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Our THIRD WEST AFRICAN FOLKTALE

This story is about Salt, and Daudawa (sauce) and Nari (spice), and Onion-leaves, and Pepper and Daudawar-batso (a sauce).
A story, a story! Let it go, let it come.

Salt, and Daudawa, and Ground-nut, and Onion-leaves, and Pepper, and Daudawar-batso heard a report of a certain youth, by name Daskandarini. Now he was a beautiful youth, the son of the evil spirit. They (all) rose up, (and) turned into beautiful maidens, (and) they set off. As they (Salt, Onion-leaves, &c.) were going along, Daudawar-batso followed them.

They drove her off, telling her she stank. But she crouched down until they had gone on. She kept following them behind, until they reached a certain stream. (There) they came across an old woman; she was bathing. She said they must rub down her back for her, but this one said, ‘May Allah save me that I should lift my hand to touch an old woman’s back.’ And the old woman did not say anything more.

They passed on, and soon Daudawar-batso came, (and) met her washing. She greeted her, (and) she answered (and) said, ‘Maiden, where are you going?’ She replied, ‘I am going to where a certain youth is.’ (And) she (the old woman) said, ‘Rub my back for me!’ She said, ‘All right.’ She stopped, (and) rubbed her back well for her. The old woman said, ‘May Allah bless you.’ And she said, ‘This youth to whom you are (all) going to, have you known his name?’ She said, ‘No, we do not know his name.’

Then the old woman said, ‘He is my son, his name is Daskandarini, but you must not tell them.’ Then she ceased. She was following them far behind till they got to the place where the boy was. They were about to enter, but he said, ‘Go back, (and) enter one at a time.’ They said, ‘It is well,’ and returned. And then Salt came forward, (and) was about to enter, little girl, go back.’ She turned back. So Daudawa came forward.

When she was about to enter, she was asked, ‘Who are you?’ She said,’It is I.’ ‘Who are you? What is your name?’ ‘My name is Daudawa, who makes the soup sweet.’ And he said, ‘What is my name?’ She said, ‘I do not know your name, little boy, I do not know your name.’ He said, ‘Turn back, little girl, turn back.’ She turned back, (and) sat down.

Then Nari (spice) rose up and came forward, (and) she was about to enter when she was asked, ‘Who is this little girl? Who is this?’ She said, ‘It is I who greet you, little boy,
it is I who greet you.”What is your name, little girl, what is your name?’ ‘My name is Nari, who makes the soup savoury.’ ‘I have heard your name, little girl, I have heard your name. Speak my name.’ She said, ‘I do not know your name, little boy, I do not know your name.’ ‘Turn back, little girl, turn back.’ So she turned back, (and) sat down.

Then Onion-leaves rose and came up, and she stuck her head (into the room) and was asked, ‘Who is this little girl, who is this? It is I who salute you, little boy, it is I who salute you.’ What is your name, little girl, what is your name? My name is Onion-leaves, who makes the soup smell nicely.’ He said, ‘I have heard your name, little girl. What is my name?’ She said, ‘I do not know your name, little boy, I do not know your name.’ ‘Turn back, little boy (girl), turn back.’ So she turned back.

Now Pepper came along; she said, ‘Your pardon, little boy, your pardon.’ She was asked who was there. She said, ‘It is I, Pepper, little boy, it is I, Pepper, who make the soup hot.’ ‘I have heard your name, little girl, I have heard your name. Tell (me) my name, little girl, tell (me) my name.’ ‘I do not know your name, little boy, I do not know your name.’ He said, ‘Turn back, little maid, turn back.’

There was only left Daudawar-batso, and they said, ‘Are not you coming?’ She said, ‘Can I enter the house where such good people as you have gone, (and) been driven away? Would not they the sooner (drive) me out who stink?’ They said, ‘Rise up (and) go.’ So she got up (and) went. He asked her, ‘Who is there, little girl, who is there?’ And she said, ‘It is I who am greeting you, little boy, it is I who am greeting you.’ ‘What is your name, little girl, what is your name?’ ‘My name is Batso, little boy, my name is Batso, which makes the soup smell.’ He said, ‘I have heard your name, little girl, I have heard your name. There remains my name to be told.’ She said, ‘Daskandarini, little boy, Daskandarini.’ And he said, ‘Enter.’

A rug was spread for her, clothes were given to her, and slippers of gold; and then (of) these who had driven her away one said, ‘I will always sweep for you’; another, ‘I will pound for you.’
Another said, ‘I will see about drawing water for you’; and another, ‘I will pound (the ingredients) of the soup’; and another, ‘I will stir the food.’ They all became her handmaids.
And the moral of all this is, if you see a man is poor do not despise him; you do not know but that some day he may be better than you.

That is all.
Off with the rat’s head.

From: Hausa Folklore
ISBN: 978-1-907256-16-5
URL: http://www.abelapublishing.com/hausa-folklore_p23332623.htm

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I don’t usually post on Sundays but overnight I received a “like” from a Canadian/Armenian  – Tamar Najarian. Not having much to do on a Sunday morning, I followed the link to her post and read with great interest about how she felt that, despite having grown up in Canada, she had “come home” the minute she stepped onto Armenian soil.

