The Woman and the Cunning Rabbit

This is the second of two Liberian folk tales I found among my mother's papers. It was translated from the Vai by Vaani Gray.

Once there were a woman and her husband. They were living by a big wide rock. They had one daughter. The girl was the most beautiful of all creation. In that country human beings and beasts of the forest inter-married.

As this girl grew to womanhood, many persons brought dowry for her. Those beasts that were rich would sometimes bring a good sum of money, domestic animals and many dresses. Whenever they brought these things to the girl's mother she would say, "I do not want any of these things for my daughter. If any person wants to marry my child he must build a hut on this big rock. When the hut is completely built, then he may take his wife with him."

All the people in the country came to try their chance. They could not build the hut. All the strong animals, baboon, chimpanzee, elephant, lion, all tried, but could not build the hut.

At last Cunning Rabbit came. The woman showed him the surface of the big rock where he had to build the hut. Before Rabbit could do anything, he built a fence across the little creek at the side of the big rock. Then he went to look for sticks. He spent the whole day in the bush, and at evening he brought a tiny small stick. He went to look in his fence for fish. He caught two small fishes and one big crab. He threw the fishes back into the creek and carried the crab to the woman and said, "Please, my mother, cook my crab for me. I want pepper soup."

The woman agreed. Rabbit went back to his work. Not very long after, the woman called him to his soup. Rabbit came. He drank a little bit of the soup, and then took one limb of the crab and bit it. Then he shouted, "Oh, mother! the crab is not properly cooked and you set it before me to eat. Please cook it again."

And the woman boiled the crab and boiled it and boiled it. Then she called Cunning Rabbit. He came, and took one of the limbs again, and as soon as he set his teeth on it he pulled it from his mouth as quickly as he could. Then he said to the woman, "The crab is not done at all. As soon as one tries to bite it, it wants to break one's teeth out of one's mouth."

Then the woman answered and said, "Whomever have you seen in this world that could cook crab as soft as fish?"

Then Cunning Rabbit also answered and said, "Now you have decided in favor of the impossibility of building a hut on a big stone like this. Wherever have you seen a man building on a big rock like this before?"

It was upon this point that the woman gave her daughter to Cunning Rabbit to be his wife.

"When a rascal dies, a rascal buries him." As the Frenchman would say, "To a rascal, a rascal and a half."

Untitled 4/23/15

She died;
and at the viewing the backs of his hands
showed that bruising that is purely age as he declared
that there was no one else for him.
I thought he might not know us,
but mine, good heart, invited him to supper.
Yesterday I met him on his lawn
where he walked with careful steps among the beds,
asked after my daughters,
and scattered white fertilizer beads among his flowers,
envy of the neighborhood.

April 23 2015

The Spider and the Firefly

This is a folktale from Liberia, translated from the Vai language by a family friend, Vaani Gray. My family lived in Liberia during the 1950s, and my mother became deeply involved in the study of Vai. I recently found this story and one other among her papers.

Long, long ago, there was a great famine. Food matter was a real problem all over the world. Leopard decided to build a fence across the water to catch fish. Now it was from this fence that Spider and Firefly used to steal fish every night. Whenever it was time for them to go, Firefly would give light in order that they might not miss the way.

Leopard was confused. Every morning when he came to the fence he found fish scales on the bank. But when he looked in the fence he could see nothing.

One evening Spider and Firefly came and stole some fish from the fence. Then they started dividing the fish. Spider took all the big fish and gave all the small ones to Firefly. He did this all the time, cheating Firefly. Now Firefly was fed up, and planned how he could pay Spider back. He said, "I will pay Spider for what he is doing."

When they went to the fence the next night they caught plenty fish as usual. Spider did the same trick, swindling Firefly. They tied up their kinjas and started home. As they were nearing the place where the road branched out to Leopard's, Firefly put out the light. Spider missed his way and took the path to Leopard's in the very dark night. Soon he reached Leopard's house. He went right up and knocked on the door. He thought it was his house. He called to his wife and said, "Ngekuchu, Ngekuchu, open the door."

Leopard got up gently and opened the door. Spider entered and threw down the kinja of fish. Leopard was lying on the bed and he covered himself. Spider thought Leopard was his wife. As he touched him a little, Leopard sprang up and took hold of Spider's hands and said, "Spider, you have been going to my fence and stealing my fish. It is God that hands you over to me. I will kill you."

And Spider said, "My uncle, I did not go to steal fish from your fence. I do not want you to have the trouble of going to the fence every morning. Therefore I went and brought your fish to you."

Leopard said, "All right, wait until tomorrow."

Morning broke, but they never saw Spider again.

Dogtown

Dogtown,
and the surfers are out,
awaiting inferior waves.
Up the beach an assembly
in summer colors mixed with winter black is plunging
for a late Saint Patrick's Day:
Those screams are not the wind.
His long leash makes the sound of pigeons cooing
because the wind is so strong that it thrums.
It really isn't warm enough for this jacket,
but we're rushing spring, taking it on and over,
and Hell's payment is for now
just the last of the rotten snow.

April 13 2015

Narrators and Stories

"Have you never considered how strange, how hard a thing it is for a narrator to outlive his story? The incidents it was his sole purpose to record, all finished; the actors all gone, doing other things, or dead; all the apostrophes and periods in place; even the book itself, perhaps, neatly on a shelf--what then? 'Move on,' his friends may say. Well; but to what? What else can equal? And more: Can he ever feel himself the equal of what he was before, when he was in the story?"

Conversations with Myself, by Michael Kei Stewart

April 8 2015