My father once told me, when the world was still a safe place of bedtime stories, soft baby sisters, and gentle mothers, that before people arose from the Pool of Life, the Great Spirit created the first goddess in human form. This goddess, the Great Mother Mai, was created so that she could make the stars, the sun, and the earth, he had explained as I sat at his feet, a small boy, eager for his stories.
“When she finished her task, the Great Mother Mai was lonely,” my father said in his deep, serious voice. “And she wept so many tears that the stars trembled and fell from the sky.”
“But how can stars fall from the sky, Baba?” I asked, imagining a black void in the heavens.
“Oh, but they can, Patson, and when they do they can cause great damage,” my father replied. “So the Great Spirit commanded the goddess to stop her tears of loneliness, but she replied that she could not stop crying until she had a companion to comfort her. ‘Who can I talk to in my lonely hours?’ she asked the Great Spirit. ‘I have only the barren plains, the silent mountains, and the stupid stars that twinkle foolishly at me,’ she wailed. The Great Spirit took pity on Mai and agreed to grant her wish for a companion. ‘But what manner of companion will you send me?’ she asked. The Great Spirit replied that as she was a female her companion shall be her opposite, and thus be a male. Well, Mai was so happy with this news she grew four immense breasts, each with a sharp pointed nipple of emerald green—”
“Joseph, stop embroidering!” My mother laughed, holding Grace asleep in her arms. “Patson, don’t listen to your father. Mai did not grow four breasts, as much as your father might like that to be true.”
Like all good storytellers, my father paused to pour his tea, and debate the issue at length with my mother, while I waited at his feet ever so still. When he continued, it wasn’t about breasts or nipples but rather about how curious Mai was about the companion promised to her by the Great Spirit.
“Well, being the only woman on earth, the Great Mother Mai was vain and wanted to know if her mysterious companion would be as beautiful as she was. The Great Spirit thought for a while and then said, ‘In the boundless reaches of infinity nothing is ugly—nothing is beautiful.’”
I threw myself backward on the floor, and my father laughed at my puzzled expression. “That doesn’t make sense, Baba.”
“Of course it does, Patson. Remember, all that is created is equal in the eyes of the Great Spirit,” he explained. “There is nothing ugly or beautiful. All that the Great Spirit created is good. Do you understand?”
I nodded, in part just to keep the story going, and sat up again.
“Well, the Great Spirit told her that the male would bring her contentment and that together they would bring forth life upon earth,” he continued. “‘But what will he look like?’ Mai asked a second time. ‘Will he be as lovely as I?’ But the Great Spirit only insisted that she had to be patient.
“Oh, how the Great Mother Mai burned with curiosity, wondering what kind of contentment her companion would bring, and wishing, above all else, that he be as beautiful as she. And so she waited impatiently for the first rays of light,” my father said, smiling over at my mother gently shaking her head at him. “As you know, Patson, women can be very impatient with men—”
“Only because men can be so difficult,” retorted my mother.
“When Mai thought she could wait no longer, she heard an awful voice call out hoarsely to her. ‘Come, oh, my mate, I await thee here,’” my father said in a low, gravelly voice, which made me shiver.
Fever chills dragged me back into the never-ending humming of the taxi’s tires on tar, and the bright lights, rattle, and rush of a passing truck. Then foreign words from splintered conversations broke into the story and I heard my name over and over again.
“Patson? Patson, are you all right?”
“The kid looks bad.”
“But he is strong. Two more hours to Bloemfontein. There we fill up, have something to eat, and your shift begins.”
“Relax, Boubacar, there is still time. We will be in Cape Town well before the train.”
Their words melted into the droning of the engine and I willed my father’s voice to return.
“She was so excited, Patson, that with a cry of joy she stretched out her arms to welcome her companion. Then, in a thundering cloud of dust, boulders began to move from beneath the mountainside, and hungry limbs reached out of the ground for her lithe, beautiful form. At first she called to him, ‘My mate! My mate, I am here,’ but then she grew silent seeing that the limbs that reached for her were not arms anything like her own.”
“What was it, Baba? What came out of the mountain?”
“Must you excite the boy so just before he goes to bed, Joseph?” chided my mother, but I knew she listened as eagerly as I did.
“Well now, what do you think it might be, Patson?”
“I don’t know, Baba, tell me.”
“They were the arms of a creeping vine, whose bark was studded with jagged pieces of granite and diamonds. Those branches had sprung from the top of the biggest baobab tree that had ever grown on earth. And from the middle of the monstrous trunk emerged dozens of bulging, bloodshot eyes, burning with hunger for Mai—”
“Easy, Joseph,” warned my mother.
