Wednesday, 12 October 2016

Why do Good Girls fall for Bad Boys?

    
Have you ever noticed how good girls fall for bad boys and nice boys end up chasing mean girls? so that sometimes the most beautiful ladies are married to good-for-nothings and the most extraordinary men have awful wives. It makes you wonder how they ever got together! Well, in case you’ve ever wondered this, there’s a Fulɓe legend as to why couples are the way they are which explains the reasons why:

When God (Guéno) had finished creating the human race, he distributed the virtues and the faults among both men and women. One day, he gathered all the women to him and told them:

“O ladies! Look at the horizon and tell me what you see?”

“O Lord, they replied, we see a resplendent sunrise over the Earth. Everything seems to celebrate its arrival. The higher it rises, the more it seems that everything which was about to die is re-born to new life.”

“Ladies!” said God, “Until now you have only experienced the pain of night. Now it is time for you to set off on the path to Paradise. Angels will watch over you all along the way, others will receive you on your arrival. Do not be discouraged, do not complain, and especially do not give up!

I have been, I am and I always will be the One who warns and guides you. Also, I am letting it be known that sumptuous dwellings and jewels of incomparable beauty will be distributed amongst you in the order of your arrival. The first amongst you will be blessed most; they will have precedence in all things. I remind you that Paradise is your eternal abode. Only the most senseless amongst you would allow yourselves to be overtaken or to put another before you.

Now that you know what you must do, leave O ladies, in search of your happiness.”

The women took to the road. Their long retinue stretched out and began to flow like the tributary of a river whose course becomes narrower and narrower.

At the end of the third day, the idlest could take it no more.

“What is the use in envying the glory of those who can walk quickly?” they whispered. “Who knows indeed the fate of the first arrivals? Paradise is as vast as all the heavens together, the dwellings as numerous as the number of grains of sand in all the rivers and on all the shores combined. Is it not said of these abodes that if laid end to end they would reach from the deepest depths to the outer reaches of the firmament? Why run then and lose the soft roundness of our thighs? Why sweat and make our bodies stink? Let us go easy, sisters, and conserve our freshness. When we reach Paradise, there will still be an abode for each and every one of us. And even if those who come first are lodged in sumptuous rooms, the forced march will have made their flesh melt. Their skeletal features will tarnish the beauty of their dwellings and the brilliance of their finery.”

With words like these the idle stragglers began to drag their feet like fattened ducks. To sustain their shuffling progress which was as slow as a tired chameleon, they began to sing:

Why hurry us? Why lament for us?
Why shout? Yeah, why?
We who are going to Paradise.
We’re not going to an arid land
Where the hyena seizes the young goat
Or the wild cat plunders the poultry yard.

Let us take the lazy road,
Let us question the book of judgment.
We’ll find the enigmatic question,
“What happened?”
Was asked for the benefit of women who run
Like a deer runs to escape a hunter.
We take the lazy way,
We question the book of judgment…

Three days after the departure of the women, God said, “Now three evenings and mornings have passed since the ladies have been on the path. Let us send the men after them.”

God therefore gathered all the men to him and said, “It is not good that a male lives without a female. And indeed I have created ladies to be your companions. They have already left in the direction of Paradise. They are three days and nights in advance of you, but I will make you three times quicker and send you in pursuit of them.”

“Each of you,” added God, “Will have for a wife the lady you find on the road and you may only have one.[1] Those who straggle along the way will therefore risk being without companion. It will be tough luck for them. I will condemn them to celibacy. They will never know the joy of the home nor the privilege of procreation. They will not be begetters continuing their own kind. The semen that I placed in them will remain like dry seed. My face will have a scowl for them and they will be sorely distressed by it…”[2]

The men took to the path. As they went, they sang:

Every being has an origin,
Every metal has a mine,
Every fact has a cause
If Guéno, the Eternal, put us on the path
Which leads to our wives,
There must be a reason for it.

Those who will be our wives
Are said to be beautiful and well-formed
They are passionate, but not shameless.
They are ardent, but not perverse.
They will put an end to the pain
Which darkens our hearts.

