coming from another source and not from her back. She was disappointed because the baby eventually asked her, in a deep and authoritative voice, to put him on the ground. Nƙŵāŧir was shocked beyond her wildest expectations.

She tried to resist, but the baby said in a commanding voice, “Do it now, or face the consequences when Ŷapinđār comes home.”

Nƙŵāŧir trembled with fear and obliged him. She wished she could run away, back to her parents, but she was scared of what the child might do to her if they brought her back because nobody was ever going to believe her story. How

could an infant know his mother’s name and even dare to call her by her maiden name? Nƙŵāŧir was ruminating and struggling with her feelings and fear.

When she tried to feed Ŷaƀilaramaŷā the infant-food of aƙamū Ŷapinđār had prepared for Nƙŵāŧir to give him, he would throw it at her face. “What do you think I am? A small child? Put me down immediately before I slap you.” As soon as he came down, he would take Nƙŵāŧir’s own food and, without chewing, swallow it in one gulp.

Ŷaƀilaramaŷā on the ground looked relaxed like a forty- or fifty-year-old man. The first thing he did was to comb his hair with a comb he took from his “belongings.” He then looked grown-up and gentlemanly. The next thing he did was to tie Nƙŵāŧir to a ƙŵaɓiħoana tree and sit on his father’s stool. Any time he sneezed, “hakchihi,” he would spit out gulum, a banjo-like instrument. A xylophone, if he yawned, then a drum and burkau would appear; if he burped, a bevy of young, beautiful women appeared and clambered onto the burkau and started to grind guinea corn/sorghum to the beat of the gulum and tsinza, xylophone. Some of the young women beat the drums and sang songs accompanied by dancing. After they were tired, they would slaughter a nice, fat heifer, roast it, and they would eat to their absolute satisfaction, washing it down with some local beer, burkutu, while Nƙŵāŧir looked on, tied to the tree.

Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was like a real human; he was unpredictable in his behaviors, such that, on some occasions, he’d display a different set of behaviors from those discussed above. He elicited a variation so frequently that it was impossible to guess from day to day. On some days, he would tie Nƙŵāŧir’s hands tightly behind her back after he’d eaten her lunch and thrown his baby food to the birds.

He would then sit cross-legged on his mother’s kulawu/stool and begin talking to Nƙŵāŧir in his deep, grown-up man’s voice. “What do they think I am? A child! Feeding me only akamu/like soft-cooker oats?” He would then narrate his family

story to Nƙŵāŧir, namely, that of his siblings, wife, and parents. He would tell her about his parents and their ages—they were in their nineties—and how actively they still performed their daily chores.

He would sometimes sob from missing his mother especially. He told Nƙŵāŧir he had four children of his own, and that his wife’s name was Ǩŵapaŷa. Often, after devoting so much time to talking about his family, he would then spit out a golden shining yakandi/garaya (percussion instrument that resembles a banjo) wrapped up inside a lush, silk cloth. With a delicate, professional hand, he would tighten the strings and strum it to his taste. Then he would climb to the roof of the building and start playing it, accompanied by the following song:

Su mŵala mŵala, ŝu mŵala mŵala, ŧsa aŵuŧa ƀzirŵa, ŧsa aŵuŧa ƀzirŵa, ŧsaŧa vūaħ ŧħimi Đhaŵi ni ƙŵanĝ, ŧsan ŷa raŷa, Ǩŵapaŷa ramŧa, maɗarna aƙwa ƙi ƙumŷa ūmđla maɗar ŷarna aƙŵa ƙi ƙumŷa ūmđla, ūmđla ƙŵanĝ ŷa. Đuƙŵrama: ƙenĝ! ƙenĝ! ƙenĝ!

(Translation: Poor woman, poor woman, she could not have a baby, but she called me Dhabi as if she gave birth to me. I have nineteen married children, and my father has nineteen married children, and I came from the east. My wife is called Ǩŵapaŷa, whom I regrettably left behind.)

Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was very sensitive to the time when the parents were expected to return from the farm, and he was always meticulously observant. As soon as he sensed it was approaching, he would clamber down from the roof—if that happened to be where he was at that day. In the blink of an eye, he would swallow his yaƙandi/guitar—and the numerous other things listed earlier—with

a burp or just a simple yawn. Immediately, he would turn himself back to a baby and quickly order Nƙŵāŧir to carry him on her back. Ŷaƀilaramāŷa would start to yell and cry very loudly, as if he was in life-threatening discomfort. He had forewarned Nƙŵāŧir not to divulge anything to his parents because, if she did, she would see for herself the next day, “When nobody is at home.”

When Ŷapinđār came home and found her “son” crying his heart out and his “food” still intact, she became infuriated. She slapped Nƙŵāŧir mercilessly several times, but all Nƙŵāŧir could do was sob unceasingly.

“Why are you killing my baby? You want him to die so people will start gossiping about me again! You can’t even feed him his food, which is still where I left it, while you eat yours. When my husband comes home, I’m going to ask him to take you back to your parents; I’d rather stay at home to take care of my baby than leave him with you to die.”

Nƙŵāŧir knew the facts and what had truly transpired, but she could not divulge them for fear of Ŷaƀilaramāŷa’s retribution when no one was around the next day. When, after some time, Ŷapinđār had calmed down a little bit, she would ask Nƙŵāŧir why she didn’t feed the child. Nƙŵāŧir wanted to say something and furtively explained that she was too busy doing other chores.

“Tomorrow, stop doing anything and feed my child first. The child always comes first. Do you understand?”

Nƙŵāŧir answered, “Yes, I understand,” in a sobbing voice she tried to keep calm.

When Ĵanĝurā returned, and found Nƙŵāŧir outside sobbing and with the baby on her back, he asked, “What happened? You’re sobbing.”

But before Nƙŵāŧir could try to murmur some excuses and lies, Ŷapinđār had jumped in: “The girl you brought me is planning on killing my child. As soon as I walked in today, I found my son crying his soul out because he had not been given anything to eat. The food I left for Nƙŵāŧir to give him was still where I left it, while hers was gone. What will I do with a girl that is bent on killing my only baby? You need to take her back to her parents before a real calamity strikes us in this house.”

Ĵanĝurāa kept quiet for a moment and then said, “Nƙŵāŧir, do you want me to take you back to your parents? Because if this behavior persists, that’s what I’m going to do.”

Nƙŵāŧir answered, “No, baba, it will not happen again. I’ll do my best,” pretending to be at fault and bearing the guilt. When all this was going on, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was just giggling and smirking on Nƙŵāŧir’s back, away from Ĵanĝurā’s view.

As time went on, people started to talk about how Nƙŵāŧir was losing weight and looked melancholic, sordid, and withdrawn. “She is not the same girl that came to our village eight months ago,” observed one of the neighbors.

Nƙŵāŧir, in short, had become the topic of gossip in the village. None of the villagers could have guessed the primary cause of her melancholy, though. Nƙŵāŧir’s innermost impulses tormented her to divulge everything and face her tormentor, but her life-preservation instincts took a less-threatening view and rebelled against it. So she just kept on being numb and quiet about it.

However, there was an old widow who had observed everything taking place from her small, dilapidated hut adjacent to Ĵanĝurā’s. This happened by coincidence because, once, she had been going to her farm late but, after walking for ten or twenty minutes, she ed she had left her snuff back at home and decided to return for it since she didn’t have anybody to send back home. Upon her return, she heard some loud noise coming from Ĵanĝurā’s house, and she decided to look, wondering how this could happen, knowing that both Ĵanĝurā and his wife, Pinđār, had preceded her to the farm.

As she got closer, she could hear the beat of drums, a xylophone, and people singing and dancing. When she peeped through the fence, she was shocked to see so many beautiful women and young men eating, dancing, and getting wild, as if they were celebrating something of great importance. She also watched and saw Ŷaƀilaramāŷa as a fully grown, elderly gentleman amidst everything. She observed him playing many of the different instruments and drinking lots and lots of beer with his guests. She also observed Nkŵāŧir’s feet and hands tied to the ƙŵaɓiħona tree in the corner of the house, as well as the young women grinding at the beat of the ntsinza/xylophone played by Ŷaƀilaramāŷa on the Burkau.

She didn’t go back to the farm that day. She hung around for a long time, watching the miraculous performances of Ŷapinđār’s baby on the different instruments and his mingling and dancing with the women. Suddenly, as the evening approached the widow, Mataĝi observed that the loud music and dancing had ceased, and the house was completely empty. There were no traces of anything unusual happening in the house.

She now saw Ŷaƀilaramāŷa on Nkŵāŧir’s back, crying his heart out in utter discomfort. For the next three days, Mataĝi didn’t go to her farm. Instead, she stayed at home to watch the miracles of Ŷaƀilaramāŷa as they happened through the fence, afraid to show or betray her presence to any of the invited guests. At times, she concealed her presence by running back to her hut, especially when

she was tired of standing. She didn’t want to, for some reason, fall down and betray her presence and knowledge of the phenomenon.

One day, after dinner, Mataĝi asked Ŷapinđār to spare her a few moments; she had something to confide to her. Ŷapinđār sat down, ensconced on the small, triangular kulawu (stool) next to Mataĝi’s. Mataĝi waited until she saw Ŷaƀilaramāŷa outside the house playing with other children before she told Ŷapinđār of her concern for Nkŵāŧir becoming thinner and weaker by the day, even though she knew that she was well fed and that Ŷapinđār cared for her well-being.

Ŷapinđār assured Mataĝi of her deep love for Nkŵāŧir, but she said she was worried and tormented by her looks and general outlook. She said she had noticed that Nkŵāŧir was losing weight rapidly, despite the abundance of food in the house, and she had become more melancholic.

Mataĝi struggled with her feelings on how to present the facts to Ŷapinđār. After a prolonged, agonizing silence—and what seemed a spiritual contemplation— she told Ŷapinđār, “You’ve been accusing and beating Nkŵāŧir for no reason.” She narrated what she observed when they were away at the farm. Ŷapinđār, at first, accused her of witchery and of using some form of magic to kill her son. She said he was a genuine child she had given birth to and that nothing would convince her to believe this widow’s story. She even threatened the widow by saying that, if anything befell her son, she would hold Mataĝi responsible.

Mataĝi told her, “If you change your mind, you can see this for yourself any time you want. All you must do is pack your stuff as usual when it is time to go to the farm. When you’ve said goodbye to them, as you often do, leave them and either come to my place, or hide behind the fences out of their view. Not long after, you will see what I’m talking about. Sneak into my hut tomorrow after you have bidden farewell to Nkŵāŧir and Ŷaƀilaramāŷa.”

After a brief moment, Mataĝi took leave of Pinđār and went home. Immediately when Ĵanĝurā came back from the farm—and they were by themselves— Ŷapinđār blurted out, in anger, what the old widow had told her. “She wants to kill this child and then turn around later to tell people he was a phantom I just picked up and not our real child.”

Ĵanĝurā didn’t know what to say. He’d had a premonition that this sort of thing would come out in the open because he had never been convinced that Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was his biological son. After they had eaten and Nƙŵāŧir and Ŷaƀilaramāŷa were well-ensconced in bed and asleep, Ĵanĝurā came back to what his wife had angrily told him earlier about their son.

He said he understood Ŷapinđār’s anger, but for them to disprove what Mataĝi was saying, they had to see it for themselves. Ŷapinđār took a long, deep breath and, grudgingly, she accepted her husband’s reasoning.

“If we find out she was lying, I will make sure she doesn’t live long thereafter. I know a deha that would see to that,” she said with strong emotion and frustration.

The following morning, as usual, Ŷapinđār went through the routine of chores she had to do before departing for the farm (preparing akamu for her son, getting her husband’s food ration, and listing chores for Nƙŵāŧir to do). When everything was in place, she implored them to be nice to each other, especially for Nƙŵāŧir to ascertain Ŷaƀilaramāŷa had his lunch at the appropriate time, before she bade them farewell and left.

Contrary to her normal routine, however, instead of proceeding to the farm,

Ŷapinđār snuck behind the high bushes surrounding the houses and ed her husband at Mataĝi’s hut. Mataĝi counseled both to be patient and vigilant.

Scarcely before Ŷapinđār could even settle down, though, they heard somebody whistling from the compound. They were instantly taken aback and became delirious because they knew, by tradition, Nƙŵāŧir, as a girl, was forbidden from whistling at all, let alone in the house. Moreover, they knew Nƙŵāŧir didn’t even know how to whistle.

Mataĝi, in the meantime, was ecstatic and just smiled, imploring Ŷapinđār and Ĵanĝurā to keep their anxiety in check because there was more show to come.

“Get me damn down,” was the cantankerous, commanding voice coming from the compound. “I am tired of being carried on your back as if I were an infant; didn’t I tell you I have children and a wife, abwar ramta, in the East? I wonder when you will ever come to your good senses. I’ve told you time and time again that I hate these liquid feeds; I need something solid.”

Ŷaƀilaramāŷa then came down from Nƙŵāŧir’s back, brushed his hair—as was his daily habit—dragged Nƙŵāŧir, tied her securely to the ƙŵaɓiħona tree, and then sat on his father’s Kulawu/stool. Ŷaƀilaramāŷa then grabbed Nƙŵāŧir’s lunch and swallowed it without even burping.

After he had eaten and drunk some of his father’s remaining locally brewed ɓurƙutu/beer, he belched as a grown up and sat down, ensconced, before he coughed out his yakandi. Next, he burped, and a ganga, drum, ntsinz, xylophone, burkau, set of ed grinding stones, algetta, trumpet, and, finally, shola, flute were coughed out. Not long after Ŷaƀilaramāŷa burped again, a bevy of beautiful, young women emerged. Ŷaƀilaramāŷa tuned his instrument in a deft, professional manner and strummed his yakandi. And to the sound of the

instrument, the young women started grinding on the burkau. As the women performed their burkau grinding skills, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa launched into the following song:

Azħa I (êħ) mallam Ĝŵagŵa, ƙiŧħiri ŷerū an nzi ŝħatanƙur ŵaya. Đa ƙu ƙiŧira aƙŵa mŧaku ƙa ŝi vinƙir ali ŧħlim Ŷaƀilaramāŷa (Đaŵi) amma aɗi ŧħlimi jirŵa. Zoliŷeri apa marĝiri ĝira ŵūla apa ĝirƙu ŵuta ƀzir ŷa

(This translates as: I’m Mr. Tree Stump, and our job is to perform phantom events. They picked me from the bush and gave me the name Ŷaƀilaramāŷa/ Ðaŵi, which is not my name. Fools, did you think you found a child?)

After the women were tired of grinding, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa burped again and, instantly, a cow and goat appeared, which the young men slaughtered. In the meantime, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa clambered onto the roof and played his yakandi and shola/flute while the cow and the goat were being roasted.

He sang some of his songs in which he lamented missing his close family: his children, old parents, and his wife, Ǩŵapaŷa. When the meat was done, he came down and ed his friends and guests in the celebration. Immediately after, they began dancing to the beat of the drum, alĝeta, and shola. They all were drunk, and the music was getting very loud—more than ever. After they all seemed to be exhausted, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa noticed the time and, instantly, everything went silent.

All the guests disappeared, the mess was gone, and the house looked as it had before the phantom event. Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, however, sensed that he still had some time at hand, so he untied Nƙŵāŧir and ordered her to get him his father’s saddle;

afterwards, he put it on Nƙŵāŧir. Upon seeing this, both Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār were utterly terrified, and both fainted. Mataĝi had to sneak to Ǩaɓurā—who was at home that day because he was sick and unable to go to his farm—to come and help resuscitate both parents.

What led to Ŷapinđār and Ĵanĝurā’s collapse and a temporary loss of consciousness was this: after Ŷaƀilaramāŷa got the saddle, stirrup, and other paraphernalia needed to dress a horse for riding, he set them on Nƙŵāŧir, and with a whip in one hand, he rode her around on her knees, galloping on her and yelling as if she were a real horse. This act proved too much for both husband and wife.

Ĵanĝurā and his wife were resuscitated in time for their usual homecoming. Following her usual routine meticulously, she arrived home first to see her “son,” Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, wet, dirty, and bitten all over his body by termites and crying his heart out. Ŷapinđār didn’t want to give the impression that she had seen what had gone on, so, as usual, she showed her vehement “anger” at Nƙŵāŧir; but today, she refrained from beating her. Ŷapinđār could not, with a clear conscience, beat Nƙŵāŧir because of what she had seen.

Nƙŵāŧir had gone hungry every afternoon since the beginning of the season. Ŷapinđār had seen her “son” riding Nƙŵāŧir after eating her lunch. She had also observed him dirtying himself deliberately even though he had given himself a warm bath, had a delicious and celebratory lunch with his friends, and, to crown it all, had ridden Nƙŵāŧir as a horse. After his “horse” ride, Ĵanĝurā came in around the same time as usual, not displaying any emotion that betrayed what they’d seen in the afternoon.

Ŷapinđār could not sleep that night; her mind was wrapped up in the events of the day, and her conscience gnawed at her over the injustice she had witnessed. Her maternal instinct was no longer with Ŷaƀilaramāŷa but with Nƙŵāŧir. With these feelings and anxieties, she just tossed in bed. The instinct of relaxing the

muscles after a hard day’s work had eluded her, and there was no guarantee that tomorrow would bring a respite. Faced with these moral and personal dilemmas —and aware of what was going on in the other room, where Ĵanĝurā was also going through the same mental torture and regrets—Ŷapinđār surmised the only alternative was for her to go and divulge her sufferings to her husband.

In her rational judgment, this course of events would not only relieve her of her mental pains and moral prerogative but would also make her husband a partner and an accomplice in accepting Ŷaƀilaramāŷa as a son. The thought of sharing the “sin” with her husband gave her the last push she needed to go share everything with him.

“Ĵanĝurā” she called softly. “Ĵanĝurā, I have to talk to you.” But there was no response; Ĵanĝurā had finally found his peace by redeeming himself through blaming his wife for the catastrophe that now befell them. He was enjoying his dream of caring for a flock in a large, green pasture with clear streams flowing with honey!

Finally, she opened the doormat, entered the bed next to Ĵanĝurā, and nudged him gently, as a woman in love would.

Ĵanĝurā turned with sleepy eyes, still deep in his dreamy mood, and said, “Pinđār, I am sleeping. Don’t you think our baby is too young for a sibling?”

Ĵanĝurā thought the voice he heard was still part of his dream and he lapsed into his sleep again. But it was not to last long because Ŷapinđār was determined and would stop at nothing until she had cleared her worried and tormented consciousness.

“It’s not what you are thinking, of course; I know. I want to talk to you about something more substantial.” She threw her arms around his neck and drew him to her in a transport of gratified vanity. Ĵanĝurā turned again, but this time, feeling his impulse charging, he sat up.

Ŷapinđār, with mixed emotions and a cracking voice, told her husband she had wanted to spare him the mortification of knowing what had really happened that sultry day nine months prior, which was the antecedent to the events they witnessed today. She confided how she had encountered the child on her way to the farm and what had transpired between them.

She told him how, upon Ŷaƀilaramāŷa’s candid suggestion, she had deliberately “wounded” herself with the stump of a tree to make it look as if she’d had a real delivery. She confided her utmost regrets for the shame she had brought to both. The events they’d watched from Mataĝi’s house had taken a toll on her, and she said she felt like taking her own life.

Ĵanĝurā listened in awe, as if it was a mere continuation of his dream. At first, still hazy in his sleep, he had wondered quietly how his wife could be part of his dream-life. But later, when fully awake, he understood this was not a dream; he was astounded and confused.

Yesterday’s events had had a real impact on him, but he had waited for Ŷapinđār to tell him the truth about their son. Now he was more confused about what action to take. The gossip going around the village was that Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was a phantom child—not human. Ĵanĝurā had resisted facing Ŷapinđār with the rumors, but now, the truth had been revealed to him—the only dilemma left was figuring out what to do.

Not knowing how to respond to this “miraculous” event, he naively asked,

“What is next?” Implied in that question was how to deal with Ŷaƀilaramāŷa. The absurdity of this unnatural turn of events had finally conspired to absolve his conscience of its inner struggle with the veracity of the sequence of events that had led to the presence of Ŷaƀilaramāŷa in their lives.

In his inner soul, Ĵanĝurā had always harbored some suspicion over the circumstances surrounding his becoming a “father.” All along, he had believed in his innermost spiritual being that the birth of his first “child” was a hoax, but he had resisted telling his wife. Ludicrous as the story might have seemed at the beginning, he’d accepted his wife’s version of events and delved only temporarily into the joys of being a father.

They both knew something must be done—and quickly because the gossip going around, saying that Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was ƀzir ŝhatanĝ/a phantom child that Ŷapinđār picked up, was quickly gaining coin in the village and its surroundings. All the parents in the village had forbidden their children from going out, especially to play with Ŷaƀilaramāŷa. For these and numerous other social issues, Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār knew they must immediately a ɗehha/Oracle/shaman on how to get rid of Ŷaƀilaramāŷa/Ðaŵi, because this could not be a human child.

Early the following morning, Ĵanĝurā went in to see the village ɗehha/shaman, Ĥŷeđima Naƀi, about his child, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa. The ɗehha burped, as was the custom, as soon as Ĵanĝurā approached the compound—this was a sign that he, the shaman, had “foreseen” Ĵanĝurā’s arrival and, by implication, the shaman could resolve Ĵanĝurā’s problems no matter what they might be. If he didn’t burp before a client entered the compound, it meant he hadn’t “seen” the client and, therefore, could not help.

When Ĵanĝurā entered, he said, “Ǩa Ĥŷel jaƙa alaĝa đūnar ŵuŧūr ŝu, ŝuna ŝinŧara ni an kamyar mŷa mji aƙwa nƙir Ŷaƀilaramāŷa/Ðaŵi hanĝ ƙamta anŧū ŷeru aƙŵa ƀara ƙamƀuru mŵari ƙaga ŧħlamta alari millim ƀu usa.” (May God

continue to grant you his power. I come to ask you to help us by visiting our millim, local shrine, about our son, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, because there are too many rumors about him being a phantom child.)

Ĥŷeđima Naƀi told Ĵanĝurā what he had always suspected—Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was not a human child but a shatanĝ/apparition or spirit who had quarreled with his kinsmen and had been left behind because of his constant stubbornness and insubordination against his elders. To get rid of him, they first had to convince him that they were taking him on a journey to visit his aunt, Laraba. However, before they left, they should have a black, male goat, a white rooster, mpwa (sorghum flour), a pot, and everything else required for cooking. He told Ĵanĝurā to persuade Ŷaƀilaramāŷa into believing that on their way to see Laraba, his aunt, they would need to make a sacrifice to the family “god” at mŷaujaffā. Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, at this time, had a good sense of what was going on, but he decided to play the fool for a while.

The next day, after they had put everything together needed for the journey as prescribed by the ɗehha/oracle, Ĥŷeđima Naƀi, they set out. Ŷapinđār had Ŷaƀilaramāŷa on her back. The oracle had his special bag made from leopard skin. Inside were items such as a human skull and an infant skeleton acquired from the local graveyard. Nƙŵāŧir didn’t come with them. Instead, she was asked to keep watch on the house until their return.

The three spent the whole day with their walking interspersed with occasional brief moments of rest. When evening came, they sat down under a tree, hoping to spend the night. Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, who was sitting on his mother’s lap, jumped down with surprising agility, cleared his throat, and declared that he had known all along what the ɗehha had related to them about him, and he was not disputing the facts. He confirmed that, indeed, he was not a human child, and it was true that he had been left behind by his people because of his intransigence, but it had not always been his nature to disagree with his elders. However, on this occasion, he did so on what he considered was a matter of principle.

His elders, he said, had wanted to punish the local people for not offering the annual sacrifice at the appropriate time, but he personally felt the sacrifice was being offered at the right time; hence, there was no need to reprimand the local population. He said Ŷapinđār came at the very moment his people were discussing whether they should leave him behind or not. However, as soon as they saw Ŷapinđār, they knew she had no child and had been looking for one, so they rendered him “naked” so that Ŷapinđār could see him.

As a matter of fact, his people had been standing by his side when he engaged Ŷapinđār in conversation. He revealed that if, at the time, Ŷapinđār had insisted on consulting ɗehha before “adopting” him, his people would have snatched him from her. He told them his elders were the ones who told him to tell Ŷapinđār his name was Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, but his real name was Ðħaɓi Ramta or Ðaŵi Ramta.

Nonetheless, he expressed a profound satisfaction and gratitude for his present “human” experience, and he thanked them for granting him their home for such an alien experience. He asked them to express his profound gratitude and apologies to Nƙŵāŧir; he told them what a good girl she was and pleaded with them to promise him that they would not let her return to her parents but take care of her instead. He then told them that, on their way back, by 12:00 p.m. the following day, they would reach a valley at the bottom of a barren hill called the “Valley of the Skull,” where his people were awaiting him.

When they reached the bottom of the valley, they should leave him with the goat, the rooster, and all they’d brought with them; but he advised them not to turn and look back. They should just continue their journey until they reached a lonely hut. When they saw the hut, they should just walk in. Somebody would meet them and tell them what to do next. He also instructed them that, on their way back, they would see a calf tethered to a tree; they should untether the calf and take it with them, but they should not take anything else.

Thirdly, he told them, “From now on, your womb has been made fertile, and you

will have as many children as you wish for. Even now, you are pregnant and will soon have a baby boy.” In parting, he clambered onto his goat and had his rooster lead the way.

That was the last that Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār heard of Ŷaƀilaramāŷa. They followed his instructions meticulously and with practiced, fervent religion; all his predictions to them came true.

Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār made several futile pilgrimages to the spot where they’d left Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, but there was no sign of either the hill or the valley. However, both Ĵanĝurā and Ŷapinđār felt strongly that Ŷaƀilaramāŷa’s earlier mishaps and mischief were expiated.

Thereafter, they lived a happy and prosperous life. The calf they brought with them grew and was prolific, such that their ranch became the largest in the land.

After their amicable parting, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa contemplated what he was going to do next. Suddenly, he figured he would visit the village of nciwayeri, he-goats, to sell his nĉiwa to them. When he entered the village, he started shouting, “Nĉiwa for sale; nĉiwa for sale!”

But the goats said, “We’re already too many in the village. Moreover, how can a goat buy a goat?”

Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was infuriated and disgusted, but then he ed the next village of mobuluyeri/hyena.

Upon entering the village, he began shouting, “Nĉiwa for sale; nĉiwa for sale!”

Immediately, the mayor of the village—who was bwa janguli kuga kuta kyirni, boiling beans, corn, and nuts with his family—heard the message. The janĝuli was boiling ĝŵathĝŵath, ĝŵathĝŵath, and preventing Ŷamoƀūlū from hearing the message clearly, so he commanded the janĝuli to keep quiet, but the janĝuli continued to boil—ĝŵathĝŵath, ĝŵthĝŵath—on the stove. Moƀūlū became angry, picked up the pot and the janĝuli, and threw the whole janĝuli pot over the fence far away so he could hear the message clearly.

Instantly, he started salivating. He called Ŷaƀilaramāŷa and asked him, “How much is the goat?”

Ŷaƀilaramāŷa immediately blushed and smirked. He then answered, “It’s only Banĝ/Bama vir murfa, seven days of carrying me on your back.”

Ŷamoƀūlū couldn’t believe his ears.

“Only seven days of carrying you on my back! That’s peanuts.”

Ŷaƀilaramāŷa said, “That’s the price for the goat—nothing more or less. If you want it, it’s yours.”

Ŷamoƀūlū darted inside to tell his wife, Pāna, and his children, A-ŵul-ɗiyathluapa-Đuŵhumsa and A-ŵwul-mal-apa-ƙilanĝƙu, about their fortune—a whole goat for only seven days of bang, ai ƀutu đzau.

“How much cheaper could it be?” he shouted. At once, he instructed the children to bring the goat inside and quickly slaughter it for the evening dinner.

Ŷamoƀūlū told Ŷaƀilaramāŷa to come the next day for the start of his bang, sori amma whaturi, findiwuldzi—just a teensy-weensy—not knowing that he was dealing with a phantom.

The following morning before dawn, right on the dot, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was standing in front of Ŷamoƀūlū’s compound. Without any ceremony, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa climbed Ŷamoƀūlū’s back, and he made himself light a dry fig tree. Ŷamoƀūlū didn’t feel any weight on his back throughout the day, until evening, when they bid each other goodbye.

Upon entering his house, he smirked, jumping up and down in ecstasy before calling Pāna and their children and declaring, “Maɗara mƀuru ŵuta ƙum nĝini apa ĝapani. Bzir ni ƙiƙafu na tu êħ (I) aɗi nĝata aƀur ŝu ata ħili ŵa!” (It seems we got this meat for nothing, because the boy was so damn light that I didn’t feel like he was on my back.)

The second day, like on the first, before dawn, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was standing in front of Ŷamoƀūlū’s house, waiting for him. On this day, he made himself as heavy as a massive anvil, and Ŷamoƀūlū’s back burned like hot chili; such that, before noon, Ŷamoƀūlū was completely exhausted and unable to move.

“Ŷah, azħa ƀzir nĝini ƙiĝibu apani ŷa! Tsa jaƙta wuta mđa na ata ƀang ni ɗipa.” (Little did I know that this boy is that heavy; we’ll see who will carry him tomorrow.)

When he got home, his wife brought him his dinner, but before she could ask about the days’ events, Ŷamoƀūlū’ was fast asleep and snoring very loudly with exhaustion. After a few hours, Pāna came and removed her husband’s dinner untouched, and her children eagerly helped themselves to it.

On the third day, like a military commander going on an attack, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was in front of Ŷamōƀūlū’s house before dawn, waiting. Grudgingly, and still in severe pain, Ŷamoƀūlū dragged himself to meet bzir shatan, phantom child, anxiously waiting for his treat. Today, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa made himself as heavy as four anvils put together; it made Ŷamoƀūlū’s back hurt as if it were on fire, burning with blisters, and swollen as if the skin were disintegrating.

At the end of the day, he couldn’t respond when Ŷaƀilaramāŷa said, “Goodnight. See you tomorrow morning.”

Ŷamoƀūlū staggered home and collapsed in the middle of the house. His boys rushed to his side and resuscitated him.

When he regained consciousness, he called Pāna and said, “Dipa ma ƀzir ŝhatan ƙu si, ƙaĝir pila alari aƀaur mđirƙirŷeru, lunĝūh laĝa ƙu si ŵutađzi, anĝira mŵalanƙiya an lapiya ŵa, antu êħ/I si tira mwŵari ƙara ŵuli ni. Usa ƙa tsa ƙita ƙumar ƙa tsa si siƀila ɗipari. Eħ/ I ata si luƙŵa ƀiyir shaƀtanĝ ƙa ĝir punĝƙir ali shaƀtanĝ ƙa ɗuŵar rā.” (If the apparition child comes tomorrow, tell him that my mother-in-law was sick, so I had to go and see her. In the meantime, I will have clambered inside the dry beans’ vegetable leaf bin, and you will have covered me beneath it.)

The next morning, as usual, right on the dot, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was standing in front

of Ŷamoƀūlū’s house, waiting for his ride. But before then, Mōƀūlū had entered the shabtang bin, as arranged the previous night. When Ŷaƀilaramāŷa waited and Mōƀūlū wasn’t coming out, he approached the gate, but as soon as Pāna heard his footsteps approaching, she jumped to her feet and stopped him at the gate.

“Maraƀa, ĝa ƙu siƀbla ŷa? Ai, naha nđiƙir ĝiri ƙa mđirƙirna, ƙuraƙu ƙu si aƀur ɗiathu nĝila ata ŵuliya ƀaƀarna, anti tsa đliya ƙa tira mŵari ƙamŷar ƙa tsa ŵuli ni. Manta hara ƙaĝa si ɗiapa.” (Welcome. Yesterday, after you parted, a message came to us saying that a piece of bone had become stuck in my father’s throat, and my husband left early this morning to see him.)

Ŷaƀilaramāŷa listened, but he wasn’t buying it. “Ai nĝini Mōƀūlū aƙŵa shamta saƙarni daci. Tsa a sinda raŵa. Eh/ I ƙa sur hara hanĝ. Eh/ I aƙŵa ƀara ƙa ŷeru ƙuri ƀang ni ƙi ŵuta vi ra hara su đamŵ. Sati na aƙŵa si ni ŷeru ka điƀar lausa aƙŵa đirŷeru.” (Ŷamoƀūlū is joking; he doesn’t know me. I want this thing over with this week so I can concentrate on other matters. Next week, we have a celebration in our village I must attend). Immediately after expressing his misgivings to Pāna’s explanation of her husband’s absence, he turned as if he were leaving, but he then abruptly pivoted and pushed past Pāna, saying, “Nzi ƙi ɗar taƀar ƙuchir Ŷamoƀūlū nđa ƙŵabir ŷa tira.” (Let me try Ŷamoƀūlū’s snuff before I leave.)

Before Pāna could react, he was already on top of the shabtang bin, looking for the snuff. He wasn’t impressed when he found Moƀūlū under the shabtang. He forcibly dragged him out and jumped on his back right inside the house. By noon, Ŷamoƀūlū had fainted and was lying down with Ŷaƀilaramāŷa clinging to his back. Ŷamoƀūlū tried all he could to get Ŷaƀilaramāŷa off his back, but he couldn’t; Ŷaƀilaramāŷa had grabbed and squeezed him tightly.

When the sun began to disappear beyond the horizon, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa decided it was enough for the day, so he came down and left Ŷamoƀūlū lying down, utterly exhausted and hopeless. His family began to worry because it was very late.

Suddenly, he staggered in and collapsed; again, the children rushed and resuscitated him.

On the fifth day, before dawn, Ŷamoƀūlū tried several times to wake Pāna up, but he couldn’t until he slapped her very hard. “What kind of wife are you? You don’t even care if I die.” After cursing her for being unhelpful in getting rid of bzir shatang, he told her he had to go seek refuge with his friend and mentor, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir. Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir was a blacksmith, a putative, renowned hunter, and a shaman of reputable fame. The best in the region. “Nothing is impossible with him, so I’m going to plead with him to help me get rid of this infuriating and atrocious serpent,” he said.

It took Ŷamoƀūlū four days to reach Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir. He arrived early in the afternoon after breakfast. Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir ordered his ward to prepare his friend something to eat. Ŷamoƀūlū was served the delicious leftovers of some lion meat.

Ŷamoƀūlū immediately ed Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir in his shed a distance from the main compound, where he was working on the anvil, forging hunting arrows and spears. After greetings and some queries about the business of blacksmithing, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir asked Ŷamoƀūlū about the purpose of his visit. Ŷamoƀūlū narrated everything between him and Ŷaƀilaramāŷa in detail. He told him how he had agreed to ɓam/bang, carry on the back, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa for seven days as a price for Ŷaƀilaramāŷa’s goat. He also presented how Ŷaƀilaramāŷa had abused him almost to the point of death by using some devilish tricks to alter his weight every moment.

Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir was very attentive to what Ŷamoƀūlū had to tell him. After Ŷamoƀūlū’s presentation, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchi told Ŷamoƀūlū to relax and not worry; there was nothing Ŷaƀilaramāŷa could do even if he came after him.

Ŷamoƀūlū was extremely pleased and said, “I told Pāna you were the only person in the entire region that could take care of this diabolic menace. Everybody knows you and respects your prowess and shamanship.”

Just as they were settling down with the business of completing forging the arrows—with Ŷamoƀūlū on the two bellows or blowers creating massive flow of air to fuel the forge—Ŷaƀilaramāŷa showed up. Before he came within sight, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir burped, indicating he had, through a sixth-sense perception, acknowledged Ŷaƀilaramāŷa’s presence at some far away distance. Immediately, he took Ŷamoƀūlū inside the house and hid him in his animals’ den/shelter, đlima, and settled back down to his blacksmithing.

As soon as Ŷaƀilaramāŷa came, he greeted Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir very politely and with decorum. After exchanging niceties about the weather, the welfare of smaller animals, and other such small talk, he told Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir, “I was following the footprints of my horse, and I noticed they stopped abruptly here, which I know couldn’t be a fortuitous encounter; it is because of your legendary magnanimity for the underdog. Nonetheless, I need him released instantly. As a matter of fact, I can even smell him right now. Again, I’m asking you politely, without any rancor, to release him to me without any further delay so I can ride him away. If you do not do as I say, then I must get him by any means available to me, including force. I’ve heard about your prowess, and the reputation of your shamanship is legendary, but that doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir maintained his equanimity and didn’t even shirk for a second; he kept on with his work with indifference. Ŷaƀilaramāŷa then tried to put out the fire using his phantom powers, but the forge kept on going; the fire wouldn’t be extinguished. Finally, when Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir felt that Ŷaƀilaramāŷa had exhausted his tricks without any effect, he paused and took out his misparni, his talisman, cited some incantations, and grabbed Ŷaƀilaramāŷa.

He commanded the anvil saying, “Ŵurđzaƙ pela ƀđla,” and the huge rock split in two. He lifted Ŷaƀilaramāŷa and dropped him down the gorge created by the split. He then said, “Ŵurđzaƙ,” and the rock closed again, sealing Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, except for his testicles, which were left dangling. He then took his knife, cut them off, wrapped them in a leopard’s dry testicle bag, and tied it to a stick before hanging it above the forge and anvil and continuing with his ƀđla as if nothing had happened.

After Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir had spectacularly finished with Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, he brought Ŷamoƀūlūu out. They finalized their work for the day and went home. While at home, Ŷamoƀūlū profusely expressed his gratitude to his mentor, after which they ate their dinner and went to bed.

Early in the morning, Ŷamoƀūlū woke up and went to Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir’s quarters and thanked him again for destroying his putative enemy, but now he also wanted to know how much he owed Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir. Ŷa Ĝaĝumaata Ǩuchir responded casually that he didn’t charge family for beneficent work; he considered it his duty and responsibility. However, if Ŷamoƀūlū didn’t mind, he could hang around for three weeks to help with work in the shed, especially with the bellows, which he seemed good at. Ŷamoƀūlū happily consented, and, quickly thereafter, they moved to the shed.

Inside the shed, work started in earnest. Ŷamoƀūlū had now become very proficient with the bellows; the air fanning the forge was unbelievable. However, the downside of this was that the inside of the shed became unbearably hot, such that Ŷaƀilaramāŷa’s testicles, which were hanging over the forge, began to melt and drip fat.

Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir had caught Ŷamoƀūlū’s eying the dripping fat but, for the time being, had ignored him. As time went on, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir

observed that any time he wasn’t watching, Ŷamoƀūlū would stealthily drag himself under the testicle and lash at it with his tongue.

After watching Ŷamoƀūlū lash at the phantom testicle on several occasions, he warned him, “If you continue to lash out at the fat from the testicle, the serpent will come off the rocks and go after you again, in which case, I will have nothing to do with it; you would be on your own.” Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir had come to the conclusion that Ŷamoƀūlū was desperate for meat, and if he didn’t do something urgently, one of these days, he was going to touch the serpent’s testicles.

So, one day, at the end of their work in the shed, he told him, “We’re going hunting today because it seems we’re running short of meat in the house.”

Upon hearing this message, Ŷamoƀūlū became excited and jumped around in joy. They packed some of their hunting paraphernalia, such as hunting knives, small and long. They also had their bows, arrows, and spears.

They set out on their hunting expedition before dawn, hoping to catch some of the animals sleeping. After a half-hour journey, they came across a herd of animals.

Ŷamoƀūlū wanted to run after them, but Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir, “Don’t; there are more ahead.”

Ŷamoƀūlū could hardly hide his anger, but he acquiesced, grudgingly, and they moved on, far deeper into the heart of the jungle. Lo and behold, deep in the forest, they came across a herd of different kinds of animals: lions, jackals,

fowls, monkeys, baboons, giraffes, duiker, wolves, antelopes, and numerous others.

Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir told Ŷamoƀūlū, “Now, go ahead and get what you can.”

Ŷamoƀūlū darted toward the animals in joy and chased after them, but he could get only a squirrel; all the others had escaped him. Ŷamoƀūlū complained that he wished they hadn’t come across such a large herd, since he couldn’t get what he wanted.

After listening to Ŷamoƀūlū’s complaints and regrets over not being able to get his choice of animal to kill for lunch, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir burped and commanded fire to come down and burn the bush around them. Suddenly, there was a huge conflagration burning the grass where the herd of animals had once been sheltered. Then, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir commanded all the carcasses to assemble in one place. Within the blink of an eye, all the animals were packed together in one spot. On another command, a pile of some of the animals was roasted for them. They sat under a massive tree and ate to their satisfaction, but they couldn’t finish it.

Both Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir and Ŷamoƀūlū had eaten of the carcasses until satisfied; however, a piece of meat had become stuck between Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir’s teeth; he just broke a branch off a tree and picked his teeth with it, without any sense of pain or bleeding, until the whole thigh of a squirrel was flushed out.

They packed some of the carcasses in their hunting bags and set out to go home. They came across a stream, which they needed to cross, but then they saw one of Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir’s favorite fruits—the baobab tree, which was ripe and looking enticing. Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir looked around him for something to

use to get the fruits down, but there was nothing; so he told Ŷamoƀūlū to lie down so he could take out one of his thighs.

Ŷamoƀūlū didn’t agree, but he consented and lied down next to Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir, who moved closer and, before Ŷamoƀūlū knew what was happening, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir had miraculously removed one of his thighs, aimed at the baobab fruits, and a whole branch came down together with Ŷamoƀūlū u’s thigh. Without much resistance or care, he just brushed off the dirt from Ŷamoƀūlū’s thigh and simply placed it back for him without a single drop of blood, as if it were a regular, daily exercise. After Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir had eaten the fruits to his satisfaction, they packed the remaining pieces, dumped them in their hunting bag together with the roasted carcasses, and went home.

At the end of three weeks, Ŷamoƀūlū came in one day, early in the morning, to tell Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir that it was time for Ŷamoƀūlū to go back home and see his family. Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir gave him all he asked for: meat, some bones, and many other things he needed, but he told him, “Ma ĝa ƙu luƙŵa laƙu ĝa aɗiŷa đlu su aƙila mđa ƙiraŵa.” (On your way home, don’t take anything from anybody, even if given.) “Shanĝa, su naƙu ŵuta nĝa ŷa aɗi aƙŵa ŵa.” (Anything that happens to you hereafter, it’s no more any of my business.)

Ŷamoƀūlū thanked his benefactor and responded, in his best behavior, that he understood and would not accept anything from anybody, even if offered. After this, he took off toward home.

Upon reaching home in a blissful mood, he called all his family out, including his uncle, Ŷaŝhar, and told them how magnanimous Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir had been to him. He hilariously told them everything about all the non-human things that Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir had performed in his presence, such as the time he commanded fire, and fire came out of nowhere and set the bushes ablaze; he also mentioned the miracle of how he took out one of his thighs, without a sign of any blood, and then put it back.

After three days of ceaseless celebration with his family and with the meat he brought home from his expedition with Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir, he decided to go pay his friend, Ŷaŝhar, a visit and invite him to go hunting.

“Mŝiƙa, ashina mŵa ata ra ƀara, amma ĝa aɗiya ƙil ƙomi ŵa.” (My uncle, today I’m inviting you to go hunting with me, but don’t carry anything with you.)

Ŷaŝhar was confused. “How can we go hunting and not carry a bow, an arrow, or a spear? How are we going to kill the animals?”

Ŷamoƀūlū was furious. “Why are you arguing with me? Just come, and you will see how much we’ll bring home.”

Ŷaŝhar didn’t fully trust Ŷamoƀūlū, so he surreptitiously packed all the things they often carried with them when they went hunting: jinatu, bow and arrow, spear, and bag.

After walking for many hours, they came across a herd of animals, just as Ŷamoƀūlū had done with Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir.

He burped and shouted, “Ǩa U’ūr ƀaara ŧħlŧa,” (May fire be lighted), but nothing happened. He tried again, but the same result came.

Ŷaŝhar said, “Maybe you’re not shouting loud enough; shout louder.”

Ŷamoƀūlū did and, still, nothing happened.

After a long time of shouting, “U’ūr ƀara ŧħlaŧa” and nothing happening, he started to blame Ŷaŝhar, saying “If you are really smart, as you often portend to be, why didn’t you bring some jinaŧu?”

Ŷaŝhar said, “I trusted you; that’s why I didn’t bring it.”

Ŷamoƀūlū was really mad and tried to smack Ŷaŝhar with the back of his hand, but Ŷaŝhar saw it coming and jumped, escaping Mōƀūlū’s lethal and brutal slap. Immediately, he took out the jinaŧu, lighted it, and the fire roared in the dry bush, roasting most of the animals to death.

It was then that Ŷamoƀūlū smiled and said, “I knew you would always do the right thing.”

They collected the roasted carcasses and were looking for something with which to cut the meat into pieces, but Ŷaŝhar didn’t wait for Ŷamoƀūlū to get excited; he pulled out the hunting knife, and they were able to cut the pieces. The same thing happened when it came to how they were going to take the remaining meat home; Ŷaŝhar took out the hunting bag that he had been told not to bring but had brought anyway.

On their way home, Ŷaŝhar recalled a similar incident to the one they were in now—they had gone hunting and been fortunate to come across a very large, dead antelope. They ate some but decided to take the rest of the meat home.

However, as they approached the village’s vicinity, Ŷamoƀūlū seized the whole bag and walked away with it. Ŷaŝhar had begged him for just a piece to share with his family, but Ŷamoƀūlū had denied him.

From then on, he’d promised himself that would not happen again. When the thought of it occurring again, he felt nauseated and immediately started throwing up, such that he had to make an excuse to go to the bush to throw up. While in the bush, he took a chunk of the meat and hid it under a rock before reing Ŷamoƀūlū. Ŷamoƀūlū was impatient from Ŷaŝhar’s delay in the bush, so, as soon as he showed up, Ŷamoƀūlū warned him that they would have to pick up the pace; he intended to have Pāna prepare the meat tonight.

Ŷaŝhar apologized for taking too much time in the bush. As soon as they finished discussing his long delay, Ŷamoƀūlū noticed a baobab tree with the fruits ready for picking. Immediately, he ed his expedition with Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir, where his thigh had been used as an object thrown at the ripe baobab fruits to get them down and, to his amazement, there had been no loss of any drops of blood.

