The King and the Guewel: A Ramadan Fairytale #2

Part 1 here

The next day the King, hungry once more and in a foul mood, looked about him for someone to take it out on. He remembered the mbahal he had eaten the previous night, and how good it had been. Remembering it now made his stomach growl, and made him even angrier. It was all that guewel's fault, talking to him about food and getting ideas into his head. He ordered a member of his guard to bring Alpha before him.

"Rise, guewel!", the King roared at him as he bowed low before him, "and give me one reason I should not have your head off this very minute!".

"If the Burr would have my head", Alpha replied, trembling, "I myself would separate it from my body, and present it to you...". He stole a look at the King, then looked quickly down again. "However, once more my head is much more useful to you where it is located, now".

"?", the King said (meaning "And how is that so?", for Kings do not need to ask full questions).

"Because, my Burr, I have another story for you which I think you will rather like...".


The Story of Domoda

Once there were two tribes who lived on the other shore of our magnificent river. The guewels have forgotten their names, but what is remembered of them is the great animosity that existed between the peoples of these tribes. This enmity went back centuries - its initial cause had been forgotten, but not its result. Children from each tribe were taught to fear the members of the other, young people were warned on the point of banishment against marrying or setting up any form of romantic attachment with them, old people spoke of them only with bitterness. This was long before your coming, oh Burr, and your abolishment of all tribes, that we might all be one under the guidance of Allah...

One day a hunter from the first tribe went into the forest after game. His name was Salifu, and whilst it was normal at that time for large hunting parties to go out at once, together, he had long preferred hunting and killing animals on his own. That day game was not forthcoming - it seemed all the animals in the forest had been warned of his coming, and had gone into hiding. He wandered desolately, not seeing a single deer. Sometimes he would hear a rustle behind him, but turning there would only be the movement of leaves recently parted, and nothing more, not even footprints. Finally, exhausted and dispirited, he came upon a clearing, and decided to rest a while in it. As he sat with his head against a sturdy tree trunk, by and by he heard the sound of singing. It seemed to come from somewhere behind him, a sweet voice filling the air with melody. Rising he followed it.

At the other end of the melody was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. She had come to the forest to collect kindling for a fire, and whilst she foraged for pieces of wood on the ground she sang to occupy herself, thinking herself alone. The song she sang was a silly childhood one, with no meaning, but he did not notice this. All he could see was her face, and her voice in his ears, and he stood watching her in a daze, amazed as he had never been before. He was careful not to make a sound - he felt he would not be able to bear it if this moment were to end, if she were to stop singing, and leave. The world he had left - his father's farm and his village and the lands of his tribe - seemed but a dream he had woken up from into the real world, this one, where such beauty existed as he had only ever dreamt about. (You smile, my Burr, but who else can describe love as well as a Guewel? Who else with such words? Is it merely a coincidence that we are the ones sent at the head of every wedding party?).

But soon the woman paused at her task, warned by that ability of women to realize when they are being observed, and turned to him. Her song died in her throat as she saw who was there. She recognized him for one of the other tribe the minute she saw him, by certain identifying marks on his face. And he saw in her recognition of him, in the look in her eyes, that she, too, was of the opposite tribe. There came flooding into his mind the meaning of this: the years of bitter enmity that stood between their people. Yet this only awakened in his heart further desire, so that he was determined that he would have her for his own. And what she thought at that moment we do not know, though her eyes looked down shyly at the ground at his feet, and the bundle of faggots she held swung limp in her hands.

The story does not tell us how he hunted her. Surely not like the animals he hunted: first with stealth, and then a calm and vicious intent to kill. She would have required gentleness, my Burr, and a light touch. Perhaps they arranged to meet again: he suggesting it, and she agreeing (for she had been caught at her most vulnerable, in song). And this meeting led to other meetings, and to even others. And within the spaces created by these they gradually learnt the ways of each other. In any case they came to desire each other as only young people are able.

All of this had happened, of course, without the knowledge of either of their tribespeople. They were not unaware of the situation that existed, and of the problems that would arise from a discovery of their illicit affair, and they spent many hours in conversation trying to come up with a solution to this seemingly-insurmountable problem.



One day they arranged to meet at their usual spot in the forest. This was in the time of the Harmattan, when the nights became cold, and the days were filled with a dry dust. She waited for him, as she had waited many times before, expecting at any minute to see his form making its way through the trees. But he did not come. After a while, when it began to get dark, she left and went back to her village, her thoughts divided. What could have kept him? Had he come upon some tragic accident, that had made him unable to come? That night she moved closer to the night fire and the conversation of the men, hoping to pick up a clue to his fate. But they did not speak of any accidents that had befallen the other tribe, as they would have been sure to do, and with great delight.