Let us go, let us walk quickly to Paradise!
Where we will find our wives
And live in wisdom!

Divine intelligence rises there
Like a gigantic mountain
From which one extracts precious metals
To adorn the valiant and the wise

We go, we walk quickly to Paradise!
We will live there in wisdom,
In wisdom, in wisdom! …

After a few hours’ journey, the men divided into three groups: the Hammadi-Hammadi at the head, the Hammadi in the middle and the Hamanndof bringing up the rear.[3]

The women also were divided into three groups: the Mantaldé at the head, the Santaldé in the middle and the Mantakapous bringing up the rear.[4]

The group of Hammadi-Hammadi, made up of brilliant, wise, enterprising and courageous men, fell upon the Mantakapous, that is to say the last of the women in feminine virtues. Not knowing that finer women were up ahead, they chose their wives from amongst the Mantakapous.

The Hammadi, the group of men of ordinary brilliance, fell upon the Santaldé, women of quality and virtue equal to their own. They took their wives from amongst them.

During this time the Mantaldé, the most excellent of women, had outstripped their companions of the two other groups and had already arrived at the gates of Paradise. Angels came to greet and congratulate their arrival. When they wanted to cross the threshold, the angels stopped them, saying, “Sorry, Ladies, but you are still ‘halves’. But a half is incomplete and thus imperfect and the imperfect has no place in Paradise. Wait until each of you has a husband to complete you.[5] Then you will enter by twos, that is to say, as a perfect human unity.”

Before the women had recovered from their shock, the Hammadi-Hammadi presented themselves accompanied by their Mantakapous wives. “What a mystery!” the angels exclaimed, “Are these the ladies whom God has set aside to be your companions?” The Hammadi in turn arrived flanked by the Santaldé.

At last, the Hamanndof, the last of men, reached the heavenly gates empty-handed. The beautiful Mantaldé were obliged to give themselves in marriage to them in order to enter the heavenly Abode.

And that is how the first of men are shared with the last of women and how the best of women fell into the hands of the worst of men!

Once inside Paradise, the most exceptional men came to file a complaint with God. In agreement with the best of women, they called for a settlement, desiring to re-arrange the order of things.

God said, “I do not refuse a right to one who deserves it. But the intelligence of my acts is not always within your realms of understanding.

Brave ladies of supreme excellence, accept with good heart the men of little value. And you, distinguished gentlemen, suffer by your sides the lazy and the vulgar women. I have decided things as they are out of wisdom and foresight. If I put all the values on one side and all the faults on the other, the affairs of the world would go awry, like a badly apportioned load on the back of a carrier-ox. There would be neither equilibrium nor stability. At each turn, the loads would swing on one side and your universe would be even more difficult to control than it is at present.

As long as you remain coupled, the worthy men will stop the idle women from falling into the hands of ruffians who would shed all the softness from their eyelids.[6] And the wise and dignified women will serve as a refuge for lesser men with whom they are united in marriage.

I have regulated everything according to a measure whose mystery I alone know. Do not be hateful any longer. Do not push each other away under the pretext that your values and conditions are unequal and thinking that you deserve better.

Love each other, especially husband and wife. And let it be known that among the things which please your God, the perfect conciliation between husband and wife is of the highest order!”

Image: František Kupka,
Amorpha, fugue in two colours(Prague)

Translated from: Amadou Hampâté Bâ,
Contes des sages d’Afrique (Paris)


Notes: [1] In this Fulɓe legend, God instituted monogamy for the human race at the creation of the world. This corresponds with the tradition of the red Fulɓe (the Fulɓe pastors) who only had one wife. The difficulties of pastoral life make polygamy unsuitable in any case. The latter turns out to be an urban phenomenon (of sedentary life) linked to the accumulation of wealth. One thinks for example of the lion, which although being the “king of the bush” is amongst the least well off because it sometimes has to go ten days at a time without finding anything to eat. The lion has only one companion, unlike the bustard, which finds grains everywhere to peck at, and always has several.