“Uncle Ŷaŝhar, come here right now!”

Ŷaŝhar didn’t have any idea why Ŷamoƀūlū was calling with such a commanding, authoritative voice. But through years of experience dealing with Ŷamoƀūlū, he had learned you don’t ask questions or waste time when Ŷamoƀūlū calls you in that stern voice.

“Coming,” was his only response.

When he came, Ŷamoƀūlū told him to lie down immediately. “I want to eat the fruits of the baobab.”

Ŷaŝhar tried to protest, but it was to no avail; before he knew what was going on, he was on his back, and Ŷamōƀūlū was busy pulling out his thigh. He cried and yelled and bled profusely, but it was too late—Ŷamoƀūlū had his thigh in his hand; and he was there, incapacitated as “ngurdiki,” lame.

Ŷamoƀūlū dexterously picked up the limb he’d pulled out and threw it up the tree, but instead of fruits coming down, the limb got stuck between the branches. Ŷaŝhar started crying and yelling again, this time not only because of the pain he was experiencing but also over the apparent loss of his thigh. He watched hopelessly in awe and fear, especially fear of being rendered lame, because he observed Ŷamoƀūlū had tried to bring the limb down by throwing some large twigs up at it without any success.

To his utter astonishment, he saw Ŷamoƀūlū trying to pull out his other thigh in order to try and bring the first one down, hopefully with a few fruits, too. It was Ŷaŝhar’s desperate shriek that reached a savior very far and deep in the bush.

Before Ŷamoƀūlū could pull out another limb, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir was there, standing tall above him. He chastised Ŷamoƀūlū very hard for trying to do what he knew he could not do. After his chastisement, he pulled out Ŷamoƀūlū’s thigh, threw it up the tree, and Ŷaŝhar’s thigh—plus several of the fruits—came tumbling down. He picked up both thighs, brushed off the dirt, and surgically put them back in for their respective owners.

Before either Ŷamoƀūlū or Ŷaŝhar could come up with some form of expression of gratitude, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir had disappeared into the wild, never to be seen or heard from again in those regions.

When they died years later, their children and grandchildren were all at hand to bury them peacefully. Several decades after that, people reported seeing a goat and a rooster roaming in the valley where they had parted with Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, but, despite their persistent attempts to capture them, nobody had succeeded so far.

Another version has it that when Ŷaƀilaramāŷa parted from his parents, he met a night marauder (hyena) who wanted to seize his goat by force, but Ŷaƀilaramāŷa asked him to wrestle with him: if he won, he would have the goat and everything else. The hyena was excited because he thought this was going to be an easy duel, but he was mistaken. He had, of course, underestimated Ŷaƀilaramāŷa. When they started, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa allowed the hyena to enjoy an instant advantage, but, thereafter, he beat the hyena so badly that the hyena wanted to run away.

Ŷaƀilaramāŷa eventually commanded the ground to open up and swallow the hyena. The hyena was only saved by the arrival of Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir, who countermanded the earth, and the hyena was spewed out. Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir finally subdued Ŷaƀilaramāŷa after two excruciating days of battle, where each comBaŧānt used all his available skills and prowess.

After Ŷaƀilaramāŷa was killed, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir hung his insides outside to dry, and he instructed the hyena not to touch them. However, greed and insubordination worked on the hyena, and he licked the dripping fat. Instantly, Ŷaƀilaramāŷa emerged and, as before, commanded the earth to swallow the hyena. Unfortunately for the hyena, Ŷa Ĝaĝuma-ata Ǩuchir was no longer in the region, so he died of suffocation. Ŷaƀilaramāŷa, in the meantime, took his personal effects (goat, rooster, and the flour) and disappeared into the hills, probably returning to his alien people.

THLAMTA FAR NA WA, THLAMTA FAR JIKILA AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Five

Tŝaƙura Mađū: The Stubborn Grandson

To say, or even merely to suggest, that Tŝaƙura Mađū, or simply Mađū, was an obdurate grandson is an understatement. He was a haughty and sagacious grandson whose only good virtues and stocks in trade were deceit and foul play.

Tŝaƙura Mađū came to live with his grandmother, Nĝŵazi, when his parents, Maĉhar and Ǩŵaɓatħi, drowned under suspicious circumstances. They had left him at home with his grandmother to consult with an oracle in the next village because Tŝaƙura was always crying and “seeing” things at night. The tribe believed that when a child “saw” things, as Mađū did, only the supreme power of the oracle could save him by blunting his “visions.” It was on their way back that they drowned at Mŷyaujaffā. People were stunned because the stream was shallow since it was the dry season.

Nĝŵazi was an old, meticulous lady who had no tolerance for nonsense or bad behavior. Everybody in the village knew her to be the epitome of decorum but, at the same time, a harsh and uncompromising disciplinarian. She had little tolerance for mischief and showed her disgust for it openly by yelling and glaring intensely whenever see saw it. People often made a ing comment that her harsh discipline and attitude against nonsense had made Mađū the bully and mischievous child he was.

On one hot and humid summer day, with a few drops of rain falling from the darkened tropical sky, Nĝŵazi perched herself on ƙulaŵu, watching and waiting to see what the weather was going to turn out to be like. Would it continue this way, or would it turn into a tropical storm with strong wind?

After waiting impatiently for two hours, she decided to go anyway. From the way things looked, the drops were going to continue throughout the whole day without changing into a heavy downpour. In short, she consciously decided there would be no immediate end to the gloom cast by the weather. Without rancor or

fuss, she politely asked Mađu, who at the time was twelve, to boil “janĝuli” (a mixture of beans, corn, nuts, and hazel nuts) for them before she returned home from the farm.

It wasn’t the first time that Mađu had been asked to take responsibility for such household chores. He had always done it. Thus, there was no reason for his grandmother to expect anything different. However, today Mađu had already made a solemn decision that it was going to be quite different, and he intended to make it amazingly “funny”.

Instead of the usual amount he cooked for them, he decided to be thrifty and luckless. He took three grains of each of the usual items he used and cooked them. When the mixture was done, he put it in a calabash and took it to his grandmother in the farm. His grandmother thanked him: “You were unusually diligent, quick, and early.” She then told him to sit and wait for her; when she finished the small row she had to work on, she would him, and they would eat together before going home.

Mađū sat down under the luxuriant tree and played with the small, smoothed pebbles he’d collected on his way over. When his grandmother felt the pang of irresistible hunger, she ed Mađū under the tree. She washed her hands and handed Mađu the water to wash his hands, too. She was utterly unprepared for Mađu’s unexpected mischief and pranks, and she almost fell off the piece of stone she was sitting on when she opened the dish of food. She became furious and delirious, showing a frightening, frenzied look, but she merely reprimanded him by saying next time, he should cook more.

Mađū responded by saying, “I will . Next time, there will be enough!”

After a short while, because of the thunder and lightning, they gathered their

belongings to go home. Nĝŵazi, surmised it was going to rain. On their way home, she picked a few fresh vegetables for supper.

For a long time, there was a congenial truce between Mađū and his grandmother, and by a critical look at how things were going now, he knew he had gained her veneration. Consequently, he resorted to doing his chores without complaining, and Nĝŵazi was pleased with and proud of him. Every day that ed, Mađū was growing and gaining in the tribal ways of life and wisdom. He had even dared, one day, to ask his grandmother where “babies” came from, but he knew immediately—from the poignantly distressed look on her face—that it was the wrong question to ask. Mađū instinctively knew such questions were not supposed to be asked. The answers will come when you are an adult, was his surmise.

It had now been more than a fortnight without Mađū being asked to boil “janĝuli” or to go and meet his grandmother in the farm. He spent most of his afternoons playing hide and seek, climbing trees, and picking wild fruits or playing “dara” (a game like chess) with his friends.

This protracted period of quiet and bliss, however, was ultimately brief and about to end abruptly when, one day, early in the morning, Mađū’s grandmother told him to boil “janĝuli” for them for the evening. As usual, before she went out, she instructed Mađū on what to put in the pot—beans, corn, kidney beans, and sesame seeds—and for how long he should allow it to cook.

Tŝaƙurā Mađū had already decided today he was going to make enough for both, with some “surplus.” As such, as soon as his grandmother left the house, he went out and invited his friends to come and help him thrash some guinea corn, beans, and corn and shell some groundnuts. Tŝaƙura Mađū didn’t have any shortage of volunteers; the children came in droves. Some climbed the corn granary and took out everything. Others busied themselves with the corn while still others became busy shelling the groundnuts. When everything was ready, they brought

out all the large pots they could find and built large stoves in front of the compound, bringing out all the dry firewood they could get.

The whole place was a mass of pots, stoves, and smoke. ersby were surprised at the conflagration and the delicious smell of fine food being prepared. Meanwhile, however, Mađu’ s grandmother was waiting in the farm for her food, but Mađu, of course, wasn’t going to make it on time today. Nĝŵazi waited and waited in vain until she finally decided to come home and see what was wrong with her grandson. She even cogitated quietly whether the boy had burned down the compound, but her conscience rebelled against such inane thoughts.

As Nĝŵazi, approached the village’s vicinity, she was struck by the presence of the fine smell of food and a light blue float of smoke. She had no reason to suspect that the smell and the free float of smoke were coming from her compound.

Neighbors had gathered to see what was going on; some even expressed amazement at how, as her next-door neighbor Anĝili stated, “Nĝŵazi could have fallen sick and died in such a short time without me knowing about it.”

This became a common reder to the spectacle before them, thinking this was a burial feast. Few made comments that seemed unrelated to the events unfolding before them. Some blamed what was taking place on the general changes that had been introduced by the “Mji mŵapū” (white men) and were causing the breakdown of societal norms and fabrics. However, the nearer Nĝŵazi got to her house, the denser and louder the crowd grew. When she came very close to the house, Tŝaƙura Mađū ran toward her with a broad, ecstatic smile and wide open hands, and he hugged her saying, “All the people here have come to share our ‘janĝuli’! I followed your instructions meticulously and made sure there is enough today for everybody!”

Even before he could finish speaking, Nĝŵazi fainted and had to be helped inside.

When she recuperated, she said, “Mađū, my grandson, this is all we have to last us the whole coming season, and you cooked everything in one scoop? Is this meant for the king’s courtiers or for us alone? How can we finish a year’s supply of food in one day?”

Tŝaƙura Mađū’s mouth gaped open and he was mesmerized when he heard his grandmother make a reference to the king’s men. Tŝaƙura Mađū smiled a knowing smile and quietly but defiantly walked out, squeezing his way through the throng that had gathered, and ran to the king’s court.

Upon arriving at the palace, he demanded to see the king, and the chief guard announced him. The king nodded for Tŝaƙura Mađū to be introduced to his presence, but he was shocked to see his visitor; he had expected a knight, some very-significant ward, or a chieftain, but he was disappointed.

As a matter of fact, when his visitor was introduced, the king just nodded without acknowledging Mađū and continued his conversation with his senior adviser, Ŷārima, who, at the time, was fervidly giving him a rundown of how the farms were generally doing and of how, by Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa’s benevolence, there wouldn’t be any shortages next season.

When the king’s visitor waited in vain to be recognized, he reminded the king that he was in his court with an urgent message.

The king asked, “What is it, my boy?”

“My lord,” Tŝaƙura Mađū answered in the most respectful tone he could muster, without betraying his arrogance, “My grandmother, Nĝŵazi, asked for the honor of Your Majesty, and his court, to come and have supper with us tonight,” he said.

“Who are you?” the king asked curiously.

Meanwhile, the courtiers were dead silent in amazement and just stared without blinking. Some of them had personally helped Nĝŵazi with food during the off season to feed her grandson, and they were presently speechless and oblivious to what was transpiring between Nĝŵazi’s page and the king.

“I am serious, my lord,” was Mađū’s terse but resolute answer when the king insisted that he was mistaken. “No, Your Honor. She said, ‘We have so much food that I want you to go and call His Excellency, the king, and his courtiers to come into our humble abode and share it with us.”

In the end, after some consideration, the king felt touched by Nĝŵazi’s magnanimity and unmitigated ion for sharing. He was moved by her actions because he knew deep inside him that this was merely an act of kindness and not for any propitiation.

“This woman is an angel,” the king declared, “because, despite her palpable poverty, she wants, out of gracious generosity, for us to come and share her meager provisions,” he surmised matter-of-factly.

“Such women, my lord, are made of holy grail—they are made of the fine clay that was used in creating angels—and have no human equal in their dispensation of warmth, generosity, ion, and love,” answered Tāpĉhi, the senior courtier.

The king thus coughed to clear his throat, and then he gracefully informed Tŝaƙura Mađū to go and tell his grandmother, “The king and his courtiers have accepted your kind and generous invitation and are on their way.”

While Tŝaƙura Mađū was away, Nĝŵazi invited the onlookers to help themselves to the surplus food. Little did she know that her grandson had invited the king and his entire court, including his minions, to come and have dinner at her house. When Tŝaƙura Mađū eventually showed up at home, he excitedly gave Nĝŵazi the news that the king had accepted her invitation and was on his way with his men. Nĝŵazi was stunned, and her face collapsed into a kind of paroxysm of anguish. She put her hand to her forehead in a mime of despair and almost fainted for the second time in less than three hours! She was utterly perplexed and didn’t know what to make of this tragic saga that her stubborn, mischievous grandson had created.

Before she could implore those helping themselves to the food to desist, horse hooves, fast approaching, were distinctly heard. There was nothing she could do but fall flat, face-down, before the king and implore his indulgence to forgive her for her grandson’s unbecoming mishap and pranks. She elucidated the circumstances leading to her making a reference to the king and his minions. The king was sympathetic and openly showed that he didn’t harbor any ill feelings against either the grandmother or the grandson.

The courtiers, however, were angry because most had already sent word to their wives that they “Would not be eating at home tonight.”

Before the king and his men departed, he made a solemn promise and commitment to Nĝŵazi of enough supply of food for the coming season and the entire coming year!

The king and his men left in a good mood and made fun of Mađu’s childish pranks and of his lack of apparent consideration for his grandmother, whose face more than anything else displayed ugly and debilitating poverty. Tsaƙura Mađu, however, persisted with his obnoxious pranks against his grandmother and the

people around her.

But, in no uncertain , in the next incident, he went beyond his bounds of operation and seeming decency.

Bored and unoccupied one muggy afternoon, Tŝaƙura Mađū put on his hunting paraphernalia and went into the adjacent forest, despite the apparent threat of a severe tropical thunderstorm. After he had surveyed the forest and found no prey, he decided to visit the nearby ranch. Before he could reach it, however, it started to pour very heavily.

The combination of heavy torrential rains and lightning made it seem as if the whole heavens were out for vengeance. Mađū’s self-preservation instinct, which he shared with all of humanity, exerted pressure on him and forced him to seek refuge under a tree. When the rain stopped and the sky was once more blue and as a crystal clear as it could be, he set out for the ranch.

Upon reaching it, he looked around but could find no prey because the rest of the herd was still out in the field, feeding. However, going into a shed, he found a strayed cow and immediately fell upon it with a vengeance and unpredictable ferocity, slaughtering it with his hunting bow and poisoned arrow made from a piece of an elephant toe bone.

Now Mađu stood there in utter confusion for he didn’t know what to do with his prey. For a few brief moments, he surveyed his line of action, working through it with the rapidity of a flash of light, until, eventually, a solution, which seemed cogent enough to obliterate all traces of the crime leading to him, presented itself.

The solution that he arrived at was this: there was an area not quite distant from where he was, where traders coming to the village market spent the night after several days of trekking with their animals and goods. Tŝaƙura Mađū reminisced and smiled at his smart approach to a difficult and almost insurmountable problem.

When he set out to the valley of death at the foot of the only mountain near the village, the sun was already shining its golden, glittering rays through the blue sky with such vehemence that one would think some miracle was about to happen. Upon reaching the spot, he found the wary and exhausted travelers sleeping and decided to stay there overnight before moving on to the village the following morning.

Mađū lapsed into a sublime thought, gave a demonic smile, and thanked goodness for a perfect scapegoat to his diabolic, criminal act, which was disguised as a childish prank. He ran back to the shed where he had left the cow he had killed, cut it into pieces, carried the parts to the traders, and stuck them into their bags and pockets. To complete this mischievous and lawless act, he smeared their hands, shirts, and knives with blood, and then he walked away without a perturbed conscience.

The following morning, the rancher reported the incident to the king because, per beliefs and tradition, it was prohibited to kill, or even to knowingly maltreat, a cow. Cows to the tribe were prohibited from being slaughtered except for special events, which were usually performed by an oracle or the tribal chief priest. But this incident, the rancher surmised, was not carried out for any religious or tribal-rites purposes.

The king received the report with a solemn expression of anger mixed with dismay. Consequently, he made a public proclamation through his minions that any worthy and virtuous citizen that could provide some information leading to the identification and arrest of the culprits of this criminal act would be rewarded

with one half of the kingdom. Thus, all the king’s wise men were called to the palace to help solve the riddle, but none could figure it out, and they all proclaimed it to be the act of providence.

While all the wise men were racking their brains, trying to figure out what had happened, Tŝaƙura Mađū was in the field playing, and nobody bothered to ask him because he was just a “child.”

Upon his return home, though, he was told of the king’s proclamation and of the promise thereof. Tŝaƙura Mađū called his grandmother aside and whispered his knowledge of the events that took place. He told her he had been watching from afar in a tree while these traders chased the cow and slaughtered it. However, he wasn’t convinced that the king would actually keep his pledge and honor of sharing the kingdom with any citizen that divulged the information leading to the arrest of the culprits.

He knew, he said, “Power intoxicates, and those who have it will not willingly share it, especially with a commoner and a child, for that matter.” He could prove the veracity of his knowledge by personally leading the king’s men to the culprits. The grandmother promised to get the message to the king and to demand his word of honor that he intended to keep his promise despite age or the person’s social standing.

When the king received Nĝŵazi in his court in the presence of his minions, he gave her his word of honor. Tŝaƙura Mađū was then called to the king’s palace and told the king would keep his honor: “If you give relevant information that leads to the capture of the culprits of this heinous crime, you will share the throne with me; half of the kingdom will be yours and of your posterity,” the king proudly affirmed.

Tŝaƙura Mađū asked to be left alone for a moment. His request was granted without any objection.

While alone, he dreamt of his new status and of the place his grandmother would occupy in his kingdom. He dreamt of the day he would get a wife and have children and of the role his children would play in the kingdom. When Tŝaƙura Mađū emerged from his conscious and deliberative dream, he told the king and his courtiers that, through his “vision,” he had seen the culprits and would lead the king’s men to them.

Despite the king’s misgivings and contempt for visions, he ordered his generals to come and instructed them to go with Tŝaƙura Mađū and bring the culprits: “So they can face the harshest punishment permissible for such a crime against divine providence, if they are proven to have committed it.”

Armed to the teeth, the generals led their army with Tŝaƙura Mađū in the forefront to the valley of “bones” or “death,” where the traders had spent the night. When the generals saw the traders, they almost withdrew because they knew these men to be upright leaders in their own village and community. But Mađū ionately insisted they were the culprits; he advised the generals to have their men ransack the men’s bags and other personal belongings.

When they did, they were stunned with their findings—the men had the meat packed in their bags and blood smeared all over their bodies. Their knives were all soaked in blood, too. Before the arrival of the king’s men, the traders had discovered the blood on their shirts and bodies, but they could not figure out what had happened; they did not even know they had the meat in their bags.

They were all arrested, brought to the king’s court, and sentenced to a life of servitude. They could only be let go after ten years and only if each of them paid

with a hundred cows. As for Tŝaƙura Mađū, the king had to honor his promise, so Tsaƙura Mađu was given the western portion of the kingdom with his personal palace, courtiers, perks, and the prerogatives that were due to a king.

Tŝaƙura Mađū’s grandmother, Nĝŵazi, was instantly made the queen-mother and enjoyed the respect of all of her subjects. King Tŝaƙura Mađū ruled wisely and was said to be an upright king; he was loved and revered by his subjects. He eventually married the king’s younger daughter, and they had several children: seven boys and three girls.

The queen-mother did not live long to see her great grandchildren; she died immediately after the marriage. It was rumored that before King Mađū died, the two kingdoms were working out a compromise to merge once more, but neither King Mađū nor the senior king witnessed this merger. Both died happily as sovereign kings.

THLAMTA FAR NAWA, THLAMTA FAR NGILUM

Chapter Six

Ŷamōƀūlū and Ŷaŝħar: The Uncompromising Uncles

A long, long time ago, there lived two uncles who, in every aspect, were the antithesis of each other. Their names were Ŷamōƀūlū and Ŷaŝħar. Ŷaŝħar and his wife, Pinđār, knew of their uncle’s and his wife’s every intrigue and debauchery, and they worked hard all the time to thwart them.

Ŷamōƀūlū and Pāna, his wife, on the other hand, knew how wily Ŷaŝħar and his wife were, and what they were capable of doing. Consequently, they always tried to intimidate and threaten them either by being shrewd and treacherous or by using imminent brute force, depending on what was at stake.

The different ways the two families viewed the world could easily be inferred from the names of Ŷamōƀūlū’s children: Aŵul-sur-mđa Apa-arni (perceives others property as if it were his own); Aŵul-ɗehu Apa-đaħumsa (perceives bone as a piece of cake); and, lastly, Aŵul-ƙyalanƙu-Apamal (sees morning dew as body lotion).

These names characterized Ŷamōƀūlū’s strong view of life, which means everything in it was transient. To Ŷamōƀūlū, everything in life was only good if it purported to serve him and if he could control and determine its eventual outcome. In short, to him, the means justified the end, no matter what.

Whenever the two uncles went out to prey on predators, Ŷamōƀūlū’s dictum was

paramount in his mind and behavior, and it unreservedly dictated his overt actions. He would not only take the lion share of the catch but always needed to take the best cuts. When the two uncles reached home, even the small and unwanted portion that Ŷaŝħar had reluctantly been given was not immune from instant usurpation by some cunning and dubious means.

For instance, after every hunting expedition, Ŷamōƀūlū would immediately dispatch one of his children to go to their uncle, Ŷaŝħar, as soon as they arrived home, with an explicit instruction to get fire. The child, however, would be given a solemn instruction on the side not to come back until he had received a big chunk of the food that was being prepared by Pinđār, Ŷaŝħar’s wife. As such, the child had to devise some means of hovering around Ŷaŝhar’s house until the food was ready.

Some commonly used tricks involved getting the fire but urinating on it as soon as he was outside, out of sight, and coming back to the house for another one. This would go on until the food was ready and the child had monopolized a good portion of the meat. Ŷaŝħar got fed up with this selfish, sordid, and diabolical behavior and resolved to do something about it.

The revenge Ŷaŝħar envisaged took form conceptually when he was in the bathroom, and he related this to his wife at the opportune time. This happened when, one day, after their regular hunting escapades, as was the tradition, he was given only the insides of the catch: a few bones and unwanted white meat.

When Ŷaŝħar came home, he told his wife of his ingenious plan, which he assured her would be excellent as bait in teaching his uncle some lessons in morality and decorum. He asked his wife to prepare the meat very nicely and tastily to entice his uncle to desire to eat everything. His wife was a bit angered because she interpreted what her husband had just said to mean that her cooking had not always been tasty. Despite this misgiving, she went ahead and prepared the food as best she knew how. It was done earlier than usual to avoid the

intrusion of one of Ŷamōƀūlū’s children.

When everything was ready, Ŷaŝħar entered the dish and squatted, and his wife lumped and covered him with the food. The top part of the food was covered with meat and the delicious stew. When this was done, she was instructed to take the dish to his uncle with the exhortation that this was one of their long-forgotten traditions. The rite involved swallowing the food whole, without cutting it into pieces.

When Pinđār delivered the huge dish to Ŷamōƀūlū and reminded him of what his uncle Ŷaŝħar had said, he abruptly interrupted her by saying, “Woman, how dare you play on my sense of tradition? Don’t you know that I still these things? Go tell my uncle I’m grateful he reminded me of our old, sacred tradition, and tell him the whole thing will be swallowed as dictated by tradition.”

He smiled, signaling to Pinđār that it was time for her to go. Ŷamōƀūlū was so excited over the privilege of having a whole dish for himself and not having to share it with his family that he went inside his hut and locked the door. While inside alone, he jumped and cried with joy, which expressed itself on his every muscle and gesture.

Unbeknownst to Ŷamōƀūlū, his uncle had carried a small pocket knife with him, and he immediately started using it to cut Ŷamōƀūlū’s insides. After such a sumptuous meal, Ŷamōƀūlū burped, sat up straight, and thanked his benevolent uncle for bringing this long-forgotten tradition of “food” swallowing back to memory.

From now on, he cogitated, he would use this tradition to get what he wanted from his uncle. However, a few moments later, he began to feel some abdominal

pain, which was unusual for him. At the same time, he started to cough up blood. The pain increased to such a pitch that Ŷamōƀūlū sent one of his sons to go and consult with his uncle to ascertain if it was also part of the tradition to be subjected to such excruciating pain after the “swallow.” Meanwhile, he began to throw up everything he had eaten, including blood and some pieces of his internal organs.

The child returned with the message that his uncle had gone to the farm, but before leaving, he had given his wife the following instructions, which the boy narrated as follows: “In case of excessive vomiting accompanied by blood and internal organs, all the meat you took from our catch yesterday should be returned to me, and I will decide what you get.”

Upon hearing this message, Ŷamōƀūlū was enraged and said he wasn’t going to give the meat back to Ŷaŝħar: “I would rather see all my insides in the gutter than surrender the meat,” he said.

Ŷaŝħar, who was listening from inside the stomach, cut deeper into Ŷamōƀūlūu’s intestine and lower abdomen. Ŷamōƀūlū yelled in pain, called one of his children, and told him to take all the meat to Ŷaŝħar’s house. After having said this as loud as he could, however, he cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered to his son, “Be sure to leave the juicy thigh bone.”

The child did as he was told, but the pain continued without any obvious exacerbation except the fear of losing his luxurious bone. They asked Ŷaŝħar’s wife what their father could do to be relieved from this extraordinary pain, and she told them that, according to her husband’s instructions, everything from yesterday’s catch had to be given to him, including all the bones.

When this was related to Ŷamōƀūlū, he just smiled and said nothing on earth

could make him give up all the meat. When Ŷaŝħar heard this comment, he cut even deeper; this time, he cut part of the lungs and the spleen. When Ŷamōƀūlūu saw part of his lungs out and tasted the bitter gall-bladder-bile salts in his mouth, he gave a final, authoritative instruction that all should be taken to Ŷaŝħar’s house without any pieces left, including all the bones he had hidden under his bed. When all the meat was delivered to Ŷaŝħar’s house, his wife told Ŷamōƀūlū where her husband had said he should go and defecate.

After receiving this final instruction, his honest, melancholic, and alwaysmisunderstood wife gave him and led him to the ravine where he found the anthill; he had been instructed to direct his butt into one of its numerous openings as he defecated. With both hands gently cupped under his abdomen, and bending down low because of the pain, he squatted. His wife ed him with both hands from behind, and he managed to direct his butt to one of the anthill openings.

After a protracted squirming and wrangling, he forced the inside of his intestines into the opening and immediately felt relief. The pain had also ceased instantly, and he felt much better.

With the pain gone, he sat down in solemn silence, contemplating the very-hardto-ask but, all the same, pertinent questions that preceded or followed the observance of the so-called tradition his uncle had reminded him of. It didn’t seem to make any sense to him now, no matter how much time he devoted to it, because he could neither the existence of this tradition nor the last time it had been practiced.

The more he tried to , the less sense it made to him. While still pondering over the origin and veracity of this tradition, he turned his back, as if by instinct, and to his surprise, he saw Ŷaŝħar near the anthill, among the shrubs in the ravine, half squatting and half bending down with a sickle in one hand, pretending to be cutting grass while meticulously struggling to conceal a pocket

knife with the other hand.

Ŷamōƀūlū was aghast at seeing his uncle in the area after he had been informed he had gone to the farm. He was more flabbergasted by the sight of a pocket knife in his uncle’s hand. The immediately natural question was: “What is he doing with a pocket knife while cutting grass?” But he never overtly asked this question.

Instead, he suppressed his disgust and anger and, in a solemn but steady voice, inquired what his uncle was doing there, cutting grass when he should be in the farm. Ŷaŝħar, immediately sensing some mishap and treachery in the voice, crafted some ingenious response by stating that he was there to cut some mamzham, as well as to get him some local herbs, which would relieve him of his pain.

Ŷaŝħar knew, even before he uttered this response, that it would not satisfy his uncle, who in his mind had already conjured up that he, Ŷaŝħar, was behind his excruciating abdominal pain, which came from the “swallowing” rite. Ŷaŝħar, however, gave him the few herbs he had in his hands and instructed him to chew them. Ŷamōƀūlū accepted the herbs and looked at Ŷaŝħar intensely, not believing a single word of what he’d said or the herbs he’s given him.

He had already made up his mind that he was going to have revenge over this sordid and diabolic prank, which had cost him his honor and esteem. The revenge he was now contemplating was going to be the biggest, and certainly unparalleled, in the history of pranks and revenges.

A fortnight later, the two uncles went out hunting again and, as usual, the lion share of the catch went to Ŷamōƀūlū (apparently, he hadn’t learned his lessons yet).

On their way home, he told his uncle, “It is now my turn to play host to our tradition.” Although both by now had already guessed it was phony, Ŷaŝħar pretended not to hear.

When Ŷamōƀūlū made the comment again, Ŷaŝħar said, “I thought it’s supposed to be once a year.”

But Ŷamōƀūlū rebuked him by saying, “Who is older, I or you? Anyway, what do you know about our traditions and their values?”

Ŷaŝħar went quiet and maintained his silence up to when they parted, and each went to his house.

As soon as Ŷamōƀūlū reached home, he called his wife, Pāna, and told her to prepare the fresh meat he’d just brought in the most delicious way she could because he was going to reciprocate his uncle’s rite of “swallowing” by sending him one. Pāna wanted to protest because it seemed to her it was an annual event, and it was just about three weeks ago that he had been served one. She wanted to counsel her husband to wait for a year before reciprocating because, by then, Ŷaŝħar might have forgotten about it. But Ŷamōƀūlū scolded her and said he knew all along which side she was on. Knowing her husband’s temper, however, she just kept quiet and went ahead with her cooking.

The cooking was so good that ersby smelled its delicacy and praised Pāna. Ŷamōƀūlū became angry because nobody ever praised Pāna when she cooked for the family. He accused her of treachery and threatened her, “You are going to pay for this betrayal after the rite is over.” Now the cooking was done, but they were confronted with a major problem: where to find a dish big enough for

Ŷamōƀūlū?

It was finally decided that Pāna would use her brewing pot. Little did it occur to them that Ŷaŝhar could not even see inside the pot without climbing to its top. When everything was set─it took Pāna three days to grind the sorghum, whose flour she needed to cook the food─Ŷamōƀūlū squeezed himself inside the pot, and they piled the food and meat on top of him. By the time he was fully covered, it looked like a small anthill.

The next imminent problem was how to deliver the “swallow” to Ŷaŝħar’s residence. It was obvious that one person could not carry it, so it was decided that they would improvise a cart, and Pāna would be helped by two of her children. Pāna and the children struggled for a long time before they could hoist the pot onto the cart. When this was done, they wheeled it gently to Ŷaŝħar’s residence. An apparent confusion ensued with respect to the instruction their father had given, for it was now obvious to all of them that there was no way Ŷaŝħar could even lift the pot without assistance, let alone “swallow” it. However, it was decided to adhere to their father’s injunctions that Ŷaŝħar swallow the whole thing without cutting it into pieces.

Ŷaŝħar, of course, knew this to be a phony. He grimaced and remarked, “I am pleased my uncle didn’t forget these traditions. Thank him for me; I shall swallow it as he has instructed.” When Pāna and her children had left, Ŷaŝħar called his wife and said, “You know what this is, don’t you?”

Of course, I know; it’s your uncle inside there, suffocating. You must act expeditiously—before it’s too late.” Both husband and wife chuckled, fervently hugging each other.

“Give me my hunting spear and the large double-edged hunting knife,” said

Ŷaŝħar to his wife. When Ŷamōƀūlū heard this, he started to tremble, and the pot shook vigorously.

To make matters worse for Ŷamōƀūlū, Ŷaŝħar went to the nearby stone and started to sharpen both weapons arduously. Ŷamōƀūlū was listening to everything that was going on, but he decided, as a man, to maintain a semblance of composure. When Ŷaŝħar ed the knife through the food lightly, it struck Ŷamōƀūlū near the ear and, suddenly, he experienced delirium as he never had before, but he decided to hold on without much ado.

Ŷaŝħar, though, cut deeper then, severing one ear and slashing a portion of the nose. Ŷamōƀūlū was startled and became even more delirious, inordinately frenzied, and melancholic, and he was overwhelmed by the fear of death.

Consequently, he thundered from under the pile of food. “Didn’t Pāna and her stupidity tell you the food should be swallowed and not cut into pieces?” he demanded.

“Yes, Uncle, your good wife and the children told me the exact thing you said, but you know my habits. I can’t eat things in large lumps; I need to break or cut them into small pieces.”

Ŷamōƀūlū was very angry and disappointed that his elaborate plan of revenge had been foiled. What he didn’t know was that he gave himself up by having the sharp blade of his spear sticking out because the pot was too small to hide the whole spear.

Eventually, he asked Ŷaŝħar to let him out. Once out, he was nonchalant and

piteously depressed, but he maintained the fortitude of a defeated warrior and wheeled the pot, and its contents, back home intact, where he challenged Pāna for betraying his cause by not covering the sword and the spear completely. Pāna retorted by pointing out that it was as plain as day and night that Ŷaŝħar could not swallow the whole pot as he expected and, therefore, it was sheer foolishness to even try to convince him. After a mutual exchange of accusations, Pāna nursed his ears and nose wounds, and they slept.

The following morning, Ŷaŝħar went out very early to the nearby stream to catch some fish and to enjoy an early, quiescent swim in the warm, blue, smoothflowing, sparkling stream. Suddenly, to his amazement, he sighted a large herd of monkeys in the distance, jumping from tree to tree, having the fun of their lives.

Ŷaŝħar sat down in silence for a moment and finally decided to invite them to come and swim with him. Reluctantly, the monkeys accepted and ed him. Then an idea flashed in Ŷaŝħar’s mind. In an instant, he conjured up a diabolic and capricious scheme in which he could lure a monkey into a corner and kill it quietly, without the whole herd knowing about it.

To implement this scheme, he tied a small pebble stone to his leg. When some of the monkeys saw, the stone tied to Ŷaŝħar’s leg, they wanted to run away, but he challenged them by appealing to their inner “human” sympathy and instinct by saying, “How dare you run away from me because of my sore leg? Has none of you ever been sick or threatened by those two-legged animals they call humans?”

When the monkeys heard this, they felt sorry for him and reed him. Now, convinced of their confidence, he mentally worked out a scheme of how to carry out his caprice by volunteering to teach them a new song, which he claimed to have been taught by one of their late, beloved cousins who had just ed away the week before. The song ran something like this:

Talang kachuta, talwadang; talang kachuta, talwadang; tsapila ka tsi bzir chandum, palwadang, tsapila ka tsi bzir ntunvwa, palwadang palwadang.

At the word palwadang, they were all supposed to swing from the tree and dive deep into the water. However, as the monkeys dove deep into the water, Ŷaŝħar would hit a baby monkey, which he had pre-selected with the stone tied to his leg, and hide it under the grass and shrubs. After ascertaining the safety of his catch, his eyes flashing with an indescribably imperturbable malice, he would unexpectedly proclaim the end of the game.

Ŷaŝħar’s ingenious scheme worked very well for a long time. Every day, he would come alone at an appointed time, hit one baby monkey by the same method, and take it home, without the monkeys ever discovering it. There was, thus, never a shortage of fine, tender meat in his house.

One sultry afternoon, however, Ŷamōƀūlū was having “quality time” with his family when one of the children recounted an experience he’d had at the Ŷaŝħar’s residence. He reiterated how tender the meat was that Ŷaŝħar’s wife served while he was visiting them. It was so tender and delicious, he said, that he stayed late in a bush behind their house after he bade them goodbye and went back in when he was sure they had slept, and he stole the remains.

“You are a fool; why didn’t you tell me about it earlier when you know that, for three days now, we haven’t had any meat, except for some dry, old, stale bones?” retorted his disgruntled father with his characteristic grotesque voice and sordid expression. He got up in a hurry and rushed to Ŷaŝħar r’s residence, where he found the family eating.

They offered him some of what they were eating; he quickly accepted and abruptly announced his misgivings with his uncle: “How could you, a worthy uncle, discover a haven for such a supple delicacy and not tell me?”

Ŷaŝħar was a bit bashful and sardonic but defensively and quickly responded that he had thought of sharing the secret with him, but he was a bit averse to doing so because he was convinced Ŷamōƀūlū would, as usual, usurp the whole situation and ruin it.

Ŷamōƀūlū conceded he might have once but, since it had been pointed out to him, he would now “behave well.”

“Alright, at five o’clock in the evening tomorrow, come here, and we will go to the place, but you have to pledge that, at least for the first day, you will only observe, and whatever I get, we will share it accordingly,” was Ŷaŝħar’s terse response.

Ŷamōƀūlū said he accepted all the conditions, except that he did not intend to go home; he would spend the night and the following afternoon there to make sure they left at exactly five o’clock, as propounded by Ŷaŝħar. Ŷaŝħar tried in vain to convince him that it was all right for him to go home; he would not leave the following evening without him, but Ŷamōƀūlū insisted on staying for the night.

Ŷaŝħar sent his son to tell Pāna that her husband was staying with them for the night because they had a trip the following evening. Pāna, in her simple mind, could not logically comprehend or discern why her husband would like to spend a night at Ŷaŝħar’s place if the trip was the following evening. But after thinking about it for a moment, she just gave up and fell asleep.

Very early in the morning, before the cock crowed, Ŷamōƀūlū was already petulant; he was up pacing the room up and down. At around five in the morning, he was knocking on Ŷaŝħar’s door. Ŷaŝhar was perturbed but resolved to maintain a cool mental attitude. Being perspicacious, he knew how vulgar and vain his uncle could become under these circumstances.

After they had a breakfast of nuts and grains, Ŷamōƀūlū insisted they should start their journey, even if they just went at a snail’s speed. Ŷaŝħar was adamant that they wait for the appointed time, though. Throughout the afternoon, Ŷamōƀūlū remained pertinacious, but Ŷaŝħar was also obdurate.

Finally, at about four o’clock in the afternoon, Ŷaŝħar said they could leave now. The exhilaration and joy shown by Ŷamōƀūlū radiated throughout his whole body, changing his personality—temporarily—to an acceptable level of normalcy. In fact, he was so happy that they were finally going that he hugged everybody in sight, including Whada, Ŷaŝħar’s son, whom he had a natural dislike for.

At exactly five, they were at the stream, and all the monkeys had congregated, waiting for the arrival of their cousin. When they saw Ŷaŝħar with a stranger, they became paranoid and ran back to hide in the bushes. There was complete pandemonium until Ŷaŝħar, through a profusion of good talk and diplomatic skills, was able to convince the monkey’s leader that everything would be all right—the visitor was his uncle who was visiting him from the neighboring town.

Once the monkeys had been assured of their safety, they ed Ŷaŝħar in the water. As usual, they went through the ritual of singing, dipping deep in the water, and splashing. Suddenly, there was an unexpected end to their joyous game just as the younger ones were beginning to enjoy the song. This happened

because the young monkey killed by Ŷaŝhar had miraculously resurfaced, and everybody saw it except Ŷamōƀūlū.

Ŷamōƀūlū, on the other hand, was angry and accused Ŷaŝħar of not getting a monkey on the day that he—Ŷamōƀūlū—was around because he was selfish and too wily. He kept on ranting until all the monkeys had dispersed. Although Ŷamōƀūlū was keenly watching everything from the banks, he didn’t see when Ŷaŝħar imperceptibly knocked a baby monkey down with his sore leg and hid it under the water shrubs on the edge of the water, only for it to resurface. He later apologized when Ŷaŝħar finally showed him the catch for the day and, as promised, shared it equally with Ŷamōƀūlū.

The next day was to be D-Day for Ŷamōƀūlū because he was no longer going to be a mere observer but an active participant in the song-swing-dip-and-kill game. He woke up, as usual, before the cock crowed and contemplated how he was going to handle himself in the presence of these luscious creatures.

Around midday, he visited the stream and selected a huge boulder as his “sore” before going to Ŷaŝħar’s place. As soon as he arrived at Ŷaŝħar’s residence, he wanted them to start on their trip, but Ŷaŝħar calmed him down and gave him a few lessons in decorous behavior and moral rectitude.

Ŷamōƀūlū reluctantly listened, but he didn’t digest a thing that was said; all he cared about was for them to start on their trip. At the appropriate time, they dressed up and went out on their rendezvous with the monkeys. For the first time, they were there before the monkeys, and when Ŷamōƀūlū showed his uncle his “sore,” Ŷaŝħar tacitly objected, on principle, because it was too big and could easily be recognized, but Ŷamōƀūlū was oblivious to Ŷaŝħar’s objection and insisted on using it.

When the monkeys arrived, they were stunned to see their uncle’s visitor had also developed a “sore” or “boil,” as he called it. What perplexed them most was the size of the “boil” and its sudden appearance. Ŷaŝħar had to exhaust all his natural and learned shrewdness before he partially convinced them it was all right, despite what had taken place yesterday. This time, however, he could not guarantee their safety as usual.

Eventually, these mistrustful creatures sagaciously scrutinized the gloomy countenance of their cousin and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Intuitively, however, Ŷaŝħar surmised that today was certainly going to be the last time he was going to meet with these naive and trustworthy creatures that, for the past three months, had been his source of good living. He knew this was so because of his estimate of what his uncle was up to. Thus, instead of ending the game early, as was his predictable habit, he prolonged it and made several “kills.”

When everybody was almost tired and ready to call it a day, Ŷamōƀūlū made his decisive move, which he had been working on. As the monkeys dipped for their deep dive, Ŷamōƀūlū moved closer to one of the biggest monkeys, struck it with such a dynamite force with his “sore” foot, and forced it under the water but, because of its size and the fact that he had struck it right in the middle of the steam where there were no shrubs, the dead monkey resurfaced.

The whole herd was spellbound and shocked at the sight of their dead elder, and they quietly and mournfully filed out of the stream and strolled away in a somber and complete silence. Ŷaŝħar was also flabbergasted and stood in awe for, although he had anticipated something would happen, he never expected it to be so horrendous and on such a stupendous scale. Ŷaŝħar tried, unsuccessfully, to calm and reassure the monkeys that it was all a mistake, but this time, his diplomacy didn’t work; the monkeys had seen the writing on the wall.

Meanwhile, to obviate the need to think or measure the age of time, Ŷamōƀūlū muttered some ridiculous imprecations, sat in silence, and ruminated on the prospect of savoring the dinner of his life. While Ŷaŝħar was deep in thought over the aftereffect of what had just happened, Ŷamōƀūlū was rather busy pulling and wrapping his treasure. For the first time, he was munificent with Ŷaŝħar by suggesting that Ŷaŝħar could have all the intestines of his catch; this magnanimity was born out of his ignorance of what Ŷaŝħar was capable of.

Little did he know that Ŷaŝħar had imperceptibly made five kills today, which, when compared with his own, were younger and much suppler and more luscious because of their age and tenderness. The two uncles joyously took their spoils home, where they were met and congratulated by their loving family .

There were persistent echoes of beatific joy and festivity at the Ŷamōƀūlū residence for three full days. Ŷamōƀūlū didn’t waste anything from his catch, not even the bones. He carefully polished and burnished the hide and made a beautiful pizhi (loincloth) from it, which he was very eager and proud to show to his visitors. It was certain that he was sincerely endeared to it.

A fortnight after the sudden death of their elder, the council of monkeys met to work out a strategy of vengeance on the culprits of their tragic loss. It was resolved to send Ŷaŝhar and his uncle Ŷamōƀūlū an invitation inviting them to a prestigious, traditional, annual festival as official guests.

The courier was instructed to inform the guests that, for three days, they would be sequestered, and all their needs as paramount guests would be provided for. They would be served the best cuts of meats and the best brewed beer. When Ŷaŝħar received the message, he instinctively knew what was afoot; he knew vengeance was in the offing, and so he started to look for a way to absolve himself once and for all from any criminal involvement in this capricious and insidious offense.

In contrast, when Ŷamōƀūlū was informed of the invitation, he was rather ecstatic and thought the monkeys were magnanimous and innocent creatures who, despite the horrible event of the last two weeks, were still gracious at heart to invite them to one of their acclaimed traditional festivities.

The scheme Ŷaŝħar worked out to extenuate himself was this: he would convince his uncle to wear the loincloth he (Ŷamōƀūlū) had fashioned out of the dead monkey’s hide so they could see it and exonerate him of any criminal involvement in the murder. He then decided, for the first time, to render Ŷamōƀūlū prodigious praise for his workmanship and skills in producing such an excellent loincloth from the hide of the dead monkey; he also suggested that the monkeys themselves would certainly appreciate his dexterity and workmanship when they saw it.

Foolishly, Ŷamōƀūlū didn’t discern the farce behind such a scheme, and he proudly, without any further ado, gave his consent to wear the cloth and added, rather piously, that he was going to polish and refurbish it anew. Ŷaŝħar glowed in this, his first victory, but was not as yet satisfied; he felt he needed more concrete and convincing evidence, as he was not sure of the workings of the monkeys’ brains. Meanwhile, however, he plunged himself completely into the preparation of the trip.

On the day of the trip, Ŷamōƀūlū proudly wore the loincloth, which, on their arrival, stunned the monkeys and made him the sole culprit. According to the formal requirements of the rite, the guests would be kept inside for two days and fed their choice of drinks and meat cuts and, on the third day, they would be brought out by a traditional ceremonial dance and music and be presented the rite sword of honor.

