Читать книгу Indaba, My Children: African Tribal History, Legends, Customs And Religious Beliefs - Vusamazulu Credo Mutwa - Страница 20

THE BUD SLOWLY OPENS

The legends tell us that after her return

Amarava the Immortal, most beautiful,

Lived happily with Odu, her lord,

For a hundred thousand years;

And during this period she presented him

With five thousand sturdy sons and daughters.

The Wise Men of the Tribes also relate

That Amarava did not give birth to her young,

But that like the earliest Amarire people,

She laid crystal eggs that hatched in a month

And adulthood was reached in the space of two years.

On reaching puberty their parents turned them out,

In carefully chosen pairs to fend for themselves;

Soon they were grandparents to the ultimate power

Of no less than twice times ten million souls.

What did these new people—

These so-called Second People look like?

We have it from legend that they resembled exactly

The present-day Bantu – my children.

Some were as black as a much-used pot;

Some were brown and even yellow-brown;

Some were tall as a stockade gatepost

And some were as short as our favourite thornbush.

There were types as thin as bullrush reeds

And others as fat as the proverbial thief’s bundle.

Some were idiots—

From dimwits they ranged

Down to utter nitwits;

Very few were truly wise!

In short, my children, they exactly resembled

The puzzling muddle of present day humanity!

Gone forever was the uniform appearance

Of the First People who could have achieved perfection

If they had been properly governed.

Not in appearance alone they differed,

But also in mind and heart and soul;

Where there had been perfect equality,

We now encounter diversity.

For thousands of years our Odu and Amarava

(Now called Mameravi or Mother of Nations)

Watched the bud of humanity slowly open

And burst into brilliant flower.

They worked, like the good parents they were,

Towards welding their countless descendants

Into one harmonious whole.

Advice they gave – they taught, and meted out justice

When disputes arose amongst their diverse progeny.

Finally Odu grew tired of life

And developed an inferiority complex;

Odu the Mighty – increasingly aware of his humble past

Now turned his mind to suicide.

He knew this demanded most careful planning

As an immortal cannot die,

Unless he destroys himself

Utterly beyond recovery.

So one night when all had gone to bed

He crept out into the sullen darkness

And embarked on a lengthy journey eastwards—

A journey that lasted a hundred days.

Finally he reached the active volcano—

Now the silent snow-capped Killima-Njaro—

And with anxious strides he scaled the grey slopes

Of the feature he had chosen for a grave.

The billowing smoke from multiple craters

Burnt his eyes and choked his lungs—

And dust-like molten ashes blistered his skin,

But he relentlessly pursued his aim.

When he reached the summit he paused

In the heavy clouds of choking smoke

And with a last prayer to Ma and the Tree of Life

He gracefully dived into one of the red-hot craters.

Odu, the soulless being, died

Without a world of his own;

He who had survived one world

To become the Father of the second.

In her lonely hut far away in the west

Amarava sensed her husband’s fiery death

And with a loud cry she snatched a copper dagger

And drove it savagely into her chest.

But the soft copper blade buckled

Against her breastbone and in her frustration

She tried to run herself through with a spear,

Though in this effort she was also defeated.

Zumangwe the Hunter

And Marimba the Singer,

Two of her youngest descendants,

Rushed in and overpowered her.

‘No!’ cried Marimba, with quivering ebony-black breasts,

‘No, you must not take your own life!

We shall not allow the star that lights our way

To fall thus from the skies—

If you are no longer burning,

Oh beautiful torch of our race—

Who shall guide our failing steps

Along all the thorny footpaths

Through the uncertain valley of Life?’

Thus spoke the dark and beautiful Marimba,

From whom our Tribal Singers claim descent;

So spoke the first Bantu poetess

Whose voice was the Voice of Spring

And whose singing it was said, could make

Even mountains cry cold tears.

Many, oh many are the tales about her

As many as the lice on an old skin blanket;

Many and countless as the hair on a dog’s back—

And one day – the gods willing – I might be able

To tell you the story of Marimba, my children.

Zumangwe and Marimba seized

The badly wounded Amarava

And tied her hand and foot

To prevent her from trying again.

But the grief-maddened immortal

Snapped the bonds

With one sharp look

And shrieked into the forest

In search of her beloved Odu!

Zumangwe and Marimba raised the alarm

And soon an army of men and women

Clamoured in hot pursuit

After their greatest great-grandmother.

‘Come, all my brothers and sisters,’

Sounded Marimba’s melodious voice—

‘Come let us cling to her trail like hunting dogs—

If she dies we shall all be lost

Like leaves in a storm – like a young impala

Whose mother was devoured by a lion—

Great shall be our misfortune

If we fail to capture her alive.’

Legends say that the number in pursuit

Counted eighty times a thousand souls;

Along the Bu-Kongo river they followed a trail

Of blood from the wound in her chest.

The valiant hunter Zumangwe

And his very young bride Marimba,

Ruthlessly led their followers

In a futile attempt at overtaking Amarava

Who was now stumbling, falling and rising

A day’s journey ahead of them.

