From the Folklore of the Chewa
There was a girl in a certain village who refused all suitors, though several very decent young men had presented themselves. Her parents remonstrated in vain; she only said, “I don’t like the young men of our neighbourhood; if one came from a distance I might look at him!” So they left off asking for her, and she remained unmarried for an unusually long time.
One day a handsome stranger arrived at the village and presented himself to the girl’s parents. He had all the appearance of a rich man; he was wearing a good cloth, had ivory bracelets on his arms, and carried a gun and a powderhorn curiously ornamented with brass wire. The maiden exclaimed, on seeing him, “This is the one I like!” Her father and mother were more doubtful, as was natural, since no one knew anything about him; but in spite of all they could say she insisted on accepting him. He was, in fact, a hyena, who had assumed human shape for the time being.
The usual marriage ceremonies took place, and the husband, in accordance with Yao and Nyanja custom, settled down at the village of his parents-in-law, and made himself useful in the gardens for the space of several months. At the end of that time he said that he had a great wish to visit his own people. His wife, whom he had purposefully refrained from asking, begged him to let her accompany him. When all was ready for the journey her little brother, who was suffering from sore eyes, said he wanted to go too; but his sister, ashamed to be seen in company with such an object, refused him sharply. He waited till they had started, and then followed, keeping out of sight, till he was too far from home to be sent back.
They went on for many days, and at last arrived at the hyenas’ village, where the bride was duly welcomed by her husband’s relations. She was assigned a hut to sleep in, but, to keep her brother out of the way, she sent him into the hen-house.
In the middle of the night, when she was asleep, the people of the village took their proper shape and, called together by the hyena husband, marched round the hut, chanting: “Let us eat the game, but it is not fat yet.”
The little boy in the hen-house was awake and heard them; his worst fears were confirmed. In the morning he told his sister what he had heard, but she would not believe him. So he told her to tie a string to her toe and put the end outside where he could get it. This he drew into the hen-house, and that night, when the hyenas began their march, he pulled the string, and awakened his sister. She was now thoroughly frightened, and when he asked her next morning, “Did you heart them, sister?” she had nothing more to say.
The boy then went to his brother-in-law and asked him for the loan of an axe and an adze. The man, who had no notion that he was detected and every reason to show himself good-natured, consented at once, and watched him going off into the bush, well pleased that the child should amuse himself.
The latter soon found and cut down a tree such as he needed, and then began to shape a thing which he called nguli – something in the nature of a small boat. When he had finished it he got into it and sang: “My boat! Swing! Swing!”
And the nguli began to rise up from the earth. As he went on singing it rose higher and higher, till it floated above the tops of the tallest trees. The hyena-villagers all rushed out to gaze at this wonder, and the boy’s sister came with them. Then he sang once more, “My boat! Come down! Come down!”
And it floated gently down to the ground. The people were delighted, and cried out to him to go up again. He made some excuse for a little delay, and whispered to his sister to get her bundle (which, no doubt, she had ready) and climb in. She did so, and when both were safely stowed he sang his first song once more. Again the vessel rose, and this time did not come down again. The spectators, after waiting in vain, began to suspect that their prey was escaping, and shouted to the boy to come back, but no attention was paid to them, and the nguli quickly passed out of sight. Before the day was out they found themselves above the courtyard of their home, and the boy sang the words which caused them to descend, so that they alighted on their mother’s grain-mortar. The whole family came running out and overwhelmed them with questions; the girl could not speak for crying with joy and relief, and her brother told the whole story, winding up with: “Look here, sister, you thought I was no good, because I had sore eyes – but who was it heard them singing, ‘Let us eat her!’ and told you about it?” The parents, too, while praising the boy, did not fail to point the moral for the benefit of their foolish daughter, who, some say, had to remain unmarried to the end of her days.
Sources:
Myths of the Bantu, Alice Werner, 1933
Kotharian Lightning 