Ŷamōƀūlū expressed his gratitude for the privilege accorded them, especially the part that allowed them to make their own choice of what meat they would like to eat. Ŷaŝħa, on the other hand, was reserved and melancholic because he could foresee what was in store for them. Being skeptical with the whole enterprise, he composed a song and convinced Ŷamōƀūlū to sing it along with him.

When this was done, he went to the leader of the monkeys and told him that he and his uncle had a song they would like to sing during the ceremonial age —a song that exonerated him from the offense they were accused of. The monkeys agreed and provided them with additional chorus singers; but they added that they had also composed a song for the occasion.

On the third day, when they were to be brought out, the whole clan gathered, and drummers and dancers were ready in their full traditional attire. The drums, flutes, and a myriad of other instruments started to beat, and the dancers formed two rows opposite each other, leaving the center for the guests. Before the guests were brought out, the monkeys’ choirmaster gave the signal with his gavel, and everybody stood up to in the singing of the song. The song ran like this:

Maŷa ra ĝai, ŷarna ra ĝai, arna ƙi nima nima ri Maŷa ra ĝai, ŷarna ra ĝai, arna ƙi nima nima ri Maŷar nani a ħilwa tsa sinđ sūwa wa, tsa nđūra ƙur wa, đa nƙi maŷa ali

ata ƙira mi, đa nƙi maŷa ata ƙira nfur nturshū jup ƙa wasħina, maŷar na nƙwar zħawa, aɓilar marama, ƙira pūpi aviri, ƙi tuwa shimūi, ŷupŷupū, maŷana Ðalinĝa, arna maŷarna aɗi ƙira nĉhi ƙu sħa.

When the guests stepped outside after this opening song, Ŷaŝħar started to sing the song he had composed, which was meant to exonerate him from the crime of killing the elder monkey. The song ran something like this:

Ǩaƙa Ǩaƙa ĝir pila ŷan tŝi ƙazim ĉhanđūm na ōl nđa, nĝiđza pizħari ƙusi asħina ƙhalai, and the chorus responded thus; an pizħar ni ɗaram, an pizħar ni ɗaram.

(“Good friends, you said I killed the late elder, but today, as you can see, the loincloth made from the hide is here.” The chorus’s response is: “Yes, indeed, this loincloth is made from the hide. Yes, indeed, this loincloth is made from the hide.”)

The rest of the crowd was stunned to see Ŷamōƀūlū not only wearing the loincloth but responding to the chorus with profound enthusiasm. The elders, completely satisfied with Ŷaŝħar’s innocence, just nodded and applauded. At the end of the procession, Ŷaŝħar and Ŷamōƀūlū were once again served delicious food and very excellent drinks.

Then the main event, where the guests would be presented with the sword of honor, was announced. Unknown, however, to the guests, a military detachment had been placed around the building where the ceremony was taking place. And

so, when they heard the announcement, they moved in, in accordance with a preplanned strategy.

Ŷaŝħar was swapped out immediately by the commander before Ŷamōƀūlū, who was drunk, knew what was really going on. The whole army thus launched an onus and relentless assault on Ŷamōƀūlū, beating him almost to death before he could push his way out and run away. Almost all bones and fibers in his body were broken; his skull was cut open deep, and almost all his teeth were gone.

However, before Ŷamōƀūlū reached home, he managed to secure several millipede shells and put them on his fingers as rings to impress his wife and others that he was given by girls at the ceremony he and squirrel had attended.

After a few hours at home, Ŷamōƀūlū started to vomit blood and some severed parts of his internal organs. Ŷaŝħar, meanwhile, was given some gifts and souvenirs by the council, who reassured him of their continual friendship. When he came home, he went in to see Ŷamōƀūlū to find out what had happened to him. But Ŷamōƀūlū was disingenuous in relating the truth of what had happened to him. He told Ŷaŝħar he had been entertained very sumptuously after he (Ŷaŝħar) left the building.

However, two days later, Pāna came to inform Ŷaŝħar that his uncle had died of some unknown cause, and she added surreptitiously that she “suspected it was tuberculosis, “which “runs in the family.”

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA KIKKAR MJIR NVWA

Chapter Seven

Ŷimir Jirƙanđūm Jirŵaƙŝhā

A long time ago, there lived a five-foot tall, taciturn Bura man called Sarƙai with his family in the village of Ĥharan. Sarƙai, although small, was known in all the villages as very brave and hot-tempered. His house was located high up, on top of a hill, at the extreme eastern corner of the village. The house was surrounded by a high, circular wall of huge, medium, and small boulders and trees. The people of the village had always wondered how the wall of boulders came into being and who built it, and not even Sarƙai knew. The mystery remains up to this day. But for all who have seen it, it is indeed something to behold. Sarƙai fortuitously found some way of building his house up the hill inside the circular stone wall, saving him the pain of fencing. For all the villagers knew, it had been there from time immemorial.

To reach the house, a visitor had to announce his name from the bottom of the hill, and only then would the massive boulder blocking the gate be rolled back for him by a special local pulley.

Sarƙai had two wives: Ǩŵachi and Pinđār. Sarƙai called Ǩŵachi, the elder wife, his “mwala miwa” (favorite wife) and Pinđār, the younger one, his “mwala dira” (least-favored wife). Kwapchi was more rumbustious and tawdry than the more prosaic and mundane Pinđār.

Ǩŵachi was referred to as “mwala miwa” by Sarƙai probably because of her rumbustiousness. Or, as Sarƙai liked to tell his friends, she “Has a blessed womb,” because she had given him five beautiful children: three boys and two girls. In the Bura culture, a woman who has not given her husband a child— preferably a boy—is not considered “woman” enough, much less worthy of respect.

Of the three boys, Đaŵi was the oldest child, followed by Mŵajim and Anjiƙŵi, the youngest, and often called “gaji” (last born). Mŵajim, the second oldest son,

was followed by Baŧā and then Saratu.

Đaŵi got married to Ǩuƀili, his mwala vuhva (arranged before the girl was born), when he was fifteen and Ǩuƀili, twelve. The marriage was done in accordance to tradition and culture. This means that, as soon as the girl is born, there will be an exchange of gifts—bracelets, necklaces, and clothes—between the parents. This giving of gifts continues until both the girl and the boy are ready for their arranged marriage. This often happens for the girl around the age of twelve or fifteen, and for the boy at the age of fifteen or seventeen.

When both reach the appropriate age, the girl’s parents will be informed by the young man’s relatives and friends of the approximate time they want their bride. In Đaŵi and Ǩuƀili’s case, Đaŵi’s friends sent an emissary to Ǩuƀili’s parents to inform them, “Next Wednesday, we’re coming for our wife.” Often, no specific time is given.

On the evening of the appointed day, the friends hid in the tall bushes along the path leading to the river Ǩuƀili and her friends often followed to fetch water. As soon as they spotted Ǩuƀili, they jumped out of their hiding places, snatched her, and ran away with her. The other girls yelled and pretended to make a chase, but to no avail.

When they got home the following day, very early in the morning, an elder was sent to Ǩuƀili’s parents to inform them, “We have snatched our wife, and she’s now with her fiancé and his friends.”

There were no acrimonies or arguments because that’s the way it’s supposed to be done. After several weeks, a ceremony was arranged with gulum (traditional Bura instrument like the banjo), maestro, and drums to celebrate the marriage. This has always been the traditional method of Bura marriage. After a period of

living in his father’s house, Đaŵi and his bride, as expected, had their house built in accordance with tradition and culture: next to Sarƙai’s house on the hill.

Đaŵi and Ǩuƀili were blessed with Sarƙai’s first grandson, and for this, he was ever more than grateful to Ǩŵapchi. Mŵajim had also been betrothed; Zāra was his future wife, but she was still only eight and not yet ready for marriage, even in this traditional society. Baŧā, too, had gotten married in the traditional the Bura way and had moved to her husband’s neighboring village of Sūƀŵanĝ, only a mile away.

Ǩŵapchi indeed was well endowed, because all the children helped on her farm before some of them moved out for marriage. Anjiƙŵi, who was still at home, helped with the herd of the few cattle, sheep, and goats that she and Ŝarƙai had. Saratu, the youngest daughter, had been betrothed in the traditional way but had not yet been snatched by her fiancé’s family. She dutifully helped with the house chores and on the farms.

Ĥŷelađzira, her son-in-law, brought his friends at the beginning of each planting season to till the ground for her before it was planted; and, at the end of the season, he came back with those friends and relatives to help with the harvest. In short, this meant that Sarƙai was relieved of the burden of caring for Ǩŵapchi and her children; they were self-sufficient. Whatever he harvested from his farms he could sell or barter away for some of his needs, like clothes, farm instruments, arrows, and many other things that were required of him as head of the family. His only and major responsibility was to provide for Pinđār, who had almost given up work on the farm or anywhere else.

Unfortunately, as was previously alluded to, Pinđār was not blessed with either a child or a close relative like a brother or a sister that could come visit her, let alone help her on her farm. Her parents, Taĝŵi and Mataĝi, died when she was only five. And, to make matters worse for her, even as a child, she had always shunned hard work, especially farm work, and she had been labelled harwa, lazy,

by her aunt, Nƙŵāŧir, and by neighbors.

Consequently, while Ǩŵapchi and her children woke up very early every morning to go to their farm before the hideous tropical heat set in in the afternoon, Pinđār stayed in bed till late noon before going to the farm. By then, the sun’s heat was blazing hot, and little was accomplished. After an hour of work, she would often go to the river and dip herself in the dark blue, fresh water to cool herself off. After she had cooled herself off—for say, twenty minutes— she would head straight home. That was the end of the day for her.

Sarƙai always said, “Pinđār nƙwarna man ŵuta nga ri? Mjir ĝiri shiŵumta nĝa ŷa?” (Pinđār, what’s wrong with you? Have you been cursed?)

Pinđār would always respond to such aspersions by saying she saw no reason to “kill” herself working since she had no child or a close relative who would inherit any surplus she had if she died.

Even during the dry season, when all the harvests had been completed, and the women were engaged in some other tertiary work—like ɗaha (calabash decoration), braiding, pottery making, knitting, or tamwa/thiuva, fishing, to keep them busy and to bring in some food to the family—Pinđār would do nothing. She spent most of this time in bed, cooling off in the river, or sitting under the shadow of the huge baobab tree behind the fence next to the house.

All of the above characteristics and values made Pinđār be referred to as “mwala dira” in Sarƙai’s perspective; and most of his friends and neighbors thought likewise. However, at certain serene and beatific moments, he did seem to empathize with Pinđār’s condition of being only one among a few women in the village who were childless.

Fortuitously, when such thoughts permeated his humanity and sense of responsibility, he would make a solemn and sacred promise to himself that he would endeavor to spend more quality time with her in her hut in the evenings. Sarƙai, either because of prudery or reservation, had always been inhibited from publicly showing his emotions toward Pinđār, especially in the presence of Ǩŵapchi. But this time, he promised himself a change.

Sarƙai made his thoughts known to Pinđār that very evening after the family’s regular storytelling around a bonfire where Sarƙai and his old mother, Jitau, shared some important value-laden stories with the younger generation. The family storytelling time was very important to the tribe because that was the only vehicle of imparting the cultural tenets and norms of the tribe to the youth. Pinđār, hair straggling from poor braiding, was excited and thankful for the arrangements Sarƙai had just told her, and she made it effusively known to him instantly.

After six weeks, during one of his evening sleepovers, Pinđār told Sarƙai, “Eh tamata ika đza suda, ƙamyar ŷaɗi ŵuta mamshir na aƙŵa thiŷa na tira niŵa.” (I think I’m pregnant; I missed my period last month.)

Sarƙai was ecstatic but kept it to himself in the moment; however, he expressed his pious optimism and advised her to be careful of any strenuous activity that might lead to her losing the pregnancy. Sarƙai was not overtly excited because this was not the first time Pinđār had told him about her being pregnant, only to find out, months later, that it had been hur pipi, false pregnancy or pseudocyesis. He also advised her to, for the moment, keep it to herself until six months had ed and it was still there. Despite her euphoria, she kept her optimism and hope secret.

After six months, the women of the villages had started rumors about Pinđār in

whispers about her pregnancy.

“I noticed it’s as if Pinđār is pregnant,” Ĝana said to Zāra, balancing the water pot on her head on their way home from the river.

“Yes, I heard Maŧaĝi saying the same,” Zāra responded.

Indeed, many women, as well as men, had noticed Pinđār’s bulging stomach, but most refrained from saying anything about it. However, she was showing all the symptoms of a pregnant woman: tender, swollen breasts, nausea, fatigue, and food aversion or cravings.

When it became obvious that Pinđār and Sarƙai couldn’t hide the fact of the pregnancy, Pinđār walked into her co-wife’s hut and officially told her, “Ĥŷel ƙaƙa ku shinantira, eh ƙa đza suɗa (eh ƙa hūr) anti ƙaĝa đharra akŵa ƙuĉeli” (God has blessed me. I’m pregnant, and I want you to me in my joy.)

Ǩŵāpchi yelled, jumped, and danced around hilariously before hugging Pinđār in a joyous ecstasy and asking Ĥŷel ƙaƙa to help bring the child safely. She immediately suggested several medicine men that Pinđār should to help her protect and carry the child to term. Sarƙai also officially told his close friends and relatives—Taĝŵi, Ǩaƀura, Aji, Ĝashaū, and Tāpchi, the head of the clan— about Pinđār’s pregnancy and change of status. All the men expressed their happiness and blessings to both Ŝarƙai and his wife, Pinđār, and they wished Pinđār’s womb Ĥŷel ƙaƙa’s protection.

Upon hearing the good news, Ŷātapchi immediately went inside his hut, brought out three different local roots and shrubs, and gave them to Sarƙai to take home and give to Pinđār. One was to be boiled and drunk three times a day: morning, afternoon, and midnight. Another was to be scrubbed and rubbed onto the stomach every day before she went to bed, and the third was to be sewn into leather from a black he-goat’s testicle and worn around Pinđār’s neck.

The story of Pinđār’s pregnancy took off with a vengeance like that of wildfire; everybody was talking about it in the market places, drinking parlors, and water holes. It eventually reached the court of the village head, King Ali. The king himself became enthused and showed a profound interest in the story he had heard about Pinđār’s pregnancy; he thought this child must be an incarnation of one of the prominent elders of yesteryears, possibly his late mother.

Consequently, he urgently sent one of his trusted emissaries, Jaūrō, to Sarƙai and Pinđār with a set of pedantic instructions and gifts: a brass bracelet and necklace,

a piece of kuntu (a traditional cloth), a black he-goat, and a white chicken.

The emissary said, “Būnđi/Highness himself is interested in this child and wants you to have these gifts as his token of joy and happiness for you. Būnđi also indicates that, if the child happens to be a girl, he wants her for Prince Mari as a wife. If, however, the child is male, he would want him to serve in his court when he’s of age.”

Sarƙai was indeed flabbergasted by Būnđi’s manifest interest in his yet-unborn child. How could he feel otherwise? he reflected. He, a commoner, being approached by Būnđi for his yet-to-be-born child to be Prince Mari’s wife if she was a girl.

But Būnđi was not the only father who wanted Sarƙai’s unborn child as a wife for his son if she was a girl. The tribe’s chief medicine man, Ĥŷedima Naƀi, wanted her for his son, Cħamŵasū. However, when word spread in the whole village and the surroundings that Būnđi had brought gifts reminiscent of “zhu mwala” (arranged marriage before the child is born), every father immediately backed off. This method of arranged marriage has been used by the people since time immemorial, and it’s still favored and practiced over the dating method.

Six months after Būnđi’s proposal, Pinđār and Sarƙai began making arrangements for the coming of their first child—a child that might not only change Pinđār’s status in society as a “mŵala đira” with an evil womb but Sarƙai’s as well because his daughter, if a girl, might become a princess. It was, therefore, important for him to give Pinđār the best any “mŵala miɗar,” a new mother, could ever hope for.

In view of this personal prudery and self-efficacy, he spared nothing and took nothing for granted. The best cow was purchased and looked after with the best

feed available. The best white sheep and he-goat were purchased and saved for the occasion of the birth of Pinđār’s first child in accordance with tradition. He bought several pieces of japta (a special, bluish, tanned woman’s cloth) wraparound for carrying the child on her/his mother’s back. He commissioned the best local midwife in the village to supervise the delivery. He, in short, left nothing to chance.

The preparation and expectation of Pinđār’s first child became the talk of common folks in the village everywhere: market, farms, water holes, and drinking parlors.

On the expected day, most folks in the village delayed or cancelled going to their farms or whatever they had planned for the day. Ĥŷedima Naƀi, the best and most respected shaman/medicine man in all the surrounding villages, was invited; he had spread his decorative leopard-skin mat outside the front gate of the house, in the event that he might be needed.

The animals had been slaughtered and people were busy preparing the meat for the meals that were going to be served. The female relatives and the friends who were invited were busy in the area specifically set aside this day in a secluded section of the house as a kitchen. Huge pots of mash and stew were cooking and being stirred.

Finally, there was a big and loud yerali, ululation, signaling the birth of the child. However, the women in the room noticed fear and uncertainty in the eye of the midwife even as she held the newborn up and meekly declared, “It’s a girl!”

Most of the women present in the room were in awe and taken aback because of the fear they had noticed in the leading midwife’s eyes and the way her hand was shaking. Instead of the ecstatic display of elation and rapturous joy that often

accompanies such an occasion, the midwife was subdued and nervous in her presentation and announcement of the first appearance of such infant in the world.

But, not knowing what the midwife already knew, most of the women just put the peculiar performance of the lead midwife in the back of their minds and, instead, clapped enthusiastically, hugging each other as if they hadn’t just witnessed an extraordinary occurrence.

As if not to be left out of the pretense game, the midwife went through the remaining regular processes of cutting the umbilical cord and cleaning the newly born infant with professional precision before wrapping it in one of the new japta wraparounds purchased specifically for the occasion, and then she presented it to the folks that were waiting outside.

Many of the women closely associated with the birth event were still in shock because of the prosaic and callous manner in which the midwife had announced the arrival of the infant. Unknown to everybody, including the mother, the infant’s face looked like that of a dog, and its skin had scales and was ossified as that of a lizard.

At first, when she saw the face and the legs of the child coming out of the birth canal, she got scared and wanted to run out and disappear somewhere forever; but she had been paid handsomely—with a piece of japta, the head of the goat and its insides, and two whole chickens. It was a once-in-a lifetime reward that she could not easily forgo. It was for this, and only this reason, that she steeled her courage and went through with the final act.

It didn’t take long for the people to find out what had happened, especially when the infant was held out and shown to the relatives, friends, and all who had come

to witness the birth. One by one, most of the guests left without waiting for the food that had been prepared. Some women hung their head away from the infant for fear of being unfortunate enough to have the same kind of child in their next pregnancy.

Sarƙai and his friends and relatives that had been invited for the occasion sat outside and shared the mat with the shaman/medicine man as they ate their portion of the meal. The conversation turned to the dry spell looming and its effect on the young plants just sprouting. There was a brief mention and discussion of what to do about the menace of the locusts that had left the farms of the village of Ĥŷeħra bare and were approaching their village rapidly.

Before the groups dispersed in the evening, Ĥŷedima Naƀi, the illustrious local medicine man, pulled Sarƙai aside and, in an innocuous, somber cadence, he whispered certain intimate matters to him regarding the treatment required to make the infant healthy and whole. He told him it was going to be expensive, but he could do it; if his approach didn’t work, he had a shaman friend in mind that lived far away, in the land of the Ĝaƀin tribe, and could cure any apparition or any disease, regardless of its origin or cause.

The story of the birth defect of Ŝūrnā Ǩŵatamđiŷa spread expeditiously through the region, like uncontrollable bush fire. Every village in the region was talking about what an ugly and peculiar infant Ŝūrnā was. Many surmised that she must be a phantom that Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa brought to Pinđār because of her witchery. The dog-face look and the skin scales were something never seen before.

Sarƙai and Pinɗār, and their very intimate relatives and friends, were the only ones who attended the naming ceremony eight days after the birth in accordance to culture and tradition. It was during this time that it was decided to go inform Būnđi about Ŝūrna, whom he had betrothed to Prince Mari. The emissaries were to privately ask Būnđi to denounce his interest in Ŝūrna as a future wife of the Prince.

Ŷātapchi—the celebrated herbs specialist and the tribe’s elder council man— Ǩaƀura, and Aji were chosen as the people to go to the court and inform Būnđi about Ŝūrna’s deplorable and appalling physical birth defect. Very early the next morning, they appeared at the court and sought a private conversation with King Ali about Ŝūrnā. As soon he saw them, he stepped up and offered them his greeting and blessing, and they all bowed their heads in the traditional manner to accept his good will and blessing toward them.

He then led them to his private chamber and made them feel ensconced. But before Ŷātapchi, the designated leader, could say anything, Būnđi cleared his throat and said, “Yerima (Ŷātapchi’s title as a councilman) accept my sincere sorrow on behalf of Sarƙai for what has befallen us. I mean the condition Ŝūrnā was born with. It is beyond our human understanding, but we leave everything to Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa Tħamɓūram who knows all the infinite stars of the heaven by their names. We must put our trust in his healing power through his agents here amongst us, the medicine men. If you need my assistance in trying to find the best shaman to help us, feel free to inform my steward, who will then tell me, and I’ll do all I can to get her cured of this malady.

“In the meantime, Ŝūrnā remains Prince Mari’s espousal princess until they reach womanhood and manhood.”

The leaders were speechless over what they’d just heard Būnđi say. How could this be possible given the physical condition of Ŝūrnā? How could she be a princess in the court with this type of physical defect? These were the thoughts and questions bombarding each of their brains, but they needed to remain impersonal and inexplicit now.

“Būnđi, may you live for a long time, like your late father. May his spirit continue to guide you with inestimable wisdom. We’ve come to ask your

highness’s indulgence to renounce your obligation to Sarƙai and Pinđār regarding your betrothal of their daughter.

“We know Your Excellency meant well when you betrothed Ŝūrnā in her mother’s womb; but events have rendered that obligation null and void if Your Honor so wishes.”

King Ali said in response to Ŷātapchi’s representation, “What I said stands, and Ŝūrna will continue to be Prince Mari’s betrothed wife in accordance to our tradition. We must maintain and follow our tradition even in difficult and inopportune times.”

The emissaries thanked Būnđi for his courage in upholding his words and the tradition of the tribe. They all genuflected and took their leave of the court to return home.

The search for a cure to the malady started immediately. Ĥŷedima Naƀi brought in a basket full of different local remedies; some of them had to be boiled and drunk before the hours of dawn and dusk precisely. Some required her to wash her body with them five times a day and at specific times. There was one that required her to spend the night at a certain crossroad with a black cock tied around her neck for seven consecutive days. None of these showed any sign of improvement, and they made her sicker.

In the meantime, she could not venture outside without her hijab and burkha. She was now ten, and there was no sign of improvement whatsoever. Ĥŷedima Naƀi did all he could, but to no effect. Therefore, after collecting his “gifts” of a cow and two goats, he invited Bālŵomi Bāƙaridō, his Ĝa’anđa friend, whom he’d told Sarƙai about years prior.

Bālŵomi Bāƙaridō was a large and tawdry, six-foot-ten bluff of a man full of smiles and an intense, unhealthy body odor. When he walked into any room, his smiles and immense physicality immediately dominated everything, including any conversations. However, for a discerning observer, his obtuseness and shallowness became apparent. Therefore, when he came, he brought a basket load of various kinds of roots and tree barks lumped in a leopard skin bag.

Some of his treatments, however, seemed identical to the failed ones Ĥŷedima had tried. In addition, there were some that seemed fatuous or very daring and scary to carry out. As an example, there was one that required both Ŝūrnā and her mother to go to the village cemetery and slaughter a black he-goat and then sprinkle the blood on at least four graves: two old collapsed ones and two fresh ones. After this was done, they were to cook the insides of the goat in the cemetery and have Ŝūrnā eat the meal prepared inside one of the old, collapsed graves while sitting on the skin of the goat. After nightfall, Ŝūrnā was supposed to sleep in the collapsed grave on the skin. This process was consecutively repeated for four days (it would have been three if she had been a boy).

Pinđār and Ŝūrnā had to be convinced—actually, coerced—into going through with this scary treatment after some tense discussions with Sarƙai and the elders. Pinđār had argued that Sarƙai ought to be the one to go with Ŝūrnā, being a man and the father. But the shaman insisted it had to be the mother. And to make matters much worse, no man was supposed to even see them off, let alone visit them after all they needed had been delivered to the cemetery. After four days, both mother and daughter were grateful to be alive.

The shaman had promised the results should be expeditious, but they waited and checked Ŝūrnā’s face and body every day for a month, and there was not an iota of change other than her regular physical development. Growing up, all Ŝūrnā saw unraveling before her day after dismal day was a future with an enormous cage closing in around her and with no prospect of escaping it.

When it became apparent that Bālŵomi Bāƙaridō’s treatments had failed miserably, he packed the remnant of the roots and shrubs he’d brought with him —which had not been necessary to ister—collected his “gifts” of two cows and a sheep as promised, and went on his way. Sarƙai felt a profound repugnance for him and his elevated hubris.

It seemed Ŝūrnā’s family had reached the end of the road and were despondent and helpless. The only positive event they saw apparently happening in Ŝūrnā’s life was the regular change of her burkha and hijab as she grew into womanhood and outgrew them. Despair and helplessness had taken hold of the life of the whole family, with only a shimmer of hope in Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa’s miraculous intervention.

On one sultry afternoon, when the harvest had been completed and the tropical heat was blazing at its extremity, Ŝūrnā sat beside her mother and her friends under the huge oak tree in front of the house. The shade of the tree provided the group with some needed respite from the murderous heat. Some of the women were braiding while others were decorating their calabashes, ɗaha.

The discussion this afternoon was mostly about the tamŵa, fishing, that would take place the following week. They were talking about pairing arrangements and the groups that would represent the village. Suddenly, an elderly, shabby, and tired-looking gentleman appeared from nowhere.

The gentleman asked them if they could give him water to drink; Ŝūrnā was asked to go inside the house and get the water to the stranger. When the man was served the water, he drank it all very quickly and asked for more. Ŝūrnā went in again and got some more for him. After taking a few gulps, he took the remainder to his two donkeys, tethered close by.

When he returned, he thanked the women for their kindness toward him, a stranger. The women responded in a like manner and asked him what he was carrying. He told them his name was Alōōma Buƙar Monĝōnū from a faraway town called Monĝōnū in Borno, and he was carrying dry fish, ƀanđa, and meat, mbŵambŵa.

The women exclaimed exhilarated excitements in unison and suggested he should then wait for the men to return from their hunting expedition to get some for them. He wasn’t in a hurry because the village’s market day was the next day, Tuesday. Bornu was not new to the women because some of their men had often traveled there to get them ƀanđa. They didn’t know how far it was, but they knew it wasn’t nearby because the men often took a month or six weeks to return.

After exchanging some niceties to satisfy the women’s curiosity, he sat by himself, quietly listening to the women talking and planning their tamwa expedition, except for Ŝūrnā, who sat quietly in her burkha by herself.

Alōōma Buƙar Monĝōnū cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry, my daughter, but why are you wearing this heavy burkha in this extreme heat?”

There was dead silence as the whole group stopped what they were doing and looked at each other in utter alarm. This led Alōōma to apologize profoundly and to inquire if he had said anything offensive to their tradition or god.

After the silence that seemed to last for eternity, one of the women, Mataĝi, answered, “We’ll not touch you because you’re a stranger, but don’t wait for the men to return; they’ll kill you in an instant.”

Alōōma was now not only shocked but scared for his life. He’d left his family back home at Monĝōnū, and he wondered what would happen to them if they heard he’d been killed. What about his children? Who would take care of them?

He apologized again and begged them to please tell him what he’d done or said that may deserve death from their menfolk. “At least, my wonderful women, you owe me that before I’m killed,” he pleaded in a somber voice.

“Well, since you didn’t know, on behalf of Ŝūrnā and her mother, I’ll tell you,” Mataĝi said. “Ŝūrnā is wearing this heavy burkha because of a birth defect. Her parents have paid all their wealth, cows, sheep, goats, and farm produce to phantom medicine men, and all for nothing; none of them have been able to make any difference.”

Alōōma Buƙar Monĝōnū listened conscientiously, and after Mataĝi had finished, he said, “My sister also once had a son born with a defect that we spent all we owned to have him cured, but to no avail, until. . .” he stopped because he’d seen the men coming at a distance.

“Well, until what?” Ŷaƙŵaŧir asked.

Alōōma responded by saying, “Since the men are already here, I’ll wait before I complete the story.”

The women were understandably furious, but they thought it reasonable to have the men hear the story from the “horse’s mouth.”

The women all stood up to welcome the men and immediately went in to get some food for them. The men shared the food with Buƙar after he’d introduced himself to them and told them of the goods he was carrying.

“Okay,” Mataĝi said, “You want to finish the story you were telling us?”

“What story?” Ŷātapchi asked in a gravitas and suspicious tone.

“He was telling us about his sister who had a son born with a defect and how, after different trials, they had the son cured,” she concluded in a worried voice.

“Well, there’re different kinds of birth defects; what type was your nephew born with?” Aji asked with an emphasis on “different kinds.”

Alōōma Buƙar told them about the birth defect his nephew had been born with, and the group could not believe their ears. It was an identical defect to Ŝūrnā’s.

“Please, Buƙar, tell us where or with whom you had that nephew cured,” Ŷātapchi pleaded with Alōōma in a soft but authoritative manner.

“We became desperate and felt abandoned. But then, one day, my neighbor told me about a river far away, toward Ramta, west, between the land of the Balbiya and the Bolawa people. The name of the river is Jirƙanđum, but sometimes the people call it Jirŵakŝhā or Bunga near another river known as Gonĝŵala,” he explained exquisitely and stopped for a moment. “We didn’t have to pay a single

cow or sheep or anything else. The river is free if you can get there, but there are many obstacles on the way. However, once you’re able to overcome the three stages of trials successfully and reach the river, you will be cured,” he tersely concluded.

The men were silent and frozen still for what seemed an eternity. And then, suddenly, Ŝūrna spoke out and said, “I’m going, even if there is just a flicker of hope,” she said with a certain petulance in her normally soft voice. Her response added a certain gravity to the present predicament.

“You can’t go alone; somebody has to go with you,” her father spoke for the first time. “I would go, but my age cannot endure the long journey, and Ĥŷel kaka forbids I become a burden and obstacle for you to reach such a miraculous river,” he said.

“I propose that Anjiƙŵi go with her, since he’s young and skilled with weapons,” Ǩaɓūra suggested.

Everybody present consented that Anjiƙŵi was the best to accompany Ŝūrna on her sojourn to seek the cure of this heinous defect. Ŝarƙai, her father, and Ŷātapchi were chosen to talk to Anjiƙŵi that evening about the issue.

Ŝūrnā contemplated the bad karma that seemed to be her lot and blurted out in an obsequious tone, “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, even if alone.”

They were all silent until her father said, “No, you’re going with your halfbrother Anjiƙŵi.”

When Anjiƙŵi returned that evening, his father and Ŷātapchi called him and spoke to him in private about the journey. Without hesitation, Anjiƙŵi said he was ready. He got his bow ready, put extra arrows in his Ǩŵajā, quiver, and examined his maviđinĝ, slingshot, ascertaining its worthiness for the journey the next morning. They talked to Alōōmā Buƙar throughout the night about the journey, the direction, some landmarks to watch for, rivers to cross, and a summary of what obstacles to expect and how they should respond to each situation they faced.

Early in the morning, the village elders all came to see them off, bless them, and wish them success.

After the elders of the village had seen Ŝūrnā and Anjiƙŵi off, they called Alōōmā Buƙar to their meeting and thanked him for visiting their village and providing them with information that might help cure Ŝūrnā, Pinđār’s only daughter.

“You’re an angel in disguise to the whole village; may you and your whole people prosper by Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa’s blessings,” Ŷātapch, the clan elder, summarized the people’s goodwill, wishes, and gratitude to Buƙar. The elders also decided at that moment that they would pay for all of Alōōmā’s loads of dry bush meat and fish; in fact, one of them, Ǩaƀūrā, bought one of the donkeys. Aji wanted to buy the other, but Alōōmā said he needed it for the journey back home. In addition to purchasing all his products at his own price, the people of the village gave him two cows, five goats, and several kuntu, rolls of cloth, and two traditional gowns, ƀūll.

After traveling for ten days in the ramta direction, toward the land of the Balbiya people, Ŝūrnā and Anjiƙŵi had their first of the tests Buƙar had spoken about.

In the meantime, however, Ŝūrnā had composed a song to help keep them alert and focused during some of the difficult days enduring the churning, blazing heat. The song goes like this:

Maŷā rā ĝai, ŷarna rā ĝai man ti eħ ħara ri? Maŷā rā ĝai, ŷarna rā ĝai arna ƙi nimā nimā ri Maŷā rā ĝai, ŷarna rā ĝai ŷimir Jirƙanđum ni ama ma ri

Chorus: Ŷimir Jirƙanđum Jirŵakŝhā Jirƙanđum Ŷimir Jirƙanđum Jirŵakŝhā Jirƙanđum Ŷimir Jirƙanđum Jirŵakŝhā, Jirƙanđum

Literal English translation: Oh, my mother, oh my father, what did I do Oh, my mother, oh my father, where should I go Oh, my mother, oh my father, where is this jirkan Chorus Blessed Jirƙanđum water Blessed Jirƙanđum water Blessed Jirƙanđum water

The song not only kept them focused but gave them that sliver of hope that, in the end, all would be fine.

Their first test came on an unbearably hot day when, bone-tired, they took refuge at the bottom of the valley of Mount Pađam in the Ĝarūƀila region. They were ensconced under the umbrage of a large boulder that provided them with extra protection from the ravenous heat when, suddenly, an apparition came from the mountain top, galloping down in the form of massive white phantom horses and their riders, whose heights rose to the heavens.

They looked on in utter shock but could not discern the dangers facing them because all they could see were the huge heads of the horses and shadows of the riders. They could not see their massive and oblong heads that extended high toward the heavens. As these phantom horses and their riders came close to where Ŝūrna and Anjiƙŵi were hiding, they both collapsed and fainted.

When the first horse came, it kicked the huge boulder the two were hiding under, and one of the horses took hold of Anjiƙŵi’s leg and bit into it, gripping it under its heinous and protruding teeth. Ŝūrnā didn’t fare any better in that one of the horses also bit her one arm, gripping it tightly under its teeth. The horses galloped around the hideout with the kids dangling from their wide-open mouths.

Then a shrill and grumpy voice came thundering from atop the mountain, saying, “Don’t be afraid; neither the horses nor their riders will harm you.”

Immediately, the two were let go, and the apparition vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving no visible trace. When Ŝūrnā and Anjiƙŵi woke up from

their comatose-like episode, they each examined their different body parts, which had been bitten and gripped by those horses, but they noticed nothing, not even a scratch. Instantly, they both recalled what Buƙar Mōnĝōnu had warned about obstacles and apparitions as they ventured to find the Jirƙanđum River and its healing waters.

As soon as they recovered from their nauseating experience, they resumed their song:

Maŷā rā ĝai, ŷarna rā ĝai man ti eħ ħara ri? Maŷā rā ĝai, ŷarna rā ĝai arna ƙi nimā nimā ri Maŷā rā ĝai, ŷarna rā ĝai ŷimir Jirƙanđum ni ama ma ri

Chorus: Ŷimir Jirƙanđum Jirŵakŝhā Jirƙanđum Ŷimir Jirƙanđum Jirŵakŝhā Jirƙanđum Ŷimir Jirƙanđum Jirŵakŝhā, Jirƙanđum

Again, the chorus is repeated over several times.

After journeying for another fifteen days, they came to a swampy place in the Tera country, west of Ĝarūƀilā. They stood there for minutes in silence, trying to figure out how they could cross the menacing swamp without getting sucked in. But what scared them even more than the possibility of getting sucked in was the faint but still visible sight of skeletons that protruded from the sticky and dangerous swamp. How did those skeletons get there? Had they been sucked in,

or had the graves they’d been buried in exposed by the rain so the bodies ended up in this scary piece of swampy land?

They could not decipher which proposition was the truth. After they’d spent a whole day contemplating what to do, they decided to venture out and face the inevitable. Once they stepped in the mud, they immediately figured out why the skeletons were there: the mud was knee-deep and very, very stiff. And, to add insult to injury, the number of skeletons was greater than they had expected. They found out that there was no way one could avoid the skeletons; they were everywhere in the mud—some deeply buried under your feet, some directly in front of you, staring and fixated on you.

They were forced, in some instances, to use the skeletons as leverage to hold on to to avoid being sucked in. There was one that almost cost Anjiƙŵi because he dared not hold on to it. This particular skeleton was still fresh, with the empty eyeball sockets filled with mud while its mouth seemed to spit out the excess mud that filled it. It was indeed a terrifying scene.

Just when they thought they were almost on the other side of this dreadful swamp, they saw a steep and deep gorge, below which was a stream. However, before they could cross the gorge and reach the stream, they ed some of Alōōmā Buƙar’s onition regarding obstacles to overcome. With dizzying exertion, and with each giving the other an exhortation, they kept on until, suddenly, to their utter surprise, a fresh corpse emerged from the shadows near the banks, appearing to point his half-decayed middle finger at them.

Both abruptly stood still to digest this new phenomenon and then quickly decided to press on. But that was only the beginning because, just a moment later, they heard a massive volcanic explosion, which explained the source of the original heat. The release of the heat became unbearable, hitting them with immense discomfort. The immediate effect of the resulting conflagration and the ensuing inferno forced them to drop on the ground. All around them, the

crackling of flames was now getting louder by the instant. The skin on their faces singed and their feet burned, but they decided to press on toward the safety of the valley of the stream even as the smoke and flames swirled around them.

Now on their feet again, and temporarily out of imminent danger of being seared and entombed by the conflagration, Anjiƙŵi said to his half-sister, “God has saved us from this catastrophe only because he has a better plan for our lives.”

Ŝūrnā responded timidly, “May his will be done; he knows all the stars of heaven by their names, and nothing is beyond his love and infinite power.”

As they approached the stream below, the smell of lava dominated the air, and the only audible sound was that of the rushing water. The stream had been calmer for a short while, but it then turned suddenly squally. The two tried as much as was humanly possible to hold on to each other and avoid any morbid thoughts that might signal their end. To make matters even worse in the midst of their struggle for survival with the squalling, there was suddenly before them, as if by a magic wand, an apparition of a massive collection of corpses dancing and swirling around, each bouncing into another.

All the corpses seemed to have a shell of empty eye sockets. Most of the skeletal corpses had no nose or ears, only bold, nauseating, empty skull bones. As these skeletal figures crushed forward, Ŝūrnā and Anjiƙŵi stood petrified. They felt as if they were menacingly surrounded by a suffocating, cataclysmic darkness. The feeling of suffocation, whether genuine or not, led them to a feeling of claustrophobic panic and self-paralysis.

Time seemed to contort in the darkness. The mere notion of being amidst these “walking dead” brought inexplicable nausea and chills through their spines. Exhausted and despondent, both fainted. However, when they woke up, they

found themselves on the other side of the stream. How or by what power they got there was a miracle they could not comprehend.

After they gained full conscious control after their physical and mental neardeath experience, they decided to push forward. At this moment, their song seemed to be the catalyst to help them refocus their resolve and determination. As usual, Ŝūrnā took the initiative:

Maŷā rā ĝai, ŷarna rā ĝai man ti eħ ħara ri? Maŷā rā ĝai, ŷarna rā ĝai arna ƙi nimā nimā ri Maŷā rā ĝai, ŷarna rā ĝai ŷimir Jirƙanđum ni ama ma ri

Chorus: Ŷimir Jirƙanđum Jirŵakŝhā Jirƙanđum Ŷimir Jirƙanđum Jirŵakŝhā Jirƙanđum Ŷimir Jirƙanđum Jirŵakŝhā, Jirƙanđum

After traveling for another fifteen days, they found themselves standing on the bank of the Jirƙanđum River. They genuflected and thanked Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa for his guidance and for being omnipotent in their lives. When they finished, and looked around, they saw a figure, the like of which they had never seen before.

It stood over ten feet tall with a non-human, oval face and a single eye in the middle of his forehead. Instantaneously, they heard a thundering voice onishing them: “Do not be afraid; I’ve been sent to save you from the dastardly torments of yimir jirkanum and to lead you to safety and to the

auspicious cure of your defects.”

Ŝūrnā and Anjiƙŵi were stunned and didn’t know what to say or do; they just stood there, mesmerized and struggling to figure out what was happening to them. Who or what is he/it? Who sent him/it? These were the questions tormenting their minds, but neither had the audacity to verbalize them.

“River Jirƙanđum can be a great benefactor and healer, but the water could also kill if not approached respectfully and per certain rituals,” the giant spoke well above their heads in a grumpy, nearly unintelligible voice. Both Ŝūrnā and her half-brother wished at this moment that their parents had come along. Anjiƙŵi felt an uneasy premonition, but he was not certain of the source.

The giant, out of nowhere, instructed them—in an indubitably sincere and frank tone—not to explore too far from their entry point but to follow him and do what he told them. Now traversing Ŷimir Jirƙanđum, he signaled for them to follow him. He then plunged into the water face-first, spinning disoriented somersaults, and then sputtered to the surface.

Ŝūrnā and Anjiƙŵi did as he had instructed and performed. Again, he swam forward gently as his arms clawed at the water. He called out for them and they followed. Like a dream, he repeated the somersaults, clawing at the water and floating effortlessly. Ŝūrnā followed through his actions and steps. Finally, the monstrous giant plunged again, deep into the water, and stayed down for several seconds before emerging at the other end of the river.

He beckoned both to do as he did. “Do not show any sign of anxiety or fear,” he shouted in his grumpy and booming voice.

Ŝūrnā plunged first and stayed for a few seconds before emerging to the surface and clawing at the water gently with her arms as she swam toward the giant. As soon as she emerged from the water, the impossible had become possible and, beyond all comprehension, her dog-face deformity was now gone, and she became the most beautiful face to behold ever on Earth. Her skin turned as smooth and tender as that of baby, and she could not believe it when she looked at her hands. Instantly, she collapsed on the sand.

When Anjiƙŵi, who was still to follow, saw Ŝūrnā standing on the beach with the most beautiful face he’d ever seen and the smoothest skin he could ever imagine, he forgot what he’d been told and jumped into the water shouting, “Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa is great!” He swam toward Ŝūrnā and the giant on the beach. But the free exhilaration of joy for the rebirth of his sister cost him his life—a giant, two-headed monster rose from the deep and swallowed him whole, head first.

When Ŝūrnā emerged from her stroke—hours later, for all she could tell—she looked and looked for Anjiƙŵi, but there wasn’t any sign of him.

Instead, a young, beautiful woman appeared beside her and said, “Your brother forgot the ritual of bathing and crossing River Jirƙanđum and, consequently, had to pay with his life.”

Upon hearing this bad news, Ŝūrnā instantly fainted again and had to be resuscitated by the young, angelic-looking woman. When she regained consciousness, she cried, yelled, threw herself at the feet of her benefactor, and refused to be consoled over this, her profound loss.

But the young woman told her, “There’s nothing you can do; you’ve received the instruction from the Master. Now wipe your tears and follow me so I can get you ready for your journey back home to meet and marry your prince.”

The angelic benefactor led the way, and Ŝūrnā followed, looking just as beautiful as the young woman in her present attire (she didn’t know what had happened to her burkha, and she didn’t ask). They arrived under a massive fig tree, whose branches spread wide and afforded a comforting, cool shade. The angel-like woman clapped once, and two young women with several suitcases of different sizes and colors appeared. She instructed the women to dress Ŝūrnā as a princess ready and desirous to meet her prince for a wedding ceremony. The women did as they were instructed and, when they were finished, their professionalism seemed impeccable and without equal. Ŝūrnā looked fabulous and gorgeous, with a fantastically smooth and tender skin shining glamorously in the sunlit shade.

The angelic hostess looked on, nodded her satisfaction, turned to Ŝūrnā, and said, “These two girls will take you back home to your prince and will stay with you as maids to take care of you and your prince and future children,” She clapped again, and an elderly gentleman appeared with a white horse saddled for a queen. She instructed the man—and the two other men that appeared with him —to get ready to take the princess to her home. She also told them to stay with her to take care of her stables. Just as she finished giving these directives, she vanished.

Within a two-days’ journey, Ŝūrnā and her entourage arrived at, or rather approached, her village. The elderly man sent one of the younger men to go to the village and announce Ŝūrnā’s arrival to her parents and Prince Māri. When the message was relayed to the village that Ŝūrnā was coming, the whole village and its surroundings lined up on the path leading first to her father’s house and then to King Ali’s palace. The wedding was instantly consummated, and Prince Māri and Princess Ŝūrnā celebrated with the whole village in attendance rejoicing with them for a week, dancing and eating and drinking.

Prince Māri and Princess Ŝūrnā lived happily thereafter. Recent reports say that their firstborn son was named Anjiƙŵi, after Princess Ŝūrnā’s dedicated half-

brother who met his untimely death because of his excessive expression of joyous ecstasy at her cure or rebirth.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA JIKILA AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Eight

The Orphaned Brothers

A very, very long time ago, there lived a man, Taĝŵi, his wife, Tħlamā, and their two sons, Ĉhaƀiri and Ẑharaƙaħŷel. Taĝŵi was a burly, no-nonsense, five-footten man who had the distinction of being the most audacious and bravest throughout the Bura land and its surroundings. He was not only the most eminent warrior of the tribe but one of its most adroit farmers and hunters.

Taĝŵi had the fortune of being married to Tħlamā who, at her prime, was the most beautiful and artistic woman. Her reputation for pottery-making and ɗahha, calabash decoration, had traveled far and wide throughout the region and beyond. People from the Kanuri clan, the Ǩilƃa clan, and the Whona clan came to the village to get her handmade pots and calabashes. In addition to this artistic deftness, she was unequaled in hair braiding. These, and many other qualities, made her the most reputable artist amongst the womenfolk of her generation in the whole Bura land and beyond.

