THE CALABASH CHILDREN

Retold from a folktale of the Chaga (Chagga) people who live on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, which to them is a sacred mountain.

The snow-capped mountain was still somehow special, with a quality of its own. However, as they looked once again at the volcanic peak above, the highest mountain in Africa, one of the women sighed. “To be honest, I’ve heard enough about Kilimanjaro to last me a lifetime. How it did – or didn’t – get its name. The significance of Uhuru or Freedom Peak. How everybody, all our husbands, brothers, sons, are going to suffer from altitude sickness.” Another agreed. “We are the base camp. The wives and mothers, the waiting ones. While our menfolk and one stubborn daughter are up there, won’t you tell us about the bottom of the mountain, not the top?” “Most willingly,” came the answer. “We, the Wachagga, consider all of it as our home. The terraces are ours, the irrigation is ours, the bananas, beans and maize are ours – for hundreds of years, perhaps more. In the same way that the stories are ours.” In a village not far from here lived a lonely woman. Like you, she was without a man, for her husband had died and she had no children. She worked every day, weeding and hoeing and tending her banana trees, laughed at by her neighbours who said, “She must be a bad, bad woman if the gods never gave her children.” She wasn’t bad. She was simply without hope. At the dawn of every day she would look up and up and pray that the Spirit of the Mountain would send someone to help. It was on the day that she had planted some gourd seeds on a well-watered patch of ground. Beside her was standing a stranger in rich clothing. He smiled at her. “I am the messenger of the Mountain,” he explained. “Your prayers have been heard. Look after the gourds that grow, treat them with care, and good luck will come your way.” Then he was gone. The widow wondered how gourds would provide an answer. Still, she did as she had been told. They were growing strong and well. As soon as they were ready, she cut their stems, scooped out the pulp and put each gourd up amongst the rafters of her hut to dry. When they were hard and strong, they would be the calabashes which folk bought eagerly in the market to use as bowls and water pots. One particularly fine gourd she placed on the floor by the doorway, intending to use it herself. That was when strange things started to happen. She was away amongst the bananas when the messenger returned. He touched the gourd by the door and it turned into a boy. He touched the gourds in the roof and they also turned into children. “Kitete, our brother, help us down!” they called. The first boy did so and they all ran, laughing, out of the door. Some swept and cleaned, some fetched water in calabashes, some collected firewood, others weeded the millet rows and fed the chickens. All except Kitete who sat and watched. When he saw the widow woman approaching, he clapped his hands, helped the children up into the roof-beams – and then he and they turned back into gourds. She looked around and was amazed how clean and neat her home was. All the work she had thought she had to do was already done. “Who has been here?” she asked her neighbours. “We did see a crowd of children,” they told her,” but we thought they must be friends of yours.” Every day the same thing happened. Her banana trees flourished, the maize and millet bloomed, the chickens laid more eggs than ever. Her cottage was spotless, every crack mended, the thatch repaired, the pathway polished. It was too good to be true – and yet it was! She raised her hands towards the mountain top and thanked the Mountain Spirit for everything. Unfortunately, she was, as some women are, inquisitive. Where did these children come from? The next day, she hid round the corner. Through the window, she saw the gourds changing into children and she heard the call, “Kitete, our brother, help us down!” When they burst out of the door with their usual cheerfulness, she was there to meet them. “So you are the children who have been helping me! Thank you all.” They were a little confused, but soon started their usual tasks – except for Kitete who still sat silently. When the children came back inside and expected to return to the rafters, the widow woman stopped them. “You are my children now,” she assured them. “I am thrilled to have such a family. I will cook supper for you and you sleep here in my home with me.” It seemed to work well. They were happy together and gradually the widow found that she was becoming quite well off. She had fields of maize, well-tended banana trees, flocks of sheep and goats.

How comfortable life was! The only thing that annoyed her was the silent Kitete who did not seem to do anything. She put him to work and almost at once he tripped, dropped the pot of stew which was supper for all, and it smashed on the ground. “You are stupid and worthless!” she raged. “Why should I bother to feed you when you’re nothing but a bunch of calabashes?” Then she screamed. For that is what they all were – rounded, honey-brown calabashes on the floor. “I have been ungrateful for my blessings and the Mountain has taken them away!” There was no changing that. Childless she was, and childless the widow remained until she died. “A little sad? Yet people are like that. How about a cheering drink? If our banana beer, mbege, is not for you, how about our own Arabica coffee? It is famous around the world.”