All night she worried, unable to sleep. The next morning fetching water from the river she broached the topic with her cousin, a young and mean-mouthed girl who was jealous of her.

"I do not know where he has gone", she told the cousin, "he has never before acted in this way". The cousin gave a snort.

"As to that", her spiteful cousin replied, "You may as well set your mind at rest, and look for someone from your own tribe. For he is bethroted to another, and will be married to her tomorrow".

She would not believe her. It was only her jealousy that had made her speak in that fashion. Turning away from the hateful words she set off home, not listening to the admonishments of the other girl.

All night she lay, wondering why he had not come, and thinking perhaps that what she had heard might be true. She woke early the next morning, and tying a wrapper around her waist went out. She heard the drums from the neighboring village in the distance, and followed their sounds of celebration. She came in this manner to the village of the other tribe, where marriages were held early in the morning, before the sun had risen. Concealing herself behind a tree at the edge of the village, she looked out on the ceremony before her. There was her Salifu, sitting on the ground, with a beautiful woman at his side. They were dressed in the traditional wedding cloths of the tribe, and were both eating from a large bowl set on the ground before them, a practice that would tie them together for life. She stood watching them as if in a dream, and a great trembling rose through her body as she forced herself not to cry out. She gnashed her teeth and wringed her hands, without even noticing. And then when Salifu got up and gave a piggyback ride to his new bride to complete the ceremony, she could take it no more. In a despairing madness she ran into the forests, screaming and tearing her hair out, pursued by her cousins, who had at last tracked her down. She came at last to a deep pit that had been dug as a trap for wild game, and even as her pursuers called out her name she flung herself into it, so her body was broken on the sharp stakes placed within it.

The men of her tribe gathered, in anger. There would be war, she would be avenged - this was swiftly agreed. She had been grievously wronged, led on by a good-for-nothing from the hateful tribe, and driven to suicide. Such an insult the tribe could not let stand. A messenger was sent to the other tribe with a challenge - tomorrow at noon the two tribes would send their best men into battle. There would be no quarter. There was no room for negotiation. The drums beat. The young men sharpened their weapons and set up camp along the banks of the river. There was a great clamour, and a great excitement.


But that night whilst the men slept, the women of the two tribes gathered. Certain old women amongst them had long thought about the futility and senselessness of the enmity that existed between them, and had mused idly on what it would be like if the tribes were to come together. But men will not listen to old women when it comes to matters of diplomacy - and besides what did women know about war? And so the old women had gone unheeded all these years.

But now they had called together a meeting of all the women-folk from both tribes. The mood of the meeting was defiant. They were tired of their men fighting each other, and really for what reason? Who remembered what reasons the tribes had originally become enemies? Even the oldest woman present, who had lived through five generations, had only a vague memory of her mother telling her of a fight involving food during a famine... but even she could not remember the details, so young had she been then. They had to come up with a solution. Speaking to the men would not work - the men of both tribes were stubborn when it came to matters of pride, and would not budge from their positions.

Finally someone suggested a simple solution which nevertheless began to sound more and more like something that could work, as it was discussed: they would cook for the men. Coming together as one tribe they would create a dish which was so filling and yet so delicious, whose smell and taste and savoriness were all of such high quality that all thoughts of war would be driven from the minds of the men.

And so all night whilst the men slept in preparation for war, the women cooked. Gathered at the mouth of the river, they had set up camp with many cooking pots on many fires. But what would their men eat? What food would they serve them the next day? And keep in mind, my Burr, that it could not just be any food - it had to be good enough that it would stop a war, and restore peace, perhaps even heal the rift that had existed for so long. The best cooks from the two tribes, the women whose names were spoken most loudly in the bantabas when the subject of food came up, conspired together and at last came up with just the right dish.

When the men woke the next morning, early at dawn, they were so distracted by the mouth-watering smell coming from the mouth of the river that not a single one of them thought more of war, but instead all together they moved towards the source of the smell. When they got there and saw the preparation of the women they begged to be allowed to have some of the food, as they were all to a man very hungry; and the women would not let any man get a serving until he handed over his weapons and promised to not go to war.

And in this way the war was averted, and the two tribes once more made friendly, eventually even merging to become one tribe. The name of the dish that those illustrious women invented that night to stop a war, my Burr, was Domoda. And if I am not mistaken it is what your cook brings in now on a platter, for I can hear the muezzin proclaiming the end of the fast.