Socially, the two complemented each other in every way. Taĝŵi was taciturn and introverted and only spoke when spoken to; Tħlamā was his antithesis. She was gregarious and vivacious, especially amongst her womenfolk.

Taĝŵi and Tħlamā were blessed with two handsome boys, Ĉhaƀiri and Ẑharaƙaħŷel. The two were always together; wherever Ĉhaƀiri, the elder, was, Ẑharaƙaħŷel would be found in the background. They not only enjoyed each other’s company but also looked alike, as if they were twins. The two had been mistaken for one another on numerous occasions.

The boys grew up to be very brave as well as successful farmers and hunters like their father. Just like their father, they enjoyed the life of being hunters more than that of being just a farmer. Even during the farming season, they would accompany their father in looking for a prey after their farm work was done for the day. During the dry season—which was normally the hunting season—they would spend weeks out in the wild, hunting.

Tħlamā always complained during such seasons that she might as well be by herself because neither the husband nor the boys were around. Often, some friends had to come and keep her company, especially in the evenings. However, when Taĝŵi and the boys returned from their hunting escapades, not only was Tħlamā pleased and excited, but the whole village was, too; they would bring enough meat, fresh and dry, to share with most families in the entire village. This often was a special period of celebration and ecstasy for Tħlamā and the village.

When Ĉhaƀiri, the eldest son, had reached the age of marriage, his father called him into his hut after they’d returned from one of their hunting escapades and talked to him about the role and responsibilities that he was about to take on. Taĝŵi advised him to start building his house next to the family home, as it was the tradition. He spoke to him about being a father and a husband, and he also told him that if anything should happen to him and their mother, he had to look after Ẑharaƙaħŷel until he was married. Taĝŵi emphasized the fact that he and Tħlamā were not getting younger, and they both hoped to see him married and for him to give them their first grandchild before they ed the spirits of their parents. Ĉhaƀiri agreed with his father and told him he had been thinking the same thing.

Consequently, at the end of the farming season, Ĉhaƀirii and his younger brother, with the help of friends, built his own home, next to his father’s. After everything was ready, friends and relatives were informed of the impending wedding. Ĉhaƀiri’s mwala vuva, parents, were informed that he was ready to have his wife.

After all the traditional gift exchanges had been done, on one clear evening, Ĉhaƀiri’s friends hid behind bushes along the path that his mŵala vūvā and her friends took to go to the river to fetch water; they snatched her and ran away with her into the bushes. When the girl’s friends returned home that evening, they went to Janaƃā’s parents and told them her fiancé had snatched her. The parents didn’t show any surprise because that was the way it was supposed to be done.

Early the following morning, emissaries were sent from Taĝŵi’s clan to inform Janaƃā’s parents about her snatch. “Last night, we came and got our wife,” Janĝūrā, the leader of the group, said.

The parents responded by asking, “How is she? We thought she was still too young, but if you see her old enough, we have no objection; this is our tradition.”

After the normal period of ĝħūlūm, celebration, and ħađħla, which the whole village participated in, the bride and groom settled into their new home.

Taĝŵi and his wife were happy and satisfied that their oldest son was now a man and might very soon give them grandchildren. As for Ẑharaƙaħŷel, he had already been betrothed to his mŵala vūvā as well, but both were still too young for marriage.

The following farming season, Janaƃā became pregnant and, by the end of the season, had given birth to a baby boy. Taĝŵi and his wife slaughtered their fattest cow and goat to celebrate the birth of their first grandson. Both were happy and proud of what Ĉhaƀiri had accomplished.

Taĝŵi called his elder son and expressed his profound joy, telling him, “Even if I die and my ancestors now, I have no regrets because I know you’re now a man; and I also believe you will take care of your younger brother.”

Ĉhaƀiri thanked his father for all he had done for him and his brother, and he promised, “I will make certain Ẑharaƙaħŷel gets married and becomes a man.”

The perennial hunting season had come, and every able man in the village got ready for the first venture into the bushes of Ẑirƙu Ĥħaranĝ. Often what happened was that a particular “bush” would be selected by accomplished and famous hunters who were familiar with the different locales. When the men arrived, they would make a ring around the area they intended to hunt in. After the area had been surrounded, the men would synchronize their inward movements around the circle to squeeze the animals into the middle with little room for their escape.

At the same time, the bush would be set on fire for the maximum effect of forcing the animals to try to escape. When they tried to escape, the men were ready for them, and they often would kill a whole herd. However, at times, some of the animals would escape unhurt or hurt but not dead.

When an animal was hurt but was still able to escape, and it was already nighttime, some of the men—especially the ones who thought they had their arrows in the animal—would decide to spend the night in the bush, hoping to ambush the hurt animal in the night or early the following morning. Often, these men would climb a tree and keep watch over the area for any strayed, hurt animal.

While out there in the depths of the bush in the night, hiding in the branches of a tree, the stillness could be awful but sublime. Such was the case this time with Tāĝŵi and his sons. Ĉhaƀiri had shot at a mūi, antelope, but it had escaped, and they decided to wait it out for the night in a tree. They each had climbed a different tree around the area they expected the antelope to hide in.

At around midnight, Taĝŵi heard a movement and other noises around his area, and he tried to send a signal to Ĉhaƀiri that the mūi was close. But as he tried to climb down, the branch of the tree he was holding broke, and he dropped with a thud, which was barely audible unless you were nearby. He immediately picked himself up and began to crawl on his hands in the direction the noise he’d initially heard had come from as adroitly as he could to pounce upon the mūi

Unfortunately for him, a bigger and more dangerous predator, a lion, was also approaching the mūi from the opposite direction, but it had paused because of the noise made when the branch broke and the subsequent thudding noise. By the time Taĝŵi spotted the lion amongst the bushes in the dark, it was too late; the lion had pounced on him, digging its claws deep into his throat, killing him instantly.

The children heard the shrill noise he had made when he’d been gripped by the throat by the lion, but by the time they came to his aid, the lion had left with a large chunk of the mūi and their father lay dead. They tried to chase after the lion, but it was of no use—it had run deep into the forest, and they dared not go after him alone. They knelt beside their father’s cold body and cried.

They took their father’s body and brought him home at dawn. Tħlamā, his wife, could not be consoled. She fainted upon seeing her husband’s body, and she cried for days and nights without stopping. The whole village mourned Taĝŵi’s death, and many declared that this might be the end of chivalry. His loss was profoundly felt by all the villages around as well.

Tħlamā refused to eat anything. Ĉhaƀiri took her to his house so Janaƃā could care for her, but six months after her husband’s death, Tħlamā ed him and her other ancestors. It was a real tragedy as the village came again to bury and mourn for her.

After one year, Ĉhaƀiri, his family, and his brother moved from the immediate neighborhood to a different part of the village. They could not bear the burden of living in or near their fathers’ house anymore.

Two years after the death of their parents, both brothers decided to expand the scope of their interests because it didn’t seem hunting was still worth their continued investment. After a deliberate discussion and an extensive review of their different substitute options to hunting, they decided to go into the ƀanđa, dry fish, business. Once every three months, one of them would make the sixweek trip to Kukawa to buy ƀanđa and bring it home to sell in the local market.

It was Ĉhaƀiri’s turn to travel to Kukawa to get the ƀanđa for them. However, even before he left, he noticed some change in Janaƃa’s, his wife’s, behavior. She was showing signs of having an affair, but with whom, Ĉhaƀiri didn’t have an inkling. Ẑharaƙaħŷel had likewise noticed a dramatic change in Janaƃā’s attitudes toward him; she was displaying some sexual mannerisms, like smiling at him a lot or touching him in a way that he didn’t like, but he didn’t want to tell his brother about it. Janaƃā knows I’m betrothed to Ĝana, and it’s just a matter of time before we get married, he reasoned, but why is she acting in this flirtatious, sexual manner? he would ask himself.

On the evening of the first day that Ĉhaƀiri left, instead of serving the evening meal to Ẑharaƙaħŷel in his own dish, she served the food for both in the same dish she served her husband. Ẑharaƙaħŷel protested and said he should be served in his own regular dish, the way it had always been.

But Janaƃā said, “Why are you reading some hidden meaning into this? I just want to reduce the amount of work I do since your brother, my husband, is away.”

Ẑharaƙaħŷel didn’t argue any further. He sat with her, and they ate. After they’d eaten, he went to his section of the house, as usual, and locked his door. Janaƃā was angry, but she swallowed her pride and didn’t do anything stupid that night.

The following day, she did the same: served the meals together in her husband’s dish. Ẑharaƙaħŷel protested but, again, to no avail. In the meantime, Janaƃā had intensified her sexual approaches in numerous ways, like by showing her cleavage or shaking her behind in a sexual manner intended to get his attention.

He protested, but again Janaƃā said, “You must be sick; or maybe it’s because your brother is away—that’s why you’re reading everything I do in a sexual way.”

That evening, Ẑharaƙaħŷel decided to go spend the evening at Ĝana’s, his fiancée’s house. He wanted to tell her what was happening between him and Janaƃā, but he decided against it. He stayed with Ĝana for the whole evening and only returned home when it was getting close to bedtime and Ĝana was beginning to yawn.

When he returned, he walked in very quietly, went straight to his section of the house, and he closed the door behind him. He began to undress; and then he felt a hand on his butt.

He jumped and yelled in fear, not knowing what was afoot. The hand ran down his back and gripped him, and they both fell onto his wooden bed. He yelled and cursed, and then he discovered it was Janaƃā.

Janaƃā said, “You have to sleep with me. Otherwise, I’m going to tell your brother you tried to force me to have sex with you, and I rejected you.”

Ẑharaƙaħŷel was astounded by what he heard Janaƃā say, so he pulled himself away from her and ran out, but she grabbed his underpants. They tore in the process, but he could get away in his long ƙaftan, shirt.

It was very late, and he didn’t know where to go. Finally, he decided to go to Ĝana’s place, even though he knew, traditionally, he was prohibited from spending a night with her. He went anyway and knocked; she opened her door to him. When she saw the condition he was in—torn sleeve and missing underpants —she immediately surmised what had happened. Ẑharaƙaħŷel refused to go back to his and his brother’s house until the return of his brother from Kukawa.

When Ĉhaƀiri returned, he found Janaƃā in rags and with ashes all over her body, yelling and crying, throwing herself on the ground, tumbling. He immediately threw everything on the ground and ran to her.

He asked her, “What happened? Where is Ẑharaƙaħŷel? Is he well, or did something happen to him?”

Janaƃā would not answer, but she kept on crying and saying, “If this is what you call a brother, I’d rather you have none; look at what your brother tried to do to me! He tried to force me to sleep with him, and I had to fight him back, and then

he ran away to his fiancée, Ĝana.” She showed him Ẑharaƙaħŷel’s underpants, which she had stripped off, and parts of his torn sleeve.

Ĉhaƀiri went berserk, but he decided to keep calm and teach his younger brother a lesson: How can Ẑharaƙaħŷel, whom I brought up because of the promise I made to our parents, turn against me? I’ve got to teach him a lesson he will never forget.

After their evening meal, he tried to find a way of narrating what had happened between him and Janaƃā, but Janaƃā would not leave him alone even for a minute.

He tried to get his brother to step outside the house, but Janaƃā said, “You just came back from a long trip, why don’t you go in and rest instead?”

When Ẑharaƙaħŷel learned that his brother had returned from his journey, he immediately packed up his few things and returned home. Upon arriving, he went to hug his brother, as was their normal courtesy, but he found his brother cold and less enthusiastic. He asked him about the trip and engaged him in small talk, trying to buy time before telling him what had happened. Little did he know that Janaɓā had implicated him in something he’d worked hard to avoid happening.

He helped his brother unload the fish he’d brought, and they talked, generally about the village and some events that had happened while he was away, like the death of a villager who used to be close to their parents.

After their evening meal, he tried to find a way of narrating what had happened

between him and Janaƃā, but Janaƃā would not leave him alone for even a minute.

He tried to get his brother to step outside of the house, but Janaƃā said, “You just came back from a long trip, why don’t you go in and rest instead?”

After all his efforts had failed, Ẑharaƙaħŷel decided to go in and wake his brother very early in the morning to narrate the events that had transpired between him and Janaƃā. He had no idea that his brother already knew but, for some reason, hadn’t given him any sign of it.

They all went in, he wished his brother a restful night, and he told him, “Tomorrow, we have a lot of stuff to talk about—many events that happened around here, but I couldn’t tell you all of it in one night.” After saying this, he went to his section of the house and closed his door.

In the middle of the night, when every soul in the village had gone to bed, Ĉhaƀiri came out, sharpened his waist-knife, and walked towards Ẑharaƙaħŷel’s section of the house. He stopped twice to think through what he intended to do. Finally, he heard the first cock crow, so he hastened, opened Ẑharaƙaħŷel’s door gently, and entered. As soon as he did, he grabbed his younger brother’s penis and yanked it.

By the time Ẑharaƙaħŷel reacted, his penis was on the ground, and all he heard was: “This is a lesson to you, and you have nothing to chase after any woman with now.”

Ẑharaƙaħŷel cried and tried to explain, but it was too late. He instantly decided

to leave the village, before word spread that his brother had done this to him because he’d tried to have sex with his wife. He didn’t even have the courage to go tell Ĝanā, his fiancée, about the disaster that had befallen him. He disappeared from his ancestral village in the wee hours of the morning with blood dripping from where his penis used to be, knowing he would never return. When he reached the outskirts of the village, he turned once more to look at it, but from then on, he never turned again; he continued walking until he got tired and sat under a tree to rest.

Just as he was about to get ready to resume his journey to the unknown, a hunter approached with his kill, a deer, on his shoulder. The hunter asked him where he was heading at this late hour, and Ẑharaƙaħŷel told him that he had no place in mind—he was just going wherever fate took him. The hunter tried to convince him to come along with him, but Ẑharaƙaħŷel declined, thanking him for his kindness to a stranger like himself.

The hunter told him, “Since you declined to come with me, my advice is that, as soon as the sun sets, find a place to hide, because there’s a monster in this region that has been a menace for a long time, but none of us has been able to kill it. Don’t forget this advice. You’re still young with a lot of life ahead of you, so don’t throw it away; be careful, and may Ĥŷel ƙaƙa protect you.”

When the hunter left, Ẑharaƙaħŷel pondered the advice he’d been given, but he decided to go on anyway. He walked for two or three hours, observed the sun was already setting, and recalled the hunter’s onition, so he sought a place to the night. Then he saw a local well, and he said to himself, “Indeed, Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa is with me, because I need water.”

He stopped by the well and got some water. Then he noticed a huge rock and an entrance, which he instantly decided to use as his hideout for the night. He went to the rock, inspected it, and found it to be both very comfortable and a protection against the elements. He got some leaves, entered, closed the

entrance, and lied down.

Having lain down to sleep, but finding he could not fall into it, he ventured out from under the rock and looked around. After encountering only the awful stillness of the night, he went back to his refuge. Just as he was finally falling into a deep sleep, he heard a scary noise accompanied by a strange movement that gave him goose bumps like he had never experienced before.

He decided to peep through the leaves he had used to protect the entrance of the rock, and to his utter astonishment, he saw a monstrous figure moving toward the well he drank from a few hours before. From the distance, he could see that this was a dangerous monster, which stood above seven or ten feet on its hind legs. Its eyes seemed to exude fire, and its breathing was like that of thunder.

Ẑharaƙaħŷel immediately retreated inside his refuge and began to contemplate what his next action would be. Should he just keep quiet and allow the monster to do whatever it wanted to do and then disappear to where it came from? Or should he venture out and face it? He decided on the latter because, he reasoned, “Nobody in the world would miss me anyway, not to mention that I’m not even a full man. What is the meaning and importance of living for me? I might as well do something altruistic if it would save even a single human being from the menace of this monster”.

After making the decision to face the monster, he took out one of his arrows from the quiver, tightened the cord on his bow, and came out of his hiding place. In the meantime, the monster had sat astride the well and was gobbling on something he had killed. Ẑharaƙaħŷel instantly ed the days he’d observed his late father kill large and dangerous animals with his arrow, and he likewise aimed his arrow, pulling the cord of the bow taut—as his father would have—and let the poisonous arrow fly toward the monster.

The moment the arrow hit the monster on the forehead, Ẑharaƙaħŷel saw it stagger as if it would fall into the well. Instantaneously, he sent another arrow, which hit the monster directly in its ribs, shattering its heart. He watched the monster bleed and struggle to keep steady before collapsing some distance from the well. Ẑharaƙaħŷel then moved closer and thrust his spear into the ribs as well, further shattering the monster’s heart and other organs. When he was convinced the monster was dead, he ripped one of its ears off and went back to his hiding place.

Early in the morning, when women came to the well to get some water, they were shocked by what they saw; some fainted, and others ran away, shouting for help. When they got back to the village, they told everybody what they’d seen: the monster was dead. Not a single person believed them, though; most of the villagers dismissed them as though they had hallucinated, because who could have killed the monster that had tormented the village any time someon went to get water from the well since people had first settled here?

The men of the village accused the women of seeing a phantom and not the deadly monster, but the women insisted that they had seen the monster dead near the well. When King Ŷamŧa was informed of the news, he sent his senior courtiers and his swordsmen to go see and come back and tell him whether the women were telling the truth or not.

The courtiers and the king’s special entourage got ready and took the women with them to the well. As soon as they were near the well, they could see the body of the dead monster. They got closer and inspected it to make sure it was, indeed, dead. That’s when they noticed one of the ears was missing—it had been severed with a sharp knife.

They looked around, but there was no sign of any human being, so they hurried back and informed the king about their findings: “The monster, Būnđi, is indeed dead,” they announced with acclamation and relief.

“Did you find the valiant Master Hunter who killed it?” King Ŷamŧa inquired.

“No, Būnđi; we looked all over the vicinity—under the rocks in the forest—but there was no sign of the heroic killer,” the king’s swordsman responded.

The king then asked his chief spokesperson (the village announcer) to go into the village and its surroundings and announce the decree of a three-day celebration and a reward for whoever had killed the monster. “The reward,” King Ŷamŧa said, “Will be a share of half my kingdom and marriage to one of the princesses.”

After the proclamation was made throughout the village and its surroundings, several people began to come forward to claim that they were the one who had killed the monster, but when they were asked to identify the arrows used and to provide the missing ear, they just hung their heads in shame and apologized to the king, whereby they were given twenty lashes for their false claim.

On the last day of the three-day celebration, one of the princesses and her escorts went to the vicinity of the well to relax in the woods. Then, as if by some magical intervention, they saw a handsome young man wandering in the forest. The princess ordered her senior woman attendant to ask the young man who he was. But when she did, Ẑharaƙaħŷel refused to respond. When the princess was informed of the young man’s absurd and taciturn obdurateness, she became incensed and decided to approach him herself.

“Who are you?” she asked, but Ẑharaƙaħŷel didn’t answer.

“Do you speak our language?” she inquired some more, but the young man still didn’t answer. Finally, the princess said to him, “Do you know who is talking to you? I’m the princess of the village, and I have the power to force you to the palace,” she said authoritatively.

It was at this point that Ẑharaƙaħŷel answered and said, “What wrong did I do that you should surrender me to the palace? I have nobody who cares for me in the whole world, and I don’t care what happens to me, but I deserve to know why I should be forced to go to the palace,” he said in a tense voice.

“Well, the king has made a proclamation throughout the land to try and find the person who killed the monster. Would you happen to have seen anything or anybody?” the princess demanded.

“Monster! What monster?” Ẑharaƙaħŷel asked.

“So you didn’t hear that gifts and rewards await the person who killed or saw the person that killed the monster near the well a few days ago?”

Ẑharaƙaħŷel said he had not heard about the proclamation, but he knew who’d killed the monster.

“What are you saying?” the princess asked, surprised.

“I know who killed the monster, but I can only tell it to the king himself,” Ẑharaƙaħŷel declared defiantly.

“Well, then, you will come with us to the palace,” the princess ordered.

Ẑharaƙaħŷel picked up his zol, stick, bow, quiver, and spear—practically all he owned in the whole world.

When they came to the palace, it was full of people celebrating in their regalia, drinking, dancing, and amusing themselves. The princess went in and asked one of her minions to go inform the king she wanted to speak with him. In the meantime, Ẑharaƙaħŷel had been ensconced in her section of the house.

When the king came, she knelt and said, “Father, I have somebody in here who knows who killed the monster.”

The king was aghast. “What are you saying, my daughter? How and where did you find him?” he demanded.

“I went out for a walk in the forest by the mountain, and we saw this handsome young man who claimed to know the killer,” she explained.

“Where is the young man?” King Ŷamŧa inquired.

The Princess beckoned one of her maids and directed her to bring the young man in her abode. When Ẑharaƙaħŷel came in, he fell and genuflected, paying homage to the king. King Ŷamŧa acknowledged his courtesy but, without any further ado, asked him if he knew who had killed the monster.

Ẑharaƙaħŷel said, “Būnđi, I know, but I was told there was a reward and a gift for anyone who could provide information about the killer,” he paused and then concluded defiantly, “I would want Your Honor to confirm what the gift and rewards are.”

The king was impressed by the young man’s adroitness and simplicity of character. He reiterated the reward.

When Ẑharaƙaħŷel was satisfied, he told King Ŷamŧa, “I killed the monster, and I have the evidence with me,” he said.

“Show me,” both King Ŷamta and the princess demanded.

Ẑharaƙaħŷel snickered, took out a pouch from his leopard-skin bag, pulled out the ear of the monster, and showed them. Daughter and father were devoid of any words to express their shock.

The king grabbed Ẑharaƙaħŷel and said, “From this moment forward, you’re my son an heir to half of my kingdom, and from now on, Princess Ŵaŝhim is your wife. Let’s all go out so I can fulfill the proclamation officially to every man and woman in my kingdom.”

The king led the way, and Ẑharaƙaħŷel followed. When the king signaled the crowd, there was complete silence as he prepared to make the announcement about the monster’s killer. After the announcement, the monster’s ear was presented as the evidence along with an exact replica of the arrow that had been

used.

Ẑharaƙaħŷel’s marriage ceremony with Princess Ŵaŝhim was immediately performed in accordance to tradition, where several animals were slaughtered, including cows, camels, and sheep. The celebration lasted a whole week, after which they were moved to their own palace.

Now that Ẑharaƙaħŷel and his princess were well-ensconced in their new palace, an important and viable event came to occupy his mind—that of fulfilling his manly duties to his princess-bride. He contemplated telling her the truth of what had happened between him and his older brother, which had led to his castration, but a desire for a happy relationship, even if short-lived, prevailed, and he kept mute.

Every day that ed, he had to come up with excuses for the princess about his sexual desires. He often made the excuse that, since childhood, he had always been scared of coming near women, and it was going to take time for him to feel at ease in her presence.

Every day, early on, he went to the stream to take a bath because, at that time, there was hardly anybody there. Most of the people came in the evening after a hard day’s work.

However, one sultry harmattan, overcast day, three women decided to go get water from the stream and cool off from the suffocating heat. Unfortunately, Ẑharaƙaħŷel had just arrived and had taken off his clothes when the women approached him naked.

He didn’t have any chance of diving into the stream, so he hurtled to get his clothes on, but all he heard was a shout from one of the women: “Where is his manhood? Did you see his groin? There’s nothing there; it’s just flat!”

“How is the princess putting up with him? He’s not a man,” shouted back the others as they hurried out of the vicinity of the stream with their water pots balanced on their heads. As soon as they met other women going in the opposite direction, the first thing was to share their story with them.

“We pity Her Highness. How could she live with a eunuch? Or maybe he is just another woman in disguise,” they postulated.

Very soon, everybody in the village and its surroundings was talking about the princess’s eunuch. Finally, the rumors reached the court; the king’s swordsman heard it and informed him. King Ŷamŧa was aghast, as were most of his courtiers, and didn’t know how to prove or disprove such rumors. He decided to hear it himself from the two women who had actually seen the prince naked at the stream.

They were called to the Būnđi’s chamber to confirm or refute the rumors that they had helped spread. The first woman asked confirmed and swore that if she wasn’t telling the truth, may the king’s men take out all the sorghum in her biggest βi, granary, and thrash it, and she would blow away the chaff using her mouth—instead of the normal puhumta—to separate the corn from the chaff using the force of the wind. The second said that if she wasn’t telling the truth, may the king send her back to her parents. The third woman said that if she wasn’t telling the truth, the king should slaughter his fattest ram, and she would eat the whole meat alone at one time.

Now the king had heard it from the horses’ mouth; it was up to him to come up

with an ingenious way of proving or disproving the allegation of his son-in-law being a eunuch. After some consultation and intense deliberation with his courtiers, it was agreed that the annual celebration of the king’s Βi (local granary) mounting by his sons-in-law should be brought forward this year and the conditions altered. Instead of the sons-in-law climbing in their underwear, this year, they would climb it completely naked.

The village crier went out in the night and announced the king’s proclamation in all the wards and the ading villages. Everybody was invited to be present, men and women. The bellman embellished it by saying the king had promised lots of prizes and gifts.

When the proclamation spread throughout the village and its surroundings, Ẑharaƙaħŷel knew this had been done to get to him, and he worried profoundly both about the shame he would encounter and about his probable loss of the king’s favor and privileges. He cried all the time when he was alone, asking Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa to do something to save him. But when he was in the company of others, he faked happiness.

As it was one day in the afternoon, he decided, as he often did, to go to the stream to have a bath. Suddenly, he noticed a bush fire, which some young men had set near the stream, and when he approached it to put it out, he saw several young snakelets about to be consumed by the fire. He grabbed them, threw them in the water, and they swam away.

Not long after that, he saw a huge snake emerging from the water, and it thanked him for saving her hatchlings. Furthermore, she asked him to tell her all the things that were bothering him and what he wanted as a gift for saving her neonates.

Ẑharaƙaħŷel narrated all his problems to the monster snake, especially those about the event of climbing the king’s Βi naked. He said he was certain they would kill him if what the women had said about his lack of a penis was proven, which he knew would be.

The snake listened attentively and finally came out of the water, asking Ẑharaƙaħŷel to climb on her back. When he did, she jumped into the water with him on her back and took him to dry land on the other side of the stream.

When he climbed off the snake’s back, she showed him a huge collection of men’s penises and asked him to either find his own or choose another. At first, Ẑharaƙaħŷel was fixated and mute. But with the snake’s encouragement, he picked his own. The snake affixed it for him and brought him back to where he’d been.

When he came out of his awe and consternation, he expressed his everlasting gratitude to the snake in the most profound way he could. She left him and wished him good luck with the Βi climbing the next day and all through his remaining life.

On the following day, all the villagers came out and gathered in front of the king’s palace, except for Ẑharaƙaħŷel and Princess Ŵaŝhim. In a loud and clear chorus, the villagers demanded Ẑharaƙaħŷel’s presence: “All the king’s sons-inlaw are here, but where is Prince Ẑharaƙaħŷel?” they shouted.

The king sent one of his men to go remind Prince Ẑharaƙaħŷel and the princess that it was time and people were waiting for them. When they finally came, the tradition of climbing the Βi, this time naked, began. One by one, all the king’s sons-in-law climbed the Βi naked, as demanded, and every time, there was a hilarious eruption of acclamation and applause declaring them “full men.”

Now all eyes turned to Ẑharaƙaħŷel and demanded his turn. He started the climb with his underpants on, and everybody shouted, “What are you hiding? What are you afraid of? Take off your underwear!”

To comply with their demands, halfway to the top of the Βi, he dropped his underpants, and the whole gathering fell silent, as if lightning had struck. They could not believe their eyes. “He’s a full man like the others.”

Immediately, the king ordered his servants to get down and dress. The women who had made the allegation and confirmed it by swearing had their punishments meted out instantly. Zharakahyel was promoted then and there as first heir to the throne. Not long after the event, King Ŷamta ed his ancestors, and Ẑharaƙaħŷel was installed as king.

Several years later, during his reign, a famine came upon his native village, and people were dying en masse. Most of the people left the village to go to where the pasture was green and food was available. Ẑharaƙaħŷel’s older brother and his wife, Janaƃā, ed those who left the village looking for a better place. When they came to the village where Ẑharaƙaħŷel was king, they first stayed near the village’s thrashing or flail pad in order to pick the few grains that had fallen to the ground. They had become emaciated, sickly, old, and frail because of the hunger. When the village came to flail their sorghum, they would often purposely leave some on the ground for them to pick and eat.

Finally, the story reached Ẑharaƙaħŷel’s court about a couple who was staying at the flail pad, picking and eating the grains that had fallen. Upon hearing the story, the king ed the days when he had been in the same position, with nothing in the world but his soul, bow, and quiver. As such, he had pity on them and asked his sword carrier to bring the couple.

The moment he saw them, he recognized them, but they didn’t recognize him. The king ordered his servants to provide them with a place in the palace for the time being and to make certain they were well fed and looked after. After a few months, Ĉhaƀiri and Janaƃā had put on weight and were looking healthy and satiated.

One day, after dinner, Ẑharaƙaħŷel called them and asked them who they were and where they came from. He asked them about their village and how the famine had happened. They happily told him everything about it, including the long periods of draught during which nobody was able to plant anything. And, to add insult to injury, the horde of grasshoppers that consumed the little they had been able to plant.

At the end of their narration, he asked them if they recognized him, but they thought he was teasing them and joking: “Your Excellency, how could we have known you? We’re just local and poor people from the village,” they demurred respectfully.

Ẑharaƙaħŷel straightened his leg and jabbed Janaƃā, telling her, “It was your wickedness that separated me from my brother.” He did the same thing with his brother, saying, “Because you listened to your wife and never even gave me the opportunity to explain what had happened, you just went ahead and committed the most abominable punishment on me by yanking my manhood. Both of you must pay for your guilt.”

Both husband and wife were petrified and flummoxed beyond their wildest dreams, and they collapsed. King Ẑharaƙaħŷel called one of his servants to attend to them while he returned to his court to rule and ister justice to his subjects.

There are two endings to the story: one is that he turned them into baboons using some of the powers the snake had conferred on him; the other is that he allowed them to live in the village but banished them from the palace.

The reader can choose any ending that makes sense to him or her.

THLAMTA FAR NAWA, THLAMTA FAR JIKILA AKWA MTAKU

Chapter Nine

The stubborn woman, her four daughters, and dragons

There once lived a very rich and godly man, Ĵanĝurā, his wife, Ĵimƀalā, and their four daughters: Ĝanā, Ǩŵaƀatħli, Ĵānŧūŵa, and βāŧa. Ĵanĝurā had a ranch with more than twenty heads of cattle, sheep, and goats, as well as servants and maids —a very rare privilege in the village.

Although he was blessed with all this material wealth, the only thing that Ĵanĝurā had always yearned and fervently prayed for from Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa was a son because, in his society, if a man died without a son, all his possessions would go to other male relatives. Girls could not inherit from their father; only a son could.

At the age of sixty—old and sickly—Ĵanĝurā knew time was not in his favor, and he seemed resigned to the fact that fate didn’t deem him worthy of a son since all his prayers had gone unanswered. As a consequence of reconciling to his fate, he consigned and promised himself to devote the remainder of his active days to loving his wife and daughters. But the trepidation of his imminent mortality had put so much stress on his mental stability that, on several occasions, he awoke Ĵimƀalā in the middle of the night to demand a pledge that she would absolutely devote her life to the girls when he ed his ancestors. Ĵimƀalā had always, without any reservations, affirmed her pledge to him.

Ĵanĝurā instructed Ĵimɓalā to make sure all the girls were married well, to the right men, after his death. He told her, contrary to tradition, to be generous with the girls’ dowries. Each girl and her husband should receive two cows, sheep, and goats.

As fate would have it, one day, after Ĵanĝurā returned from his ranch in the evening, he called Ĵimɓalā, reminded her about her pledge, and wished her well before he went to bed. Early in the morning, Ĵimƀalā waited for him to come and greet her as he had done every day for the last forty years, but he didn’t show up. Ĵimɓalā thought this was indeed unusual because he had never failed to do so, even when he hadn’t felt well.

After an extended wait, she decided to go into his room and check on him. To her utter shock, she found Ĵanĝurā neatly wrapped in his blanket but not responding to her greetings. She moved closer and touched him, but there was no motion of any kind. Immediately, she knew Ĵanĝurā had ed the spirits of his ancestors, and she fainted.

One of the maids—who had been watching from afar—instantly alerted the main male servant, sobbing uncontrollably, and they both came running, wailing over the ing of their master. They unsuccessfully tried to console Ĵimɓalā, but she could not be consoled, nor could she stop crying. The girls attended to their mother and tried to console her, too. Within a few hours, other relatives and friends were all informed, and they came crying and wailing for their benefactor. Ĵimƀalā and the girls kept on crying for days—seven days—until his burial, when the Kuri tuwa took place, and he was finally presumed to have ed the spirits of his ancestors.

Within five years of Ĵanĝurā’s death, all the girls had been married, and Ĵimƀala was happy to have fulfilled part of his wish. What she could not fulfill was the dowry she had been instructed to give the girls. She didn’t do so not because of a lack of effort, but because their relatives had divided everything up amongst themselves immediately after the Kuri tua and sadaka, and they had left Ĵimƀalā and the girls with only three cows and a handful of sheep and goats. She had been able to get this much because none of the younger male relatives found her suitable as a wife. If one had found her beautiful enough and married her to continue Ĵanĝurā’s lineage with her, the part she received would have gone to

that man. Thus, Ĵimƀalā always proudly told the girls and her friends that her age and lack of good looks had saved her from utter poverty.

It’s probably fitting at this juncture to briefly say something about the different alien characteristics of the villages where the girls married. In the village where βāŧa was married, the people picked their eggplant with their noses and their okra with their cleavage. In the village where Ĝanā got married, the villagers boiled their meat but only drank the broth—the rest was thrown away and, as if this was not alien enough, the people didn’t need to discharge any feces. In the village where Ĵānŧūŵa got married, the people spent their nights in bathla bur, pounding on grinding stone, and nobody slept. In the last village, where Ǩŵaƀatħli got married, the people slept in the heavens with Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa; that is, after their meals, everybody just flew to the heavens to spend the night and return in the morning.

After ascertaining the girls were well ensconced in their marriages, Ĵimɓalā decided to fulfill the second part of her pledge to Ĵanĝurā: to visit each girl in her matrimonial home. The first girl she decided to visit was Ĝanā, where the people survived only on broth, and the use of latrines was obsolete.

When Ĝanā saw her mother, she almost collapsed. “Mother, why did you come? Why didn’t you inform me first? Don’t you know we don’t eat food here? We only drink broth, and no one uses the bathroom,” she lamented, sobbing.

Her mother lied to her and said, “Since you left, that’s also what we have been doing.”

The girl didn’t want to get into an argument with her mother so soon after she had just arrived from such a long journey to come see how she was doing. In the evening, they boiled several chickens that Ĝanā’s husband had slaughtered to

celebrate his mother-in-law’s visit. But to Ĵimƀalā’s consternation, only the broth was served—just as her daughter had told her—and the meat was dumped.

Ĵimƀalā was hungry, but she didn’t want anybody to know; after all, she had told Ĝana that this was what her village did now. In the night, however, she snuck out, went to the dumpster, and ate most of the meat before quietly returning to bed.

Around midday, Ĝanā told her mother she had to go to the stream to get water for the family. As soon as Ĝanā left for the stream, Ĵimƀalā rushed to the bush nearest to the house and eased herself. Not long after, the special cock of the village started crowing that somebody had defecated. When this happened, tradition required that the village head bring everybody to take an oath before a haptu, god, whether or not they were the culprit of what the cock announced had happened.

Thus, the village crier went out and announced that everybody should come to the palace and swear before the god. Ĝanā and her husband hid Ĵimƀalā inside the βi, granary, and warned her not to come out or say anything. “We’re going to swear an oath, and we don’t want you to get involved,” they pleaded with her.

When everybody in the village had sworn to the god and they were going back to their businesses, Ĵimƀalā stood up in the βi, and everybody shouted, “There’s a woman hidden in this βi; she must come out and take the oath as well.”

When Ĵimƀalā came out, she was taken to the haptu, and she swore that she hadn’t discharged any feces. As soon as she finished swearing, the effect of the haptu made her faint. All the villagers ran away, except for Ĝanā and her husband.

When Ĵimƀalā woke up, she started singing something like this: “Eħ si ahar salir nƙŵarna ƙa ŵuta su msira, đūnĝūŷun, đūnĝūŷun.” (I visited my son-in-law and got something good.) Ĝanā and her husband didn’t know what to do; they just tried as much as possible to keep her inside, chained, while they searched for the local medicine man.

One day, Ĵimƀalā escaped from her chains in the night, and she went out singing the song: “Eħ si ahar salir nƙŵarna ƙa ŵuta su msira, đūnĝūŷun, đūnĝūŷun.” It so happened that night that Ŷamoƀūlū, hyena, was in town, scavenging for something to maul, when he heard Ĵimƀalā singing in the night.

Ŷamoƀūlū came to her and asked, “Where or how did you get this good stuff you’re singing about?”

Ĵimƀalā immediately realized she had a customer, so she asked Ŷamoƀūlū, “Do you want it?”

And Ŷamoƀūlū said, “Want it? Of course; who would not want something nice?”

Ĵimƀalā said, “Okay. I’m going to lie down on the ground, and all you need to do is walk over me.”

“That’s all?” Ŷamoƀūlū blurted out.

“That’s all you need, and it will all be yours.”

So Ĵimƀalā lay down on the ground, and Ŷamoƀūlū hurriedly walked over her. Instantaneously, he began singing the song, and Ĵimƀalā ran away as quickly as she could. She was free of the haptu; now it was Ŷamoƀūlū’s problem.

Every time Ŷamoƀūlū tried to get to a prey, the animal would run away because of the song; he could not pounce stealthily. Eventually, Ŷamoƀūlū became emaciated for lack of food and, one day, he collapsed, dead from hunger.

In the meantime, Ĵimƀalā had regained her senses and, after spending another week with Ĝanā’s family, she decided to visit Ĵānŧūŵa where the alien practice was to batha bur throughout the night and not sleep at all.

Ĵānŧūŵa saw her mother one afternoon as she and other women friends were ing the hot tropical sun under an acacia tree in front of her house. She was shocked but, at the same time, pleased to see her mother after a long separation. She stood up and ran to meet her, hugging her while her friends poured praises on Ĵimƀalā for visiting their country.

After her friends had left, Ĵānŧūŵa began to prepare some mush for her mother as they talked about the village and the trending news and rumors.

“Is Ǩuƀili still married to her lovely and gentle husband, Ĝaŝhaū?” Ĵānŧūŵa asked of Ǩuƀili, her childhood best friend. Ĝaŝhaū’s father had betrothed Ǩuƀili to him when Ǩuƀili’s mother, Mŵājim, was pregnant with her.

“No, dear. Ĝaŝhaū went out hunting with friends for a night, and a mishap

occurred: one of the men shot him by mistake instead of the buck they were scouting,” Ĵimƀalā told her daughter matter-of-factly.

After Ĵimƀalā had finished eating her early dinner, Ĵānŧūŵa expressed her gratitude and happiness for the visit, but, in a solemn and even depressed voice, she asked her mother if she knew that in this part of the world, they didn’t sleep at night at all—they spent the night just batha bur, beating on the grinding stone.

Ĵimƀalā told Ĵānŧūŵa, “Ai ĝaɗi sinđa ŵa ŧun ŧirar nĝa an suti ŷeru ana ħara, ŷaɗi sinđa aƀur ĝirma ĝiri aɗi ana ħyeni ŵa.” (Since you left the village, that’s what we have been doing, too.)

Ĵānŧūŵa was shocked to hear this most remarkable change from the village she had grown up in. “Well, mama, just be sure you don’t sleep; just keep on batha bur because I’m going down to the stream now to get some water for the family. Please, mama, : don’t sleep because, if you do, they will think you’re dead, and they will instantly bury you, even before I come back.”

Ĵimƀalā nodded she understood and nothing would happen; she would keep on batha bur.

After Ĵānŧūŵa ascertained her mother had understood the consequences of falling asleep, she took her water pot on her head and headed down to the stream. Once there, she met a few friends who had heard about her mother’s visit and were expressing their joys for her; they promised to come and see her the next day.

In the meantime, as soon as Ĵānŧūŵa left the house, Ĵimƀalā stopped the batha

bur she was supposed to engage in to help her avoid falling asleep, and she found a very comfortable stool. She sat on it and put up her legs on another one and, before she knew, ħŷenir mta, (literaly translated, it would be “death sleep”) deep sleep (REM) had overcome her.

When Ĵānŧūŵa’s husband came home and found Ĵimƀalā asleep, he yelled and started crying that he had found a woman dead in his house. Immediately, his neighbors came in. Some wrapped Ĵimƀalā up in a burial cloth, and they began marching toward the cemetery.

After getting her water, the drums beat continued, Ĵānŧūŵa and a few friends headed home with the water pots on their heads. But, as they got closer, Ĵānŧūŵa noticed a large gathering stretching from her house and marching toward the cemetery. Immediately, she surmised the worst had happened: her mother had fallen asleep.

She lifted the water pot off her head, threw it far in the grass, and started running, shouting, “Stop! Stop, she’s not dead; she only mistakenly fell asleep!”

Ĵimƀalā, in the meantime, had come to her senses and figured out what was going on—they were going to bury her alive.

She then started to cry and sing, saying, “Mŵarmƀŵwr nĝa aɗi mti ŵa tsa aƙwa ħŷeni, mŵarmƀŵar nĝa aɗi mti ŵa tsa ƙwa ħŷeni. Ēħ ŝsi aħar sŝalir nƙŵarna ka pŵata ŝū, man ŧti ƙi ħara ri.” (Your mother in-law isn’t dead; she’s sleeping. I visited my daughter and encountered a mishap.)

At the same time, the drumbeats escorting her to her burial seemed to be saying,

“Mđa ana nĝata nđirir mamƀūla ŷa, mƀađ, mƀađ mƀađ.” (No one listens to the spirit of the dead.)

And in response to the drum, the crowd ed in: “Mŵanŧa ĝirni anđa, mƀađ, mƀađ mƀađad.” (Take her there …) The drums’ beat continued.

Ĵānŧūŵa headed straight to the gravesite and collapsed on arrival. She had to be resuscitated. After she regained her consciousness, she told the crowd her mother was not dead but asleep. Everybody stood still, completely astounded, because they had never seen somebody fall asleep. But they believed Ĵānŧūŵa and unwrapped Ĵimƀalā from her burial clothing. Ĵānŧūŵa and her husband then took her home.

After a week of recuperation from the shock of the experience of nearly being buried alive, Ĵimƀalā told Ĵānŧūŵa she was leaving to go visit her other sisters. Ĵānŧūŵa and her husband tried to convince Ĵimƀalā a to go home instead, but she told them she had to fulfill her promise to her late husband.

After Ĵimƀalā had exchanged some farewells and best wishes with her daughter Ĵānŧūŵa and her husband, she set out to visit Ǩŵaƀaŧħli, where the alien societal practice was to go sleep at Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa’s place in the night.

When Ĵimƀalā arrived at Ǩŵaƀaŧħli’s house in a rain-soaked day, Ǩŵaƀaŧħli was aghast. She asked her mother why she had come without asking for her advice. Like her sisters before her, she asked Ĵimƀalā if she knew that in this alien society, “Yeru adi ana pi aviar yeru wa yeru ana pi ahar hyel. Ma gan pila ali yadi ta kilinker kara siwa.” (We don’t sleep at home; we sleep at Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa’s house.)

Ĵimƀalā responded like she had with Ĵānŧūŵa and Ĝanā: “Ai nƙŵkwar na ŧūtun tirar nĝga ŷar ma ŷeru ana pi aħar ħŷel, anŧi ĝa aɗiya đamita đzi ƙamŷyr na ŵa.” (Immediately after you left the village, we began doing the same thing, so don’t worry about me; I am fine with it.)

Ǩŵaƀaŧħli accepted her mother’s assertion with immense doubt; but she didn’t argue with her. After some small talk and sharing of rumors about their lives and relationships, Ǩŵaƀaŧħli told her mother that she was going out to see a friend very briefly, but she would be back soon.

Ĵimɓalā used the time Ǩŵaƀaŧħli was absent to play around with Aŝūĝu, her granddaughter. As soon as Ǩŵaƀaŧħli returned, it was time to prepare the evening meal. She prepared mush with the buck meat her husband, Ǩaƀura, had brought home from his bush-hunting escapade with his buddies.

Just as they were finishing their dinner, the trumpet sounded for the trip to leave. Ǩŵaƀaŧħli could hear their neighbors locking their doors and getting ready to fly to Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa. Ǩŵaƀaŧħli got Aŝūĝu ready and asked Ĵimɓalā to get ready. The trumpet sounded for the second time to remind the procrastinators that time was running out. Ǩŵaƀaŧħli wanted her mother to leave along with her husband and Aŝūĝu while she locked up the house.

Ĵimƀalā tried, but she could hardly leave the ground. She fell back, and she made the excuse that it was because of her wraparound, so they stripped her of it. Ǩŵaƀaŧħli advised her husband to take Aŝūĝu and go; she would follow after her mother was able to fly out.

The trumpet sounded for the last time, and Ĵimƀalā tried again, but she achieved the same result—she fell to the ground, not really, as a matter of fact, ever leaving it. This time, she offered a benign response that it must be her scarf.

After they removed it and she still couldn’t fly, Ǩŵaƀaŧħli had to act quickly because time was running out for her. Instantly, a thought came to her: she got her mother in the βi, a local granary, closed it, and told her not to talk or betray her presence in it, because if she did, the dragons that often came down to hunt for prey would kill her. As soon as her mother was safely in the βi and it was sealed, Ǩŵaƀaŧħli flew out. Now Ĵimƀalā was almost butt naked, except for her ƙuđzūr, underwear. Ǩŵaƀaŧħli had rushed inside the house to get Ĵimƀalā a wraparound.