After two months one of the trackers

Made a rather startling discovery

Which sent cold bolts of fear through the spines of all;

Something else was tracking Amarava—

Something so utterly big and monstrous,

As they could tell from the footprints it left—

Footprints like that of a vulture

Of incredible size and weight.

A new strategic approach was now called for;

The search party stopped to build a fortified kraal

While the two leading figures and some others

Formed a small, more flexible patrol.

Three days later they found Amarava

Lying exhausted on a mudbank

In the middle of a very vast river,

A river in boisterous foaming flood!

There was no way of reaching her

And Marimba sang out in utter despair;

‘Oh beautiful star of the human race!

Oh mother of countless men—

Is there nothing we can do to help?

Lo! here we stand as helpless as

A dove in the mouth of a civet cat!

Our only wish is to be by your side—

What is there you can advise us to do?’

‘You can do nothing, my loyal children,’

Her voice carried faintly across the flood;

‘My only wish is to be left alone,

As I wish to die in peace.’

‘Mother of Nations,’ cried Marimba,

‘Is it thus that you sacrifice your life?

Is it thus that the beloved Amarava

Turns her back on her destitute children?’

Instead of hearing Amarava’s reply,

They all heard a frightening splash—

Some distance upstream a mighty Monster

Had entered the water in a cloud of spray.

Marimba immediately plunged in as well

And tried to reach the mudbank first,

But the current was much stronger than her courage

And swept her helplessly downstream.

Twice she tried and twice she failed,

And in an alternative desperate attempt

At frightening the monster away

Zumangwe ordered his men to launch

A hail of sling-stones across the water.

All their efforts, with spears and arrows included

And another brave and nearly successful attempt

On the part of Marimba to reach her through the flood—

Were futile and they could only helplessly witness

The most horrible scene they had ever experienced.

* * *

Amarava had noticed the Monster

And in blind terror she summoned all her strength;

With a shriek she plunged into the water,

But was equally promptly snatched up by the Monster.

‘Release her, you vilest reincarnation of Evil,’

Marimba now shouted in utter despair—

And then to everyone’s breathless surprise

The scaly Monster calmly turned and spoke:

‘Poor ignorant, foolish human creatures—

How terribly sentimental you are!

It is for your own good and safety that I remove

This Thing which you knew as Amarava!’

The Monster spoke with infinite tenderness;

‘You are blindly loyal to the outward form—

To superficial appearance alone;

When will your clouded brains appreciate

That things are not what they appear to be!

That there is more to anything than meets the eye!’

‘Aieeee!’ cried Marimba, the only one

Who still had power of speech,

‘Do you mean to tell us that Amarava

Is not what she appears to be!’

‘Yebo,’ replied the Monster that Walks,

To which Marimba lost control of herself;

‘Haiee! not only are you a monster

As foul as the cesspools of hell

But the father of all lies as well!’

‘Human female – I speak only the truth—

This creature you know as Amarava

Is a reincarnation at the same time

Of the Fire Bride, or Rebel Goddess,

Who has been evading the Great Spirit

For many millions of years!’

Even as Marimba listened and looked,

The limp and naked from of Amarava

Was slowly changing in the Monster’s clutches;

Her red skin turned to the colour of gold

With the polished brightness of that metal.

Now she had an udder of five breasts—

Ruby tipped and standing out—

Like anthills on a desolate plain;

And her eyes, once so soft and clear,

Had the greeny hardness of emeralds.

Her hands had acquired a sixth finger,

And all her fingers flourished

Razor-sharp diamond claws.

A lion’s tail sprang from her backside

Which curled and uncurled

Like a whip of living gold!

A flaming forked tongue protruded

And licked her pig-iron lips.

‘Behold her! Look well upon her,’

Cried the Monster, holding her up,

‘Behold the foul creature who not only deceived you,

But Ma, the First Goddess as well.

Look upon the thing you knew as Amarava

And for which you were prepared to sacrifice your lives!

See the one you adored as Amarava,

In whom is now reincarnated

Watamaraka, the Spirit of Evil!’

Before the Monster and its captive

Vanished in a flash of unearthly flame,

Marimba saw the sneer of contempt

On the once beloved Amarava’s face;

‘I shall return one day and avenge myself

On all living things – I shall . . .’

Night had fallen by the time Zumangwe

And his followers reached the gate of their new village—

The first village in the country which in future years

Acquired the name of Tanga-Nyika.

He had ordered all those who had witnessed events

Never to repeat what they had seen—

They all agreed to abide by the make-belief

That the search for Amarava had failed.

The secret of Amarava’s identity

Went with these men to their grave.

Zumangwe wished that the name of Amarava

Should remain one which future generations

Must honour and respect.

Now all of you my dear children

Have to some small extent inherited

Amarava’s split personality.

Within each of you there are two different beings,

One good and one evil – in constant conflict.