One afternoon, the senior wife of a great Chief gave a command that set the rhythm of the day. “Quickly, grind the mealie into flour. Prepare enough to feed fifty men. Tomorrow the Chief departs to hunt elephants.” The women obeyed at once, and the pounding of grain filled the kraal until the work was done.
The following morning, the Chief left with his hunters and slaves. The village fell quiet, nearly emptied of men. Left behind were two of his wives, Ndime’s mother, the senior wife, and Nsere’s mother, the junior wife. Each bore a child: Ndime, a handsome boy, and Nsere, a sweet little girl.
Though both women felt the sting of loneliness without their husband, they coped in different ways. Ndime’s mother busied herself with chores, sweeping and preparing the homestead for the Chief’s return. Nsere’s mother, restless and consumed by solitude, sat idly outside her kraal as the hours dragged on.
That evening, she called out with a pleading voice, “Sister, may I take Ndime to my hut tonight? Let him sleep beside Nsere. I feel so alone.”
Wishing to keep her home neat for her husband, Ndime’s mother agreed.
The children ate together, played for a while, and then lay under a single blanket. As night deepened, the half-moon glimmered through the thatched roof. Nsere’s mother entered and paused to gaze at them. Her eyes fell on Ndime. His face shone with innocence and beauty, more striking than her own daughter’s. Memories stirred, how the Chief adored him, kissing him and patting him with joy.
A surge of envy gripped her heart. “Heaven help me I cannot bear the sight!” she muttered, trembling with rage. She paced, entered and left the hut, torn between madness and desire to act. Her mind hardened with jealousy.
She fetched firewood, kindled a flame, and thrust a knife into the fire until it glowed red. As clouds swallowed the moon, she crept toward the sleeping children. But fate intervened: in his slumber, Ndime stirred, rolled to the other side, and unknowingly drew the blanket over both children.
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Driven blind by envy, the woman pressed the heated blade into the child she thought was Ndime. A shrill cry pierced the night, then silence. She pulled back the blanket and froze in horror. It was Nsere, her own daughter. She wailed, “Ma! Ma! I have killed my own Nsere!”
Grief gave way to fear. She stifled her sobs, realizing she must hide her crime. Believing Ndime too young to recall what he saw, she stuffed the little body into a large pot and hid it in a corner. What she did not know was that Ndime, though terrified, had kept awake, silently watching from under the blanket.
Before dawn, shaken and fearful of his mother too, Ndime slipped away. “If my stepmother could kill her own child, would my mother not do the same?” his childish reasoning whispered. He wandered the path taken by the hunters until he came upon a large fig tree. Climbing it, he waited for his father’s return.
At last, the sound of singing reached his ears. The hunters came, slaves burdened with tusks and elephant flesh. The Chief, proud of their success, sat beneath the fig tree. As the men rested, a strange song floated from above:
“While you were on your journey,
While you were on your journey,
She killed her own child,
Mistaking Nsere for me,
Mistaking Nsere for me,
She killed her own child.”
The Chief froze. The men stopped roasting meat and lifted their heads. “Is it a bird that sings?” asked one. Another shook his head. “No, it is a boy’s voice.” Soon they discovered Ndime among the branches.
“Ndime, why are you here?” the Chief called.
“Go ask my stepmother,” replied the boy.
“And what do you sing of?” pressed the hunters.
“Go ask my stepmother, not me,” he answered, climbing higher in fear.
The carriers climbed, brought him down gently, and hurried the party back to the village. Word spread, and the people crowded the Chief’s homestead.
“Bring my child Nsere!” the Chief demanded. The junior wife feigned confusion, pretending to search and call. But her performance faltered. Ndime whispered the truth into his father’s ear. Guided by his son, the Chief searched her kraal. Beneath household clutter, he found the pot. Inside lay the lifeless body of Nsere.
The Chief wailed, fainted, and was revived by his people. When he rose, grief hardened into judgment. He ordered the pot placed upon the murderess’s head and commanded her to carry it to the river. Surrounded by villagers’ curses, she was forced into the deep, swirling waters, where she and the pot sank beneath the current.
Moral Lesson
Jealousy blinds the heart and turns love into destruction. The junior wife’s envy of a child’s beauty led her to destroy what she cherished most, her own daughter. This tale warns against letting bitterness rule the spirit, reminding us that unchecked jealousy can consume both the guilty and the innocent.
Knowledge Check
- Who were the two wives left behind in the village?
Ndime’s mother (the senior wife) and Nsere’s mother (the junior wife). - Why did Nsere’s mother ask to keep Ndime in her kraal?
Because she felt lonely during the Chief’s absence. - What drove Nsere’s mother to commit the crime?
Jealousy of Ndime’s beauty and the Chief’s affection for him. - How did Ndime survive the attack?
He unknowingly shifted in his sleep, causing Nsere to take his place under the blanket. - How did the Chief discover the truth?
Ndime revealed it through his song and whispered the details to his father. - What cultural value does this folktale highlight?
The dangers of jealousy, the importance of truth, and justice within the Bemba community.
Folktale Origin Source: Bemba folktale, Zambia. Collected in Folktales of Zambia (see: Chiman L. Vyas, comp., “Folktales of Zambia” collection)