The moment the procrastinators, including Ǩŵaƀaŧħli, left, the marauding dragons came down, pillaging everything they came across in the village.

Ĵimƀalā stayed quiet in the βi for a while, but she was getting bored and began talking to herself, “Rūĝđla Rūĝđla ɗeŵar nƙŵarna nđa.” (Oh, be careful of my daughter’s ɗeŵa, gourd.)

The green-eyed, atrocious dragons heard Ĵimƀalā a’s voice and came running. When they arrived, they surveyed the house, but they could not see anything. They were beginning to give up when, suddenly, Ĵimƀalā lifted the cover of the βi and tried to glimpse what was going on.

As soon as they saw her head, they knocked the βi down, took her out, and gored her skinny body into pieces, eating everything up except her heart and eyeballs.

The following morning, as soon as Ǩŵaƀaŧħli and the rest of the villagers returned, she immediately went to see what had happened to the βi. When she saw it in pieces on the ground, she surmised the worst right away: her mother was no more. She and her husband started searching for Ĵimƀalā even though they knew the likelihood of finding her alive was improbable. Eventually, a neighbor called Ǩŵaƀaŧħli and announced that she had seen a heart and a pair of

eyeballs in her garden.

Ǩŵaƀaŧħli and her husband collected the organs, which were all that was left of their mother, and gave them a burial. Ǩŵaƀaŧħli cried for days, mourning the death of her mother, but she was consoled that her heart and spirit, at least, would now her husband and ancestors.

THLAMTA FAR NA WA, THLAMTA FAR NGILUM

Chapter Ten

Ðaŵi and Aŵa

A long time ago, there lived a man called βirmā Ŷaɗiƙa in the village of Ŷanĝūzħar with his beautiful wife, Ŷanƙŵaŧir. βirmā Ŷaɗiƙa was a very wealthy man indeed, with a large herd of cattle, sheep, and goats. By all s, he was a blessed and well-to-do man, and he was profusely respected in the community. The reputation of the size of his ranch and its reaches had traveled well beyond the boundary of the village, up to Yerwa and Bagargami in the Chad.

βirmā Ŷaɗiƙa’s fame wasn’t dependent upon his riches alone; it was also due to his bravery and chivalry. Early in the history of the village, there had always been wars between the tribe and the next-door neighbor to the east, known as the Bolewa, for control of trade. It was in such environment that βirmā Ŷaɗiƙa once made his bravery and chivalry stand up above everybody else’s.

βirmā Ŷaɗiƙa was competent, fearless, and the most-beloved commander that the tribe had ever had. His conquests and chivalry were legendary in the history of the tribe, and they were always portrayed in relation to the time in one of the Bolewa wars when he took his men surreptitiously in the night to go attack the Bolewa around the town of Buni. But, as fate would have it, the Bolewa tribe had information of his intended attack and set up an ambush for his men.

During the ambush, most of βirmā Ŷaɗiƙa’s men were massacred, but he stood, fighting alone until reinforcements arrived to drive the Bolewa away. It was alleged that, out of the fifteen men he took with him, only one survived, and that was the one he sent back to the village to bring in more people. During the

interval when he was waiting for reinforcements, it was said that he didn’t sleep for twelve hours, and he exhausted the content of his quiver of arrows and had to get more from the quivers of the fallen. When the reinforcements arrived, they found him with only his badly perforated partaū, a gold embossed oval shield, and less than ten arrows left at his disposal. Because of this display of chivalry, he became the most-respected and adorned tribal hero in the village and its surroundings.

βirmā Ŷaɗiƙa was now sixty, and one of his paramount concerns was with the future of his two children, Ðaŵi and Aŵa. He had had a premonition of his death and wanted to make sure the children were well taken care of when he finally ed his ancestors. It was for this reason that, one rainy and thunderous night, he woke up Ŷanƙŵaŧir, told her about his concerns, and prayed that she would take good care of them when he was gone. He had her promise she would remain with the children if Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa would spare her life until they were both married and on their own before she ever thought of another marriage.

A fortnight after their conversation, Ŷanƙŵaŧir waited for Ŷaɗiƙa’s regular earlymorning knock and greeting, but nobody knocked. She waited and waited, but only silence and gloom seemed to hover around her world. Finally, she decided to go and check on Ŷaɗiƙa in his quarters, and what she found shocked her; she collapsed instantly.

One of the female maids was watching from far off, through the chinks of her fence, and when she saw their Mŵarmƀŵa, madam, on the ground, she yelled out and started crying until the senior male servant rushed to her and asked her what the problem was.

“I was peeping through the chinks of my fence when I saw Mŵarmƀŵa faint. Without any further ado, both the male and female servants rushed to βirmā Ŷaɗiƙa’s quarters. First they attended to Ŷanƙŵaŧir and, after she was resuscitated, they saw the cause of her collapse: Ŷaɗiƙa a was neatly covered in

his ƀarƙŵa, blanket, but he was not breathing. They ed their Mŵarmƀŵa in yelling and crying until the neighbors were alerted and ed them.

The village head sent out one of his criers to announce a seven-day mourning and burial period for one of the most distinguished and adored legends in the history of the village. For seven days, the whole village celebrated the ing of one of its esteemed commanders by dancing to the beat of drums, xylophone, algeta, oboe/bugle, guhlim, a banjo-like instrument, and the traditional phil nchatbui. At the end of the seven days, the Kuri tua and Saɗaƙa were performed, officially acknowledging Ŷaɗiƙa’s journey to his ancestors.

Ŷanƙŵaŧir was true to her word until, five years after βirmā Ŷaɗiƙa’s departure, she, too, ed her husband and the spirits of her ancestors. But before she ed away, she pleaded with Ðaŵi to take good care of his sister until she was well married according to the wishes of their father, and, finally, she asked him to stay in the house and to maintain the services of the workers so they could help him manage the animals. Ŷanƙŵaŧir received a burial commensurate to the wife of a distinguished tribal hero and legend.

Contrary to Ŷanƙŵaŧir’s pleading and their father’s exhortations, immediately after Ŷanƙŵaŧir’s Kuri tua and Sadaka, Ðaŵi asked all the servants and maidservants to leave; he told them he didn’t need their help. Everybody that heard Ðaŵi was baffled because there was no way he could maintain the herd on his own. Some relatives and elders of the village met and decided to appeal to his better angel on behalf of the servants, but Ðaŵi would have none of it; he told them it wasn’t their business to tell him what to do. The only thing he fulfilled according to his parents’ wishes was to stay in the house.

Barely six months after Ŷanƙŵaŧir’s death, there was a sudden and unpropitious reduction in the number of animals and in the size of the herd in general, even though nobody had ever seen any of their carcasses. Aŵa asked Ðaŵi what was happening. At first, he said nothing; however, in less than one year, the whole

herd was gone, and the two were barely able to feed themselves.

Finally, Aŵa threatened Ðaŵi that, if he didn’t tell her what was going on, she would find a way to die in honor, before they became beggars. It was under this threat that Ðaŵi told her he’d been feeding the animals to the birds. Aŵa couldn’t understand why Ðaŵi would prefer feeding the birds instead of feeding her and himself, but she kept her agony and angst to herself, crying ceaselessly when nobody was observing.

It was time for the tribe’s traditional Mƀa ħahŵa, grasshopper, and hunting season, and the village king, Ŷarƙaŵa, sent out a proclamation through Aji, one of his criers, of the day and date of the hunt. On the day of the Mƀa ħahŵa and hunting, he told Aŵa about it, and she took her small ɗewa, a small gourd, and a small hoe to help her dig for rats and other small animals, like squirrels.

As for Ðaŵi, he picked up his father’s large hoe and his voluminous hunting leopard-skin bag. Ðaŵi rebuked Aŵa for taking such a small gourd, but she defended herself by saying that if she had picked a large bag or hoe, she wouldn’t be able to keep up with the group and would get lost. Ðaŵi didn’t make any further overt comments, but he certainly wasn’t happy because he kept repeating and asking himself how many rats and other animals Aŵa could carry in such a minimal container.

As the hunting progressed, a group might rush ahead, leaving any individual that found a small mound—indicating the presence of a rat’s dwelling—behind to dig the rats out and then try to catch up with the rest of the group. This meant there were many stragglers as the party moved on. However, every time Ðaŵi came across such small mounds indicating the presence of rats, he would on, claiming it was an ants’ mound and not worth his time and efforts. In the meantime, Aŵa had filled her small gourd with rats and hahŵa, grasshoppers, and she had some in her wraparound.

Eventually, Ðaŵi came across a massive mound, and he began yelling frantically for Aŵa to come immediately: “I’ve found the largest rat mound for us. Come quickly to help me dig them out!”

Aŵa, being an obsequious little sister, responded by running very fast, jumping over small shrubs and burnt tree stumps. When she came near Ðaŵi and saw the mound, she stopped abruptly, in shock because of its size. “Ŷaŷa Ðaŵi, this can’t be a rats’ mound; don’t dig it.”

At first, Ðaŵi didn’t even lift his eyes to look at her. “If you think you know better than me, you can go, but don’t try to teach me about hunting, especially for rats; I was with father when he was around. Where have you ever been, other than at home?”

Aŵa didn’t dare make any further statements; she just stood there, mortified and shivering.

As Ðaŵi dug deeper, he solicited Aŵa’s help in removing the dirt. He kept on digging until he found ƙicir nŷarmƀŵa, a thatched piece of grass for closing doors. When he saw the mat, he pulled it out and shouted out to Aŵa that this was their missing doormat. He wondered aloud how the rats could’ve brought it into the mound.

Aŵa warned him again that it would be better for them to go home because she had gotten enough to last them many days. But Ðaŵi would not even look at her; he just kept on digging. The next item he found as he dug was a baby’s ɗewa, a feeding gourd, which had just been used, because it was still wet.

When he saw the feeding gourd, he shouted to Aŵa, “I’m almost there!”

By that time, Aŵa had taken off into a nearby bush and hidden.

As soon as Ðaŵi pulled the ɗewa out and peered inside, he saw a green-eyed Mŵwla Mta ƙa ƀzir at hilari (a phantom with a baby on her back). He shouted to Aŵa, “Ŷa ɗi ƙirawa!” (I am finished). He threw away his hoe as he jumped out of the pit and started running.

The phantom—with her baby and with hands and claws for fingers, plus two small emerging horns on both sides of her forehead—rushed out after him, singing and crying: “Zħar tuŵa ni, zħar tuŵa ni; sai mar ŵase, ĝar jampaɗa, pela mŵapuū akanta ĝina wa; nƙwa ɗime ƙi hara ƙa ri? Inđla đlanĝwar nĝwar, ħorat ata ŵuila Ðaŵi.” (Don’t cry, don’t cry, my daughter. We’ll follow through the mountains until we can cut Ðaŵi’s head off with a huge knife.)

In the meantime, Aŵa was running frantically in the opposite direction, crying and yelling for help, but there was none.

First, Ðaŵi came across a group of people who had been invited to help on a farm for chickens. The people asked him why he was running so hard in the hot sun at this hour, and he told them about the green-eyed phantom, which he said came out of a rat mound that he’d been digging.

“Come on, sit down and relax, we’ll defend you,” the leader of the group, Ŷamŧa, said.

Ðaŵi said, in a frightening tone, “The thing that’s chasing me is beyond any human capabilities; it’s death incarnate.”

Before Ŷamŧa could respond on behalf of the group, they heard the rush of a whirlwind, the rustling of leaves, and a song that sounded extraordinarily eerie.

“What’s that sound? Where is it coming from?” one of the men asked.

“That’s the sound of the apparition chasing me,” Ðaŵi answered as he got ready to run. He helped himself to some mush and chicken as he took off in a hurry.

The next group he came across had been invited to the farm for beer. It was a larger group and, thus, so was his hope for help. They asked him a question similar to the previous group’s, and he explained his predicament to them.

They first listened, and then their leader, Mŵajim, responded on behalf of the group in a similar fashion to that of the first group: “Look at our number. Do you think there’s anything we can’t defeat? Sit down, gulp some beer, and eat the food!”

As Ðaŵi settled down to gulp some beer and eat, the eerie sound could be heard in the distance, and the whirlwind effect was rushing leaves and raising tremendous dust as it approached. The people looked around at each other and, as if by some instruction, all shouted out simultaneously for Ðaŵi to get some beer and move on. They agreed with him that they could not help him because this was not a natural phenomenon but a specter that was beyond any human

ability to contend with.

Ðaŵi came across many other groups and villages, but none was able to help him.

Finally, he came across a large group of men working on the king’s farm—a sizeable group, indeed, with drums beating and women singing to encourage the men. At first, they raised his hope by their sheer number, and he thought the presence of the young women might produce some chivalrous youngsters who might want to prove their prowess. But as soon as the sound of the specter and the effect of the whirlwind hit them at a distance, they, too, advised him to move on because they could not guarantee his safety from the quandary that pursued him.

Ðaŵi was losing hope just as fast as the sinister sound kept getting closer and closer. Out of breath and very exhausted, Ðaŵi came across a small, dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere. In front of it sat a midget, weaving. The movement of the warp (longitudinal thread) and the weft (the lateral thread, i.e., the crosswise threads on a loom, over and under which the warp es to make cloth) seemed to be saying, “Ði đi pila ɓoĉira, ɓoĉira đi di pila ɓoĉira ɓoĉira.” (That’s the sound the loom seemed to be making.)

“May I please speak to your father?” Ðaŵi asked the midget.

The midget didn’t even raise his head or pause to answer him.

“Please, call your father; I want to ask him if he can help me with a specter following me.”

“Mister,” Ŵħisa answered, “I’m the owner of this house. Be patient if you want me to help you. Be quick; I have to finish this cotton today,” he answered matterof-factly.

Ðaŵi said, “That being the case, just help me with food and water, because there is nothing else you could do for me.”

But Ŵħisa insisted Ðaŵi should tell him his dilemma.

Just as Ðaŵi was finishing telling Ŵħisa his story, the sinister sound could be heard approaching.

“Is that the sound of the thing pursuing you?” Ŵħisa asked.

“Yes,” Ðaŵi quickly answered.

Ŵħisa got up and asked Ðaŵi to follow him inside.

When inside, he pushed Ðaŵi through his đlima, animal pen, and closed the door with huge tree trunks and thatched mats. Then he came out and continued with his weaving as if nothing had happened.

The eerie sound and the whirlwind finally came to a stop in front of Ŵħisa’s

house, but he didn’t even bother to look up. Instead, he kept on weaving

The phantom said to Ŵħisa, “Ǩumnar na aviaŷa nƙiri.” (My prey is in your house.)

But Ŵħisa didn’t even seem to notice her presence, much less respond.

“Hey, I am talking to you, midget,” the phantom said angrily as she moved to enter the house to locate and gore her prey to death with claw-like fingers.

“Stop. If you take another step forward, I’ll get up and deal with you, and you will wish you’d never met me,” Ŵħisa said in a sinister voice.

The phantom didn’t even pause. She kept on going into the house. When she reached the gate, and was about to open it, Ŵħisa got up, grabbed her, tackled her, whisked the baby from her back, snapped her neck, and threw it over the fence for birds. As for the phantom, he took out his mini razor-sharp side-knife and cut through her, exposing her insides, and then cut her head off.

After he was sure all was clear, he went in and brought Ðaŵi back outside to help him skin the phantom. After they had finished skinning the just-a-momentago fearsome monster, he gave Ðaŵi the choice of having either the meat or the skin.

Ðaŵi paused momentarily in thought and then said, “Tun tiyan mthlakarni yata kita kisimar ni.” (Since I am the owner, I’ll take the skin.)

Ŵħisa was shocked by Ðaŵi’s statement and choice, but he didn’t utter a word. Instead, he gave Ðaŵi two massive hunting dogs and told him to get two more when he got home. He advised him to never part with the dogs—if he ever did, that would be the end of him.

Upon arriving home, Ðaŵi immediately got two other dogs, as he’d been instructed to do, making them four. While at Ðaŵi’s home, any time the skin observed that Ðaŵi wasn’t paying attention, it would begin to inflate back into its original self, but as soon as the dogs noticed this diabolical action, they would start barking, and the skin would deflate back. This went on for a long time without Ðaŵi knowing about it. Every time the dogs barked, he surmised they were just barking because that is what dogs do.

On one sultry but overcast afternoon, Ðaŵi decided to go to the farm, even though he wasn’t feeling well. As usual, he took the dogs with him. When he was there, he began to remove some grass that had grown menacingly high amongst the plants with his hoe, and he seemed dutifully engaged in doing so. When the skin noticed that he wasn’t paying attention to anything other than his farm, it began to inflate itself, and all the dogs began barking simultaneously; then the skin deflated. After some hours, Ðaŵi decided he was fed up with the dogs’ barking.

“What do you see here that you’re all barking at? At home, maybe you see people going or coming, but what’s your problem here?” Out of anger, because he considered the dogs’ persistent barking as bothersome and a distraction, he took his big stick and, one by one, broke their skulls, killing all of them. “Now I can take care of my farm without any distraction from your barking and then get home on time,” he said after he had massacred all the innocent dogs.

When the skin inflated, and didn’t hear any barking, the first to emerge were the

hands and legs and then, finally, the head and her baby. Before Ðaŵi knew what heinous evil was coming to him, the phantom snapped his neck, chopped up the body, and gorged on each piece in peace and jubilation.

After she had finished eating all the pieces, she gathered all the dirt where Ðaŵi’s blood had spilled, swallowed it, and burned the farm to ashes. She made sure that not even a minuscule part of any piece of Ðaŵi remained to show the world that he had ever existed on this planet; she was very meticulous with details in her objectives.

After she was satisfied that everything had been done to erase any semblance of Ðaŵi, she took her baby and, in a whirlwind, moved to the wilderness in the west.

Later, people who had been in their farms in the same neighborhood that early morning reported seeing the bright tongues of a white flame licking the dawn sky and having wondered what the event might mean, not aware that it was Ðaŵi being mauled. Some narrated how they saw a bright and thunderous lightning striking the ground around Ðaŵi’s farm. They also said they saw a green-eyed figure sitting astride, with a baby on her lap, in the middle of the massive, strong whirlwind that enveloped the whole region.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA KIKKAR MJIR NVWA

Chapter Eleven

Ĥarā pɗaƙƙūr aƙa ŝhanĝa mji apa tuĝa atŝoƙta

The hunter, the monkey, the lion, and the leopard

A long time ago, in the land of βalƀiŷa, there lived a man, Ǩaƀūra, who was known throughout the land as the most comionate, avid, and successful hunter. Ǩaƀūra and his wife, Ĵanŧūŵa, were blessed with several children and large herds of cows, sheep, and goats.

On one of Ǩaƀūra’s hunting escapades, he had traveled deep into the bush far away from his village—and any other village, for that matter. After an exhausting day, he had taken refuge under a large baobab tree to rest. And then, to his utter surprise, he found out that he had not even a drop of water left in his hunting gourd, and he was desperate for some. Ǩaƀūra then decided that, under such dire circumstances, it was unwise to even consider the luxury of resting. As a result, he resolved to push on. I’d rather die of thirst looking for a drop than sitting down dreaming of one, he concluded.

After straggling aimlessly for what seemed to him an eternity, he sighted a village in the distance. He moved on, and he saw a well. The mere fact of seeing the well gave him the impetus he needed to reach it at all costs. Whether it was a dry well was, at this moment, immaterial to him.

Upon reaching the well, Ǩaƀūra collapsed from exhaustion. After a long time of

lying down on his face in the dirt, however, he regained consciousness and looked down the well. He couldn’t see much because of its depth. In desperation for water to drink, he built a bucket using ropes and tree leaves. When his improvised bucket was secured, he lowered it into the well in a pious hope of even just getting it wet.

But to his utmost shock, he heard some noises down the well—one distinctly declared, “Ŷauŵa, azħa farna tsu aɗi, ƙibilara usa.” (Oh, thank God for sparing my life. Please get me out.)

Ǩaƀūra didn’t know what to make of the voice. He thought he was just delusional and that the noise was coming from his head, so he quickly put it behind him and continued to pull the bucket with all the energy left in him. The more Ǩaƀūra pulled on the bucket, the heavier he felt the weight become. But this only gave Ǩaƀūra the survival instinct to do all he could do to bring the bucket up because, he argued, “What else do you expect coming from deep inside a well other than water?”

However, the more he pulled, the heavier it seemed the object in the bucket was getting, and the more stress it seemed to be exerting on the rope, nearly reaching the breaking point. But Ǩaƀūra didn’t have the luxury of giving up. Instead, he merely paused and prayed that the rope would withstand his pull and the weight of the water, or whatever else was inside.

When he finally gave the bucket his last pull, a monkey jumped out. It briefly glanced at him and thanked him, saying, “Ǩa Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa si ntimta alaĝa.” (May Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa reward you.) Within a second, it disappeared into the bush and began swinging in the tree branches.

Ǩaƀūra didn’t give up; he lowered the bucket again, this time in a more

desperate hope of getting water. As soon as the bucket hit the bottom of the well, he heard a sinister noise again, saying, “Ŷauŵa, azħa farna tsu aɗi, ƙibilara usa.” (Oh, thank God, my life is spared; please take me out.)

Ǩaƀūra still couldn’t convince himself that the voice was a reality. Maybe this time, he thought, he was really feeling paranoid and psychotic from nothing other than fear itself. Consequently, he gathered himself and pulled the bucket with more energy and urgency. As before, the more he pulled, the heavier he felt the object become.

Finally, as he tugged and pulled on the rope with his last ounce of energy, a lion hopped out of the bucket, onto the edge of the well, and said, “Usa alaga ka Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa si ntimta alaĝa ĝhirir nĝa ni.” (Thank you. May the almighty Ĥŷel pay you back for your efforts and humanitarian gesture.) And gracefully but hurriedly, the lion disappeared into the deep wilderness.

Now Ǩaƀūra was coming to the realization of his fate because, if he didn’t get at least a drop of water in the next few minutes, he wouldn’t be able to stand on his legs anymore; he was already feeling dizzy and becoming unconscious. I can’t believe this is my fate—to die in a foreign country with nobody around? Ǩaƀūra contemplated.

Ǩaƀūra braced himself and tried it again. Once more, as the bucket hit the bottom of the well, he heard the now-familiar, but no less sinister, sound: “Yauwa usa aka Hyel na ana ghir ta mda wa. Mda na ngini ka Hyel vidza alari barka, kibilara usa,” the voice intoned. (Oh, thank the Lord God who’s never tired of his creation. May God bless you; please, get me out of here.)

Cursing his fate, Ǩaƀūra pulled on the rope as hard as his meager energy would allow him, for now he was exhausted and in complete tatters. But he pulled

anyway—still in the desperate hope of getting just a drop of water. As in the previous instance, his last pull revealed that the object in his bucket had nothing to do with his desperation—it was a leopard.

“Usa alaĝa ƙa Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa ŝi ntimta alaĝa ĝhirir nĝa ni”, the leopard said and sauntered into the bush. (Thank you. May God, bless you and repay you in abundance for your kindness.)

This was becoming surreal. But a man as desperate as Ǩaƀūra was at this moment must do anything to survive, so he lowered the bucket again. This time, he thought, would be the last time because he was completely exhausted and fainting.

As the lowered bucket hit the bottom of the well, he again heard a voice but, this time, with a difference—the voice now sounded familiar, though still as sinister as the rest: “Ŵan aƙŵa đlar ra niri nĝūɗi?” the voice exclaimed (Who is here to help me?)

Ǩaƀūra responded, “Yauwa an sakatu ga ku wuta mda nvwa nga ja. Bzirma nzi ki kibila nga.” (Thank God, this is the time I meet a human like me. Brother, let me take you out.) He was more determined and energized by the sound of a human like himself, and he pulled more vigorously. After his last pull, the man, Ðaƙŵaima, jumped out of the bucket, shook hands with Ǩaƀūra, blessed him, and thanked him before disappearing into the bush.

Eventually, Ǩaƀūra lowered the bucket for the last time. This time, there wasn’t a voice. Instead, the bucket came up filled with water, and he drank as much as he could. After feeling relieved from the danger of death by thirst, he traced his way back to his village with little prey.

After some time, Ǩaƀūra decided to go out again to hunt for meat. He walked for days without encountering any, and he spent the first days in the branches of trees. He was exhausted and about to give up when he met a lion. He braced himself and got ready to run, but the lion lowered its mane and wagged its tail at Ǩaƀūra, indicating it was not going to hurt him. Upon seeing this, Ǩaƀūra relaxed and followed the lion.

After they had walked some distance, they came across a big, white-tailed buck that the lion had killed. The lion left Ǩaƀūra and went away into the bush. Ǩaƀūra skinned the buck, gathered everything, and went home. He celebrated his success with his friends and neighbors.

On another occasion, when he was out in the bush hunting, he met a monkey and, immediately, the monkey climbed onto a fumwa tree (vitellaria paradoxa, shea tree) that had an abundance of fruits ready for eating. The monkey went from branch to branch, shaking all of it so that a large amount of the ripe fruit dropped and Ǩaƀūra could satisfy his hunger, again taking some home for his family.

After a quiet interval, a rumor emerged and spread amongst the villagers that Princess Ajuji’s golden necklace, a symbol of her rank and royalty, had been stolen, and nobody had any inkling where it was. When all efforts to locate, and punish, the perpetrator of this heinous royal crime failed, a proclamation went out from King Ðzanƙar that a precious gold necklace belonging to Princess Ajuji had been stolen, and he was offering a prize to anybody that could lead to the perpetrator and the recovery of the necklace.

Upon hearing of the king’s proclamation, Ðaƙŵaima marched into King Ðzanƙar’s court and confidently declared he knew the perpetrator of the crime and could lead the king’s men to him. After he was interviewed and queried

extensively, and he seemed to be telling the truth, he was promised some gifts. He then gave them the name of Ǩaƀūra, the hunter.

The king and his minions were shocked and suspicious, because Ǩaƀūra had been known as a brave and outstanding citizen. But the king ordered his scouts to go get the necklace from Ǩaƀūra anyway, and if they couldn’t, they should take him to the depths of the bush and shoot him in fulfillment of the king’s proclamation.

When the king’s minions approached Ǩaƀūra about the allegation that he had stolen the princess’ golden necklace, he denied it. But he couldn’t convince the king’s scouts of his innocence, so they took him to the deepest part of the bush to kill him. Just as they lined him up to be shot, a leopard suddenly appeared from nowhere, and all the king’s men ran away helter-skelter, leaving Ǩaƀūra alone.

The leopard came, wagged its tail at Ǩaƀūra, and went away without hurting or scaring him. Even though Ǩaƀūra could not it, he was confident this was the leopard he had saved from the well. After the king’s men returned to the village and narrated everything that had transpired, King Ðzanƙar was moved and pleasingly disposed toward Ǩaƀūra’s kindness for all living things, including animals.

As for Ðaƙŵaima, King Ðzanƙar called him a turncoat and an evil man, considering how Ǩaƀūra a had saved his life in the well. As a punishment, King Ðzanƙar had Ðaƙŵaima arrested and imprisoned for the duration of his life. King Ðzanƙar gave Ǩaƀūra the title of βirma, a general of the army, threw a sumptuous party for his marriage to Princess Ajuji, and made him the next in line for the throne.

THLAMTA FAR NA WA, THLAMTA FAR JIKILA AKWA

MTAKU

Chapter Twelve

Taŵūl ƙa Mālƙūm: The Lizard and the Lard

From time immemorial, there lived two friends, Lard and Lizard. One day, Lard invited Lizard to his house for lunch. Lizard asked Lard why, after their long period of friendship, he would invite him for lunch specifically today. Lard told Lizard that his aunt was visiting and he wanted her to meet his best friend. Lizard accepted both the explanation and the invitation.

At the hour set for the visit, Lizard got dressed in his finest linen and went to Lard’s house. When he arrived, Lard told him that his aunt had gone out, but he would go along and prepare lunch for them before she came back. Lard built a fire in his lindi, stove, and put a pot on it. But to Lizard’s surprise, there wasn’t any water. When the pot got really hot, Lard clambered into it and asked Lizard to throw some water on him inside the pot. To Lizard’s utter surprise, after a minute or two, Lard jumped out of the pot, and there was enough oil in the pot for Lard to prepare a very tasty and remarkable lunch.

Lizard was impressed with his friend’s ingenuity to get the oil used in preparing their lunch. On his way out, he thanked his friend Lard for serving them such a beautiful lunch. He told his friend that the following week, on the same day, he was inviting Lard to come for lunch and meet his uncle, who had told him he wanted to come and visit him.

On the day Lard was supposed to visit his friend for lunch, the sun was very hot, so he had to use an umbrella to avoid melting. When Lard arrived at his friend’s house, he found Lizard busy setting up the table, the stove, and the wood. Lizard

met him at the door and told Lard his uncle was coming later, but, all the same, he would go ahead and prepare lunch for them.

Like his friend, he built up the fire and set a pot upon it, and when it had become very hot, he clambered into it. He started to turn around, shouting to his friend to pour water on him. Lard did so, but there was no oil, and before he knew what was happening, Lizard had fried himself to death. Lard cried over his friend’s demise and turned off the stove before he left to go home.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA NGILUM

Chapter Thirteen

Bžirnƙŵa nā pđaƙtaŝhanĝ: The Town Belle

A long, long time ago, there lived in the town of Mirnĝa, in northern βiu, a lady, Ǩŵatam Pɗaƙu, who exuded beauty and etiquette and was considered the most eligible of all the girls in her age group. But Pɗaƙu had spurned all male suitors who had had the misfortune of asking for her hand in marriage.

She was not only beautiful and affluent, but also kin of the royal family. Pɗaƙu’s beauty and affluence had reached beyond the town to the surrounding villages and the region as a whole. The rules Pɗaƙu set out for all would-be suitors were that if she turned one down, he had to be exiled from the town. It was alleged that a whole village had been created for all those who had been exiled for making the mistake of trying to court her and were spurned.

One fortuitous, sunny day, an elegant, handsome, and apparently well-to-do eligible young man, Ðaƙŵima, set out not only to try his luck in courting Pɗaƙu but also to teach her a lesson. Instead of approaching Pɗaƙu directly as a human, Ðaƙŵima turned himself into a Ŵuilatimtim, chameleon.

Ŵuilatimtim waited for the opportune time before striking, and that was when Pɗaƙu went to the stream to take a bath—a time she least expected anything dubious to happen. When, after a long wait in the tall grass, Ŵuilatimtim observed that Pɗaƙu and her attendants were all having a good fun in the stream, laughing and giggling as little girls, he rolled into Pɗaƙu’s wraparound and deposited his sperm. He then slowly disappeared into the bush grass.

Three months later, Pɗaƙu miraculously discovered that she was pregnant, but she didn’t know how because no man had ever come close to her.

Pɗaƙu delivered a handsome boy, but her parents and relatives insisted on knowing who the father was. They had to because, according to tribal custom, all the tribe’s children must have and know their father. This was paramount and significant because if a girl gave birth out of wedlock and could not identify the father, she had to leave the village.

In order to identify the father, a proclamation was made by King Ĉhiŵar for all young and eligible bachelors to come to the king’s palace for the boy to identify his father. Tradition demanded that whatever young man the boy identified as his father instantly became the girl’s husband.

The young man again turned into a chameleon, so when all the young men of the town gathered at the emir’s palace, the boy went around, checking on each young man, but he could not identify any as his father, until somebody spotted Ŵuilatimtim, in his slow but deliberate movement, hanging onto one of the tree branches around the king’s walled fence, and shouted out mockingly, “Could it be the Ŵuilatimtim?”

Instantly, every eye turned to the chameleon on the branch and laughed, including the girl herself. But to everybody’s utter astonishment, the boy deliberately walked toward the Ŵuilatimtim, hugged it, and proudly announced to the whole gathering, “This is my father.”

The crowd fell silent and was mesmerized over the turn of events. The girl’s father and other close relatives clustered in the center of the gathering and quickly decided that Ŵuilatimtim would be Pɗaƙu’s husband. There were hisses and a quiet exhilaration as the crowd began to depart in utter amazement, but they were relieved because they felt that at least the fate of many other young men was secure now that Pɗaƙu would be married.

But before the crowd could disperse, Ŵuilatimtim turned into the handsome young man that he was. The people stood for minutes in complete stupefaction, not comprehending what was going on. They wondered if it was a miracle or a phantom that was acting on their psyche.

After a prolonged silence and not knowing how to react in the present circumstances, the crow departed in a murmur; but at least they were fully aware of what had transpired. Ŵuilatimtim took his bride, Pɗaƙu, to his house, and they lived happily thereafter.

THLAMTA FAR NA WA, THLAMTA FAR JIKILA AKWA MTAKU

Chapter Fourteen

The Sesame-seed Farmer

A long time ago, there lived in the village of Ĝarūɓila a prosperous sesame-seed farmer, Birma Ðicā and his wife, Ŷaƙŵatir and their children, Ŷa/Ǩŵomŧinĝ, Ibrahim and Ŷa/Ǩarū βilā their youngest daughter. Every year, Birma Ðicā was always the first person in the village to clear his farm for the first rain. He was such a conscientious farmer that everybody looked to him for advice, especially pertaining to sesame-seed farming.

At the end of one plentiful and productive season, after harvesting his sesame seeds, binding them in bunches, and hanging them on a tree stump to dry, Birma Ðicā straightened up and praised his back-breaking efforts without giving Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa credit. The next morning, when Ðicā Birma returned, he could not believe his eyes; all his sesame-seed harvest had been scattered by Whirlwind.

He cursed and cried, but there was nothing he could do to retrieve his seeds. When he returned home, he gathered his friends, ntsiƙa (a small, round, smooth stone), aɓtsinĝa, liɓira (needle), and ɓŵantanĝ (a large axe) to go help him find Whirlwind.

The first obstacle they encountered was a region full of thorn thickets and other bushes.

They stopped and began to wonder amongst themselves how they could

through the them. However, as they stood there contemplating what they would do, ɓŵantanĝ volunteered and, in a minute, got to work. Within a few minutes, it had cleared the thicket, and they were able to go through. After a day’s journey, tired and exhausted, they came across a mountain.

They were all wondering how they were going to scale the mountain, but ntsika said, “Don’t worry; that’s my specialty.”

And before they knew it, ntsiƙa had flattened the mountain, and they walked across with ease.

Eventually, as they descended the mountain, they found Whirlwind’s house. They knocked and waited for a long time before Whirlwind’s wife appeared and inquired what they wanted. They told her they’d come to talk to her husband, but she told them Whirlwind had gone out on some business, but, if they wanted to, they could wait. They told her they would wait, and she served them water and, later, gave them some mush.

At the end of the day, Whirlwind came home, and his wife told him he had visitors who had been waiting to see him. After he’d relaxed and eaten, he went to see them. He greeted them and asked why they wanted to see him. There was a brief moment of silence because, other than Birma Ðicā, no one knew why they were there, and Birma Ðicā was wondering whether or not he should even say anything, knowing that Whirlwind could get angry very easily over simple matters—like being asked how he was doing—and anger could have devastating effects.

Anyway, after he’d given thought to his predicament, he ventured and asked Whirlwind why he had destroyed his hard-earned farm products after he had harvested and stored them to dry. Whirlwind disputed his allegation and said he

hadn’t done it, but Birma Ðicā insisted that it had been him.

Immediately, Whirlwind got angry, blew at Birma Ðicā, and spread him. But, to Whirlwind’s consternation and amazement, abtsinga gathered Birma Ðicā and put him back together, and then libra sowed him up. Ðicā Birma was on his feet again, insisting that Whirlwind was the perpetrator.

Upon seeing Birma Ðicā’s courage, Whirlwind conceded and confessed that, yes, he had been the one who scattered the sesame seeds. After confessing and appraising Birma Ðicā’s fortitude and hard work, he told Ðicā to ask him for anything he wanted. Birma Ðicā asked for a cow, sheep, goat, and chickens. Within a minute, all of Birma Ðicā’s requests were waiting outside, and Whirlwind saw them off.

Upon returning home, Birma Ðicā slaughtered the chicken and the goat but kept the cow and the sheep in his pen. The friends that went on the journey with him and the rest of his family feasted on the meat for days. They were able to finish the chicken, but the goat meat didn’t run out.

On a later day, Birma Ðicā’s wife and daughter, Ŷaƙŵatir and Ŷa/Ǩarū, said they were fed up with the goat’s meat and packed the leftovers in Ŷaƙŵatir’s gourd and went to the stream to get some water. While at the stream, Ŷaƙŵatir took out the leftovers, including the intestines, and blurted out that she was fed up with eating the meat.

Incidentally, there was another woman, Mataĝi, standing next to her, and she asked her, “Where did you get so much meat that you are bored of eating it?”

Birma Ðicā’s wife told Mataĝi how her husband had gone to Whirlwind, wrestled him, and forced him to give him a cow, a sheep, a goat, and a chicken.

Mataĝi said, “Well, if you are really fed up with it, why don’t you give me the intestines?”

When Mataĝi reached home, she cleaned the intestines, prepared them very well, and served her husband, Taĝŵi, in the evening. When Taĝŵi tasted the intestine soup, he was surprised, wondering where his wife had gotten it.

“Mataĝi, where did you get this delicacy?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s from a real man—a man who challenged and wrestled Whirlwind because he had scattered his sesame seeds, so just enjoy it,” she answered in a condescending voice.

Taĝŵi was angered by the way his wife had responded to his innocent inquiry. He paused, wondering if he should stop eating the mush, but he decided it was too delicious to just give it up; so, he continued until he’d eaten everything and cleaned the Kwatam, wooden dish, by licking it with his fingers.

The following day, Taĝŵi took his sickle, went to his farm, and harvested his sesame seeds, not bothering with whether they were ready or not. He tied them in bunches—just as Anĝili had done—and tied them to a tree stump to dry. He took his hunting knife, sharpened it, put it around his waist, and set out to Whirlwind’s house. He knocked and waited, and then Whirlwind’s wife appeared. She asked him what he wanted.

Taĝŵi told Whirlwind’s wife, “I’m here to avenge what Whirlwind did to my sesame seeds. I’d gathered them to dry, and then he came around and scattered everything.”

Whirlwind’s wife apologized to him because her husband was not in then—he had just stepped out but would be back by evening. She made Taĝŵi ensconce in their guest shade.

Later in the evening, Whirlwind came home, and his wife narrated everything Tāĝŵi had said, advising him to be cautious because Taĝŵi had made a threat. Whirlwind became furious upon hearing that Taĝŵi was there to challenge him, so he walked to Taĝŵi, picked him up, and threw him on the ground with a thunderous thud. His body twisted like he was caught up in what we might presently describe as “near the event horizon of a black hole.” He thrashed about, squawking with morbid fear, and finally lay unconscious.

His body presented a ghoulish sight with the flesh almost entirely stripped off his bones, and he instantly died. Whirlwind scattered what remained of his body parts away, far and wide, to the birds of the sky. Taĝŵi never had a chance, and his wife, Mataĝi, waited for days and months, in vain, for his return. She cried, but the neighbors had little sympathy for her; they accused her of pushing Taĝŵi to edge and to his eventual death. Mataĝi remained a widow to the end.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA NGILUM

Chapter Fifteen

The Origin of Death

A long time ago, according to the Bura myth of creation, people asked Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa for all of their needs, and he provided for them without any questions. Every time they were confronted with an intractable issue and they could not figure out a solution, they presented the problem to Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa, and he would solve it for them.

It was in this ideal and innocent way of living that, one day, a woman went to bed and failed to wake up. The people did all they could to wake her up, but all their efforts yielded no result. Faced with this dilemma, which was beyond their experience, they decided to send a messenger to Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa for him to help resolve the situation for them. They took a poll, and it fell on Ŵuilatimtim, chameleon, to go present their concern about the woman who had slept and failed to wake up. Ŵuilatimtim eagerly accepted the group’s unanimous decision, feeling highly exalted and proud that the people had such a high regard for his honesty.

Ŵuilatimtim set out on the journey to Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa, and the people waited and waited for days, but he didn’t come back. They started to worry because Maĝelni was still asleep. After a long wait, they decided to poll again over whom to send, but, immediately, Lizard volunteered. The people thanked Lizard for his community devotion.

Within a day, Lizard had rushed to Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa and asked him what the people should do with Maĝelni since they had failed to wake her up. Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa told

him what should be done, and Lizard hurried to relay the message back to the people. Unfortunately, though, by the time Lizard came back, he had forgotten what Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa had instructed him to tell the people.

“Well, what did Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa tell you we should do?”

Lizard sat in a corner, but he still could not , so he told them, “Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa said to put her in the ground and cover her with dirt.”

The people were in shock over this extreme and unusual remedy from Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa, but they decided to obey the instruction he had given them through the messenger they’d sent.

Immediately after they decided to accept what Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa had told them to do through Lizard, they began to dig. In the meantime, they decided it would be best to cover Maĝelni to protect her eyes and ears from the dirt, in the event that she might wake up.

They were on the verge of sealing the ground they had put Maĝelni in when Ŵuilatimtim, chameleon, slobbered in, walking in his traditional manner.

When the people saw him, they asked, “Why did it take you so long to go to Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa and return on time when Lizard was able to go and return in a very short and efficient time?”

Ŵuilatimtim said he had made sure to take his time understanding the

instruction. So he asked the people, “What are you all doing near the hillside now?”

One of the elders, Ŷaɗiƙa, said, “Well, what did Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa tell you we should do? Because Lizard told us, after having some difficulty recalling the message Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa said, that we should make a hole in the ground, put her inside, and cover her with dirt.”

“Oh no, that’s not what Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa told me we should do,” he paused for effect. “He said we should take Maĝelni, put her on the branch of a tree, and stone her with the leftovers of mush, and then she will wake up.”

There was a complete and surreal silence. The people were shocked and beside themselves, and they didn’t know what to do in the face of this tragedy. But after some deliberation, they decided that it was too late for Maĝelni—they should just wait, and if it happened again, then they would do what Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa had instructed them to do through Ŵuilatimtim.

The people were angry with Lizard and wanted to avenge their anger on him for his negligence and forgetfulness, which had led to Maĝelni being put in the ground, but when they looked, they couldn’t find Lizard anywhere. He had run away and taken refuge somewhere—in the roof of their hut, in the woods, in the bushes, or in the branches of a tree. They could not tell exactly where he had hidden.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA KIKKAR MJIR NVWA

Chapter Sixteen

Ǩilār Mtāƙū Ûmđla ƙa Tŝinĝi

Nine Lycaon Pictus and a Lion

A long time ago, nine African wild dogs (lycaon pictus) entered a hunting binge agreement with a lion. During their ventures as a group, they were able to kill different kinds of prey of all sizes. After their successful cooperation in this unusual venture, they came to a decision of how to share their kill. All the dogs suggested that the lion should help lead them share their catch; but the lion declined and, instead, asked one of the biggest and most vicious of the lycaon pictus to help share the meat for them.

“βza nđiĝi ala mɓurū ƙumaŷeri ni jā,” (Buddy, share the catch for us), he said with a blood-eyed stare in a mean and threatening tone, baring his incisors and canines—monstrous teeth—for all to see.

“Your Excellency,” the lycaon addressed the lion, “there are ten prey animals here, and we’re ten, which means we each get one,” he said with confidence over what he considered a wise and fair suggestion.

But the lion wasn’t impressed. He immediately got up from his elevated seat and slapped the alpha lycaon so viciously that one of his eyeballs flipped out. Instantly, the other lycaons took to their heels as fast as they could, but the lion purposely convinced them through intimidation and persuasion.

Upon their return, he told them, “We’re all partners, and we have no reason to fear one another.” After assuring the lycaons that all their fears were a result of fear itself, he again asked the next alpha lycaon to share the meat amongst them. The lion waited for a couple of minutes for the next alpha lycaon to respond.

Then, bravely, the next alpha stood up, cleared his voice, and said, “Zanūŵa ƙa far nĝa fi, laƙur nđiga ƙum ni ƙasila.” (Your Honor, the wisdom of sharing the

meat is easier than we had previously thought.) “Ar ŷeru ŷar umđla, ŷeru ata ƙita ƙum ni pal anti ŷeru ata nzi ƙuma kƙuga kumni. Arnĝa ĝa đuƙu anti ĝata ƙum na umđla ni, anti ĝiri ata nzi ƙuma tsuŵa; anti apani ata nzi ƙalƙal.” (We’re ten, but we’ll take one meat, making us ten including the prey. As for you, you will take the nine preys, similarly making ten including you, and pleasingly making everything and everybody equal and happy.)

With a wide smile on his hairy face and with his mane high up in the air with satisfaction, the lion said, “Friend, you know how to render wise judgments. Who taught you this apt wisdom?”

The lycoan meekly responded by saying, “Ŝaƙaŧi ĝa tħlata ƙa tsa ɓzir mar ŷeru har ŧi nĉari ŧirɓila ni antu eh ƙu ħpipta laƙur ŝharia ni.” (I learned this wisdom the moment I saw you slapping our senior and his eyeball flicking out of its socket.)

At the end of this conversation, the lion again smiled very proudly, from ear to ear, and advised the rest to act in the same manner in the future.

The storyteller’s comment, thus, is: This story teaches us that we should always respect the elder amongst us and, in return, he will respect us. It’s not just about sharing; the situation is applicable in a variety of circumstances. May Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa give us the wisdom to act wisely.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA JIKILA AKWA MTAKU

Chapter Seventeen

Ňtŝiħil ƙu ɓara ōlƙur ƙa luƙŵa ŝili

The Bat who sought greatness but was Spurned

A long time ago, an arrogant bat sought to gain a greatness that he wasn’t endowed with through a cunning scheme. He had convinced himself that if he could gain dominance and greatness over all animals, including all the birds, then he would be able to do anything he wanted without any recourse or sanction from anybody. Nobody at all would be able to deter him.

To fulfill his conniving scheme, he called upon all the animals to gather in one place for a paramount decision he wanted to share with all of them, which portended to their very survival in their different domains. When all the animals had gathered, he sought to advise them to select him as their elder so that he could grant them anything they wanted.

