The Story of Stories (based on a traditional Zulu folktale)

Once, a long long time ago, there lived a woman named Manzandaba with her husband Zenzele.

They lived in a traditional home in a tiny village. They had a lot of children, and, for the most part, were very happy. They would spend the day working the earth near their home, weaving baskets, tanning hides and hunting. From time to time they would all go down to the ocean and play on the sand, laughing at the funny crabs that went scuttling hither and thither, and marvelling at the birds that would flutter and swoop in the brisk sea breezes. Zenzele was a skilled artist and loved to carve. He would sculpt beautiful birds out of old tree stumps, and with his axe he could conjure the most wonderful impala and kudu bucks from stone. Zenzele filled their home with beautiful works.

Their only unhappiness came in the evenings when the family would sit around the fire before going to sleep. There was not enough light for weaving or carving, yet it was still too early to go to sleep. “Mama,” the children would cry, “Sifuna izindaba! Tell us some stories, Mama!” Manzandaba would try and try to think of a story she could tell her children, but it was no use. She and her husband had no stories to tell. They asked their neighbours, but none of them knew any stories either. They listened to the wind rustling and moaning outside – could the breeze be trying to tell them a story? No, they heard nothing. Not a single story, dream or enchanting tale.

One day Zenzele suggested to his wife that she go in search of stories. He promised to take care of the home, to look after the children, to wash and mend and sweep and clean, if she could just bring back stories for the people. Manzandaba agreed. She kissed her husband and children, said good-bye and set off on her journey.

She decided to ask every creature she encountered if they had any stories they could tell her. The first animal she met was Nogwaja the hare. Everyone knew him as a real trickster, but she thought she’d better ask him all the same. “Nogwaja, do you know any stories?”

“Stories?” exclaimed Nogwaja. “Why, I know thousands, no – millions!”

“Oh, please, Nogwaja,” begged Manzandaba, “can you share just some of them with us?”

“Umm...” Nogwaja said. “Uhhh...well, I have no time for stories now. Can’t you see that I’m in a terrible hurry? Wasting time with stories in the daytime, indeed!” And Nogwaja hopped quickly away.

Sighing, Manzandaba continued on her way. The next creature she came across was a mother baboon with her babies. “Oh, Fene!” she called. “You’re a mother like me! My children are crying for stories. Do you have any that I could bring back to them?”

“Stories?” laughed the baboon. “Ha! With all the work I do keeping my children safe and fed and warm, you think I have time for stories?! I am glad I’m not a human with children who cry for such worthless things!”

Manzandaba walked on. She then saw an owl in a wild fig tree. “Oh, Khova,” she called, “maybe you can help me? I am searching for stories. Do you have any stories you could tell me to take back home?”

Well, the owl was most upset at having been woken up. “Who is making all this noise?” she hooted. “What do you want? Stories! You think you can wake me up for stories? How rude!” And with that the owl flapped off to another tree and perched up higher to be left in peace. She was soon fast asleep again, and Manzandaba went sorrowfully on her way.

Next she came upon an elephant. “Oh, gentle Ndlovu,” she asked, “do you know where I could find some stories? My people are hungry for tales, and we don’t have any!”

Now the elephant was a kindly animal. He saw the sadness in the woman’s eyes and felt sorry for her. “Dear lady,” he said, “I’m afraid I do not know any stories. But I do know the eagle. He is king of the birds and flies highest of them all. He might know where you could find stories!”

“Ngiyabonga, Ndlovu!” she said. “Thank you so much!”

So Manzandaba began to look for Nkwazi, the majestic fish eagle, and soon found him near the mouth of the Tugela River. Excitedly she hurried towards him, and called out as he was swooping down from above, talons reaching out to pluck a fish from the river. “Nkwazi! Nkwazi!” she called. She startled the eagle so badly that he dropped the fish he had caught. He circled around and landed nearby on the shore.

“Hawu!” he exclaimed. “What is so important that you make me lose my supper?”

“Oh, great and wise Nkwazi,” began Manzandaba – and here he puffed out his feathers at her flattering tone – “Nkwazi, my people are desperate for stories. I’ve been searching for them for a long time now. Do you know where I might find some tales?”

“Well,” he said, “even though I am very wise, I do not know everything. I only know of the things I can see here on the earth. But there is one who knows even the secrets of the deep, dark ocean. Maybe he can help you. I will call him for you – stay here and wait for me!” Days went by as Manzandaba waited for the king of the birds to return. Finally he returned. “Sawubona, nkosikazi!” he cried. “I am back, and I am successful! My friend, Ufudu Lwasolwandle, the giant sea turtle, has agreed to take you with him to the place where you can find stories!” And with that the sea turtle hauled himself out of the surf.

“Woza, nkosikazi,” said the turtle in his deep voice. “Climb on my back and hold on tight. I will carry you to the kingdom of the Spirit People.” So the woman took hold of his shell and down they dove into the great abyss. Manzandaba was amazed. She had never seen such beauty before in her life. Finally they came to the ocean floor where the Spirit People live. The sea turtle took her straight to the palace of the King and Queen. Manzandaba bowed down, and was a bit afraid to look at them.

“What do you desire of us, oh Woman from the Dry Lands?” they asked.

Manzandaba told them of her wish to bring stories to her people.