[2] Celibacy has always been very badly seen in traditional African culture. The unmarried man was treated like a minor regardless of age, and his speech was not respected in public assemblies.

[3] Hammadi-Hammadi is the name of a hero of great renown and of great value for his family, his district, his village and the whole country. When he travels, not only does his landlord benefit from his reputation, but the district, the village and the whole country know he has come.
Hammadi is a man of worth, but his worth is limited to his family, his district and his village. When he travels, one knows of his arrival within the limits of the village.
Hamanndof is a man of whom it is said that when he is absent, even his family do not notice his departure. And if he travels, even his landlord does not notice his arrival.

[4] Mantaldé is a wife of very great qualities who can stand in for her husband, and if necessary earn a living for her family, who can do everything for herself.
Santaldé is an excellent mother of the family and a good housewife. When her husband brings something home, she knows how to preserve and share it out. But she seeks and earns nothing for herself.
Mantakapous is a woman who not only does not know how to make anything for herself, but also if her husband brings something home she wastes it. If one gives her nothing, she starts crying. If one gives her something, she says it is not enough. She complains constantly and never does anything right.

[5] This story happened a long time ago. Feminism had not been invented yet and the angels have since had diversity training.


[6] They would make them cry.

Tuesday, 11 October 2016

Amadou Hampâté Bâ (1900-1991)


Amadou Hampâté Bâ (1900-1991) was a Malian scholar, anthropologist, philosopher, historian, poet and storyteller. He is renowned especially for his writings in French safeguarding and disseminating the culture and wisdom traditions of the Fulɓe people (in English: Fula, French: Peule, Hausa: Fulani) (sing. Pullo) to which he belonged and in whose rites he was himself initiated. 

Among his initiatory tales, each an oral epic recounting the shepherd’s sacred journey into the pastoral path, are: Koumen, textes initiatiques de pasteurs peuls (1961) [Koumen, Initiatory Texts of the Fulɓe Pastors], Kaïdara (1964) [Kaydara], Laaytere L’Éclat de la grande étoile [The Brightness of the Great Star], Njeddi Dewal, mère de la calamité (1985) [Njeddo Dewal, Mother of Calamity]. 

He saw this transmission of oral tradition as part of a broader and ongoing sacred duty: to recall, celebrate and renew the history of African culture for a modern audience. Representing Mali at UNESCO in 1960, he famously said: “In Africa when an old man dies, a library burns.” Himself a student of revered Sufi mystic Tierno Bokar, he spent his later years in Abidjan teaching an open-minded Islam in dialogue with the world, Christianity and African religions.

We hope to share on this blog some translations of excerpts of his work for English speakers.

To read the originals see webPulaaku.
Image Source: from Amadou Hampâté Bâ’s Mémoires.

Thursday, 25 December 2014

Friendly Limerick Bonanza

There was a young girl of Penang
Who started a fashion shebang
She stayed up all night with her elves
And let them make clothes for themselves,
Then she cooked for them chocolate meringue.

Having eaten up all the meringue,
In the moonlight, they danced and they sang,
But as dawn started breaking,
The earth began shaking
The elves left all their clothes and they ran!

Unperturbed, the young girl sipped ginseng,
It was just a delivery van
Bringing stock for next night
No need for the elves’ fright
Though it suited just fine with her plan.

When the fashion dealership rang,
She struck a fine deal for her gang.
As light filled the skies,
She scrunched up her eyes,
That delightful young girl of Penang!

Painting: Nocturne with Elves (~1860) by Gustave Doré


Morning Poem (Mary Oliver)

Morning Poem

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches —
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead —
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging —

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted —

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

—Mary Oliver

Painting: St. Rosa of Lima, pray for us

One

The mosquito is so small
it takes almost nothing to ruin it.
Each leaf, the same.
And the black ant, hurrying.
So many lives, so many fortunes!
Every morning, I walk softly and with forward glances
down to the ponds and through the pinewoods.
Mushrooms, even, have but a brief hour
before the slug creeps to the feast,
before the pine needles hustle down
under the bundles of harsh, beneficent rain.
How many, how many, how many
make up a world!
And then I think of that old idea: the singular
and the eternal.
One cup, in which everything is swirled
back to the color of the sea and sky.
Imagine it!