The animals responded in a positive manner, but they observed, “Amma ar ŷeru ĝa aɗi đluħđzir ŷeru ŵa. Ar ŷeru ŷeru ƙa sil nfwŵar, amma arnĝa ĝa sil suɗa. Ar nĝa tsuŵa ĝa ana fila amta amma ar ŷeru ŷeru aɗi ana fila ŵa. Apani, ŷeru aɗi ata ƙilinƙir ƙa ĝa nzi ōlir ŷeru. Tira, anti đa ƙu ƙiđlimŧa.” (Unfortunately, you don’t look like us. Where we have four legs, you have two; you do fly, but we don’t. Therefore, we cannot appoint you as our elder.) And they chased him away.

The bat went away disappointed but not defeated. The next thing was to call for the gathering of all birds in one place so he could share information that was paramount to their very survival in all the forests and trees of the world.

When all were gathered, the bat told them, “I want all of you to listen attentively to what I am proposing.

“Now, I observed that you don’t have an elder or a leader, so I’m offering myself to you, for you to appoint me as your elder, so I can give you anything you want.”

The birds listened to the bat’s proposal but, immediately, perceived some incongruity and insincerities in the proposition, and they responded thus: “Su pal adi na ata ndata yeru.” (There’s one thing not clear to us.)

And the bat said, “What is it?”

They then went ahead and explained the incongruity they observed: “Ar nĝa ĝa ƙa hŷir/thlir amma ar ŷeru ŷeru aɗi ƙa hŷir ŵa. Ar nĝa tsuŵa ĝa na ŷāh apa mŵabi, amma ar ŷeru ŷeru ana pŝāh ħiħiħ, apani mɓru aɗi jili đuƙu ŵa. Mɓuru zumzum, anti ŷeru aɗi ata hħŷyir ngĝa wŵa. Tira kƙa zħar ŷeru, ƙa ŷeru ĉarɓila ōlir ŷeru. Apani anti đa ƙu ƙiđlimta nŧŝihil.” (You have teeth, and we don’t. Also, you give birth like other animals, but we lay eggs.)

The bat felt disappointed again but still not defeated. His next attempt to be selected as a leader was proposed to the fishes, but, like with the animals and the birds, he was chased away in shame and disgust.

The storyteller’s comment: The bat went away in shame, disappointed over what he inappropriately sought to achieve. It’s often said that seeking power or greatness you have not been bestowed with by Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa could lead to tremendous disappointment with massive negative consequences.

THLAMTA FAR NA WA, THLAMTA FAR NGILUM

Chapter Eighteen

Ðzamā aŧa ƙira sū ƙamɓila harā ŝūari

The fool and his Son

A long time ago, there lived a man, Uɓa Ǩađaħfūr, and his son, Anjiƙŵi, in the village of Shafaville. Uɓa Ǩađaħfūr was a respected local trader well-known throughout the whole region, mostly for his trade in dry bush meat, which he often carried on his donkey with the assistance of Anjiƙŵi, his son.

One sultry but dreary afternoon, Uɓa Ǩađaħfūr and his son were returning from one of their successful trading ventures where, for the first time in a long while, they had sold every piece of meat they’d had, and many customers demanded more. On their way back home, they met Mari, a farmer from a different village, Hŷeĝħraville.

When Mari met Uɓa Ǩađaħfūr and his son, both were trudging, exhausted, and on their feet with the donkey leading the way in front. When Mari saw that both were bone-tired and could hardly keep up with the donkey, he was mesmerized and said, “Mđaraĝai ƙamŷar mi tu đuƙŵa ĝiri a filta ƙwara ni ŵari?” (Hey man, why won’t one of you ride the donkey?)

Ǩađaħfūr at first looked aghast but then, in the next instant, agreed with Mari and told his son to ride the donkey.

Ǩađaħfūr was now following from behind while his son rode on the donkey. They hadn’t traveled very far when they met Ĉhaɓiri, who was returning from a burial festival in the village of Taŝħaville.

When Ĉhaɓiri saw the man and his son, he stood in awe, baffled, and told Uɓa Ǩađaħfūr, “Ǩamŷar mi tu ɓzirnƙŷar anta mŵa ata ƙŵara ni, amma ĝa mđa na ōla ata mŵa ƙa sil ri. Ai ƙalƙal ƙaĝa na tiđđa an ata ƙŵara ni, ka ɓzir ni nđiĝira ala ĝa?” (Why do you allow the young man who is strong to ride the donkey while

you, the elder who is weak, walk on foot? Isn’t it more sensible for you, the elder, to ride while the young man pulls the rope leading the donkey?)

Uɓa Ǩađaħfūr thought about it briefly and said, “Ŝiĝħi ɓzir raĝai.” (Come down, young man.)

Anjiƙŵi clambered down the donkey, and Uɓa Ǩađaħfūr, the father, mounted it.

Now Ǩađaħfūr was riding on the back of the donkey and Anjiƙŵi was walking in front, holding the rope, when they met another man, Ǩŵmɓali Ǩufūr, from Ðzūrville. Ǩŵmɓali keenly watched in awe what was going on and said, “Mđara ĝai kamŷar mi tu ĝa na ōla an Ata mŵa ata ƙŵara, amma ɓzir nĝa ata mŵa ƙa ŝil ri? Ai ƙalƙal ĝa na ōla an ata mŵa ƙa ŝil, ƙaĝa vita ɓzir nga ata ƙŵara ni. Arnĝa ƙaĝa ƙiđla ala ri?” (Hey, old man, why are you the one riding the donkey while your young son is walking and leading the donkey for you? Isn’t it more sensible for you, the elder, to allow the young man to ride while you lead the donkey?)

Ǩađaħfūr was utterly confused and didn’t know what to do, but he nonetheless clambered down from the back of the donkey and, once again, Anjiƙŵi rode the donkey.

After a brief time, they met Arhyel from Ĝhūnĝville, who said in a powerful, curious, and deliberately controlling voice, “Ǩŵara ni ōla ƙa tsuŵa ɓuɓal antu ƙamŷar mi tu ĝiri a filta ƙŵara japŵū ĝiri ŵa ri? Ai ƙalƙal ƙa japŵū ĝiri ata ƙŵara ni, an ŝuna ŧiramŧa?” (Why aren’t both of you riding on the donkey? It’s strong enough to carry you both.)

Now Ǩađaħfūr was becoming delusional and utterly confused, not knowing if he

was indeed in control of his thoughts and actions, but he, once again, acquiesced, and both clambered onto the donkey.

Ǩađaħfūr and Anjiƙŵi were now both on the back of the donkey when they met Ǩaɓūra from Ĝarƙiville, near the banks of river Ĥawūl. Ǩaɓūra couldn’t believe what he was seeing and lamented saying, “Mđara ĝgai ĝiri ata ŧtsi ƙŵara ni ŷa? Ai na nĝini aɗi ƙkalƙkal ŵa.” (Hey, man, you want to kill the donkey? Both of you riding it is not right.)

When Ǩađaħfūr heard the last comment from Ǩaɓūra, he was really mad and decided enough was enough. “The only alternative left for us is to carry the donkey,” he said angrily. Consequently, he asked Anjiƙŵi to clamber down from the donkey so both could carry the donkey. Anjiƙŵi did as ordered, and they both carried the donkey.

Now, exhausted and suffocating under the weight of the donkey, they came across a group of men working on the king’s paddy rice farm on the other side of the bank of the Ĥawūl river. But when they observed the spectacle of the father and son carrying a donkey, they all shouted, with hilarious laughter and mockery, “Ŷō ŝi ŵul ĝiri ƙiĝaɓu ƙa ɓzirni ata ƙil ƙŵara ata ƙira đa, ata viŷa tu ƙađa an filta ƙŵra ni, tinĝ đa aƙŵa ƙilari ata ƙira đa.” (Yo, come see a fool and his son carrying a donkey on their heads, instead of riding it.)

Upon hearing the parody, abuse, and laughter proffered against them, Uɓa Ǩađaħfūr and his son finally came to realize how far they had gone to perpetuate their own ridicule. Consequently, they dropped the donkey with a thud and walked away from the scene in haste and with their heads down.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA KIKKAR MJIR NVWA

Chapter Nineteen

Mđa na ƙu mɓūrŝa ƙa ɗiɗūƙūr ƙirari ƙa mđa na ana nĝĝata ŝaūri

The Wise and Defiant Councilors

A long time ago, King Māina Ǩađalā ruled in Ǩŵaŷāville with open integrity and wisdom not often seen before in the history of the region. Blessed with leadership acumen and unquestioned integrity, King Māina wanted to know who amongst his councilors was the wisest and most willing to listen to advice— which might even be contrary to his personal views and beliefs—when carrying out an important royal assignment and who amongst them was so confident and arrogant and unwilling, under any circumstances, to listen to or accept any alternative view to his own. For this reason, one rainy day, King Māina Ǩađalā called two of his senior councilors into his chamber in order to test them.

King Ǩađalā sent his most trusted courtier to go to the market and get him some fresh meat with blood still dripping from it. The courtier obliged his king and quickly ran to the market, instructing the local chief butcher to give him the freshest meat he had, with the blood still dripping, because the king wanted it. The chief butcher gave the courtier the meat of a goat that had just been slaughtered, which was still dripping with blood.

When the meat was delivered to King Māina Ǩađalā, he asked the courtier to divide it equally for councilors Ĝasħaū and Ǩiĝabɓū. When it was shared between the two senior councilors, the king told them, “Tō apa vir na aŝhinā ƙa ĝiri jaƙta ŝinta ali ƙum ni tŝu ƙa mamŝħi ata apa tu eh ƙu na ĝiri.” (Next week at

this time, I want you to bring me this meat, just as it is now, dripping blood.)

Both councilors reverently replied that they understood and would oblige the king’s demands, and then they went away.

Before the two councilors left King Māina Ǩađalā’s chamber, some of the other councilors briefly discussed the task assigned to the other two amongst themselves, and they offered different viewpoints of how to get the meat back fresh next week.

Councilor Ĝasħaū immediately rushed back to the market and gave his meat to the chief butcher, telling him to sell it. But next week, on the same day, he would come back to him and get a similar cut of fresh meat dripping blood. The butcher happily agreed and immediately sold the meat to a customer who was standing by as he and the councilor talked. Ĝasħaū went home knowing that he had done the wisest thing under such circumstances.

As for councilor Ǩiĝaɓū, who didn’t listen to advice when offered to him, he reasoned that the best way to comply King Māina Ǩađalā’s demands was to go home and hide the meat in a pot. So he put the meat in his hunting bag and hid it in a pot in his hut.

The following week on the same day, councilor Ĝasħaū went to the chief butcher and got a piece of meat exactly like the one he had been given—fresh and dripping with blood—and took it to the king. Upon seeing the meat, King Māina Ǩađalā praised him and conferred honor on him with numerous material gifts of sheep and goats.

Councilor Ǩiĝaɓū, on the other hand, on the day they were supposed to bring back the meat to the king as it had been given to them, went to his room and took the bag with the meat from the pot where it was stored. When he brought the rotten meat in the bag to the chamber, the whole chamber and the ading rooms were so infused with the smell of dead, rotten meat—thick with flies swarming and buzzing around—that everybody, including King Māina, had to leave the chamber. In fact, the palace was emptied.

King Māina Ǩađalā was so enraged with councilor Ǩiĝabɓū that he ordered him arrested—and whipped. When the king was satisfied that councilor Ǩiĝabɓū had been punished appropriately, he permanently banished him from the village.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA KIKKAR MJIR NVWA

Chapter Twenty

Ňĝĝuƙur ƙum ana vūa Ŷamōƀūlū aƙŵa ɓoni

The Price of Gluttony

By dawn this humid and overcast day, Ŷaŝħār, Squirrel, had come and sat on the raised platform in front of his house, enjoying the early morning quiet and sun. He looked pleased and satisfied with his life and began singing a song he’d just learned from a less-secured neighbor, Ŵħisa. The song went like this: Pelaŵamnđi, pelaŵamnđi đdir ǩillir mūŝta ƙŵi an mŧa, đa ǩita pŧsaū ĝar, ƙŵara an mŧa da ǩita pŧsaū ĝar; țima an mta da ǩita pŧsaū ĝar; ar ǩina ma virvir pŧsaū ĝar (Pelawamndi, the town that caters to orphans, where every animal, including the goat, donkey, and a young calf that died, is thrown away at the foot of a mountain).

Ŷaŝħār’s uncle, Ŷamōƀūlū, hyena, had also come out that early morning, contemplating what needed to be done before nighttime, when, fortuitously, he heard Ŷaŝħār singing a song that sounded full of promise. He tried to listen, but Ŷaŝħār was going too fast for his liking, so he decided to go nearer.

When he came near Ŷaŝħār, he said, “Mpŝiƙa ĝa nĝata ama ħā na nĝini ri?” (Uncle, from whom did you hear this beautiful song?)

Ŷaŝħār answered that he heard it from Ŵħisa, who heard it from the people of Pelawamndi. Ŷamōƀūlū instantly became excited and asked his uncle to sing the

song again, and Ŷaŝhar obliged him.

After the last chorus, Ŷamōƀūlū said, “Mpŝiƙa mŵanta ra aƙŵa đi na nĝini.” (Uncle, take me to this town full of promise.)

Ŷaŝħār warned him that it might not be all as it sounded—that all that glitters might not be gold; one might suffer there.

Ŷamōƀūlū responded to Ŷaŝħār’s pessimism by saying, “Ma ting boni ndzang, ngini adi movir wa, mwanta ra.” (If it’s just suffering, no problem; that’s my forte.)

Ŷaŝħār was reluctant, but Ŷamōƀūlū insisted in a threatening tone.

Upon hearing Ŷamōƀūlū’s tone, Ŷaŝħār immediately acquiesced and promised to take him there first thing the following morning.

Ŷamōƀūlū tried to persuade Ŷaŝħār to go right then, but Ŷaŝħār stood his ground.

Early in the morning, before the cock crowed, Ŷamōƀūlū was standing in front of Ŷaŝħār’s house, waiting. Ŷapinđār, Ŷaŝħār’s wife, saw Ŷamōƀūlū through an opening and immediately surmised it was going to be a long day for her husband. Eventually, Ŷaŝħār had to come out because Ŷamōƀūlū kept on yawning and coughing loudly for all to hear. Without even saying good morning, Ŷamōƀūlū was already clearing the early morning dew, commanding Ŷaŝħār to

follow quickly, even though he had no idea in which direction they were supposed to go. Ŷaŝħār followed obediently as long as the road went until it forked and he told Ŷamōƀūlū to take the left turn.

When they got near the town, they saw the carcass of a goat, immediately stopped, and said, “Azħa ŝu ni apani jir ŷa, amma nzi ǩi ɗimnŷa na nĝini ќamɓila mŵa tira, ќamŷar mi aŧa ǩita ra.” (I didn’t know the song was true. Let me indulge myself with this before we continue.)

Ŷaŝħār waited, eating his nuts as Ŷamōƀūlū indulged himself with the carcass. It was only after he’d eaten every bone that they continued.

Upon their arrival, Ŷamōƀūlū immediately asked the locals whether or not what he’d heard about their town was true.

They responded in the affirmative but with a caveat: “Jiri amma điŷa tar ќa mđa nđli nĝa ќa linjam ќa mūrfa, ќamɓila ŷeru ra ncħanta ala ĝa vi na tu ŷeru ana ra pūmŧā moɓiaŷeri ni aƙŵa.” (It’s true, but you must be saddled with a bridle, harness, reins, halters, bits, and so forth, and be ridden around town seven times before we can tell you where all the carcasses are disposed of.) “Can you stand it?” they asked him.

Ŷamōƀūlū responded by saying, “This is a piece of cake.”

The town elder called one of their best riders and told him to saddle Ŷamōƀūlū properly for the seven-time ride around. Ŷamōƀūlū insisted they give him the head of a goat before the ride around town. The elder obliged him, and Ŷamōƀūlū took his time eating every bit of the head.

After he’d finished what he thought was the first course of his first meal, he felt hilarious and dreamt it would be the precursor to a luscious meal later, after the first ride. Ŷamōƀūlū remained buoyant through the first, second, third and fourth ride, but by the end of the fifth, he could no longer breathe or move his legs, even as the rider whipped him on. Finally, by the end of the sixth ride, Ŷamōƀūlū fell, bleeding and foaming at the mouth, and was never to wake up again.

Ŷaŝħār, in the meantime, collected a few nuts as a souvenir and returned home. The following morning, he went to inform Ŷamōƀūlū’s wife and children about the mishap that had befallen their father. They mourned for him for days before setting on a planned revenge of his death.

THLAMTA FARNA WA, THLAMTA FAR JIKILA AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Twenty-One

Ĥŷivira ana nƙata ngĝeri sū: Ňciŵa ƙa Mŧiƙa lihar Ŷamōƀūlū.

A wether and chicken visit Hyena.

On one dreary, boring, and overcast day, nĉiwa, a wether/buck, and his neighbor, the chicken, decided to pay a visit to Ŷamōƀūlū, a hyena, the blacksmith, to help repair their farm tools, including hoe, axe, and sickle. As soon as the two neighbors appeared in the shed of Ŷamōƀūlū’s workshop, they noticed peculiar facial expressions of exhilaration on the faces of Ŷamōƀūlū’s family, including his wife, Pāna, and Ðinĝĝilinĝ, their son. The euphoria they observed scared them, and both wished they had gone to some other blacksmith for their repair work. But they resolved to continue anyway.

When Ŷamōƀūlū started the work, he asked the dog, his partner, to go start pumping the blast producer, which produces the required air thrust for creating the fire blasts by which the metal is forged. In the meantime, Ŷamōƀūlū poised himself next to the anvil with a massive hammer in his hands, ready to repair the tools when they were ready.

When the dog started the blast, some strange fear appeared to impede his performance, and he began to tremble with fear for his life, knowing full well that Ŷamōƀūlū didn’t countenance this cowardly form of behavior. To help alleviate his fear and incapacity to perform, he began to sing a song: “Ðzi ƙu ħŷivir sūn ɗim, ƙŵacaƙđaƙ, đzi ƙu ħŷivir sūn ɗim ƙŵacaƙđaƙ.” (I had a premonition of this situation at the beginning, and the blast seems to make the

ƙŵacaƙđaƙ response.)

When Ŷamōƀūlū heard this song, he burst out into loud laughter, jumping away from the anvil, clapping and wiping off tears with the back of his hands; he seemed to enjoy it enormously with gleeful smirks.

After the dog’s performance on the blast, Ŷamōƀūlū asked the chicken to take over. When the chicken first took the center stage of being in charge of the blast, he was very energetic, with the blast seemingly saying, “Mtiƙa civini ƙu sħa shiŷaƙ, shiŷaƙ, Mtiƙa civini ƙu sħa shiŷaƙ, shiŷaƙ.” (The chicken is lost and dead. The chicken is lost and dead, shiŷaƙ, shiŷaƙ.)

Obviously, both songs so far signified an intense sense of fear and apprehension amongst the role players in this drama, where Ŷamōƀūlū and his immediate family were the dominant and most powerful figures.

The wether was so far impressed with the performances of the previous two. Consequently, he volunteered to go to the blast. He mounted and took responsibility of it, and he started in earnest full of energy and enthusiasm.

The blast responded likewise, saying, “Mŝħirna aħar Nvŵa ƙūma, msitanĝ tu na asħina ni; Mŝħirna aħar Nvŵa ƙūma, msitanĝ tu na asħina ni; nzi ƙa mŵa đliđlirtiđzi, ƙa mŵa đanĝĝūltiđzi, ƙa mŵa sħhisħontiđzi, ƙa mŵa điđiĝtiđzi, ɓish, ɓish-ɓa-ā, ɓiŝh-ɓiŝh ɓa-ā.” (I’ve killed ten bodies among the Nvwa tribe, and today will be my eleventh. Let us face and push against each other. Let us knock and slaughter each other.)

Ŷamōƀūlū listened intensely to the song and, suddenly, rushed out shouting and

moaning to Pāna and Ðinĝĝilinĝ to him in running away as fast they could. “Ǩamŷar ashħina mɓru aɗi ƙira mai, nciŵa ata ƙuruūmta mɓru.” (Today, we’re done. The wether will destroy us.)

When Pāna and Ðinĝĝilinĝ heard, and saw Ŷamōƀūlū in furious retreat, which was a rare occurrence, they followed him in panic, dropping everything they had been doing. When the wether saw that his strategy had worked, he rushed after them, shouting and cursing Ŷamōƀūlū and his scared, retreating family as cowards: “Oh, yo, oh, yo tinĝ Mōɓūlū ƙuĝa mjirni viri viri ŵhini.” (Everybody! Come and see hyena and his family running away in fear.)

Ŷamōƀūlū and his family disappeared in the jungle, never to be heard of or seen in the territory again. In the meantime, the wether, the chicken, and the dog packed their stuff and went home.

THLAMTA FARNA WA, THLAMTA FAR NGULIM!

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ǩilara ŝaƙa Ĥŷel aɓŵar mđir ħara pɗaƙƙūr

God Always Protects the Good Samaritan

One overcast day, Ŷamōƀūlū, hyena, found himself wandering in the jungle without any particular plan or objective. Suddenly, he came to a well. When he got close and looked down, he found that the well was deep, but as he tried to stoop closer and look, he lost his balance and fell into it head-first. He hit the floor of the well hard because there was no water in it. He yelled and cursed his karma, scratching the walls of the well, but he could not come out.

Ŷamōƀūlū was down the well for a long time, and nature started to get a hold of him—he began to feel hungry and thirsty.

While Ŷamōƀūlū was down there, praying that somebody would come and try to fetch water, a monkey appeared from nowhere near the well. When the alpha monkey looked down to ascertain if there was water in the well, all he saw was Ŷamōƀūlū struggling to get out—all his paws had broken from the scratches, and he was bleeding all over.

When the monkey gathered himself, he said, “Zanūŵa ŵan vū nĝa aƙŵa jiɓā ni tsū ri?” (Your Excellency, who dropped you in the well?)

Ŷamōƀūlū heard the monkey asking the question, and immediately he had an urge to jump on the monkey and snap his neck, but he ed the predicament he was in and deployed his most civil response: “Ŝhiŵan điŷa mpŝiƙa, ƙiilara usa, ƙamɓila eħ ǩnĝira ala ĝasu na ħara ali ni.” (Oh, my dear uncle, take me out first, and I’ll tell you how I ended up down here.)

The monkey sensed some diabolical scheme in Ŷamōƀūlū’s voice and said, “Aŵa, mpŝiƙa ŵa, mi ƙilɓila nĝa, ĝa ata si ќnira.” (No, uncle; I know once I take you out, you’ll grab me.)

Ŷamōƀūlū responded in his most civil manner, “A’a haɓa, mpŝiƙa, ƙaĝa ƙiɓilara aƙŵa ɓoni amma ƙi jaƙta nĝƙa nĝa? Ai sū aɗi apani ŵa.” (No, no, uncle, how could you save me from the throes of death and then have me turn around and kill you?)

The monkey said, “Tō Ĥŷel an asinđa suna aɗi.” (Only God knows what will happen.) After saying this, he told Ŷamōƀūlū, “Now, I will lower my tail so you can hold onto it, and I will pull you out.”

Ŷamōƀūlū thanked him for the offer. Then the monkey lowered its tail into the well for Ŷamōƀūlū, who clutched onto it as tightly as he could, and he was brought out. He then continued to hold the monkey, refusing to let go.

The monkey said, “Mpŝi ra ja mpŝiƙa.” (Ok, let go of me, uncle.)

But Ŷamōƀūlū said, “Eh ƙu fi aƙŵa jiɓāa ni, antu mi ata ƙita ra, ƙa mi pŝi nĝa ŷasi jaƙta ŵuta amma ƙum ƙirari?” (I’ve been in the well for some time, and I’m hungry. If I let go of you, where would I get another prey?) “Ĝan ƙum ni ƙasħa.”

(You’re the meat.)

The Monkey said, “Ŷamōƀūlū, after I freed and saved you, you want to kill me and eat me? Toō Ĥŷel an aƙŵa đaɓŵa mŵa.” (I leave you to God.)

Ŷamōƀūlū said, “Forget about God, my friend.”

Just as they were in this conversation, Ŷāsħar, a squirrel, suddenly showed up and asked them what was going on: “Mān paƙta ĝiri tu ĝiri ata mnŷa apani ri Ŷamōƀūlū?” (Ŷamōƀūlū, what happened between the two of you that you are engaged in this sort of conversation?)

They both explained their sides of the story to Ŷāsħar. Ŷāsħar then asked Ŷamōƀūlū if he agreed with monkey’s explanation of the events, and Ŷamōƀūlū acknowledged that, yes, it was correct. Ŷāsħar then further queried Ŷamōƀūlū about where the sun had been located in the sky when they began their argument. Ŷamōƀūlū indicated the location of the sun by pointing toward the sky with his hand.

Ŷāsħar then said, “Haɓa mpŝiƙa mđa ōla apa ĝa ni ata ncanĝa su ƙa tsia ĝa đuƙu ŷa?” (Come on, uncle, how can a respected elder like yourself point to something with one hand?)

Immediately, Ŷamōƀūlū let go of the monkey’s tail and pointed at the sky with both hands, saying, “The sun was at this point at the time.”

Immediately, the monkey seized the opportunity and ran away as fast as he could into the bush, leaving Ŷāsħar and Ŷamōƀūlū facing each other. As soon as Ŷāsħar ascertained that the monkey had disappeared into the bush, he also took off, dashing away toward the nearest anthill, leaving Ŷamōƀūlū furious and desperate.

Ŷamōƀūlū cursed at Ŷāsħar and chased after him, but Ŷāsħar disappeared into a huge anthill. Ŷamōƀūlū hung around it for hours, waiting for Ŷāsħar to appear, but Ŷāsħar had already exited on the other side of the anthill. Not knowing what he could do, Ŷamōƀūlū grudgingly sauntered into the wild, hoping to encounter the monkey or any other prey.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA JIKILA AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Twenty-Three

Mđir ŝħāmŧa mđa ana nzi ɗiɗū ŧa mđa ŧu ŧsa ŧa ŝħāmŧari

The Hunter is Smarter than the Hunted

At one time, there was a Mōɓūlū, hyena, who, for several days, hadn’t had a prey and was starving. Thus, after a long thought and deliberation, he came up with a scheme whereby he would go and hide where some goats grazed. Upon locating the place where the goats fed, he closed his eyes and pretended he was dead. After being in this mode for some hours, a goat came by, saw him, and tiptoed quietly to go and inform the other goats. Upon hearing the news, the goats went around, spreading them to other animals, including dogs, sheep, and many others.

The animals called a meeting and decided to go and carry the Mōɓūlū’s corpse in order to give him a decent burial. By doing so, they believed they would have gotten rid of a mortal enemy. The animals invited even more animals to provide them with instruments, like drums and flutes. On this occasion and for these purposes, the animals invited included ŵħamɓayŷeri, frogs, and ħilƙinĝĝa, crabs.

All the invited animals had gathered to escort Mōɓūlū, to his grave. There was a hilarious atmosphere and a festivity, comprising singing, flute playing, drumming, and a variety of dances. Part of the song they were singing goes like this: “Ŝuna ɓđlimŧa mɓruni tsa ƙu mŧi cinjonĝ, Ŝuna ɓđlimŧa mɓruni tsa ƙu mŧi cinjonĝ. Mōɓūlū, ŧsa kat nĝa ŷa, ŧsa ku zħar ra, tsa pila mi ala gari? Tsa pila nĝĝwa ƙi sħimta jiƙŵar ƙaƙa. Duri nĝĝŵaƙ-nĝĝwaƙ.” (Aren’t we lucky that our

main enemy is dead, and we’re all free at last?)

The animal mourners had become too enthused in their festivity and had forgotten about the object of their celebration, so when Mōɓūlū opened his eyes slightly to observe what was going on, no one noticed. Gradually, Mōɓūlū opened his eyes fully, and only then did they see it. They started to run helterskelter into the bush, and most were able to escape, but a few, including one of the alpha he-goats, weren’t so lucky and fell prey while the rest scattered in the near bushes.

The lesson of the story is relevant to the way the devil tempts or tricks his victims.

THLAMTA FARNA WA, THLAMTA FAR JIKILA AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Twenty-Four

Aŵar Mūmā and Ĝaliŷa: A Story of Redemption

A long time ago, there lived a man, Ðaŵi, and his two wives, Aŵar Mūmā and Ĝaliŷa. Aŵar Mūmā was hardworking and had deservingly reaped the benefits of her hard labor. She was rich and not dependent upon handouts from her husband. She had a herd of cows, goats, and sheep, and she had lots of food.

Ĝaliŷa, on the other hand, was very lazy and completely dependent on what Ðaŵi gave her. When most were out in the field, she was lying down at home in the shade, resting and gossiping with her likes; she seemed to adopt a philosophy of “Live and let live.” She didn’t care about what her husband or others thought of her; she was living her life as she saw fit.

Because of Ĝaliŷa’s poverty and complete dependence on him, Ðaŵi had come to despise her, and he hardly wanted anything to do with her. He could have sent her packing a long time ago, but Ĝaliŷa had no living relatives. Her father and mother had died ten years ago when lightning struck their abode while they slept, and they had been buried exactly where they had been struck, according to tradition. This was because the tribe believed that lightning didn’t just strike anybody; it only did so if the individual was guilty of some abominable or ghoulish act, such as taking/stealing the spirit of a person’s plants—so they wouldn’t yield crops—or a woman’s fertility.

To make matters worse for Ĝaliŷa in Ðaŵi’s household, her sister and brother had both died under suspicious circumstances, drowning in shallow water. The rumor at the time was that they, too, must have committed some ghoulish act,

like their parents before them.

Ĝaliŷa was lazy and poor. Ðaŵi hardly visited her part of the house, much less to eat anything from her. She was the typical prototype of what the Bura people call Mŵala đira, an unwanted wife.

On one sultry and overcast day, with the clouds seemingly pregnant with rain and the sky appearing menacing with lightning and thunder, Ĝaliŷa decided to go look for dry firewood in the bush, despite warnings from her neighbors that it might rain heavily. She walked deep into the remote part of the forest, looking for the dry wood.

She looked around for hours without any success and decided to rest under a huge fig tree. While relaxing in the cool shade, she dozed off and temporarily dreamt of standing in the midst of apes—mostly monkeys—near a large, dry branch of a baobab tree with lots of fruit on the ground. She woke up suddenly from her dream and found that nothing around her had changed.

After ruminating about her situation, she decided to try looking for the firewood once more before it got dark. After walking for a short distance in the woods, she came across mbŵa laga ōl sosai ađzir ƙusar ĝar laĝa ōl tsuŵa, a huge house at the bottom of a massive mountain. At first, she was scared, but after some time, she decided to get closer to the house.

She did and went around it, but she didn’t see a door or anything that looked like an opening. This is strange, she thought. How can you have such a massive building when there’s no evidence of any entrance or door of any kind? At first, a thought of self-preservation had almost convinced her to run away as fast as she could; but another thought, dominant in humankind’s need to know, prevailed, and she decided to go hide in a tree next to the house.

Ĝaliŷa was in the tree for a long time, but nothing was happening, and she began to feel bored. She wanted to climb down and go home because the sun was setting fast, and soon it was going to be completely dark around her.

Just as she was contemplating coming down the tree, she heard, “WARELANĜ LIŶA.” Instantly, a door opened, and a huge Mŵala Mŧa, phantom/apparition, emerged.

Ĝaliŷa squeezed herself breathless against the branch of the tree she was hiding in, lest the apparition hear her breathing. The monster Phantom looked almost as tall as the building itself and reached well above many of the shorter trees around. The Phantom’s large, rectangular eyes hung around her neck. Her head was as massive as ten pumpkins put together, and her hair looked roasted and as red as Mŝħā, red clay.

Ĝaliŷa almost fell down out of fear, but, again, her self-preservation dominated her action, and she dug her fingers deeper into the tree, holding on to it for life. After surveying her surroundings, the humongous creature shouted, “ĜIRÐZAǨ LIŶA,” and the opening disappeared instantly, without a trace.

After the specter had left, Ĝaliŷa took a long breath and thanked God for sparing her life. As she got ready to come down, she noticed her fingers were dripping blood because of her efforts to hold on to the branch. When she came down, the first thought that came to her was to run for her life. But then, again, her curiosity wouldn’t succumb, and she decided to venture into the Phantom’s abode.

Upon getting near the huge building, she uttered the word she had heard the

apparition use: “ŵarelanĝ liŷa.” As soon as she said it, the door of the building flung open. Immediately, she ran inside and said, “Ĝirđzak liŷa,” and the door sealed.

When she entered the building, and looked around, she was shocked with what she saw: a heap of diamonds, gold, different types of atampa, wraparounds, and tons and tons of food. At first, she was confused and didn’t know what to do. But then she ed the monster could return any time, and if she found her in the building, that was going to be her end. So, she immediately got to work.

First, she prepared herself a very decent meal with lots and lots of lamb and chicken. She wrapped the leftovers in her wraparound. Next, she took a huge bag and loaded all kinds of food inside: corn flour, rice, millet, and more meat. Finally, she grabbed another bag and filled it with diamonds, gold, clothes, and all manner of jewelry.

When she was ready, she said, “ŵarelanĝ liŷa,” and the door opened. She said, “Ĝirđzak liya,” and the door sealed off again. Ĝaliŷa staggered several times, falling down under the weight of the load she was carrying. By the time, she reached home, everybody was inside, except for Ǩūtanĝa, her daughter, who was still waiting outside for her. Aŵar Mūmā, her children, and her husband were all in her room, telling Maƙumđla đza đza, thought stories, like Einstein’s thought experiments.

Upon seeing her mother, Ǩūtanĝa dashed to meet her at the gate. She was trying to ask questions, but Ĝaliŷa quipped for her to keep quiet by putting her hands to her mouth and quietly saying, “Shhh …”

Ĝaliŷa unwrapped everything as her daughter Ǩūtanĝa looked on, mesmerized and in utter shock. “Where did you get all of this, mum?”

But all Ĝaliŷa could say was, “Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa an namŵa.” (God Almighty gave us.)

Before they started to sort out the stuff Ĝaliŷa had brought, Ǩūtanĝa excitedly ran out to call Ǩūĉeli, Aŵar Mūmā’s daughter, to come and see what they had in their room.

But Ǩūĉeli said, “Ĝa ata ƙuĝara miri? Mān tu ĝiri ata ƙuĝara ƙar ri, ninga ĝiri ɓŵata pela ŷa ƙamŷar ĝiri aɗi ƙa sūŵa?” (What are you calling me for? Did you boil some pebbles since you’re too poor to provide anything worthwhile?)

After this encounter, Ǩūtanĝa returned to her mother, and they sorted out all the riches Ĝaliŷa had brought: diamonds, gold, clothes, and all manner of food and meat. They lay everything down in ordered, neat sets around the room.

When Ĝaliŷa was satisfied that everything looked neat and orderly, she asked Ǩūtanĝa to go call Ðaŵi, her father, to come see what Ĝaliŷa had brought.

When Ǩūtanĝa went, and told her father that her mother wanted him to come to their room, he said, “Mā ĝa ata ɓara ƙi limɓŵarnƙiri sai ma ĝiri pata pele tħlata a mŷarmɓŵar nā ƙa mzħita mŷarmɓŵar ĝiri, ƙamŷar ŷeru aɗi ata si mŵa ata đi ŵa.” (If you want me to come to your room, you must pile stones from my door to yours because we’re not going to walk on the ground.)

Upon hearing this, Ĝaliŷa and Ǩūtanĝa set out to find stones, which they arranged from Ðaŵi’s door to theirs. When this was done, Ǩūtanĝa went again to invite Ðaŵi to come over to her place. It was only then that both him and Aŵar

Mūmā walked gently and majestically on the stones to Ĝaliŷa’s room. Before they stepped into the room, they smelled the aroma of good roasted meat marinated in exotic spices.

Upon entering the room, they were faced with different kinds of meat and other food, such as rice, sorghum, millet, and wheat. They were shocked and mesmerized at Ĝaliŷa’s menu.

Immediately, Aŵar Mūmā asked, “Ĝir ŵūta ma suaŷeri niri?” (Where did you get these things?)

Ĝaliŷa said, “Let’s eat first before I tell you how and where I got them.”

Ðaŵi jumped to his feet, picking the stones one by one and throwing them away, before coming in and sitting down to a meal like they had never eaten before. The whole family celebrated throughout the night.

At dawn, Ĝaliŷa told them where she got the precious and tasty food. Without wasting any time, both Aŵar Mūmā and Ðaŵi begged Ĝaliŷa to take them there or to at least give them directions. Ĝaliŷa didn’t want to make such a trip immediately, but the pair insisted, begging her.

Eventually, she agreed and led the way. When they arrived at the foot of the mountain, where the Phantom’s house was, they hid themselves out of the apparition’s reach and waited. After a long wait, the Phantom got ready to go out for her day’s hunt.

They heard her say, “ŵarelanĝ liŷa,” and the door of the building slid open. She came out, they heard her say, “Ĝirđzak liŷa,” and the door slid shut as if nothing had happened.

They waited long enough for the Phantom to go far away before they all rushed to the building and Ĝaliŷa said loudly, “ŵarelanĝ liŷa.” The door opened, and they hurried inside. When they were all ensconced, Ĝaliŷa again said, “Ĝirđzak liŷa,” and the door shut.

They first ate all they wanted, and then Ĝaliŷa advised them to get all the jewelry and food they wanted before the Phantom returned. They were reluctant, but they finally agreed, packed all they could, and rushed out.

When the Phantom returned, she could smell the odor of humans in the room— just as she had the last time Ĝaliŷa was there—but she could not notice anything missing because there was too much for an individual to keep track of. Moreover, she never expected any human would dare bring him or herself to her, knowing he or she would be dead meat—good for supper.

After some time had elapsed, both Aŵar Mūmā and Ðaŵi decided to go visit the Phantom’s abode surreptitiously, without informing Ĝaliŷa. They set out as if they were visiting a relative and then diverged their route. When they arrived at the house, they hid behind a tree and waited for the Phantom to go out.

They waited for a long time before the Phantom appeared and they heard her say, “ŵarelanĝ liŷa.” And when she was outside, they heard her say, “Ĝirđzak liŷa,” and the door sealed completely, as if there was nothing there. (It is worth mentioning that the door opens at different locations of the building.)

As soon as the Phantom disappeared, they rushed toward the building, and Aŵar Mūmā said, “ŵarelanĝ liŷa” loudly and, to their amazement, the door slid open. They entered, she said, “Ĝirđzak liŷa,” and the door sealed off.

When they found, themselves ensconced in the room, both husband and wife practically almost expired with excitement and hilarity over seeing such an exquisite pile of exotic foods and jewelry. In short, they became intoxicated with joy and excitement.

They ate all the food available and drank some beer and pitaū, locally distilled whiskey. They became so drunk that they dozed off. And when they got up, neither of them could what to say. They had piled up all the food they needed, along with diamonds and gold, but they were stuck in the house. The two words they needed to say for the door to open and close were completely lost to both.

They were in this distressing dilemma when they heard a loud thud made by the huge log of a tree that the Phantom had dropped. A minute later, they saw the door open and the Phantom step in. At first, it didn’t see them because they were hiding behind the numerous piles of stuff.

But she said loudly, “I can smell some human meat.” Immediately after saying this, she looked around and saw the husband and wife huddled together in fear. The Phantom jumped in ecstasy and said, “Ŷa ƀila aƙŵa ƀara, mƀwar na aƙŵa ƀara! Alimaĵiri mɓŵa mɓŵa.” (I’m out hunting, and my house is doing the same, welcome dry, smelly meat.) “Alimaĵiri ƙum pŧsa pŧsa.” (Welcome, roasted meat.) “Ŷah shanĝ eh (I) nđika ƙa ɗar mamshir mđa ƙu ɗar pi, ŧun aƙŵa muvar điƙƙa ƙa ƙir a puħa ka tħlim.” (The last time I tasted human blood was in the years when we were pounding with our heads and winnowing with our ears.) “Fata ĝgiri ĝgaŵwa, ma mđa na ƙu nƙi nvŵa ni ƙa tsa vita ni aƙŵa ĝilām na ata u’u. Ma eh (I) ƙu ƀđimŷa pal ashina eh (I) ata si ƀđimŷa đuƙuŵari ɗipa ƙi sanƙir manshirɗa.” (Now, I want you to wrestle, and whoever is knocked down must be

cooked by the other in the large pot that is already on the fire. I will eat one today and the other one tomorrow, and I’ll wash them down with the blood.) The Phantom then left them to go check the trap she had set up for nĝŵalaħū, caiman lizard/alligator.

Husband and wife were left alone to wrestle to decide who was going to be the Phantom’s dinner for the evening. They both started to accuse each other of forgetting the words to say that could have saved them from this monster. Predictably, a fight ensued, and before Ðaŵi knew what was going on, Aŵar Mūmā had kicked him in his groin, immediately grabbed him by the chest, and thrown him on the floor with a big thud. Ðaŵi landed on his head with the violent throwdown and immediately collapsed. Within minutes, he was dead. When Aŵar Mūmā saw what she had done, she broke into tears uncontrollably.

When the Phantom came in, Aŵar Mūmā didn’t move; she wasn’t scared anymore. She just sat there and stared at the apparition.

When the Phantom saw what had happened, she said, “Usa mŵala apa sal! ŵala ti ĝa aɗi tsoƙta vu msħiyir mđirƙiyirnĝa aƙŵa tuħum na ata u’u ni ŵa, ĝa ƙu hara salƙur. Ǩi ptsata ptsata ninĝa ki mɓŵata mɓŵata ri …” (Thank you for being as strong as a man. Even though you were not able to put him in the pot, you proved your gallantry. Should I roast him or boil him?) “For today, he’s enough for my dinner, and tomorrow, I’ll personally take care of you,” the Phantom said loudly for Aŵar Mūmā to hear. After saying this, she roasted the man and mɓŵamŷa, ate him, right in front of Aŵar Mūmā; and she washed it down with the blood.

Aŵar Mūmā was shaking with fear and almost collapsed, but she held on. Every time the Phantom went out hunting, Aŵar Mūmā would struggle to the words ŵarelanĝ liŷa and Ĝirđzak liŷa, but it was to no avail.

It had been ten days, and there had been no news about Ðaŵi and Aŵar Mūmā. On the eleventh day, Ĝaliŷa had a scary dream in which she saw her husband trying to overcome an adverse situation. She saw him wrestling with a monstrous creature that, eventually, would subdue him. She opened her eyes immediately and could not tell how it ended.

The fear of what might have happened kept her awake till dawn. Early in the morning, she called Ǩūĉeli and asked her if her mother had in any way indicated where else they might go after seeing the relative.

Ǩūĉeli said, “Yes; they said they might go to that place where you once went with them.”

Immediately, Ĝaliŷa took her axe and ƙwaŧirathlū, calabash, to go look for them. When she reached the Phantom’s house, she waited to see if the Phantom was still at home. After waiting for a long time without seeing the door open, she surmised that the Phantom was already gone. She then climbed a tree and started to sing, “Aŵar Mūmā, man hara alaĝgari? Ðaŵi ƙŵasal man ħara alaĝa ri? ŵarenlanĝ liŷa an sha tuĝa ninĝa, Ĝirđzak liŷa an sha tuĝa ri?”

Aŵar Mūmā heard the song and paid very close attention until she heard it several times. Then, suddenly, she ed the words that had eluded her and her husband.

Ĝaliŷa say, “ŵarenlanĝ liŷa.” The door slid open, she burst in, and then she said, “Ĝirđzak liŷa,” and the door closed. Ĝaliŷa found Aŵar Mūmā all disheveled and in a very precarious and sympathetic mood because she had spent the last four hours trying to figure out how she was going to enter the massive pot and cook herself for the Phantom before she came home. Upon seeing Ĝaliŷa, she jumped and grabbed her, crying so profusely and loudly that it scared Ĝaliŷa, but

Aŵar Mūmā refused to be consoled.

The first question Ĝaliŷa asked her was: “Salir mŵa ammari?” (Where’s our husband?)

Aŵar Mūmā answered, “Ai mŵala mŧa ƙu ƀđimŷa ni, nĝini mɓil eh ŷa, ma ŧsa ƙu sivi ŧsa ata si ƀđimŷa ra tsuŵa.” (The Phantom has eaten him; I’m next this evening.)

“Ĝa aɗiya ŧūŵa ŵa. Famŧa nĉa ĝa, Hyel ana nĝilar mđaŵa, Ĥŷel ƙimanđi, Ĥŷel Ðlampiram ƙa mpiƙu, ƙu sinta ra ƙamŷar ƙi mƀūlinĝa aƙwa ŧsiya mŵala mŧa.” (Don’t cry. Wipe up your tears. God Almighty has sent me to rescue you.) She added, “Get all you can carry in a hurry and let us get out of here quickly.”

Hurriedly, they both packed all the things they needed—food of different types, gold, and diamond jewelry. Ĝaliŷa dexterously tied her stuff, but the greedy Aŵar Mūmā kept on packing until Ĝaliŷa told her, “Well, I’m out of here if you’re not going.”

Aŵar Mūmā had so much stuff that she couldn’t walk—as if she were nine months pregnant. But before they departed, Ĝaliŷa had to think out a strategy that would delay their chase in case the Phantom decided to go after her dinner when she discovered it was gone. She put the huge pot that Ðaŵi, her husband, had been boiled in—the one in which Aŵar Mūmā was supposed to cook herself on the stove, lighting fire under it before filling it with tħiala, meli, sesame seeds, sorghum, and beans.

Softly, she said, “ŵarelanĝ liŷa.” The door opened, and they rushed out. When

both were safely outside, Ĝaliŷa said, “Ĝirđzak liŷa,” and the door locked itself as if nothing had happened. That’s how Aŵar Mūmā, the well-to-do housewife, was saved by Ĝaliŷa, the poor co-housewife.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA JIKIL AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Twenty-Five

βŵalêyanĝ Aŧa ƙumā ĉiri

A Cut on Fly’s Forehead

A long time ago, there lived a woman called Tħlamŧa Ðiħħā, who set out to go look for minnāħ, palm fruit. Tħlamŧa Ðiħħā sat under a palm tree, praying that God would look at her with an eye of mercy and for one of the fruits to fall.