“Can you help me?” she asked shyly.

“Yes,” they said, “we have plenty of stories. But what can you give us in exchange?”

“What do you want?” asked Manzandaba.

“What we would really like,” they said, “is a picture of your home, your people. We can never go to the Dry Lands, but would so love to see them. Can you bring this for us, Manzandaba?”

“Oh, yes!” she replied. “I can certainly do that! Thank you, thank you so much!”

So Manzandaba clambered back onto the turtle’s shell, and he took her back to the shore. She showered him with thanks and asked him to return with the next round moon to collect her and the picture.

The woman told her family all about the things she had seen and experienced on her journey. When she reached the end of the tale her husband cried out in delight. “I can do that! I shall carve a beautiful wooden picture for the Spirit People in exchange for their stories!” And he got straight down to work.

Manzandaba admired her husband’s skill. She watched him as the picture he carved slowly came to life. There was their family, their home and their village. Soon others heard about Manzandaba’s quest and the promised stories and came to watch Zenzele at work. When the next round moon showed her face Zenzele was finished. He carefully tied the carving to Manzandaba’s back. She climbed on the turtle’s shell and down they went to the Spirit Kingdom. When they saw the picture the King and Queen of the Spirit People were delighted. They admired Zenzele’s talent and gave Manzandaba a necklace made of the finest shells for her husband in gratitude. And then they turned to Manzandaba herself. “For you and your people,” they said, “we give the gift of stories.” They handed her the largest and most exquisite shell she had ever seen. “Whenever you want a story,” they said, “hold this shell to your ear and you will have it!”
Manzandaba thanked them for their great kindness and headed back to her own world.

When she arrived at the shore, her whole family and all the people of her village were there to meet her. They sat around a roaring fire and called out, “Tell us a story, Manzandaba!”

So she sat down, lifted the shell to her ear, and began, “Once, a long long time ago...”

And that is the story of stories!

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Folktales are a way of handing down knowledge, customs and values from one generation to the next. In keeping with this tradition I have adapted this tale from a version which appears at www. canteach.ca/elementary/africa2.html.

LITRO is published every fortnight and distributed for free near to London Underground stations, and in bookshops, bars and elsewhere around the UK and beyond. To get in touch please email litro.fiction@gmail.com or visit www.litro.co.uk.

Anya and the Purple Butterfly by Lubna

Poor Anya is ill and all alone indoors.

She is bored as she lies in bed all day,
while all the other children laugh and play.
She stares sadly out of the window.

Suddenly, Anya sees something
flying as high as a bird above her favourite tree.
What can it be?

She watches the purple mist shimmer around the treetop,
across the garden, through the window
and straight onto her fingertips.
Anya gasps.
It is a beautiful, purple butterfly.

“Butterfly,” she whispers.
“Oh I wish I could fly
just like you up in the sky.
You flew so quickly and so high.”

“Hmmm,” said the butterfly.
“If you like, I’ll tell you why I can fly.”
“Oh, yes please,” said Anya, eagerly.

“Well,” began the butterfly,
“Once upon a time,
I was a small, green caterpillar.
There were plenty of juicy leaves for me to eat.
So, I munched away, then rested a little,
then munched some more and then rested some more.
That was all very nice and easy.
But there were some things
I was very afraid of.

I was afraid of birds
with their big, sharp claws
and pointed beaks
and loud cries.
I knew they wanted to
eat me up or feed me to
their hungry babies.
I was afraid of the rain that beats down,
sometimes so hard that it almost knocked me
off my branch and into the puddles on the ground.
I was terrified of falling off, because
caterpillars cannot swim!

Even though I could eat as many
tasty leaves as I could possibly want,
I became tired of creeping and crawling
and tired of hiding from the birds
and tired of trying to shelter from the rain.
So tired, I had to stop and rest.
I found a branch and wrapped
myself up in a cosy chrysalis.

It was very quiet and I was all alone in there.
I wondered if I would ever feel any better.
I wished that I could play with my friends.
All I could do was wait another day.

After a while, though
I was not tired any more.
And, then, I did not feel afraid.
I felt strong. I stretched and pushed my way out.
In all that time, something amazing had happened.
I had wings. I had become a purple butterfly.
I was a butterfly and I could fly!
I flew high into the clouds and sky.
I saw how beautiful
the world is
and how people smile,
happy to see me flutter by.

In the butterfly garden
I soared with the other butterflies
We danced amongst the flowers,
weaving and whirling.
We drank sweet nectar.
We all flew high.

You see, I was tired, alone and afraid.
Then, I stopped to rest for a while.
Look what happened!
Everything changed.
It’s not just me.
This happens to moths and dragonflies.
And maybe even to little people!”

With that, the butterfly tickled Anya’s fingers
and fluttered away.
Anya sat up.
She sat up and smiled.

At bedtime, Anya thought about the purple butterfly.
As she fell asleep, she imagined all the butterflies flying about together,
so happy that the whole world smiled;
and that night,
Anya flew over the rainbow
and under the stars.

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Lubna is a writer, performer and creative arts business consultant. She recently appeared in Ray Cooney's Not Now Darling on the Colorado stage, is developing her first play having received an award from North Western Media and is writing more butterfly stories. An audio version of the story can be found at www.anyaandthepurplebutterfly.com.