 

I grew up in South Africa and even as a child knew that South Africa would not be my home. This feeling of “not belonging” was intensified through my teenage years especially during my post-high school period when I completed 2 years national service.

 

Immediately after national service I toured Europe and on landing in Luxembourg and travelling into Germany, I knew that my future lay somewhere other than South Africa. I ended up working in London and did many backpacking mini-tours into European countries, but none really felt like “home”.

 

I returned to South Africa, trained as a computer programmer, but always had a sense that my future lay elsewhere.

In 1987 I married a Kiwi (New Zealand) Occupational Therapist on assignment to the South African Leprosy Mission. Even though married we never “put down roots” in South Africa and when her contract ran out it was an easy decision to “up sticks” and move to New Zealand.

 

Our route to New Zealand took us via London, where we had both worked in earlier days, New York, Los Angeles and eventually Auckland. The USA was stimulating but did not have that “this is where I’m meant to be” factor. On disembarking in Auckland in May 1988, I knew straight away that I was “home”. This was where I was meant to be. Why or how did I know this? Don’t ask me, I just knew.

 

I currently work and live in London (again) but we still have our family home in Papkowhai just North of Wellington, New Zealand.

 

Here’s a poem from Zabelle Boyan’s “Armenian Poetry and Legends” especially for you Tamar – and all those who have a feeling in their gut that their future lies somewhere beyond the end of their street……

 

THE TEARS OF ARAXES

BY RAPHAEL PATKANIAN

I WALK by Mother Arax
With faltering steps and slow,
And memories of past ages
Seek in the waters’ flow.

But they run dark and turbid,
And beat upon the shore
In grief and bitter sorrow,
Lamenting evermore.

“Araxes! with the fishes
Why dost not dance in glee?
The sea is still far distant,
Yet thou art sad, like me.

“From thy proud eyes, O Mother,
Why do the tears downpour?
Why dost thou haste so swiftly
Past thy familiar shore?

“Make not thy current turbid;
Flow calm and joyously.
Thy youth is short, fair river;
Thou soon wilt reach the sea.

“Let sweet rose-hedges brighten
Thy hospitable shore,
And nightingales among them
Till morn their music pour.

“Let ever-verdant willows
Lave in thy waves their feet,
And with their bending branches
Refresh the noonday heat.

“Let shepherds on thy margin
Walk singing, without fear;
Let lambs and kids seek freely
Thy waters cool and clear.”

Araxes swelled her current,
Tossed high her foaming tide,
And in a voice of thunder
Thus from her depths replied:–

“Rash, thoughtless youth, why com’st thou
My age-long sleep to break,
And memories of my myriad griefs
Within my breast to wake?

“When hast thou seen a widow,
After her true-love died,
From head to foot resplendent
With ornaments of pride?

“For whom should I adorn me?
Whose eyes shall I delight?
The stranger hordes that tread my banks
Are hateful in my sight.

“My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,
Is widowed, like to me,
But bows beneath the tyrant’s yoke,
And wears it slavishly.

“But I, who am Armenian,
My own Armenians know;
I want no stranger bridegroom;
A widowed stream I flow.

“Once I, too, moved in splendour,
Adorned as is a bride
With myriad precious jewels,
My smiling banks beside.

“My waves were pure and limpid,
And curled in rippling play;
The morning star within them
Was mirrored till the day.

“What from that time remaineth?
All, all has passed away.
Which of my prosperous cities
Stands near my waves to-day?

“Mount Ararat doth pour me,
As with a mother’s care,
From out her sacred bosom
Pure water, cool and fair.

“Shall I her holy bounty
To hated aliens fling?
Shall strangers’ fields be watered
From good Saint Jacob’s spring?

“For filthy Turk or Persian
Shall I my waters pour,
That they may heathen rites perform
Upon my very shore,

“While my own sons, defenceless,
Are exiled from their home,
And, faint with thirst and hunger,
In distant countries roam?

“My own Armenian nation
Is banished far away;
A godless, barbarous people
Dwells on my banks to-day.

“Shall I my hospitable shores
Adorn in festive guise
For them, or gladden with fair looks
Their wild and evil eyes?

“Still, while my sons are exiled,
Shall I be sad, as now.
This is my heart’s deep utterance,
My true and holy vow.”

No more spake Mother Arax;
She foamed up mightily,
And, coiling like a serpent,
Wound sorrowing toward the sea.

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.

If you haven’t worked it out or looked it up, the Araxes is a river that rises in northeastern Turkey (near the source of the Euphrates) and flows generally eastward through Armenia emptying into the Caspian Sea.

 

From “Armenian Poetry and Legends”  compiled and illustrated by Zabelle Boyajian

ISBN 978-1-907256-18-9

URL http://www.abelapublishing.com/cg_apl.html

 

Armenian Poetry and Legends

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