There came a dragonfly looking for a prey. When it got close to Tħlamŧa Ðiħħā, it smelled something delicious on her body, so it landed on it and bit her. Thlamŧa Ðiħħā shrieked, jumped up, and hit herself against the palm tree.

The palm tree said, “Ĝa aɗiya kunĝirŧa raŵa ƙamŷar ma maɗarna ku nŧsa/nƙĝūha, da asu pūmŧađzi.” (Don’t shake me, because that might force my fruits/yield to fall down.)

Immediately upon hearing this, Tħlamŧa Ðiħħā moved away from the palm tree. Not long after, one of the ripened fruits came down, falling very hard on Nkopa’s —a small animal that burrows itself in the ground and constantly experiences flatulence—head, forcing it to fart very loudly.

The fly smelled the fart and began to look for its origin. She found Tħlamŧa

Ðiħħā sitting in the same spot, and she bit her very hard again. Tħlamŧa Ðiħħā had her decorating knife in her hand, and she used it to scratch the spot where the fly had bitten her. The knife accidentally scraped the fly and cut a deep wound into its head. The fly flew away in agony, sobbing from the pain, and went straight to Ŷa Ĥŷel for judgment between him and Tħlamŧa Ðiħħā.

After the fly had presented its complaint to Ŷa Ĥŷel, Ŷa Ĥŷel asked Tħlamŧa Ðiħħā for her own version of what had occurred: “Man ħara ŧuga nŧħā cirri ƙa ūnđliŷā ri?” (Why did you slash Ciri’s head with your knife?)

Tħlamŧa Ðiħħā explained that the fly had bitten her without cause and that she was trying to scratch the area with her knife, and it just happened to make a little bruise on the fly’s head. Next, the fly was asked again why he had bitten Thlamŧa Dihha: “Ciri man ħara ŧuga ƙal Tħlamŧa ŧa Ðiħħā ri?” (Fly, why did you bite Tħlamŧa Ðiħħā?)

The fly answered, “Êĥ/I nĝata shiŵurir sū msira, ŷa ŵulapa ata đza Tħhlamta Ðiħħā anŧu Êĥ/I ƙali ka ɗari ko ŧsa ana aƙwa shiwūrniŷya, azħa nƙopa an ŧiha ħiɗɗi.” (I smelled something that I thought was coming from Tħhlamta Ðiħħā, but I was wrong; it was nƙopa who farted.)

Ŷa Ĥŷel asked nƙopa, “Ǩamŷarmi ŧuga ŧiha ħiɗɗi apaniri?” (Why did you fart like this?)

Nƙopa said, “βzir minnāħ an ŧiri ata ĥili ka nŧsari ƙuŧi anŧu ħiɗɗi siɓila” (It was the palm’s fruit that dropped on my stomach and made the fart come out.)

Next, Ŷa Ĥŷel asked the palm tree, “Man ħara tuĝga pūĝhi ɓbzirnĝga ƙa điƙi

Nƙopa ri?” (Why did you drop your fruit, which hurt Nƙopa?)

The palm tree said, “It was Tħhlamta Ðiħħā that shook me, because she was bitten by the fly.”

After hearing, all the shambolic series of occurrences, Ŷa Ĥŷel sent for Mŧi, death, to come. When Mŧi came, Ŷa Ĥŷel asked him if he could volunteer one of his ears to patch up fly’s wound.

Mŧi said, “Aiya, wūtagiri su ɓū, ŧhlimi ku ƙwaħumtađzi naħā.” (I’m sorry, but just yesterday, I lost one of my ears.)

Ŷa Ĥŷel asked Mŧi, “How did it happen?”

Mŧi said, “Êĥ/I aƙwa ŵhi anŧu ƙitsa.” (Whistling thorn acacia or ant-gall acacia.) “ƙwahūmŧa.” (I was running, and a whistling thorn acacia tree branch tore it.)

Ǩitsa was asked why it had done what Mŧi alleged it had.

Ǩitsa answered, “Ŷeru aƙŵa diƀār ƙitsaŷeri, ting Mŧi si ka ŵhi ka ŧurƙwa ncā ŷeru kula ŷeru ā sinđa.” (We were celebrating an ant-gall acacia happy day, and death just came blazing through without notice.)

“Ǩa Mŧi, ƙamŷarmi ŧuga ŵhi ƙula ĝa ŵūl su ri?” (Well, death, why did you run without paying attention to where you were going?)

Death answered that he had heard Tŝivir, the guinea fowl, yelling loudly, “ƙiŧani ƙiŧani ƙiŧani.” (Take him, take him, take him.) He got afraid, thinking it was referring to him, and that’s why he blazed through the thorn acacia trees celebrating their day.

The guinea fowl was asked why it was yelling so loudly. It responded by saying, “βunđi, my lord, today I went out looking for something to eat, and I came across a large pile of a colony of ants’ eggs spread out in the sun. I ate some, to my utmost satisfaction, and I was so happy and giving God praise.”

The ants were asked why they had spread their eggs out in the sun. They responded, “Ǩa ƀarƙa nĝga ĝgan an ŧir ŷimi ƙa luƙŵa ƙurŷerū ƙa liɓanta ŧhliŧhlirŷeru ānŧū ŷeru faɓila ƙa ĥunar ata ҏĉi ƙa đa ūla.” (Your Honor, you caused the rain to trickle into our dwellings, and it got our eggs wet; that’s why we took them outside to dry.”)

God finally said, “Aiya, điya ệĥ/I nĝata shiŵūr ħiɗɗir Nƙopa antu ệĥ/I ŧifūmŧa mŧili.” (Excuse me, but I smelled the gas ed by Nkopa, and I merely spat.

In the end, Ŷa Ĥŷel asked the fly for forgiveness and said, “Your wound is going to heal, but the scar will remain on you forever.

Therefore, even today, the fly carries the scar on its forehead.

THLAMTA FARNA WA, THLAMTA FAR NGULIM

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ĥandā ƙa ňƙŵarni ƙa Ĉimā

The Duck and the Tortoise

There once were a duck and her daughter, who always hung around a lake that was never dry. Near the lake, there was a fig tree, which was constantly green, no matter what the season. In addition, it always bore fruit, no matter what.

In the lake, there was a tortoise that was constantly around because of the abundance of food. Whenever the duck and its daughter climbed the fig tree to eat the fruit, the tortoise fed on the parts that dropped in the lake. For many years, the codependency between the duck and its daughter made them good friends of the tortoise.

After a long period of joyful existence, the fig tree began to reduce its productivity because of a reduction of water in the lake that had always nourished it. Gradually, the fig tree began to yield less and less fruit because some parts were drying.

One sultry and overcast day, the duck and her daughter decided to move to another place, which, in their opinion, offered a better existence. Unforeseen by the duck and its daughter, when they were discussing their strategy to move, the tortoise was eavesdropping.

Consequently, in the middle of the night, the tortoise woke the duck and its daughter and said, “Pazħhi hanđā, nĝĝiđza ňfur ƙamđa ni aƙŵa ŵula, nunĝum ĝiri ƙa nƙŵarnĝa asu pila gĝiri ata pali vi nzi, ma saƙatu ĝiri ƙu ɗimha apani, ĝiri aɗi a si tira ka zħar ra usa ŵa.” (Friend duck, I’ve observed the shea tree is drying, and it’s likely that you and your daughter might be planning on moving away from this place, but please, whenever you do, let me know; don’t forget about me.)

The duck answered frankly and said they had already decided to fly away early in the morning to a faraway place. In the night, the duck and its daughter discussed tortoise having pleaded for them to not leave him behind, and they decided to involve him in their plan. This change of heart was narrated to the tortoise that very night.

Early the following morning, Duck and her daughter had hatched up a plan where all three could move to their next residence. The strategy involved the ducks holding a stick between them as they flew and the tortoise grabbing the middle of it. The mother duck had instructed her daughter and the tortoise that there should be no talking when they were in the air until they reached their new destination.

The three came over a certain village with many of its citizens in the market, but when they looked up and saw the three, they were shocked and started yelling, “Yahhhhh ħanđa ƙa nƙwarni ƙu ĥilŧa ĉimā aƙwa ŵhi ƙa ŧsa, đa mƀŵaŧa ni aŧa ūdzūm ninĝa ĉcmā ana fil ŷa?” (Look, a duck and its daughter have stolen a tortoise and tied it to a stick. Otherwise, does a tortoise fly?)

The tortoise had completely forgotten the warning given by mother duck—that there should be no talking while they were in the air—and said, “It’s not like that; the duck didn’t steal me.” As soon as it opened its mouth, its hand lost its

grip on the stick, and the tortoise fell to the ground with a thud.

Even though the duck and its daughter heard the tortoise talking, neither of them said a word; they continued in their flight in silence.

When they reached their destination, and landed on the ground, mother duck said, “Wuta ja nƙŵarna, ƙamŷar ƙula nĝata ĝari antu ĉimā ƙu tiri ata đi ƙa zħharmŵa.” (Look, my daughter, it was because the tortoise didn’t listen to what I said that it’s no longer with us.) “If it had listened to me and followed my instruction, this wouldn’t have happened to it. This is a lesson to you that any child who doesn’t listen to what its elder says will experience some mishap or misfortune.”

THLAMTA FAR NA WA, THLAMTA FAR JIKILA AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ǩuŧhlir ƙŵi ƙa Ǩuŧhlir Moɓūlū

The Goat King and the Hyena King

A long, long time ago, there were two kings who couldn’t be more different: the king of ƙwi, Goats, and the king of Mōɓūlū, Hyena. The two kings and their minions had heard of each other but had never met in person. King Ňĉiwa (wether) of the ƙwi was very particular in warning his subjects of the danger of being in the presence or neighborhoods of the Mōɓūlū king, King Ǩiĝaɓū, and his subjects.

It happened that King Ǩiĝaɓū’s wife, Princess Pāna, had given him a very handsome boy, Awul-Sur-Mda-Aparni. The father loved the prince so much so that he provided him with the wherewithal he needed to be the most well-dressed prince in the region. The prince had so much expensive clothes and jewelry, including diamonds, that he never wore the same attire more than once in the same week, which is most uncommon to most folks in the culture.

Not to be outdone, King Ňĉiwa of the Goats had his long-held wishes fulfilled: his wife, Princess Ǩūŝarmŝira, gave birth to a very beautiful daughter, whom they named Zāra. She was the most beautiful in the Goats’ kingdom. Princess Zāra grew up to become the most popular, and most ired, eligible young woman in the whole region, including the kingdom of the Mōɓūlū.

Princess Zāra reached marrying age, but most of the young men who showed up to request her hand in marriage were spurned by both her parents and the princess herself. Her constant refusal of eligible young men had become the gossip of the whole region because nobody was sure of what she was looking for in a husband, let alone what her parents’ expectations for a son-in-law were.

After a long period of doubts and uncertainties, King Ňĉiwa of the Goats made a proclamation throughout his kingdom stating what he expected from a son-inlaw. He said that whoever could go to the kingdom of the Mōɓūlū and bring back the most desired and expensive attire and jewelry of Prince Aŵūlsurmđaaparni would become his daughter’s husband. He therefore invited all the young men in his region to go try their luck.

All the young men of the Goats’ clan who made ventures into the land of the Mōɓūlū in pursuit of their dream to marry Princess Zāra never returned alive; each one ended on King Ǩiĝaɓū’s dinner table.

There was one remaining shrewd and heroic eligible young man of the Goats’ clan who had never aspired to marry Princess Zāra, but he was encouraged and implored to try. His parents weren’t ive of his plan to get involved in trying to marry the princess because they thought he’d already established himself among his peers as a hero and a fearless commandant of the king’s guards. After the parents’ fruitless efforts to dissuade him, they acquiesced, giving their blessings reluctantly.

Early in the morning, after securing his parents’ approval, the young hero begrudgingly went to the king and said, “Ěh/ ɓunđi, alvari, ƙa far nĝa fi, ashina eh/I ƙu hamŧa ƙiri aɓur eh/I ata liħar ƙuŧhlir Mōɓūlū ki si ala ĝa ƙa karir điɓɓar ɓzir Mōɓūlū …” (Your Lordship, may your reign last forever. I’ve decided today to go to King Ǩiĝaɓū to get the prince’s best attire and jewelry and bring them to you.)

The King responded, “Ǩa Ĥŷel đlarnĝa ka tsa nƙa ka ĝa lapiŷa.” (May God lead you and bring you back safely.)

After receiving the king’s blessing, the young hero got his bag ready with a few personal belongings and with some water in a gourd, and then he set out to the Mōɓūlū kingdom. The distance was about a day’s journey. The young man reached the town late in the evening as dusk set in.

Early the following morning, when the young goat hero showed up to go to the king’s palace, he was surrounded by eager hyenas ready to jump him and eat him as soon as they spotted him.

The young hero stood his ground without showing any sign of fear and declared, “Ǩa shanĝa ĝiri ŧirazi, eh/I aƙŵa bara pila alaĝiri sū. Ǩuŧhlir ƙwi an hyenŧa ra ađza ƙuŧhlir Mōɓūlū.” (All of you, clear out; I have something to tell you. King Ňĉiwa of the Goats sent me to King Ǩiĝaɓū of the Mōɓūlū.) The young hero said, “If you do not allow me to reach the king’s palace and deliver the message I brought from King Ňĉiwa, and if he hears you were the ones that stopped me, you will not live a minute after that; you’ll all be dead.”

Upon hearing this warning from the Ƙwi hero, they cleared a way for him to continue to the king’s palace to tell him the news from King Ňĉiwa of the Goats. The plan agreed upon by those who surrounded the hero was that after he’d informed the king, they would grab him from the back and eat him.

The gang of the Mōɓūlū youth led the way, and the young Ƙwi, goat, hero followed as they made their way to the palace. As soon as King Ǩiĝaɓū of the Mōɓūlū saw the young Ƙwi hero, he started to salivate, and he became uneasy

and erratic. In spite of the sight of King Ǩiĝaɓū displaying his eagerness to grab him, the young hero didn’t flinch at all. He was as calm as if he was among friends and not adversaries who were ready to pounce on him and eat him.

Upon approaching the king, the young hero put down his bag, genuflected, and greeted King Ǩiĝaɓū, “My Lordship, may your reign last forever. I was sent by King Ňĉiwa to deliver a message to you.” He explained that His Excellency King Ňĉiwa had sent him to inform King Ǩiĝaɓū that, if it was all right with him, all the goats would like to move and live in his kingdom as his subjects. “It is for this reason that I was sent.”

King Ǩiĝaɓū couldn’t believe what he was hearing; he started salivating, he was dumbfounded. All the goats moving to his kingdom as subjects? What a dream come true!

The young hero continued, “Not only this, but I also brought several ropes with which you can tether us; feed us grass and sorghum every day while you grab one of us each day.”

“What are you saying?” King Ǩiĝaɓū asked in utter amazement.

The young hero reiterated what he had said previously. He said, “The only evidence King Ňĉiwa of the goats wants me to return with as a ‘yes’ from you is a pair of Prince Aŵūlsurmđaaparni’s expensive attire.”

Before the hero of the Ƙwi could finish saying what King Ňĉiwa demanded as evidence, King Ǩiĝaɓū had walked straight into the prince’s room and packed his most expensive attire. He put it in a special bag and brought it to the young

hero of the goats. King Ǩiĝaɓū instructed the young goat hero to leave without delay and convey his agreement with the proposal so that all the goats could move to his kingdom urgently. He called his most trusted lieutenants to see the young hero off immediately.

The following morning, the young Mōɓūlū lieutenant assigned to see the young ƙwi hero off took the bag with the prince’s special attire and led the way. When they were far away from the village and in the thick of bushes, he began to salivate and entertained the thought of grabbing the young goat hero.

Before the young escort could complete his thought of grabbing the young ƙwi hero, however, a lion unexpectedly appeared from the bush and asked them, “Ĝiri tħlaŧa Amari?” (And where are you both heading to? Today, you are both going to be my meal.) “Ĥŷel an sinta ĝgri ali.” (It’s God who brought you to me.)

The young Mōɓūlū escort started to tremble with fear and wanted to run, but the Ƙwi hero showed no sign of concern at all; he was calm and composed. Instead, he told the lion, “Arna eh/I mđir ħaƙđzi, eh/I ƙŵa ra ħaƙđzirna, amma mđa nĝini eh/I aɗi sinđa vi tu tsa aƙŵa mŵari aƙŵa ŵa.” (I’m a shaman traveling on an assignment. As for this man, I don’t know where he’s going.)

The lion asked him if he was a good shaman/healer: “Show me what you can do,” the lion retorted. I need, mispar, potent amulet, against evil spells, for my eye.

The young goat hero said, “I can only do it with the skin of a hyena.”

Immediately, the lion turned and grabbed the young Mōɓūlū escort, tore a part of his skin, and gave it to the young goat hero. Fortunately, the young Ƙwi hero had honey in his bag. He took the skin, dipped it in the honey, and gave it to the lion, saying, “Here; taste it and give it back to me so I can make the mispar for you out of it.”

When the lion tasted the skin with its tongue and experienced the piquancy of the honey, he swallowed the whole skin. The young hero lamented and expressed his concern after the lion had swallowed the skin: “Now that you have swallowed the skin, how am I going to make the mispar for you?”

The lion answered, “This is not a problem,” and he once again moved quickly, grabbed the Mōɓūlū escort, and tore more skin from his upper lips.

The young goat hero did as before: he dipped the skin in his bag with the honey and gave it to the lion to taste. As previously, the lion swallowed the skin after tasting it.

The young hero said, “It seems you don’t really need the mispar, talisman, because I don’t have the skin to make it for you.”

Again, the lion asked the Mōɓūlū to come closer. He grabbed him and tore more skin from his lower body. When the young escort sensed that the skin on his body was disappearing faster than he’d imagined, he asked the lion politely to go behind the thick grass, because he needed to get the skin from his private parts. The lion acquiesced, and the Mōɓūlū lieutenant went behind the grass. The lion and the goat hero waited and waited, but there wasn’t any sign of the lieutenant. He had bolted away as fast as he could. There were only trails of blood in the grass. The lion pursued him because he didn’t want to go without the talisman, but to no avail.

When the young goat hero saw what was happening, he waited until both the lion and the escort were out of sight before he collected his stuff, put it back in the bag, and ran home as fast as his legs could carry him.

The following morning, he went to King Ňĉiwa’s palace and presented him with Prince Aŵūlŝurmđaaparni’s attire, which the king had demanded as a requirement for giving away Princess Zāra into marriage. Without further delay, the marriage between the princess and the young hero was organized and celebrated for days, and they lived happily thereafter.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA JIKILA AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mđir Ĝinā na ana Ňĝaŧa Mŷā Mōɓi

The rich man who understands animal talk

A long time ago, there lived a very rich man, Tāĝŵi, and his wife, Tħlama. They had almost everything one would long for, such as a large cow range/kraal, goats, sheep, camels, donkeys, horses, and a huge chicken coop. They had many maids, houseboys, and workers who attended to the animals and performed work such as plowing and planting on his numerous farms. Each of the farms, more than half a dozen of them, measured at least between ten and twenty acres.

He had some workers who plowed others’ fields for money and some who used the donkeys for hire to ferry other peoples’ merchandise or farm produce to the surrounding markets or to bring such produce home after harvest. All in all, life at Tāĝŵi’s house was a busy one from dawn to dusk.

In the evening, when the animals were brought home, the cows used in plowing the fields were fed fresh, lush, green grass and cold water, whereas the donkeys were given dry grass and some dirty water. The unfair difference in these treatments had not escaped the donkey’s attention, who held a jealous grudge against the cow. The donkey reasoned that the cow was receiving such favored treatment because it was a bigger animal and used on the farm. Otherwise, they would be fed the same grass and water.

One day, the cow and the donkey were left alone, and the donkey said to the cow, “Arna eh/I aɗi għir ashina ŵa. Ŷeru aɗi fa ƙil hanĝ ŵa.” (Today, I didn’t do much, because we didn’t haul a lot of stuff.)

The cow said, “Arna mđa tu ŷeru aƙŵa ƙiŧhlir ƙa tsa ni aɗi zħar ra ƙi għūrumta għhur ŵa.” (When we are working together, the man never allows me a minute of rest.)

The donkey smirked and said, “Nzi ƙi vū nĝa aƙŵa laku amma ĝa aɗi a ħira ƙa mđa sinđa wa.” (Let me advise you, but don’t tell anybody). The donkey told the cow, “You’re the one killing yourself. When you come home and they give you that grass, just lie down as if you were sick. When they try to wake you up in the morning, don’t get up. In this way, the man will leave you because you’re not feeling well.” The donkey impressed it upon the cow that that was the only way she could avoid going to the farm for a few days to earn the rest that she nobly deserved.

The cow prodigiously thanked the donkey for his friendly and unselfish advice. Unknown to both animals, Tāĝŵi was eavesdropping on their discussion.

Early the following morning, the farm-boy whose duty it was to work with the cow went in to get it ready for the day’s work, but the cow didn’t respond; it just lay down, faking sickness. The boy tried again but couldn’t get the cow to respond. They brought her food and water, but it refused to take anything.

The farm-boy thus approached his master, Tāĝŵi, and told him, “Asħina eh/I aŵula apa tħlar tsūŵha na pal ni aɗi lapiŷa ŵa; ƙuji ƙa mŵa mɓŵata ĝarmar tsūŵha ni aƙa ƙŵara ƙa ŷeru liɓila asħina ƙŵaɓir tħla a hara hirƙu.” (It seems to me today that one of the cows I work with on the farm isn’t feeling well, and I thought it might be a good idea to hook the plough to the donkey until the cow is

recovered.)

The master agreed with the farm-boy’s apt suggestion, and so the plough was hooked onto the donkey, and off they went to the farm. For the whole day, they worked without a break until dusk.

When they came home, the donkey was so exhausted that it couldn’t even eat the dry grass it was served. This went on for three consecutive days. They would leave early in the morning and work the whole day, without any break, until dusk, when they returned home.

The donkey began to think of a way out after experiencing the difficult job the cow had. The donkey reasoned that it had been his mistake to even make such an inept suggestion to the cow, especially because it knew the cow wasn’t really sick—she was just acting sick, following the suggestion the donkey had given it. The donkey spent quite a lot of time trying to figure out how to get the cow back to the business of plowing the land.

On the fourth day, the donkey sneaked in and saw the cow still lying down and pretending to be sick. He said, “Pazħi tħla, nzi nzir mŵa ni aɗi ƙalƙal ƙki nĝata su na ata ŵuta nĝa, ƙi zħar ta pila alaĝa ŵa0. Naha ƙŵaɓir ŷeru a luƙŵua ƙtħlir, eh/I nĝata mđirƙir mɓuru aƙŵa pila aƙa ɓuɗarni aɓur ma shilƙur nĝa ni aɗi ata nĝa ƙurŵa, mŷaratu đa asi ħara asarirnĝa, da ata ɗilumta nĝa aƙa mđir ɗil ƙum mŷarta ĝa asi mŧā đlipa.” (My dear friend cow, we’ve been together for a long time, such that I cannot hide anything I hear being discussed about you from you. Yesterday, I heard the farm-boy advising our master that if you continue to be sick and cannot return to your plowing responsibilities, it’s better to sell you to a butcher before you die a non-kosher, or as halal, death.)

The donkey thus strongly advised his friend the cow to get up and show the

farm-boy and their master that she was all right now to resume her farm responsibilities as soon as tomorrow. When the cow thought through what the donkey said he’d heard their master and the farm-boy discussing about her being sold to a butcher, she got up quickly, with surprising agility, and started jumping around, mooing for food and water.

The following morning, when the master saw the cow ready for the plough and ed what he’d heard the two animals discussing the previous evening, he started laughing aloud by himself. When Tħlamā, his wife, heard him laughing, she insisted he tell her what had made him laugh in this manner, knowing him to have never laughed this hard. And if he didn’t tell her the cause of his laughter, then he must be laughing at her.

Tāĝŵi found himself in a quandary with grave possible consequences because, when he had been given the ability to hear animals talk, he’d been warned that at no time should he reveal his knowledge to anyone. If he ever did, he would face instant death. Fully aware of his demise if he revealed the reason of his laughter, he refused to tell Tħlamā, but she kept on insisting he tell her.

Tāĝŵi got tired and impatient over his wife’s insistence, and he decided to invite his parents, his wife’s parents, his senior servants, and all the elderly men of the village to his house. He’d decided to tell his wife, in the presence of all the people invited, the reason for his extraordinary and peculiar laugh—and face instant death.

When Tāĝŵi’s dog, Aƙilaħŷel, observed what was going on, he called all the other animals and said, “Maɗara, azħa mŧhlaƙur mɓūru ni ana nĝata sħanĝa sūti mɓūru ana pila, tsa na nĝata mŷa mɓūru. Vir laĝa tsa ƙu si nĝata tħla ƙa ƙŵara aƙŵa mŷa antu vū ni aƙŵa ƙumŝħi.” (Colleagues, little did we know that our master understands what we speak. One day, he heard cow and donkey discussing certain private matters amongst themselves, which made him laugh hard.)

Aƙilaħŷel continued, “Mŵwalanƙkiɗda ku si pila tar sal ni pila alari sūu ti tsa aƙŵkwa ƙumsħar ni ma apaniŵa tsa aƙŵa ƙumsħini.” (Our master’s wife insisted that he must tell her why he was laughing, otherwise, he must be laughing at her.) Aƙilaħŷel told them that their master had gathered these people so he could reveal that he understood animal language, and he would face his instant death.

When the rooster heard what Aƙilaħŷel had said, he said, “Azħa mđirƙir mɓūruni, ŵala tu tsa ōla ƙa ĝina ni tsa ħava/a pushover or coward. Ŷa mŧa ƙamŷar mŵala māi.” (I didn’t know that our master was such a weakling despite his riches. As for me, I won’t die because of a woman.)

The cockerel went on to tell the group how he’d handle the situation if it were him or if he ever found himself in a similar circumstance: “Ma mŵalanƙiŷa ƙariđzi ali apani … Ma sakatu mji ku tsaɓtađzi cipu, tinĝ eh/I ata lumɓŵar ngƙiŷa ƙi ƙita zōlir liƙƙa ƙi siɓila ƙiĝari. Eh/I ta si ƙuĝa ni ƙi nƙi ni aƙuma shanĝa mji ni ƙa ħata alar zōlir liƙƙa sosai. Ma eh/I si pŝi ni tinĝ tsa ata si tħlata ƙulinĝtunĝ … tsa jaƙta ƙilar mŷari ƙa ŷū suna tu eh/I aƙŵa ƙumsħari ƙiraŵa.” (If this were me, I would call people around, and when they were all gathered, I would go inside, bring out my adultery cane, and give her a good beating in front of everybody. When I finished with her, she’d be so exhausted and full of shame that she’d never ask me why I was laughing again.)

Tāĝŵi listened attentively to the strategy the rooster outlined of what he’d do if it were him.

A day later, Tāĝŵi sent for his parents, his in-laws, and the elders of his clan, including Ǩermađaŵi, the reknown shaman of the village. When all those he invited were assembled and seated, he served them some local drink, but nobody was interested because Tāĝŵi had never called this sort of meeting before and,

therefore, they all were full of anxiety and expectations.

Tāĝŵi called his wife to come them. He then addressed her, “Ĝa pila sai ma ƙi pila alaĝa su ti eh/I aƙŵa ƙumsħarni ŵala eh/I anta mŧimtađzi. Toh, pupi azi, eh/I an ƙilnĝa eh/I an salirnĝa.” (You insisted I tell you why I am laughing even though you know that if I tell you, I’ll die instantly. Please, lie down here. I married you, and I am your husband.)

Tāĝŵi went in his room, brought back his adultery cane, and he began thrashing his wife with it, hitting her all over her body until she bled. After the hard beating, the woman got up, covered her body with her wraparound, and walked inside, sobbing and not saying a word, just as the rooster had predicted. There was complete silence. Nobody said anything; they just watched in amazement.

After Tāĝŵi had finished beating his wife with the adultery cane, all the invited guests walked away quietly, except for Tāĝŵi’s in-laws who said they him for beating their daughter who had brought the shame of adultery into their family. After their brief comments, they walked out with their heads down.

THLAMTA FAR NAWA, THLAMTA FAR JIKILA AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mūzūmāƙu ƙa Pŵapū

A Hunter and the Snake

A long time ago, there lived a very famous Muzumaku, a hunter, named Ǩāĉħaū and his wife, Manĝili. On every blessed day, Ǩāĉħaū would fill his gourd with water, put his bag on his shoulder, call his dog, Ŝūrnā, and venture into the bush to hunt for animals alone. More often than not, he brought some animal home. At other times, he set up his trap to catch animals, including rodents like squirrels, giant rats, and porcupines. On other occasions, still, he would catch animals such as guinea fowl, duiker, wood stork, heron, crowned cranes, and antelopes.

On one overcast and sultry day, Kachahu and his dog, Ŝūrnā, had gone out hunting in a remote and distant bush. That day was a bad one because, even though Ǩāĉħaū and Ŝūrnā had come across many kinds of animals, they had not been able to catch a single one. After a long and unproductive chase of the animals, Ǩāĉħaū decided to dig and leave his traps set up while he and Ŝūrnā went to have a rest under a large fig tree.

Periodically, the hunter would tiptoe to look at his traps and see if he’d had any luck with one. After several visits with no success, he got some peanuts from his bag and roasted them—mixed with some locust-bean seeds—ate some, retired under the tree, and dozed off while Ŝūrnā kept vigilance.

When he woke up, he went to see if any of his traps had produced some luck, and he wasn’t completely disappointed, even though it wasn’t what he expected. Several of the traps had caught some rats. He was excited that at least he wouldn’t be going home empty-handed, and he began to set out for home. But then he ed he had one more trap, and he decided to go see what it had.

Upon his arrival, he lifted the stone used to anchor the trap and, to his utter astonishment and fear, it had caught a large snake. And to complicate the situation further, the snake wasn’t dead. Upon seeing what was trapped under the

stone, he immediately let go of the large stone under which the snake had been crushed but not killed.

To add insult to injury, and to worsen his horror, he heard the snake say, “Pazħi, aŝira ƙara đlar ra ɓū. Pela ƙu nđla ata ƙiri.” (Friend, please help me; the boulder fell on top of me.)

Ǩāĉħaū gathered his courage—and all of what his hunting skills had prepared him for—before saying, “Uhmmuhm, aɗi đlar nĝini pŵapū wa, ħarar nĝa ƀđaku ŵa.” (Well, this isn’t really a normal assistance, if I may say so, because your ways are always suspect.) Immediately, a common local saying came to his mind: “Ǩuĝŵar pŵara, mđa ana pŵara ƙa civi” (A good gift is often paid back with crap, or feces.)

“Ǩa ĤŷHyel nƙkamtŧa jili ɗdimikƙur ngĝini. Ma ĝa đlar ra mŵwa ata si nzi pazħi.” (God forbids this sort of ingratitude. If you help me in this, my dire situation, we’re going to be the best of friends.)

Ǩāĉħaū was eventually convinced, and he freed the snake from his trap and the boulder. As soon as the snake was free, it wrapped itself around the hunter’s hand with the intention of killing him by biting him.

The snake said, “ what Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa ordained thousands of years ago: Ma mđa ŵuta pŵapū ka tsa ni, tsuŵa ma pŵapū ƙu ŵuta mđa, ka tsa ƙal ni ka tsa mŧa. Alƙaŵal nĝini tsū aɗi har ɓata pĉi na asħina antu sai ma ệĥ/I ƙalnĝa ƙa tsi nĝa.” (If a man sees a snake, he will kill it, and if a snake sees a man, it shall bite him and kill him. That promise is still valid today, and that’s why I’m obligated to bite you to kill you.)

Upon hearing this dire news about the old promise God had given man and snake—to kill each other—Ǩāĉħaū began to tremble. He knelt and begged the snake to spare him. He said, “Toh, ma ƙu nzi apani, ƙalƙal ƙa mŵa ŵuta saiɗa, mji maƙer ƙa mŵa ŷu ɗa. Ǩilara sū ti đa pila, ƙu nzinzi.” (In this case, we need witnesses: at least three people to ask them. Whatever they say we’ll accept as final.)

The snake accepted the hunter’s argument, and they set out looking for three witnesses to hear their opinion on the matter.

The first witness they came across was the monkey. The snake begged the monkey to come hear their case and to render its judgment.

The snake presented the case to the monkey as follows: “A long time ago, God proclaimed that if a man sees a snake, he should kill it, and if a snake sees a man, it should bite him and kill him. This hunter found me resting comfortably under a rock, and I wanted to bite him and kill him, but he begged me to spare his life, and we decided to come to you for your judgment as to whether I should spare him or kill him; so what do you say?”

The monkey said, “Ǩalƙal ka pŵapū ƙal mđir ƀarā ƙa tsi ni ƙamŷar an ƙumā natu Ĥŷel ƙu tħlamŧa aƙŵa đapɓŵa ĝiri. Tsūŵa, shanĝ mđa tsa hir ƙirari, tsūŵa tsa na ĝaŷa đzau. Êĥ/I pila tun ŵaĉi, Ĥŷel namta ŷeru su đuƙu amma ƙamŷar ĝaŷarni antu tsa haɓŧa silari na aɓŵa ƙkuma suɗa ana mŵa ƙa sil suɗa.” (The snake had the right to bite the hunter and kill him, because it is God’s promise between the two of you. In addition, humans are so pompous, arrogant, and self-serving. In the beginning, God created all of us the same, but because humans are arrogant and self-serving, he brought his two front feet upward, and humans started to walk on only two legs.) “For this reason, you should kill him.”

The snake thanked the monkey for his wise and historical perspective on creation and on how man manipulated nature to walk upright on two legs, instead of four like most other animals. He told the hunter, “One down, and two to go; let’s move on.”

The hunter began to wonder if the suggestion he made about witnesses was a wise one, but the die was cast, and so they moved on, looking for the next witness.

The next witness they came across was a horse. They presented their case to the horse and the horse said that, in his judgment, it was all right for the snake to kill the man, “because humans are really bad. When I was young and strong, he used to ride me hard and race me for money—and for his own gratification—or he would pack his belongings on my back so I could carry him to distant places. When I got, old and was of little service to him, he gave his houseboy a gun to shoot me so I could rest. Have you ever heard of anybody getting some rest when buried in a grave? When I heard what, the man intended to do to me, one day, when we went into the bush with the houseboy, I kicked him off my back, trampled over him, and escaped with my life. If I had not done what I did, they’d have killed me last year, at the tender age of only twenty-five. Humans are not a thing to spare. Bite him, snake, and kill him.”

The snake thanked the horse for his wise and analytical judgment, and the two moved on in search of the last witness.

“Two down and one to go,” the snake murmured, smirking. It was in high spirits and exhilarated because, so far, it had two verdicts in its favor.

Ǩāĉħaū, on the other hand, moved along in a somber and ignominious mood. They searched for the third witness for a long time, until, eventually, they came across a dog. The snake greeted the dog in a polite way before presenting the case between him and the hunter. The dog listened attentively to the case as presented, and after the presentation, he observed that if they wanted him to give a nonpartisan verdict, they all had to go back to where the event had occurred.

Both parties agreed and praised the dog for its insight and its wise observation of the case. When they reached the spot where it all started, the dog instructed them to recreate the event as it had happened. He first asked the hunter to set up his trap, just as he had done. Ǩāĉħaū, the hunter, set up his trap as he’d done before.

The dog asked the snake to go inside the trap, as he’d done before. The snake let go of Ǩāĉħaū’s hand, went into the trap, and lay down. Immediately, the man let the trap drop the boulder, and it trapped the snake as it did before.

The dog asked the snake if the recreation was correct, and the snake whispered, practically inaudibly under the weight of the boulder, that, yes, it was. The dog then said to the hunter, “Toh mđir ɓara, ma ĝa aƙŵa ɓara ƙa pŵapū ƙal nĝa ka ŧsi nĝa kara jaƙta hanĝƙir tsiŷaĝa aƙira pela ni.” (Ok, hunter. If you want the snake to bite you and kill you, try to pull him from under the stone.)

Ǩāĉħaū, the hunter, was so exhilarated with the outcome that he couldn’t believe his luck and could hardly respond loud enough for the dog to hear. Instead, he grabbed and held the dog to his chest as he ran as fast as he could from the scene.

From afar, they could hear the snake moaning, “Pa … zhi … Pa. . . zhi … “but to no avail. Eventually, the silence of the forest drowned his cry for mercy, and it succumbed to the inevitable: death under the boulder trap.

It was because of this that, even today, the dog is man’s best friend from amongst all the animals, and the snake is the worst enemy.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA JIKILA AKWA MTAKU

Chapter Thirty

Ǩa mđa ħara sū ƙalƙal ƙa đunā naŧu Ĥŷel ƙu na ālari

Appraise your ambition within your ability

There was a bird that could dig out a space in soft woods and trees as a living quarter and its nesting for it and its nestlings. The bird is known as ɗika ntħligūla, woodpecker. Some of the soft trees the bird used in cutting out holes for itself and its nestlings are baobab trees and đzingƙa, cedar, trees. This is, obviously, the strength God has given it—to carve out a space for itself and its nestlings.

One day, however, ntħliĝūla, while perched comfortably on its nest, started to think big and beyond its ability. The thought that completely dominated ntħligūla at that moment was that if his mother died, he would bury her in a stone cavity. When he told some of his friends and neighbors, they laughed it off as a wishful thinking.

“Why would he try to bury his mother in a stone hole instead of in soft wood, which he could scoop out with relative ease?” they all teased him.

There’s no doubt that this could be interpreted as a hard evidence of his dear love for his mother. Or it could be interpreted as evidence of his arrogance and braggadocio—trying to do more than what God had given him the ability to do.

Then, one day, his thought came to reality: his mother fell ill and died. The arrogant ntħliĝūla headed to a huge boulder and started to peck at the rock to carve out a hole to bury his mother in. Instead, his beak was bleeding and broken and becoming shorter.

He then surmised what should have been obvious at the beginning—it was likely that what ambition wanted him to do might not be possible without the Godgiven ability to do so. After this wise and apt recognition, he went back to a baobab tree and started to make the hole for his dear mother’s burial.

All the birds in the territory that heard about ntħliĝūla’s folly laughed at his arrogance and stupidity, and he felt ashamed of himself. They teased him for wanting to do what he didn’t have the means to do.

The gist of the story is to teach us to try to do that which is within our ability and is in accordance with what we’re endowed with. Doing what is beyond our ability often causes us difficulty in life, sometimes even death.

THLAMTA FAR NA WA, THLAMTA FAR NĜULIM

Chapter Thirty-One

Mđa na ƙu mɓurŝa ƙa đūnar ƙira ri: Mđir tŝuħŵa ƙa ɓuƙil

The farmer and the dove

Once upon a time, there lived, in the village of Ǩŵaŷarāmŧā, a very adroit and successful farmer, called Baɗiđawi, and his two wives, Maĝelni, the younger wife, and Ŷapinđar, the elder, along with their five children: Ŝaratū, Ĝŵanđi, Baiđū, Ajuji, and Ĉhaƀiri.

Baɗiđawi’s fame as a farmer went beyond the borders of his village and into the adjacent ones, including Ĥŷera, Manđaraĝiraū, and Taŝhāƀiyū. Besides his fame in agriculture, he was also blessed with large herds of cows, sheep, and goats. In short, he was a symbol of success through hard work amongst his tribesmen and in the adjacent tribes, for instance, the Tera and Ĥhina.

In one year, at the end of the farming season, Baɗiđawi had harvested his sorghum and put it in piles, ready to be bundled and tied into njulanĝ and then ready to be taken home to be stored. Unbeknownst to the farmer, βuƙila, dove, had lain its eggs among the heads of the guinea corn or sorghum.

One day, when Baɗiđawi was inspecting the piles, he noticed the bird lying on the eggs it had lain. He shouted at the top of his voice, “βuƙila ra ĝai, ĝan si ƙa pŝi ħiħi ata ƙira mħir na? Nzi ƙŵabū ɗippa saƙapani nĉaĝa ata ŵuta ri.” (Dove, you’re to blame for coming and laying your eggs in my pile of guinea corn. You

just wait; at this time tomorrow, you’ll see what will happen.) And he left for home.

As soon as Baɗiđawi left, the bird got up from its nest and flew straight to report to Ŷa-Ĥyel what Baɗiđawi had said. Ŷa-Ĥyel responded by asking βuƙila if the man had said, “Tsa ƙku pila mi ħyira ŷa?” (Did he say if I wished?)

βuƙila said, “No. He didn’t mention anything like if you wished.”

The Lord God instructed βuƙila to go down, lie on its eggs, and not worry about anything. The bird came down in a joyous mood, went straight to its nest, and lay on its eggs. Before dawn, Baɗiđawi’s elder wife, Ŷapinđar, suddenly fell ill and died. There was no longer any plan to go collect the bundles of corn and bring them hope. Instead, Baɗiđawi was devastated, and the whole village spent the next five days mourning the ing away of Ŷapinđar with him and his family.

She was buried with honor commensurable to her husband’s status amongst the tribe. There were drums, xylophone, and many other instruments played, and people danced and consumed lots of food and beer, ɓurƙutu. At the end of all the tribal rituals and ceremonies of saɗaƙa and ƙuri tūa, Baɗiđawi decided to go back to his farm and try to bring his harvest home.

Upon returning to the farm ten days later, he found βuƙila still comfortably there. Baɗiđawi was furious, and he repeated the same thing he’d said before: “Wait; you’ll see what will happen to you and your eggs tomorrow.” He carried what he could and went home.

Like before, as soon as his footsteps were not audible to βuƙila, she flew to ŶaĤyel and reported to him. Again, Ŷa-Ĥyel asked her if Baɗiđawi had said, “If God wishes.”

Once again, βuƙila said, “I didn’t hear him say anything like this.”

Ŷa-Ĥyel said, “Mŵar ra pūpi ata ƙira ħiħirnĝa,” (Go lie on your eggs.)

The bird was ecstatic and, again, joyously returned to its nest and eggs.

Before dawn, Ĝŵanđi, the elder son of Baɗiđawi and Maĝelni, had suddenly fallen ill and died. Déjà vu—similar events happened, except this time, because Ĝŵanđi was too young, there was no dance. But for fifteen days, nobody went out to the farms; they were assisting Baɗiđawi and his wife Maĝelni mourn the death their eldest son. These mishaps had now happened on two consecutive occasions, and it was expected to have been long enough for βuƙila to have hatched its eggs.

After this long absence of fifteen days, Baɗiđawi finally returned to the farm, found the bird still there, and he said, “βuƙila, ĝan tsu azi ata ƙira mħirnani? Ma ɓarƙer Ĥŷel hira, aƙŵaɓu ɗipa sakapani nĉaga ata ŵutari.” (βuƙila, you’re still here, lying on my corn. God willing, tomorrow at this time, you’ll see with your eyes what will happen.)

As soon as Baɗiđawi’s footsteps were inaudible, βuƙila flew to Ŷa-Ĥyel and reported the events to him. As on all the other occasions, βuƙila was asked if Baɗiđawi had said, “If God wishes.”

And unlike the previous occasions, βuƙila answered in the affirmative: “Eħ aƙŵa saka na nĝini tsa pila ma Ĥŷel ħyira ƙa peri viri lapiŷa, nĉi ata ŵutari.” (Yes, this time he said, “Tomorrow, God willing, you’ll see with your own eyes.”)

Ŷa-Ĥyel then told βuƙila to return, pick up her fledglings and flee the man’s corn. As soon as βuƙila returned, she picked up her fledglings and fled from Baɗiđawi’s farm and corn for good.

This is a lesson for all of us to always ask for God’s will in all we do.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA JIKILA AKWA MTAKU!

Chapter Thirty-Two

Mđa na ƙu mɓūrŝa ƙa Ĥŷel ana sūrđzi ƙa asār. Ǩilā, Mōɓūlū ƙa Tŝinĝi

Trust in God Staves Off Mishaps

On one sultry day, many years ago, Ǩila, dog, got up before dawn to go see his cousin, Tsinĝi, lion. After he’d walked far away from home, he met his nemesis, Ŷamōƀūlū.

Ŷamōƀūlū asked Ǩila, “Man wakata ri, tug a ata mwa didipa mbing apani?” (What happened that you’re out so early in the morning?)

Ǩila, dog, answered, “I’m taking eye drops to my cousin the lion.”

Ŷamōƀūlū commented that he could not believe his luck, because he hadn’t had anything to eat throughout the night.

The dog said, “Sai ma Ĥyel an pila eh susumir nĝa.” (It’s only if God says I should be your meal.)

Ŷamōƀūlū said, “Hyel a pila pila ya, an ga azi ning, ka mi damwa tsu ri?”

(You’re already here, so what’s the big deal? It’s no longer a question of if God wished.)

Immediately, Ŷamōƀūlū sprang up and grabbed the dog by the neck. The dog spluttered loudly under the pain of being choked. Out of nowhere, as if by some phantom power, the lion appeared, with his eyes bulging out red and his mouth wide open with white stuff spewing out at the edges.

The lion vehemently shouted, “Kila man pakta giri ka Mōɓūlū ri?” (Dog, what happened between you and hyena?)

Before the dog could answer, Ŷamōƀūlū shouted, “Ai zanuŵa, azħa ĝa aziya? Yeru ata ĝelir ɗidipa.” (Your Excellency, I didn’t know you were around; we’re playing a morning game.”

The lion said, “What kind of game, where you had his neck squeezed?”

Ŷamōƀūlū quickly came out with an answer, hardly caring whether or not it made sense: “Ŷa ta bara ƙi jiƙata tħlira ri ni” (I want to count his teeth.)

The lion then commanded Ŷamōƀūlū to let go of the dog’s neck and disappear immediately. Ŷamōƀūlū was too eager to oblige and began to walk away, but, spontaneously, the dog said, “My excellent cousin, the eye drops I’m bringing to you must be mixed with a hyena’s skin—fresh and with the blood dripping— otherwise, they won’t have the desired effect.”