“Beneath the eyes a wicked mouth grinned, and a long green tongue, like the hide of a crocodile, licked its granite lips. ‘Come, my beloved, come to me!’” said my father in that same low voice. “Then the tree roared, and its vines drew Mai close. Its diamond-studded mouth bruised her silvery lips with a savage kiss. ‘I am the Tree of Life, thy mate, and I desire thee!’”
I screamed in disgust, but my mother laughed. “Joseph, stop it. He’ll wake up Grace.”
But my father’s story was in full flight, and his voice took on the panicked, breathy tones of the goddess. “‘No,’ cried Mai, ‘you are not my mate. You are an ugly, monstrous thing, release me!’ But the tree laughed and drew her ever closer. ‘You are my heart’s desire. I did not catch you only to release you,’ he said as more branches held her even tighter to him, until the baobab towered over her and—”
“Okay, Joseph, that’s enough,” interrupted my mother. “I think Patson knows what happened next.”
I looked from my father’s twinkling eyes to the blush on my mother’s cheeks. “I know, I know! They made jiggy-jiggy,” I said proudly, and much to the delight of my parents.
“Well, in a manner of speaking, Patson, they did.” He laughed. “But when the tree finally released Mai, she fled across the plains and complained bitterly to the Great Spirit about the horrible mate he had given her. ‘You have had your wish—now what more do you want?’ was his reply.”
My mother shook her head, settled Grace on a blanket, and picked up the story, this time cradling me in her arms. She told me how the terrified goddess fled into a valley to get away from the hideous tree, but no matter how far or how fast she fled, the Tree of Life pursued her.
“You see, Patson, the tree was on fire with love. And like any young man,” she said, looking at my father, “he had no wish to let his bride return home to her mother.”
“Indeed,” my father said, chuckling.
“After many years of flight and pursuit, the tree and the goddess plunged into the waters of the great Kariba lake. There Mai streaked through the water like a silvery fish and then soared like an owl into the night sky. Below, her mate lay stuck in mud until a desperate idea pierced his sluggish, wooden brain—”
“Not so sluggish,” interrupted my father.
“He searched for a mighty round rock at the bottom of the lake, which he rolled into a ball, and in one lightning movement, with all his branches combined, he hurled it upward at the object of his love, now almost lost to him in the stars,” she said.
“Straight and true went the soaring ball,” continued my father, “and the goddess, feeling a great blow on her silvery head, plunged back through the stars, the clouds, and the air, limp and unconscious—”
“But to save her,” cut in my mother, “the great, ugly tree caught her in his outstretched limbs. ‘My dearest beloved,’ he crooned, ‘I do so love thee.’”
“Meanwhile,” said my father, “the great ball that had bounced off the goddess’s head went into orbit and became our own shining moon.”
I opened my eyes to see that moon moving rapidly through clouds, and the faraway sound of music from a radio pulled me back into the car. I didn’t want to leave my father and mother or the warm embrace of their love. The story was not over yet, but my mouth was dry, and Stumpy was restless.
“Water. Can I have some water?”
A bottle was placed in my hand, and I drank mouthful after mouthful, not caring that some of it spilled down my shirt. It felt cool against my burning chest.
“How much farther?”
Boubacar listed the names of towns we had passed and others yet to come, but all meant nothing to me.
“Who’s snoring so loudly?”
“Regis,” he said. “We’re taking turns driving. We’ve got the Karroo desert ahead of us, but as soon as we get to Cape Town, you’re going to a hospital, Patson.”
“But what about Grace? I can’t—”
“I will find her.”
I reached inside my kitbag and saw that there were no new messages from her, and not enough ointment left to make any difference in Stumpy’s mood. I lay back again, searching for the moon racing through the clouds.
And my mother’s arms encircled me while my father leaned forward and gently stroked her cheek.
“Then the Great Spirit, in his almighty wisdom, declared the moon the Guardian of Love,” said my mother.
“And to this day the moon makes lovers seek each other’s arms, and wives the comfort of their children’s father,” my father added, looking meaningfully into my mother’s eyes.
“You see how romantic your father is becoming, little half-and-half,” said my mother with a shy smile.
“Stop it, Baba, now you’re looking silly,” I squealed.
“Time for bed, young man,” he said, picking me up and carrying me on his shoulders. “Your mother and I need time alone to work out some of the details of the story that were not fully told.”
He laid me down in my bed, running his hand over my head. “One day you will tell this story to your own children, Patson. Think what a fine day that will be. And you must always remember, the story you tell makes you who you are.”