The Tortoise and the Birds

Long, long ago, when the sky was so close to the earth that a tall man could touch it with the tip of his fishing rod, the birds of the forest received an invitation. The people of the sky were holding a great feast, and every winged creature in the land of the trees had been called to come and eat until their bellies refused another grain.

The news spread from palm to palm. Parrot told Hornbill. Hornbill told Dove. Dove told Weaverbird. By the time the moon had risen twice, every bird in the forest was preening its feathers and practising the songs it would sing for the sky people.

Now Mbe the tortoise — who had ears that could hear a whisper across two villages — heard the news as he was sunning himself by the river. His eyes shone. His neck stretched long. "A feast," he said softly, "and Mbe is not invited?" The thought lay on his chest like a hot stone.

That evening he went from tree to tree, bowing low before every bird. "My friends," he said, "my own friends. You who have always treated Mbe as your brother. I beg you — lend me one feather each, so that I too may fly to this feast. I will tell stories that will make the sky people laugh until their roofs shake. I will bring honour to the whole forest."

The birds looked at one another. They remembered the time Mbe had tricked Eagle out of his goat meat. They remembered the snail business, and the matter of the missing yams. But Tortoise spoke so sweetly, and the moon was bright, and at last each bird agreed and plucked one feather from its own body for him.

When they were done, Mbe stood up in a coat of many colours such as no creature had ever worn — red from parrot, blue from kingfisher, white from egret, black from crow, gold from weaverbird. He turned slowly in the firelight, and the birds gasped.

"My friends," said Tortoise, "there is one last thing. In the land of the sky, custom demands that every guest take a new name for the journey. I shall take mine first, so that the sky people know how to address me when we arrive."

The birds, who knew nothing of the customs of the sky, nodded.

"My name," Tortoise said, slow and grand, "shall be All of You."

At dawn the great flock rose into the air, and in the middle of them flew Mbe in his borrowed feathers, his small heart drumming with joy. They climbed past the tallest iroko, past the clouds, past the wind itself, until they came to the wide compound of the sky people, where palm wine ran in calabashes and yam pounded itself in mortars and the smell of pepper soup pulled tears from the eyes.

The sky people welcomed every guest with bows. They set down platter after platter — pounded yam soft as a pillow, egusi shining with red oil, stockfish, bushmeat, snails the size of a child's fist. Then the master of the feast stood up and spread his hands.

"My honoured guests," he said, "in this house, all the food you see has been prepared for you. Eat. It belongs to all of you."

Mbe rose at once. "My friends," he said to the birds, "you heard our host. He said the food is for All of You. And All of You — that is my name. I shall not be rude and refuse a gift."

The birds opened their beaks, but custom is custom, and the sky people only smiled and clapped. Mbe ate. He ate the pounded yam. He ate the egusi. He ate the bushmeat down to the last bone. He drank palm wine until his cheeks shone. The birds watched, hungry and humiliated, while their borrowed feathers trembled on Tortoise's back.

When at last the platters were empty and Mbe lay groaning with a stomach round as a war drum, the birds gathered in a corner. No one spoke. Then, one by one, each bird walked up to Tortoise and plucked back its own feather.

Mbe sat naked and shining in his shell, blinking. "My friends," he said weakly, "how shall I get home?"

The birds were already in the sky.

Only Parrot turned back. "Mbe," he said, "is there any message I should carry to your wife?"

"Yes," said Tortoise, thinking fast. "Tell her to bring out everything soft in our house — the mats, the pillows, the heaps of cocoyam leaves, the bundles of cloth — and spread them in our compound, so that when I jump down from the sky I shall land softly."

Parrot smiled the smile of a bird who has just been called a fool one too many times. He flew to Tortoise's wife and said, "Your husband says you must bring out every hard thing in the house — the hoes, the cutlasses, the mortar, the stones, the broken pots — and pile them in the compound for his landing."

Tortoise's wife obeyed.

When Mbe finally let go of the sky, he fell for a long, long time. The wind whistled in his ears. He saw his compound coming up to meet him. He smiled. Then he hit the heap of stones and broken pots with such force that his beautiful smooth shell shattered into pieces.

He did not die — Mbe never dies. But for many moons he lay still while a kind herbalist gathered the pieces of his shell and glued them back together with sap and song.

And that, my children, is why to this day the back of every tortoise you meet in the bush is criss-crossed with the lines of an old breaking — the map of a feast he should never have stolen.