The lion turned to Ŷamōƀūlū, who was shocked, and said, “You heard what my honest cousin said; just give me part of your skin.”

Ŷamōƀūlū had no choice but to tear off a part of his body so they could get the skin to mix the eye drops with. But visibly, Ŷamōƀūlū had begun to tear-up; his eyes were swollen and filled with tears, but he held on, not willing to betray his fear and trepidation.

The dog received the hyena’s skin and dipped it in a small gourd he had with him with honey inside. The dog said, “Your Excellency, wipe your mouth with the skin first before you rub it around your eye.”

As soon as the lion touched his mouth with the skin, he swallowed the whole thing because of its sweet and unbelievable taste.

The dog said, “Your excellency, what are we going to do now? There’s no more skin.”

The lion menacingly turned and looked at Ŷamōƀūlū, saying, “You heard him; we need more skin because the first one went down with my saliva without my being aware.”

Ŷamōƀūlū looked at the part of himself that was still bleeding from the first tear, but he had little say in the matter. He tore another part of him and gave it to the dog. Like with the first, the dog dipped the skin in honey and gave it to the lion with the same instruction. And just like with the first, he swallowed it.

On the third request, Ŷamōƀūlū said, “Zanuŵa ƙulini ku luƙŵa vi asħir, nzi ƙi mŵari anda ƙki tħluŵħi, ƙamɓila I/eh sinta ala ĝa.” (Your Excellency, it has reached a private place, so let me go behind the bushes, and then I’ll bring it to you.)

The lion said, “Alright, be quick; I need some more now!”

As soon as Ŷamōƀūlū was behind the bushes and out of sight, he darted off as fast as he could, with fresh blood following his trail, and disappeared. After some time elapsed and Ŷamōƀūlū didn’t show up, the lion was getting quite uneasy, and the dog said, “Let me go and see why it’s taking Ŷamōƀūlū so long to bring the skin.” And as soon as it was out of sight of the lion, he, too, darted off and ran away in the opposite direction.

After waiting for a long time in vain, the lion decided to go and check for himself. He looked behind the bushes, but he couldn’t see anybody, except some blood spattered here and there, so he grudgingly gave up looking and went about his business in the forest.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA KIKAR MJIR NVWA

Chapter Thirty-Three

Blood covenant between two caring Sister-wives

A long, long time ago, there lived a man, Ĵanĝūra, and his two wives, Ĵimɓala and Ǩŵapĉhi. From tribal perspectives, Ĵanĝūra was a well-to-do man: a successful farmer and a recognized leader in his community. And to crown it all, he was a respected general in the tribe’s wars with their neighbors the Ǩilɓa and the Ĝa’anđa.

One day, when the two wives were sitting around a boon fire after Ĵanĝūra had retired early due to old age and fatigue, Ĵimɓala told Ǩŵapĉhi she wanted them to make a covenant that whichever sister-wife outlived the other would take care of the children.

“Nƙŵara ma iŷa ƙu mŧi, ƙara ƙilanŧa ala mŵa maɗarmŵa ni,” Ĵimɓala proposed. (Friend, if I die, I want you to bring up our children.)

Ǩŵapĉhi replied, “Ǩalƙal, eh/I ma, ma iŷa ƙu mŧi, ƙara ƙilanta alamŵa maɗarmŵa ni.” (That’s accepted. If I die, I want you to bring up our children.)

The women sealed their covenant with the tribal practice of “blood sharing.” Each woman cut her index finger, and the two fingers were tied with sūwūr pūhi, a rope, for a few minutes so the blood could get infused.

Three years after this blood covenant, Ĵimɓala ed away to her husband, Ĵanĝūra, who had ed on six months earlier. Ĵimɓala was buried next to her husband in the tribe’s burial ground.

As promised, Ǩŵapĉhi took on the responsibility of rearing up Ðaŵi, her son,

and Tāpĉhi, her late sister-wife’s son. Both children were about ten years old. Any time the boys were hungry, Ǩŵapĉhi would ŵatħa ɗivā, mix a left-over mush with water. She gave it to Tāpĉhi to drink first and then Ðaŵi would finish the bottom part. Unknown to Ǩŵapĉhi, the top part was the most nutritious, and the bottom a mere roughage. Consequently, while Tāpĉhi was putting on weight, Ðaŵi was losing it. This had been going on for some time, and the villagers had begun gossiping about it.

One day, an old widow, Ĵiŧaū, came to the house and asked Ǩŵapĉhi why her son Ðaŵi was losing weight and Tāpĉhi was gaining it all the time. Ǩŵapĉhi said she didn’t know why.

Ĵiŧaū told her, “Every time you ŵatħa ɗivā for them, give each his own in a separate bowl.”

After a few months of doing exactly as Ĵiŧaū had suggested, both boys were putting on weight, such that Ǩŵapĉhi could not tell the difference between the boys. In short, she ddidn’t know which was Ðaŵi and which was Tāpĉhi.

On one rainy day, when most stayed at home because of the weather, Ĵiŧaū popped in again, and she asked Ǩŵapĉhi if she could tell which boy was hers and which was her sister-wife’s. Ǩŵapĉhi said no, she couldn’t tell the differences between them, but that, according to her, it was immaterial, because all she knew was that both looked good and strong.

Ĵiŧaū said, “Well, just in case you want to know, do this: prepare some mashed food when they are away in the farm. As soon as they come and dart toward the food, say, ‘kila wan vi ala ĝiri ri sūsūma ni ri.’ (My goodness, who says the food is for you?) tinĝ ɓzir marir nĝa ni ata ƙiɓila tsiaŷeri aƙwa sūsūma ni.” (You will see your sister-wife’s son will pull his hands off the food.)

When Ǩŵapĉhi followed through with Ĵiŧaū’s suggestion, immediately saying, “Who says the food is for you?” Tāpĉhi quickly pulled his hands out of the dish. Ðaŵi, however, didn’t bother to even pause. He kept on eating the food and urged Tāpĉhi not to bother with what their mother had just said. But Tāpĉhi couldn’t, and so Ǩŵapĉhi, through Ĵiŧaū’s malign influence, had idenfified which was her son and which was her sister-wife’s.

Ǩŵapĉhi saw two very beautiful beads, and she bought them for the boys to wear around their necks. On the following week, she went to the market (the village market is only once a week, on Tuesdays) again, and this time she bought them milk.

When she came home and gave it to them, she said, “ƙkilara mđda na kƙu puūta uŵwa ni ata ĝgina wūila ni, tsa ata mwŵara kiĉari aƙŵa ŷimir Jirkandum ka Jirwaksha.”

As fate, would have it, it was Tāpĉhi that spilled the milk on his beads. Tāpĉhi was told to go wash the beads in yimir Ĵirƙanđum and Ĵirwaƙsha. Baɗi Ǩāĉhalla, with whom Ǩŵapĉhi was now married to as the younger brother of Ĵanĝūra, tried to intervene to no avail. Ǩŵapĉhi was determined that was where the beads must be washed.

Early the following morning, Tāpĉhi set out to go find yimir Ĵirƙanđum Ĵirwaƙsha to wash the beads Ǩŵapĉhi had given him. On the way, he was whistling and singing the following song: “Iŷa ata mŵari kiĉca ĝina aƙŵa ŷimir Ĵirƙanđum ka Ĵirwaƙsha.” (I’m on my way to wash the beads in the waters of Ĵirƙanđum and Ĵirwaƙsha.) He’d met several people who had helped him with instructions on how to reach the river Ĵirƙanđum. One such instruction was given by a hunter, Ađamū. Ađamū’s instructions stood out in Tāpĉhi’s head because he’d warned him of coming in with some monstrous beasts, but that he

shouldn’t show any sign of anxiety or fear. He should just keep on going, singing his song.

Upon reaching the river, he saw a leviathan animal, the type of which he’d never heard of, let alone seen. Based on his description later, some speculated it might be as large as the Kraken or possibly the now-extinct Megalodon. Whichever it was, it was a huge animal.

Tāpĉhi felt a strong anxiety and premonition about what was about to happen and wanted to run, but hunter Ađamū’s warning immediately prevailed upon him and calmed his mind. He pretended he was all right. Luckily for him, the animal assured him not be afraid: “I’m here to help fulfill your wishes, whatever they might be.” The monster then asked him why he came to the river by himself, and Tāpĉhi explained, in a brief way, the incidents that led to his being at the river Ĵirƙanđum and Ĵirwaƙsha.

After he’d explained everything he could from his life story, the animal said, “Don’t worry; just follow me.” Suddenly, the river parted, and deep down was a steep gorge. Down the gorge, Tāpĉhi could see his dead mother, amongst others. The monster carried him on his back down the gorge and to his mother. After the shock of meeting his mother, he was relieved to hear the monster saying his mother could come with him. The mother, Ĵimɓala, had changed and looked like an angel, beautiful and gracious in her manners. They packed all they could carry—precious stones and more—and the monster brought them to land before commanding the river to flow again. He then disappeared into its depths.

Tāpĉhi and his mother traveled for two days before reaching their village. They arrived in the dark of dusk and sneaked into their hut quietly, without any of the of the household noticing.

Early in the morning, Tāpĉhi went to his step-father, Baɗi Ǩāĉhalla, to come and meet his mother.

Ǩāĉhalla was angry and said, “Mđa ana mŧa ƙa tħlata ŷa?” (Do the dead come back to life?)

Tāpĉhi begged again, and the father said something that he knew would discourage Tāpĉhi if he wasn’t serious. He said, “If you want me to come, you must arrange stones from the door of my hut to your mother’s, so I don’t walk on the ground.”

Before long, Tāpĉhi had arranged the stones as demanded by Baɗi Ǩāĉhalla, his step-father.

Baɗi Ǩāĉhalla walked on the stones, reached Ĵimɓala’s hut, and peeped inside. He withdrew with a loud sound, such that everybody in the house heard. After weathering his shock and disbelief, Ǩāĉhalla entered the hut and met Ĵimɓala in person: very beautiful, with her face shining and looking fresh like that of a young woman. Immediately, he came out and threw away the stones that Tāpĉhi had arranged for him.

Tāpĉhi handed the clean beads to Ǩŵapĉhi and thanked her for all the trouble of rearing them. His half-brother, Ðaŵi, wasn’t happy, however. He’d seen Ĵimɓala as one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, and he wanted his mother to look the same. He was enraged with jealousy that Tāpĉhi now had more than him—a raised-from-the-dead and beautiful mother and lots of riches.

One day, to acquire a similar status, he asked his mother to enter Βi, granary, and he beat her to death so that Ĵimɓala would rear them. He didn’t wait to be given any beads by Ĵimɓala. He just decided one day that he, too, would go wash his beads, but not at Ĵirƙanđum and Ĵirwaƙsha waters; he was going straight to wash at Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa’s place.

Upon reaching Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa’s palace, he was asked what brought him and what he wanted. Ðaŵi explained his situation and why he’d decided to come.

Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa said, “I’m going to give you something to do: you will shepherd my animals.

“Ĝata ɓila ala mŵa mŵabi. Maĝa mŵari aƙŵa zirƙu, ma ĝa wūta ŷimi na ŷilanĝŷilanĝ, ĝa aɗiya zħar ɗa ƙađa sā wa, amma ma ĝa wūta ŷimi na nđanđari, ƙara zħar ɗa ƙa đa sā.” (You will shepherd the animals, but when you take them to a water fountain that’s clear, don’t allow them to drink it; only allow them to drink from the one that is muddy and dirty.)

Ðaŵi did exactly as he was instructed.

When it was time to bring the animals home to their shed, however, they were crying, saying something to the effect of: “Mɓū-wā, mɓū-wā, ƙara ɦinta ni đimpiɗim.” Some were saying, “Mɓū-wā, mbu-wā ƙara ɦinta ni linĝ-linĝ.” (Mɓū-wā was the sound the animals were making, but saying that Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa should build/create her ugly and heavy-set, while other animals said he should build her very thing like a thread). Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa did what many of the animals asked him to do: he built/created her ugly and heavy-set, đimpiɗim, uglier than what she had been before her death.

After Ĥŷel Ǩaƙa had done his job, he sent both mother and son back to earth. Ðaŵi was disappointed and more miserable than before because his mother had become the laughing stock of the village. Ðaŵi decided he’d had enough and left the village, never to return.

ATA KIRI WA, ATA KIRA KIKKAR MJIR NVWA!

Chapter Thirty-Four

Makumdla Dza-dza/Riddles/Tribal quotes

Makumdla Dza Dza/Quotes 1. Ťšara ҏumƀlum mƀura šhola: 2. Đŧħlam Đŧħlam aŧa ɓŵanĝa ĉħiŵar: 3. Ťšamťa ťšuvir faŧa ĥiĥi: 4. Ĝurjam maƙir pi aɓila: 5. Lupŧirna ŝħanĝ ħiɓū: 6. Đelum ƙa đelumƀa: 7. Yaži amma šhiҏili aħar gŵamđal: 8. Ȇĥ liħar ŷeru, amma mji ƙa mpiƙa aɗi ŧħlaŵar raŵa ŧar mji na mŧimŧa: 9. Ŷa aƙŵa mŵa anŧū laƙu ňđuƙumŧađzi ƙa ɓŵa ŝuɗa, amma eh nuŧa japū: 10. Ɓaƀa a mƀŵa amma šhišhir ƙumiŷeri a ƀila: 11. Mamža ƙu ťiri, mamža ƙu ƙiŧa: 12. Ĉhaƙu ťa ŵul hŷel: 13. Đzir ƀuƙul aƙŵa ƙŵaťam: 14. Ŧerelan ŧsitya ŵħona, ŧerelan tsitya nvŵa: 15. Ȇĥ ƙlanŧa ɓzir na ƙa manđaɓa: 16. Ĝrum ĝaŧa ŵul miri? : 16. Ŧuƙŝħir num-num: 17. Ĝŵaĝŵa đuƙu aŧa ƙuŧa faƙu: 18. Êĥ ƀzirňkŵa đuku akŵa đirŷeru amma ŷan ҏɗakta šhanĝ: 19. Êĥ liĥar ŷeru ƙula hûr amma êh ňka/šiṽi ka hûr: 20. Ŷeru aħar ŷeru mūrfa amma ƙuĝŵar ɗivar ŷeru đuƙu: 21. Mjir zam zam ana pi ɓŵanĝ nyarmɓŵa: 22. Mji ŝuɗa pazhi amma đana nđigiwa: 23. Aɓila nŧufū, aŧa ĝanĝ đuƙu: 24. Mŵala ƙŵađang ƙu ŷerali ƙa đluni:

25. Nƙŵar ƙŵaŧam ana nji ƙini aƙŵa ŝirɗū: 26. Ƙhirir ŷeru mɓamŧađzi ƙa ŝhanĝa suna aƙŵa ŧar ĝaƀakar ŷeru: 27. Soja mɓŵa mɓŵa aŧa ƙira ĝar: 28. Mŵala ƙŵađang ƙu ɓamŧa ɓzir ƙa đlu ni: 29. Đlim ɗifiƙtu: 30. Êĥ ťsi ťhlar na amma ťting/tar helari anŧū êĥ ŝima: 31. Ginar ƙŵaŧam akŵa ƙurŧu: 32. Ĝinar mŝħal akŵa ƙuŧuƙu: 33. Ǩā mŝiƙa mŧa aŧa ŝħamɓar, amma eĥ aɗi ya? 34. Ȇĥ aŧa nđli taƙur na, amma ŵala ɓaɓir na ŧiri ŷa aɗi aŧa ŝiĝħi ƙi ƙita ŵa: 35. Ƙŵi munĝil ƙu ɗimnŷa mħi: 36. Ȇĥ ƙa faƙur na ol’laĝa, amma ŝaƙati eh ntħli mħyari tȗnĝ maŧaƙum đuƙu: 37. Ŧilŧil ƙu namŧa ƙuħŷir đi: 38. Ďika mŧimŧa aŧa ќil nvŵa ni: 39. Ǩir ŧaɓa duƙu ƙu mŵanta ra aħar nvŵa: 40. Ĉicħu aŧa nđla ƙadaƙar ƙuħŷi: 41. Ǩir ĝorō ŝuɗa ƙku mŵanŧa ra aħar nvŵa: 42. Tiđđar/ɓaɓar na ƙu tŝi ala ŷeru ƙŵi, amma tȗng ќirari anŧu ŷeru aŧa ŝima ri: 43. Ŷeru mŝira ƙa pazħir na, amma ŷeru a thlaŵarđzi ƙa vū ŧŝi ŵa: 44. Êĥ mašta taƙur na pɗaku, amma ŧar mđi mŵala an ŧa pūi ala ri ƙusar: 45. Ṧakati èȟ bzirnќyar ŷana ĥa đzaƙŵa, amma šakati èȟ ƙu ќila èȟ žħarŧa ħari: 46. Ɓênĝum ku hata luptu mŵapu ƙa turkŵa ƙušar 47. Aƀila maƙir aŧa šivar ƙuhŷi: 48. Mji maƙir ƙu ҏili ƙa ќita ќilir kŵaŧam: 49. Mûzûmaƙu ku ȟilŧa mafar ƙaƙr na: 50. Mšiќir ŷeru ana ɓatha aŧa ƙusar nĝarnĝar: 51. Éȟ mɓŵu-mɓŵi ƙuĝŵar na ata ќira ĝȃr amma ŝħamɓar a ƙili ŵa: 52. Tiđđarna ƙu ɗikra, amma ŧŝu èȟ aƙŵa ćhanĝ ni ƙa ƙulenĝ nĝi: 53. Mūzamaƙu ƙu mɓŵarađzi a ƙuma ĝâr ƙa sħi lalir ni: 54. Mūzamaƙu ƙu ҏupi ŧiŧiќir ƙa sħi lali: 55. Pūwar ƙaƙar na ƙu pūƙđla, amma ŷa mzħi nŧsūri ŵa: 56. Éȟ lata mɓŵar na pɗaƙu, amma țunĝ mđa đuƙu anŧa ҏûҏɨ aƙŵa: 57. Éȟ aŧa lunĝĝu, amma mđir pŵarra aɗiŵa: 58. Ǩaŧŝaќar ŷerna aɗi, amma mdɨr ħatarɨ aɗi wa: 59. Ŷeru ƙu ncħi nfŵa aviŷar ŷeru, amma ŧar mđa na aɓila anŧa tћlɨr ŝhanĝurari: 60. Éȟ ƙa ŧhlâr na, amma ŧar ŧimɓilàri ànŧɨ éȟ ŧa ŝima ɍɨ:

61. Mŵašu ňŧufû ku nĝќɨ ĝâɍ: 62. Ŵȟàlanĝ ƙu ŷà ànĝɨra ќwɨ: 63. Ma ɗiɗiϼa éȟ đaƙŵi, amma ma pĉi ƙu mɓila ŷaɗi ǩiraŵa: 64. Mƀŵar na aɗi ƙa nŷarmҌŵa ŵa: 65. Mšiƙur ŷeru ƙu haŧa šhišhi, ƙa puđza ŝhaŧu mŵapū aƙŵa ŵulaɨyari: 66. Ŝurna aɗi, naŧu eh aŧsoƙŧa ŵutani ħar ƙi ɗiwarni, amma éћ aŧsoƙŧa ƙisi ni ŵa: 67. Ǩaƙar yeru ana tsa jinatu aƙŵa yimi: 68. Mafār ƙaƙar ŷeru ƙu ɖidiǩțiɍa ƙa ϼsũ ra aƙŵa ĝaɍ: 69. Êĥ maŝŧa ŝūrna pɗakũ, amma ŵala ŧsan ħara điɗi a ƙicimŧađzi ŵa: 70. Tiđđar na maŝta ali ƙuŧuram, amma a ƙiŧħhlir ŧipĉi ŵa: 71. Ǩũhyi ƙu ɗuwarđzi aƙŵa ĝaĝūm: 72. Pinjũ ƙu puŧađzi aŧa ƙiri, amma ŷa tsoƙta ƙiĉimťari ŵa: 73. Mpilār ƙaƙar ŷeru ana njinjin ŷimi: 74. Êĥ aŧa ŝi lunĝĝu vir laĝa, amma ŷa ŝinda ѷiari ƙi pila aƙa mjir na ŵa: 75. Mŵala ƙwađanĝ aŧa ŷeralli: 76. Êĥ ƙa hũr ƙa ɓzir: 77. Ďaĥa aŧa ĝār gŵanŧa: 78. Ĉħiĉħũ aŧa ǩađlaĥ aĥaɍ ŧanĝa: 79. Mŝĥi tħata aĥar viũ ǩa ɍaɍaĥ: 80. Ĉiri-ĉiri ĝinaɍ yaŵalɨ: 81. Ĵapta aƙuma pêlà: 82. Ṧanĝgam ᶑũƙũ ƙu hŷenta Ҍї: 83. Ǩamŷar ᵯї tiĝa faŧa shїքili ǩa քũ aƙŵa ẃũli ri: 84. Ŝūrna aɗi ƙula ǩyanĝŷe, r amma tŝa ana ŝim ŝuŝima: 85. Êĥ ƙa ƙila aŧa ǩiri, amma ŷa ŝinđa ŝaƙar ǩiliaŷeri ŵa: 86. Êĥ avi ƙuĝa đaŵarna ŝuɗa, amma da atsoƙŧa ǩiđlimŧara ŵa: 87. Ŷѐru ƙu fi aƙŵa đaŵaƙu, amma mđir ŝholata ŷeru aɗiwa: 88. Êĥ nĝaŵa ƙa ŝhilǩu amma ɗeĥa ahiȓ ǩi ṕi ƙŵa mɓaẁr ǩũźuǩũ wa: 89. Ŝhũlũmta ĝinà ma-ŝhũla: 90. Êĥ liĥar ŷeru ǩũla ĥũr ƙa nǩa ƙa ĥũr: 91. Mafār ŷarna ana nđli nfŵa ƙa ɓaɓi: 92. Pũrũma ŷeru đžaƙŵař ŷeřũ jili ᶑuƙû: 93. Mûtû aŧa ĉiñĵinĝ: 94. Êĥ là ƙa là, à làŵà, êĥ fà ƙa fà à fàŵà: 95. Ŧhlàli sũƙŵar àĥàr ŷerũu, ĉiriƙ-ĉiriƙ, amma ŷa ᵯzĥi ɗimari ŵa, sài àĥàr ᵯĵi: 96. Ƥêlà ᵯaƙiř aƙŵa ƙŵāĝū:

97. Êĥ liĥar ŷeru ƙa ƀŵaƙuma ƙa šiƀila ƙa ƀŵaĥili: 98. Đuža aŧa ƙira ĝar: 99. Ǩuƀili aƙŵa ɓɗari, tŝa aƙŵa nĝĝêrƀilari: 100. Đàmtàl niniᵯ: 101. Điƙa akŵa mŵa aĥàr ĥŷel: 102. Ŷeru liħar ŷeru mŵapū ƙa ŝibila ɱaɱža; 103. Ňĝa ňĝiliŷam ɓamŧa ňĝa ňĝiliŷam, anŧi đa mŵari ƙa ťĥlaŵar ňĝa ňĝiliŷam: 104. Ǩila aŧa ƙira ŷiᵯi: 105. U’u ata kadla ahar calang: 106. Nƙŵar ƙŵaŧam ana nji ƙini aƙŵa ŝirɗu: 107. Ǩŵi mûňĝûl ƙû đlarĥa đûniŷa: 108. Đaƙwi ƙûla ᵯanĵiᶌaᵲ: 109. Ŝhanĝa ŷeru amɓŵar ŷeru ŵûliaŷeru ɗâĥ-ɗaĥari: 110. Ŷiᵯiᵲ đlalanĝ âr ƙaƙar ŷeru ƙû ňđlita đi: 111. Ƙi ňaĝa mŵala ƙi naĝa ƀzir ŷa: 112. Tiĥᵲa âĥilâ ƙirmƀŵa âšinđa kûťa Ƙi ŵa: 113. Ťhlaĥ ĝunđuluᵯ ƙur, ĥyêl anđir ƙidlĥa ĉiri alaᵲi: 114. ҎɗaƘu aŧa nĉha nƘŵar ťhiĥla: 115. Maĝa aɗi pĥil ĥŷeħa ŵa, ĝa aɗi ŷa ĥĝah ňĝhûliᵯ ŵa: 116. Ňtiĥmar đlima aɗi ana đzhiᵲ ňvŵani ǩa ᵯťuĥ ŵa. 117. Ňƙa ħaŵar šhađuŵar: 118. Mŵar mŵari ƙuƀa ƙuƀa ƙa ħûħŵi-ħûħŵi: 119. Ŧŝamŧa đlimƀŵa ƙa mƀur šĥola: 120. Mŧiƙar ƙaƙar yeru aɗi ana ҏŵūa aŧa ňfŵa ŵa: 121. Êĥ mƀŵi ŧaƙûrna amƀŵa, amma đinĝzhâri aƀila: 122. Ɖilim ƙa đilimɓa: 123. Ťiƙira đuƙu ŵhaŧhla ûŵa ɓalanĝ ҏal: 124. Ŷêrû ĥânĝ amƀŵar ŷerû, amma ĝaĵir ŷerû an ňđir mҏa: 125. Mđa vû ĥaĥir û’û aƙŵa ŷimį, amma ŧŝa mŧa ŵa: 126. Ĝurmƀař ŧiđđarna ĥarta ƙiri: 127. Ǩŵi ɱûnĝul ƙŵârta ĝar: 128. Ťŝarar ĝanĝar ƙuhŷi amma apŧa an ƀatħla ri: 129. Mđûɱ ŝū aħila ĝar: 130. Ǩŵirna ɏā, amma êĥ āŧŝoƙŧa tŝuƙŵař ûŵař ŵā: 131. Ŝĥilƙû ƀāřa-ƀāřa: 132. Ĝa mtħlaƙur na amma ṽiřti ɗiffi ƀži, ƙiřa ĝā anŧi êĥ aŧta ƀāřa ři:

133. Mĵiř taƙza ƥi ƀŵānĝ ňŷârmƀŵā: 134. Ŝħiƥilā Ŷamtā âtā ƙiřā ƙađaƙā: 135. Ĉħajiƙŵa ŷar gŵanđi: 136. Êĥ liĥâr ŷêrū âmmaā ŝħanĝā mĵiř ŷerū akŵā ňĝillā ƙa ŧsi: 137. Ɖāŝhir ŷêrū ana ŧiƙsā aƀŵar ƙiraŧħlari: 138. Ƶurû ƙŵaĝur Ŷamari: 139. Ɓaƙa đuku ƙu ƙuri ƀi: 140. Buɓa ĥatu ĝari ƙa turƙŵa ƙusar: 141. Âŝhina ěĥ ōla amma ɗiҏҏa ěĥ ƀzirnŷâr: 142. Ŝhanĝâ māɗar na māmƶā: 143. Êĥ â ƙūmšħi âviɏā ŵā ŝâi âfaƙū: 144. Mđā âtâ điƙrā ěĥ âtâ tūŵâ, âmmâ šĥimŵūi âkŵā ŵā: 145. Mƀŵâr mâɗār đaƙŵi ƙûlâ ňŷarmƀŵā: 146. Mji na âmtaẑi âɗi ânâ ĥārtā ňŷarmƀŵa ŵā 147. Mƀûrta đlāmđlām ƙa mɓūɓwi đlāmđlām: 148. Ƙûm âƙŵā ŵā, ɗetĥlu âƙŵā ŵā: 149. Ƀūňđi aŧa ƙûtaƙki amma ƙumiâŷeri āɓila: 150. Êĥ ƙilanŧa ƀžir na ƙa maŧaƙūm: 151. Ƙiĉi ata ƙūta ħŷel: 152. Aƙŵa ƙûta aƙŵa ƙûtari: 153. Êĥ ƙali ƙilɓu amma ŝhanĝā mjir đir ŷeru ƙu nĝata: 154. Ťŝaƙa mҏiƙa aŧa ŝhiŵura, ma tŝa mŧti ѷirѷiranƙira: 155. Maƙaranŧa na ōla aƙŵa mŧaƙu: 156. Ŵȗtȗr na ma ĝĥura, žĥarrir na ma ĝĥȗra: 157. Ďžaƙŵar mjir ŷeru ŝhanĝ jili đuƙu: 158. Ŝhanĝa mjir đuniya ƙu ŵuta ra, amma mđa ā jaƙŧa ŵuta ra ƙiraŵa: 159. Êħ luƙŵa zirƙu ƙa ħūva, ƙa siɓila ƙa ħanƙal: 160. Naŵa antū pal ƙa pal paƙtađzi ƙa ŧiramŧa ŝuɗa ri?: 161. Pūrpūr ƙira laƙu: 162. Tiđđa ƙa muma aƙŵa mŵa aŧa laƙu đuƙu amma đaƙuƀa ŵa: 163. Ŝūrna aɗi amma mji ƙu ŧira ra ƙa ƙitħlir ƙuĝari: 164. Ǩumŧa ūđzūm, ŧirħi zūlanĝ ƙur ƙū: 165. Ŝhiƙa ħađlu ƙu ŧiri ƙa zħar na ħûngħari: 166. Maɗar maŷarna ħanĝ, amma êh aŧsoƙŧa jiƙaŧa ɗa ŵa: 167. Ŧurkŵa fili jāƙar māŝā: 168. Đaħa aŧa ƙuŧa ɗaha aŧa ƀŵaĥili:

169. Mafār ŷarnā ƙumŝħi ânŧu ħirāri nĝila aɓilā: 170. Filā avana ƙā pwā aҏŧa: 171. Ǩuĝŵarna kû jaɓwā, âmmā sâi ŝalir ňƙwarnā āhār ňvŵa an ŝi ƙa ňđuɓŧa ali: 172. Đāƙul ƙûm āƙirā mŧiħirā: 173. Nƙŵar ƙŵaŧam ƙu pi aƙŵa đaŝā: 174. Tiđđar na aƙŵa fa ŝhipila ri aƙŵa ŵuilari: 175. Ŵħalanĝ ƙu ŷa anĝira ƙŵi: 176. Laƙŝa laƙŝa ŝalamɓiya: 177. Ĉħôƙu a mŧsar mal ŵa: 178. Tirađzi nƙŵaraĝai ƙi liƙta maŷar nĝa: 179. Mđa đuƙu anđzinđzi aŧa ƙulaħū maƙir: 180. Ŵħalanĝƙŵari ana mŵa ƙa đifir ħili: 181. Ðetħlu ƙu ŷaɓilađzi đaƙŵi: 182. Ŷeru a hŷûr ħi ŵa, ŷeru a ƙħi ŷimi ŵa, amma ŷeru aŧa laŧa mɓŵa: 183. Ðemŧal ninim: 184. Ŝila maŷarna nŧanŧari, ƙuma a ŝħa ŵa, ŝai aviŷa: 185. Mpili ɓorno ɓorno: 186. Đlim đifuŧu: 187. Ǩiŝi ali ƙuŝari, ƙi pđa alamŵa ɓzir mđa: 188. Nŧsuŧa đlam đlam ƙa mɓūmɓŵi: 189. Đaħa aŧa ƙira ƀuĉi: 190. Ŷimi ata ŧira, ĝaĝûum aŧa ƀuzuƙu: 191. Ǩum aƙwa ɗethlû: 192. Êĥ mƀŵata mamzĥamrir na, ŧirƀila pal ƙa tûzhûmtađzi: 193. Puruma/ŝħanĝa mŵankir di ni ƙa ƙadirđa: 194. Êĥ kičimŧa ɗewar na ŝuɗa, ҏal âr ĝyali, ҏal aɗi ar ĝyal ŵa: 195. Êĥ kičimŧa ɗeŵar na ŝuɗa ƙa vi aŧa ƙira ŝiva, amma ŝhamƀar â ƙili ŵa: 196. Êĥ laŧa mѢwa aĥar đanĝana ƙara ҏi aĥar ɓuri: 197. Êĥ ƙa mҏika eĥ aŧa ŧsi mđa, eĥ ƙula mҏika ma eĥ aŧa ŧsi mđa: 198. Mđa ƙa Ѣžirmani aŧa ҏalҏal ƙuĥŷiƙur: 199. Êĥ luƙŵa đi, amma ƙila na ōl-ōla aɗi ata mҏâ râ ŵa, ŝai ƙuŧurû: 200. Bura ҏupi titiƙir ƙa ŝhi lāli: 201. Na ali ƙum ƙi mɓū ƙum: 202. Ǩulini eĥ mamŝħi amma ɗarnzi eĥ ū’ū: 203. Ệħ ƙa munđzaħa ħanĝ amma đa aɗi ana քi aɓila ŵa: 204. Êĥ ƙa ɓūɓal ōla amma mѢŵa đuƙu an aŧa:

205. Mƀŵar na ƙa ňŷarmƀŵa ňfŵur aŧa: 206. Ňcā aŧa via ňcā: 207. Tħlama ŝivi aŧa ƙira ƙađaƙa: 208. Ðimtim, ɗimtim đlarħa đi: 209. Êĥ jiƙta ƙa jiƙta, a jiƙtađziŵa, eh mɓŵa ƙa mɓŵa, a mɓŵatiđziŵa: 210. Êĥ քŵi ŝū, amma ěĥ amzħi jiƙaŧari ŵa: 211. Ệħ ŝħira ŷa ŝhū ɗiva, ŷa ĉi ŝuƙŵar: 212. Pimpilimŧim ŧurƙŵa ƙuŝar: 213. Ŷeru ħanĝ amɓŵar ŷeru, amma ŝū đuƙu an mɓŵi ŷeru: 214. Ғaƙur na ōla, amma ŷa ĥir ƙa ƙuŝar pŧsi aƙŵa ŵa: 215. Ŷeru amɓŵar ŷeru mûrfa, amma ƙuraƙa ŷeru žumžum: 216. Ŝhanĝâ mŵanƙir điyir ŷeru ƙa ɓzir aviŷâ: 217. Ŧim ƙa ŧimҏlim: 218. Ŷeru ħanĝ aviŷar ŷeru, amma ɗzaƙŵar ŷeru jili đuƙu: 219. Mâ maŷar ŷeru aŧa ŷâ ŝai murfā: 220. Êĥ miŧipi, amma mji a ĥir raŵa, paranĝ ŧêinĝ manđaɓa: 221. Mâ êĥ limŧa, êĥ aɗi aŧa jaƙta nƙa ƙiraŵa: 222. Mâ mđa ōla ŧŝarar ĝanĝarni, đi aŧa nƙinĝira: 223. Êĥ ƙa nfurna, amma êĥ a ɓukci aƙira ŵa ŝai nŧuŵullirna: 224. Ƀurum sû aħila điraƙu: 225. Ŧŝūlum ĝa azi, ŧŝūlum ĝa azi: 226. Ŝu ƙa ŝil nfŵar liƙira ŝu ƙa ŝil nfŵar, aƙŵa ŝiƙa ŝu ƙa ŝil nfŵar: 227. Ɖi ħanĝ, amma ŝħanĝa đa ƙa mûlar: 228. Bzirnƙyar kuĥyi ƙa ĝari mamza: 229. Êĥ mŵari aħar nƙŵar na, amma ŧŝa aƙŵa ŧħla ƙum, êĥ ma, êĥ aƙŵa ŧħla ƙum: 230. Ǩyirna mɓa, amma đanra/ƙarir na na aƙŵa, aɗi mɓa ŵa: 231. Êĥ mŵari aħar pazħirna, ŷa aƙŵa ŵula ƙira ҟir ni, amma ŷa amzħiŧa ŵa: 232. Ŝimfarna ŝai ma êɦ nĉu ƙiri aƙŵa ŝū: 233. Ĝanĝar nƙŷar ana ŧuŵa aƙŵa ƙuŧari: 234. Ǩuɗû aŧa đzi, amma a ħara lû ŵa: 235. Mŵala mŵavir ŧï mƀal ninim: 236. Êĥ vuƙuma zħur ƙa ŝhi lali: 237. Ĝan ŧa faŧa ĝan ŧa ɓđla/Ĝan ŧa tŝa ĝanĝa an ŧa ɓaŧħa: 238. Êĥ ŷaɓila ɓzirna, amma ħar ŧï ŧŝa ħala, mđa aɗi ŵuta ni akŵa mŵa aŧa đi ŵa: 239. Êĥ ƙa ŝūr na, amma a nŧa ŵa: 240. Ĝa aƙŵa ƙumŝħi ni, man ħara alaĝa ri?:

241. Ƙuɗû aŧa ĉinĵinĝ: 242. Ƙŵir na ŷâ, amma eh aŧsoƙŧa ҏunƙir tŝi aƙa ûŵa ri ŵa: 243. Ȇh vi nĝa azi, ĝira ƙilmi anđa ri/ŵala ĝira ħarami anđa ri?: 244. Mŵala ƙŵađanĝ ƙu ɓamŧa ɓzir ƙa đlu ni: 245. Ŧħlaħū ŝuɗa ƙu pili ƙa ŝħamŧara: 246. Ĝurmɓa tiđđarna ħarŧa ƙiri: 247. Baɓɓi aƙŵa ŝili, amma ŷa aɗi maŝmaŝ ŵa: 248. Ǩaƙar ŷeru ana ŧŝa jinaŧū aƙŵa ŷimi: 249. Ǩūm ƙu ɗuŵarđzi aƙŵa mŧiħira: 250. Ěĥ maŝŧa ŧaƙurna bɗaku/pɗaku, amma ŧar mđa mŵala an pŵi ala ri kusar: 251. Kŵi munĝĝil ku ŝamnŷa mĥi: 252. Ŧil ŧil ƙu namŧa ƙuħŷir đi: 253. Ĉħicħu aŧa nđli ƙaŧanĝĝar ƙuħŷi: 254. Êh luƙŵa ŷimi ƙa lūpŧu, amma eh ŝiɓila ƙula lūpŧu: 255. Zūranĝ đaɗiya: 256. Ǩađla aɓila-ɓila, amma ƙuvila avi-vi: 257. Iŵur, iŵur/ɗiŵur, ɗiŵur ƙanĉim: 258. Ǩa mŝiƙa mŧa aŧa ŝħamɓar, amma ệh aɗi ya?: 259. I/Ěh tŝi ŧħlar na, amma ŧar/nŧinĝ ħŷelar ri anŧu ệh ŝimā: 260. Ōlir đi aŧa mŵa ƙa ũ’ū aŧa ƙirari: 261. Ōlir đi aƙŵa pŝimŷa aƙira ĝār: 262. Ǩaƙar ŷeru ƙu ħaŧa lupŧu ƙa nzinzi aɓila: 263. Benĝum ƙu ħaŧa lupŧu mŵapū ƙa ŧurƙŵa ƙuŝar: 264. Ŝu laĝa aɗi, naŧu ma ŝaƙaŧu tŝa nƙyar tŝa ƙa sil nfŵar, amma ma tŝa ƙu ħara ōla, tŝa aŧa nz 265. Mafar ŷarna ana đli nfŵ ƙa ɓāƀi: 266. Êtħlu/Đeħū ƙu ŷā đakwi: 267. Ĉiri mūnĝĝil ƙū mŧi aŧa ĝār mŵapū: 268. Mŵala aŧa ħađla aƙumar ɓunĝĝilinĝ: 269. Ŝū aƙira ĝār aŧa tūŵa, panā, panā! 270. Baɓarna tŝi ala ŷeru ƙŵi, amma ŧar/nŧinĝ ƙirari antū ŷerū ƙŵa ŝimari: 271. Malūm aƙŵa rūbūta aƙira ĝār: 272. Ŧŝamŧa đlimƀwar ƙa mɓūrar ŝhola: 273. Būƀwa ƙu ħatā ĝāri mŵapū ƙa tūrƙŵa ƙūsar: 274. Mji maƙir ƙu ҏili ƙa ƙita ƙilir ƙŵatam: 275. Mūzūmaƙū ƙu ŝi ƙa hūilŧa mafar ƙaƙarna: 276. Êh/I mƀūmƀŵi ƙuĝŵarna aŧa ĝār, amma ŝħamɓar a ƙili ŵa:

277. Zirƙu linĝ-linĝ ƙu tŝi mapinđi: 278. Êh/I paŧa unĝđlirna ĝħiɗiɗu, amma nŧinĝ ŝħanĝĝam đuƙu an aƙŵa: 279. Êh/I paŧa unĝđlirna ĝħiɗiɗu, amma ma pela đuƙu ƙu ŧiri, sħanĝari aŧa ĝħuza: 280. Mūzūmaƙu ƙu pupi ƙa shi lāli: 281. Pȏwar ƙaƙarna ƙu ҏuƙđla, amma ệh amzhi tŝuƙŵarari ŵa: 282. Êħ/I ƙu laŧa mɓŵar na ɓđaƙu, amma ŧar/ntinĝ mđa đuƙu anŧa ҏupi aƙŵa: 283. Êħ/I aŧa lunĝĝū, amma mđa aɗi naŧa ħyir ҏwar ra ƙa ŷeru mŵari ali ŵa: 284. Ǩatŝaƙar ar ŷarna aɗi, amma mđa aɗi na atsoƙŧa hāđzari ŵa: 285. Ŷeru ƙa nfŵa aviŷar ŷeru, amma ŧar mđa na aɓila anŧu ŧħlir/ħir ŝhanĝĝūrari: 286. Êħ/I ƙa ŧħlarna, amma ŧar ŧimɓalari anŧu ệħ ana ŝima: 287. Pilaŝar mamzā ƙu nzi nzi aƙumār pela aŧa ɗil ūwā: 288. Mŵaŝu nŧufu kū ngƙi ĝār: 289. Êħ/I ƙu laŧa mɓŵar na, amma nŷarmɓŵa aɗi aŧa wa: 290. Ŝurna aɗi, natū ệĥ ata mzħi wūtari, ɗūŵarari, amma ệĥ atsōƙŧa ƙisiāri ŵa: 291. Êĥ/I aƙŵa ƙil ƙħila aŧa kiri, amma, ệĥ a ŵuta ƙħil niŵa, ŧar mđa đamŵa antā wūtari: 292. Ҏinjū ƙu ҏūdzi aƙŵa ƙiri, amma eh aŧsoƙta ƙiĉimŧta ri ŵa: 293. Mҏilar ƙikār ŷerū ana njinĵā ŷimi: 294. Êĥ/I ƙa viri laĝa naŧu ệĥ aŧa ŝi lūnĝĝū, amma ệĥ aŝinđa ƙi ҏila aƙa mji ŵa: 295. Ŝūrnā aɗi, tŝā ana ŝim ŝūŝūma, amma tŝa aɗi ƙa ƙenĝĝer ŵa: 296. Mtiƙār ƙaƙār ŷerū aɗi ana pŵā aŧa nfŵa ŵa: 297. Mōbūlū aƙŵa ŝħi ƙir aƙa Ŷađalma: 298. Iƙaŷeri/Ðiƙaŷeri ŝħanĝ ana filā, ệĥ ɗiƙa, amma ệĥ aɗi ana filā ŵa: 299. Êĥ/I ƙa ƙħila aŧa mwā ƙuĝari/ƙaƙari, amma ệĥ aŝinđa ŝaƙar ƙħili ƙħil ni ŵa: 300. Lŵaƙŝha lŵaƙŝha ŝħalamɓā: 301. Ĝār ƙa maɗar aƙŵa ƙuŧari: 302. Ŧūƙuƙur ɗeŧħlu ađzuŵa: 303. Aliɓenĝlanĝ ƙu mɓūmŷa ɗiva ƙa ɓzirmarna: 304. Ĵaɓŧa aƙuma pelā: 305. Ŝanĝam/Ŝħanĝĝam đuƙu ƙu đlarħa ƙuŧaƙi: 306. Ŧiŧil inħŷarna aƙŵa ƙuŝār: 307. Maŧiħa aŧa đunƙul: 308. Êĥ/I mŵa amma, ƙūr ŝili aɗiŵa: 309. Unđlir na đuƙu, ƙa ĝŵaĝŵa đuƙu aƙŵa: 310. Êĥ/I ŧiramŧa ƙa ŧħlarna, amma ma inħŷarna ŧiri, ya jaƙta nƙa ƙirawa: 311. Ŝu aviŷar nŧuŵulirna, amma ŷa ā mɓurŝa ƙuĝa ri ŵa: 312. Mamza ƙu tiri, mamza ƙu ƙita:

313. Ŧŝamŧa ŧŝivir ƙa faŧa ħiħi/ħiħirni: 314. Ĝa aƙŵa ƙumŝħi ni man ħara alaĝa ri? 315. Ƙuɓili ƙa ĵanĝ aŧa ƙuĉir:

A Brief Synopsis of My Life

I was born in Garƙiɗa, a town in Adamawa State in the north-eastern part of Nigeria. I attended a missionary school from Elementary to High School. After High School, I was itted to ATC/ABU Kano from 1967-1970. In 1971 after the completion of my course of studies, I was itted to Ahmadu Bello University (ABU) in Zaria; and graduated three years later with a Second-Upper class honors degree in 1974.

I served one year of National Youth Service before ing Ahmadu Bello University Zaria faculty, in the Department of Education. In 1977/1978, I attended the University of Chicago where I earned an MA degree.

I went back to Ahmadu Bello University teaching, until 1980 when I was itted to a Ph.D. program at Columbia University in New York City. I completed my degree in 1985. From 1987 to the present (I’m now retired, and teach only one course) I have been a Professor at BMCC/City University of New York in New York City.

Besides my teaching responsibilities, I am the author of several books which include the following titles: The Story of the Origins of the Bura/Pabir People of Northeast Nigeria, Language, Migrations, the Myth of Yamta-ra-Wala, Social Organization and Culture, 2014; Araba Let’s Separate- The story of the Nigerian Civil War, 2012; Suksuku, 2010- Stories and Folktales of the Bura People of North-Eastern Nigeria. The Village Boy, 2009; and Cognition, Culture and Field Dependence-Independence, 2008. All the books are published by AuthorHouse Publishing Company in Bloomington, Indiana.

AYM 2016