It was spring and the villagers came to life as though they were waking from a long winter sleep. From sunrise to sunset, the Xhosa people worked in the fields, preparing the dry ground for seeds. As they loosened the iron hard earth with hoes, they dreamed of the first spring rains that would soften the ground and bring life to their planting.
Khethani had been dreaming of the rain that never came for many seasons now. The drought-stricken village in which he lived had had just enough grain to see them through the winter. Still, Khethani was hopeful and worked long hours in his fields.
One night, while the people slept, a bird perched on top of a tree near Khethani’s field and said:
‘Weeds, grow again in Khethani’s field.’
The weeds obeyed the bird and when Khethani and his wife arrived at their field the next morning, they were surprised to find their land unweeded.
‘That’s strange,’ said Khethani, ‘the land we dug up yesterday is covered over with weeds again.’
‘We must start again,’ said his wife, picking up her hoe. The sun warmed their backs and by the time they returned home with the other villagers at sunset, Khethani and his wife were stiff and tired, but satisfied that their work had been done.
That night the bird returned and gave the same order: ‘Weeds, grow again in Khethani’s field.’
The next morning, when Khethani and his wife saw that their land was covered with weeds again, they cried out to their neighbours in despair.
‘Perhaps this has happened because you are lazy,’ other villagers laughed.
Once again, Khethani and his wife started uprooting the weeds and worked until sunset. When the smoke from the first fires danced above the rooftops in the village, Khethani said to his wife:
‘I am going to hide near our field tonight and see who or what is destroying all our hard work. You wait for me at home.’
As he lay in wait, Khethani saw a bird hover above a tree and then land on one of its silhouetted branches. It was such a beautiful bird that he fixed his gaze on it. The bird flew down and hopped along the ground, and Khethani was utterly amazed Then he heard the bird say: ‘Weeds, grow again in Khethani’s field.’
Khethani was so angry that he ran at the bird and was about to grab it, when the bird cried out: Khethani, don’t harm me. If you spare my life, I’ll make milk for you.’
‘First you need to restore our fields,’ said Khethani angrily. ‘You have given us extra work.
The bird fluttered its wings and said: ‘fields of Khethani, become weeded again.’ And Khethani watched as the weeds became uprooted and then ordered the bird to make milk for him. He took out a calabash and the bird filled it with thick warm milk.
Khethani savoured the milk as it slithered down his dry throat. It had been a very long time since he had tasted milk.
Khethani hid the bird in his bag, and when he arrived home he said to his wife: ‘Wash all the largest pots we have.’
‘What for? You are teasing me!’ said his wife. ‘You know that we are experiencing famine and are hungry. What food do you intend to store in the pots?’
‘Just follow my instructions and you will soon see,’ said Khethani.
When the pots were clean, Khethani gathered his sleepy children around the pots and told them to watch. He took out the bird and said:
‘Bird, Bird make sour milk for my thirsty family.’ The children watched in awe as the beautiful bird made sour milk for them, filling all the pots.
‘Just remember, children,’ said Khethani, ‘tell no one about this bird. Not even your best friends.’
The next day, happily fed, Khethani and his wife continued to cultivate their fields. It would soon be time to plant maize, beans and pumpkins.
One day, when the children of the village were playing near Khethani’s house, little Nomsa said: ‘Children of Khethani, why is it that you are fat and we are so thin?’
Khethani’s children looked at each other and said: ‘But we are no fatter than you are.’
But the children of the village did not believe them and kept nagging and nagging Khethani’s children to tell them their secret. Eventually, Khethani’s young daughter whispered: ‘There is a special bird in our father’s house that makes thick milk for us.’
‘Can we see it?’ the children asked in disbelief.
Checking that their parents were still working in the fields, Khethani’s children led their inquisitive friends into the quiet house.
‘Where is it?’ asked one of the children, looking around curiously.
Khethani’s daughter took the beautiful bird from the secret place where it was hidden and asked it to make milk for all the children. Obediently, the bird did as it was asked and, after drinking the sour milk, the children said: ‘Let the bird free for a little while so that it can fly around and stretch its wings. It is such a beautiful bird!’
Suddenly, the bird flew out of the house and, stretching its wings, soared high into the cloudy sky. ‘Our father will be very angry,’ cried Khethani’s eldest child. ‘We must follow the bird. Quickly!’
All day long the children chased the bird, not even stopping when they had a stitch in their side. When the bird rested on the ground, they tried to grab it, but it took off again, landing in trees – always out of the children’s reach.
As the sun neared the hills in the west, the villagers left their fields and returned to their homes. Khethani looked at the grey clouds and said to his wife: ‘We are sure to have rain tonight. Look at those mountains of cloud. But where are the children? They normally run to greet us.’
They searched the house and yard frantically and ‘when Khethani saw that the bird was missing too, he knew what must have happened.
The setting sun was darkened by heavy clouds and the light disappeared quickly. The village children were a long way from home and feared a storm.
‘Let us forget about the bird and return to our parents. Listen to the thunder roaring in the distance.’
‘Do not be afraid,’ said one of the older boys, ‘I will look after you all.’
So the boy made a shelter for all the children and they gathered wild roots, and toasted them on a fire. As they were eating, a cruel old man mysteriously appeared from the shadows and demanded their food. They were terrified.
‘Give him the roots,’ said the elder boy, and while the man gobbled up the food, the children escaped, running as fast as a buck. But when they turned around, they saw that he was following them …
‘Let’s hide in that forest,’ said the boy, leading them to a dark forest at the foot of a mountain.
‘You’ll be safe here,’ he assured them. ‘Climb that tree and stay there.’ So the children sat shivering in the dark, clutching the branches of the tree.
After a while, the children saw a bird with the largest wing-span they had ever seen. It appeared out of the darkness and hovered over them.
‘Cling to me,’ said the eagle, ‘I will take you home.’
Flying through the darkness of the cool night, the bird took the first children home. Then he returned again and again, trailing the sky with his keweekewee until all the children were safely home.
Khethani and the other parents were so relieved.
‘Where have you been?’ they asked.
‘We thought you would be angry when the bird escaped so we chased it,’ cried the eldest child.
‘I am so relieved you are safe,’ said their mother.
The milk bird never returned, but Khethani, ever hopeful, said: ‘We are sure to have rain soon so that our crops will grow and flourish.’
And as he said this, the first drops of rain hit the dry, iron-hard earth.
Milk of Africa
Amasi, or maas, is a thick, naturally soured milk, rather like yoghurt, enjoyed by many southern African people. This curdled milk, like most dairy products, is not only very nourishing and healthy but is also quite cheap and forms the basis of many traditional tribal dishes. Amasi may be mixed with vegetables, and is also used to make cottage cheese. Because it is so popular and is part of the staple diet of many people, amasi can now also be bought in shops.