A shining cup, surely!
In the moment in which there is no wind
over your shoulder,
you stare down into it,
and there you are,
your own darling face, your own eyes.
And then the wind, not thinking of you, just passes by,
touching the ant, the mosquito, the leaf,
and you know what else!
How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky,
how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you,
even your eyes, even your imagination. 

—Mary Oliver

Green Shoots

Last night I dreamt of many things,
Of snowy mounds and elven rings,
Of caterpillars smoking weed
And armoured dragons drinking mead,
But never did I dream of you,
Nor shooting stars, nor wishes true,
For these are real if we can see
Around us in reality.

—okei

Scrabble Games

It all started off when I played NUDE
And left you the chance of a triple
I never meant to be so crude
My finger slipped across the button
And consented to the move too soon.
I’m glad you weren’t in ravenous mood
To take advantage
of my jutting N
Or perhaps you couldn’t reach my NUDE
To get a leg-up on my letter
So played HANG against it, nothing better.

Still, this stopped me playing on
it myself.
What in good faith could I do,
Go C and E and CHANGE
Or play elsewhere a turn or two
And leave your HANG to stew?
In the end, I kept the game alive
And took the lead with triple STIVE
Which means to fill a chamber full
Rendering hot and close and stifling.
I then came back and turned your HANG
Into the Chinese river CHANG.

Next I planned a setup tease

With
GOBAN pronounced go-bang,
Or Go, the game in Japanese.
Which left the G to climax on GUITAR,
But before I played upon the G,
You covered up the spot with GLUES.
Not all was lost, I’d found my muse

Instead of GUITAR, I played SITAR
An instrument more pretty still,
Whose hollow’s round and not so big
And
as the music had its fill,
You poked me one last time with TIG.
 
Though one had won, and one had lost,
We went to sleep without a care,
Our scrabble play had been such fun!
Having sowed and sawed so good and true,
The only thing that I had left
Upon my rack was U.

Forgetfulness

Sometimes

Sometimes I think
the Navajo had it right…
there has only ever been
one wind in the world.

One wind blowing for all time,
one wind touching all of us,
one wind moving in all of us,
one wind we call many names.

I don’t know any other way
to explain how seeing you,
outside, the wind in your hair,
could seem like the whole world.

—Peregrine
http://youreyesblazeout.tumblr.com


Rain

I love all films that start with rain:

rain, braiding a windowpane

or darkening a hung-out dress

or streaming down her upturned face;

one big thundering downpour
right through the empty script and score

before the act, before the blame,

before the lens pulls through the frame



to where the woman sits alone

beside a silent telephone

or the dress lies ruined on the grass

or the girl walks off the overpass,
 


and all things flow out from that source

along their fatal watercourse.

However bad or overlong

such a film can do no wrong,
 


so when his native twang shows through

or when the boom dips into view
or when her speech starts to betray

its adaptation from the play,



I think to when we opened cold

on a starlit gutter, running gold 

with the neon of a drugstore sign

and I’d read into its blazing line:

forget the ink, the milk, the blood —

all was washed clean with the flood

we rose up from the falling waters

the fallen rain’s own sons and daughters

and none of this, none of this matters.


—Don Paterson



Emptying Out


this poem didn't come from me, poems never do,
it didn't come by thinking what was pleasing, what was true,
it came by unannounced because that's what poems do,
and it left me just as quickly paddling in the blue.


—okei


In that Great River


I don’t write poetry when I wish,
I write when I can’t,
when my larynx is flooded
and my throat is shut.

—Anna Kamieńska,
(June 2010)
“In That Great River: A Notebook”


Forgetfulness


The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

—Billy Collins


Loving You


I take it all back. Life is boring,
except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs.
A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty.
The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet.
Coffee in the morning. These are just moments.
I struggle with the in-betweens.
I just want to never stop loving 
like there is nothing else to do,
because what else is there to do?

—Neruda