Indaba, My Children: African Tribal History, Legends, Customs And Religious Beliefs. Vusamazulu Credo Mutwa

      THE SPAWN OF THE DRAGON

      Simba the lion was old. Simba the lion was weak – mad with hunger and frustration. There is nothing more terrible for a beast once strong than to find itself slowly succumbing to the ravages of old age. And, in the hostile forest, age is the greatest and most final calamity that can befall a living creature, be it lion or antelope.

      Antelopes that feel the onset of old age in the weakness it brings to their swift limbs, know that the stream of their lives has at last run dry. They know that for them the hour of Kalunga, the God of Death, has come and, when the herd madly flees from the smell of lions, they will be forced to lag behind – an easy prey even to the most inexperienced young lion.

      The lion who feels the icy claws of old age slowly paralysing his mighty leaping muscles, and who feels the dizziness of old woman Time clouding his mind and dimming his eyes, comes inevitably to realise that he has already hunted his last impala, and that for him the sun of life is setting in a blaze of gold, scarlet and purple.

      So, Simba the lion was lying under the young musharagi tree not far from a sluggish river bordered by rustling reeds, and in whose cool bosom a herd of water beasts bathed lazily, their enormous bodies protruding like so many smooth glistening rocks in the rippling waters.

      One of the water beasts raised its ugly head and yawned hugely, exposing blunt tusks insultingly in the direction of the slowly weakening lion with the golden light of the setting sun full on his face. The lazy breeze of sunset was softly playing with his ancient mane, and the tall grass through which his head was barely visible.

      Among the reeds bordering the river something moved and a sacred flamingo rose into the forest-scented air, slowly beating its graceful pinkish-white wings as it crossed the river to join three of its females on the other side. But Simba the lion had no eyes for all this; the forest had lost its magic. The silvery river with its water beasts, its nesting flamingoes and playful otters had lost its enchantment. The only voice for which he had ears was the voice of hunger growing savagely in his famished, shrunken belly. The only music for which he had ears was the song of starvation roaring like a wild tempest through the caverns and tunnels of his dulled mind.

      Aieeee! Simba the lion would have given his eyes, yea, his very life for just a mouthful of meat from the side of a wildebeest three days dead! Surely anything, no matter how putrid and vile, any worm-crawling carrion, was better than a slow death of starvation. In vain the old lion wished that just one thin, spavined antelope should pass within reach of his age-numbed claws. He had not eaten for three whole days.

      It was cruelly strange to see that the older one grew the faster the impalas and zebras seemed to be. Why were these wretched creatures so incredible? Did they not know that they were created by the Great Ones for the sole benefit of lions? A vision of a herd of zebras floated briefly across the troubled skies of his disordered mind. A million curses on the striped over-fat wretched brutes! Why did the Great Spirit have to give them such swift feet?

      The old lion’s thoughts were cleaved abruptly by an interruption. They faded out like morning mist before the rising sun and old Simba lifted his battered head with a start! Something was coming . . . and it was coming his way!

      With a cautiousness born of years of bitter experience Simba lowered his scarred head until he was looking through the long elephant grass, rather than over it. He breathed a deep breath of living air. Eyah! there was no doubt about it – the strange scent was there and it was getting stronger. Whatever was coming was taking its time. But of one thing the old lion was now sure – it was some kind of food that was coming his way! Fresh and vibrant strength poured like liquid fire along his spine. His excited tail slowly stiffened and a low growl of satisfaction involuntarily pushed itself forth from the depths of his ancient chest, to be promptly stilled by the voice of experience. Nothing must give the approaching prey a hint of his presence. Silence now . . . absolute silence . . .

      It seemed as if the very stream of Time had come to a standstill as the lion waited; the forest, the river and everything about his environment suddenly assumed an odd unreality. Then they casually emerged into view . . . strolling slowly through the long grass . . . Human Beings!

      There were two of the creatures – male and female. And old Simba narrowed his yellow eyes as he contemplated their approach. They were walking for all the world as if they owned the forest – as if all the trees and the mighty ageless river belonged to them or their fathers. They were walking as if they were the chief and chieftainess of Creation. Simba the lion watched them coldly and in his animal mind took in each detail of their features and attire, as they drew nearer and nearer . . . and their scent grew stronger in his anxious nostrils!

      The female was the Spirit of Beauty personified. She was Perfection in a most perfect form. She was not only beautiful, but she radiated beauty as a hot stone radiates heat. The waiting Simba could sense the great beauty of the human female and he could sense also the great goodness in her soul. He beheld the sensitive beauty of her face, the oval face with its round prominent forehead, its clear eyes that scanned the world with an expression of deep wonder. He noticed the small flat nose and the tiny nostrils, well placed above a smiling mouth. A mischievous goddess had placed that mouth there as a trap with which to catch the lips of men.

      She was the essence of purest perfection. Some Goddess of Skill must have spent days of precious time moulding each bulge and curve of that heavenly physique. This woman was living beauty carved in dark brown musharagi – a statue of perfection carved in living ebony.

      Her attire was simple indeed: she wore a short skirt of tanned cheetah skin heavily trimmed with cowrie shells around the hems. Bracelets of copper and ivory flourished on her arms and around her neck blazed a necklace of bright copper oblongs engraved with signs of secret wisdom. Her hair was combed up into two lobes, a hairstyle known as the ‘ears of the caracal’ – the oldest hairstyle in the Land of the Tribes. Sacred cowrie shells decorated her soft hair and a beautifully carved comb of ivory showed in the back of her head.

      The old lion did not know it, of course, but he was looking at the most famous and most beautiful woman that ever lived – Marimba, the daughter of Odu and the incomparable Amarava, Mother of Nations. He was looking at the woman who gave the tribes some of the oldest and most beautiful songs on earth and who invented countless musical instruments, each destined to carry her name in some form or other – Marimba, the Mother of Music.

      The man was tall and slender, but strongly built. His face was not handsome, but it was determined and manly, like the rest of his body. And whereas the woman beside him was beauty incarnate, he was the personification of strength and invincible loyalty. He wore a crude loinskin around his manly hips and a band of python skin around his head. A necklace of the teeth of hyaenas was around his muscle-corded neck, while a solitary bracelet of copper shone on his right forearm. In his left hand he held a crude shield of buffalo skin while in his right he carried a weighty harpoon of wood, tipped with a flake from the shin-bone of a giraffe. He carried this strange weapon because at this time the tribes had not yet learned the secret of extracting the hard iron from the ironstone. That knowledge was brought to this continent by the Strange Ones very many generations after the events here mentioned occurred. Only copper was known to our ancestors at this stage and this metal was too soft for use in weapons. It was good only for ornaments.

      The old lion waited quietly while the two human beings drew closer. The forest and the river seemed to vanish and in the lion’s eyes only the two humans had any substance – only them he now saw, to the exclusion of all else.

      He saw how the man’s