....

Thus was Alpha saved from a beheading for the second time.

The King and the Guewel: A Ramadan Fairytale #1

Once upon a time, before Gambia was Gambia, there stood surrounding the river which is now called the river Gambia a large Kingdom. It is said by the guewel, the carriers of our oral history, that this Kingdom was so wondrous in its treasures, its King so wise and just, that men came from all over the world to behold its treasures and learn from him. It is said that the people of the Kingdom were happy under his rule, and commerce flourished as it never had before, and all was sumptuous as in a golden age.

But the King had one fault, and it was this: when he was hungry he became unpleasant and disagreeable, and developed a nasty habit of beheading people. Since it was only at Ramadan that the King became hungry (for Allah is the only King who can make other Kings go hungry), his courtiers looked to the coming of Ramadan each year with great apprehension.

Now there was at that time a guewel who was of the court of the King, and whose skill with a Kora was well-known and admired throughout the Kingdom and beyond. He was known as Alpha Omar, and he it was who began and ended all the notable naming ceremonies and other festivities of the Kingdom, for he knew the origin and lineage of everyone, down to the least night-watchman, such was his talent as a historian.

One hot Ramadan afternoon, the King was passing into the palace, flanked by his guard and men of state, when he came upon Alpha practising within a shaded enclave at the palace gates. Hungry and feeling irritated by the repetive sound of the Kora, he ordered his guards to seize the guewel, and bring him inside to be beheaded.

"This infernal noise must stop!", the King said in a voice of thunder, stroking his beard and curling his lips. Alpha pleaded, reminding the King of how noble his grandparents had been, but to no avail.

But Alpha knew the King, and knew he could not resist a good story.

"Very well, my Burr", he said, giving a sigh pretending to be resigned, "As you wish. But it is a pity that I will not be able to tell you the story that I had prepared specially for you tonight".

The King sat up.

"What story?", he asked, still frowning, though there was a glimmer in his eyes.

"Alas - it is too long, and I would not want to waste the time of the beheaders... it will soon be time to break the fast, after all...". The King gestured impatiently, cutting him short and waved the beheaders away.

"Tell it to us", he said, "we are listening".

And so settling down on the ground before the throne and folding his legs, Alpha began to tell him a story.

The Story of Mbahal

Once on the shores of this very river which runs through our Kingdom there lived an old woman. She was hunchbacked by age and often sick, and almost completely blind but, as often happens in such circumstances, she had two beautiful daughters who lived with her. Their names were Awa and Asanatou, and their father had died when they were still but infants. They loved their mother dearly, and fed and bathed her, and ran about attending to her every want. In this way they lived in some measure of happiness, despite their extreme poverty.

One day, an evil King (for the King of the land was at that time a tyrant, hated by his people, the very opposite of you, my Burr) came back from hunting, and decided to take a path which led past the rickety hut of the old woman and her daughters. The girls were outside pounding coos, and when he saw them the old King was so struck by their beauty and the grace with which they worked at the mortar and pestle he determined immediately to have them for himself. For though he was old and grown fat and wrinkled, and slobbered when he spoke so all were in truth repelled by him, still he had retained the habit of his youth: that all that was pretty within the land could and would belong only to him. His palace was full of hundreds of women he had seized from their parents and husbands, taking them away to forcefull wed them. (This being different from you, my King, whose very proposal of marriage is the highest honor a woman within these lands can hope for, and which has led to so many young and beautiful women in your palace). The old King sent his guewel, who approached the girls and told them of the King's intentions. The girls, who were as wise as they were beautiful, knew there would be no point resisting, for it would lead only to trouble. And so they assured the guewel that they could think of no higher honor, but that they had their old mother, and would wish that the King extended the invitation to her also, for she was infirm and in their care, and would fain survive alone out in the forest.

The King upon hearing this asked for all three to be brought before his presence. But so greatly displeased was he by the ugliness of the mother that he declared that no such creature could ever enter his palace, where everything was beautiful and a pleasure to the eyes. The daughters wept sorrowfully as they were seized by the King's guards and taken away, thinking indeed that their mother would perish, out here alone. She stood and watched them go, and did not say a word, but only looked at the retreating back of the old King who had wronged her so. And when they had disappeared she went back into her hut and sat down alone in the dark.

That night, she went to bed hungry. She was a strong woman, who had raised her children alone after their father had died and before they had learnt to fend for themselves. When she woke in the morning she decided to make something to eat. She hobbled to the corner of the hut, where the few cooking implements and ingredients were kept. She groped about, feeling for things. She found an empty bowl. Then she found some rice, and threw it in. Then she found something soft and mushy, that smelt sharply when she brought it up to her nose. It was netetu - she threw it in. Then she found some pepper, and half a bonga fish from the day before. She added salt, and feeling her way to the water container outside filled the bowl with water. Putting it down, she went to the back, where a fire was left burning at all times. It was not out, and she added logs from the firewood placed at its side. Then going back to the front she brought back the bowl with her mix in it, and set it atop the blazing fire. Then she sat waiting for it to cook.

Now it so happened that the King had a Son, a handsome young Prince recently reached adulthood, who was as fair as the King was unjust, who was wise beyond his years, and much loved by his people. He had gone for a walk that day in the forest, his mind heavy with the knowledge of the increasing tyranny of his father. Lately he had been thinking more and more about abandoning his title to the throne, and going off to another land to join a monastery there, or perhaps achieve another form of honest living. He was thinking these thoughts when he suddenly smelled something very nice coming from the bend to his right. Hmmm what food is that, I wonder, he thought. It must be foreign, for I have never smelt anything like that around here. He took the path, the smell growing stronger as he walked it, and by and by he came to the old woman's hut. She was sitting outside, and when she heard him approach she scrambled to her feet, thinking it to be the King and his men returned.

"Who is there?", she asked, her voice crackling.

"Only I, old mother", the courteous prince replied, "pray do not be afraid".

After he had soothed her in this way the old woman invited the Prince to sit with him, and since her food was now cooked she bade him eat with her. The Prince had been hoping for just such an invitation, and he took the bowl he was given with much excitement. They ate in silence, the only sounds the satisfied sighs that issued from one or the other of them as they emptied their bowls. Halfway through the old woman looked up at the Prince.

"This", she told him, "would benefit greatly from some diw-tirr". She sent him into the hut to get the bottle of diw-tirr, and when he came back with it they poured liberal amounts on top of the rice, and where before it had been merely good now it was the best food the Prince had ever tasted. When he had finished at last he sat back and looked at the old woman in wonder.

"What is this, old mother?", he asked, breathless, "for I have never tasted its kind in the Kingdom".

"Oh it is only a collection of things I threw together", she told him, "from ingredients I had in the house. My daughters are not here, you see, and I had to make do". And here she trailed off, looking sadly at the ground. The Prince, sensing her sadness, asked:

"Where have yur daughters gone?".

The old woman, who thought him just a kind man who had been passing through the forest, told him the story of her daughters, and how they had been wrongfully seized by the King. As she progressed the Prince grew more and more incensed. He had had enough! This could not be allowed to continue. How could he abandon his people to the tyranny of this man? Excusing himself and thanking the lady for her kindness, he departed swiftly from that place, returning to the palace.

There he found the King, his father, sitting in the throne room, surrounded by the beautiful women of the land, their eyes red with unshed tears, forced smiles on their faces. He was making some amongst them dance, and some sing, and others to perform various tricks for his lecherous entertainment.

"Ah - my son has returned", he said, upon seeing the Prince, "come - choose which of these women you would bed tonight, and I would make you of her a present".

The Prince walked up to the throne, withdrew his sword, and without a word - swish swish - separated the head of the King from his shoulders. There was a silence in the courtyard as all looked upon the deed. Then a great cheer rang up, that was taken and echoed all across the City, and then all across the lands of the Kingdom.

The Prince was crowned amidst great fanfare, and became a wise and just ruler of his people for many years, undoing the wrongs his father had perpetuated. The old woman was re-united with her daughters, and so pleased was the new King with the dish that had inspired him that he declared it to be the national dish, and that all women would learn how to cook it as part of their education. It was named mbahal in honor of its humble origins. The old woman was invited to live in the palace with her daughters, and never more did they desire for anything in their lives that they were not supplied with.

This was how mbahal was born.



When Alpha had finished the King opened his eyes and looked at him.

"That was a good story", he said, "It has put me in mind of the dish: tonight we shall eat mbahal". And he clapped his hands twice, and the chief cook ran into the kitchen to see that the King's wishes were carried out.

A sound came from outside. It was the muezzin, calling the end of the fast for that day. Alpha gave a sigh of relief. Once the King had eaten all talk of beheading would be forgotten. He had made it through the day. He smiled as he thought about the mbahal he was about to eat, covered with diw-tirr...