Anansi and the Sky God

In the earliest days, there were no stories on earth. The people could talk about the weather, the harvest and the work before them, but when darkness gathered around the cooking fires, they had no tales to make them laugh, wonder or remember. All stories belonged to Nyame, the Sky God, who kept them in a great chest in the heavens.

Anansi wanted those stories for the people. He spun a silken thread to the sky and climbed until he stood before Nyame.

“Great Nyame,” Anansi said, “I have come to buy your stories.”

The Sky God laughed. Powerful chiefs had offered gold, ivory and armies for the stories and had gone away empty-handed. How could a small spider pay their price?

“Bring me Onini the python, Osebo the leopard, Mmoboro the hornets and Mmoatia the fairy,” Nyame said. “Do that, and the stories are yours.”

Anansi returned to earth and told his wife, Aso, about the bargain. Together they considered each task.

“Nyame chose creatures stronger and more dangerous than you,” Aso said. “Do not meet strength with strength. Watch each one carefully. Pride, hunger, anger and fear can open doors that force cannot.”

Anansi thanked her. He gathered a long palm branch, strong vines, a calabash, water, a wooden doll, sticky latex from a tree and a bowl of soft mashed yam. Then he set out before sunrise. He would take the four prizes one at a time and secure each beneath a silk-cotton tree until the price was complete.

First Anansi went to the path where Onini rested. Speaking loudly to himself, he said, “Aso insists that the palm branch is longer than Onini. I say the python is longer, but she will not believe me.”

Onini raised his head. “Measure me and prove it.”

He stretched beside the branch. Whenever he bent, Anansi said the measurement was unfair. The proud python allowed Anansi to tie his head, middle and tail straight against the branch. When the last knot was secure, Anansi carried him away.

Onini soon realised that the argument had been invented, but by then every coil was bound. Anansi did not injure him. He lifted the branch onto his shoulder, carried the python to the silk-cotton tree and fastened the branch safely among its roots.

“One part of Nyame’s price is paid,” Anansi said. “Three remain.”

Next Anansi dug a deep pit on Osebo’s path and covered it with leaves. The leopard fell in. Anansi offered to rescue him by lowering a strong web. As Osebo climbed, Anansi tangled his paws and pulled him from the pit as a captive.

The full trick took patience. When Anansi heard Osebo roaring below, he peered over the rim and pretended to be shocked.

“Friend Osebo, how did a hunter as mighty as you fall into such a place?”

“Stop asking questions and pull me out!” the leopard snarled.

Anansi bent a tall sapling toward the pit and tied it down with his web. “Fasten your tail to this end. When I cut the binding, the tree will lift you into the air.”

Osebo agreed. The sapling sprang upright and left the leopard hanging above the ground. Before Osebo could free himself, Anansi wrapped him securely in webbing. Then he brought him to the silk-cotton tree beside Onini.

“Two parts of Nyame’s price are paid,” he said. “Two remain.”

For Mmoboro, Anansi filled a calabash with water. He poured some over himself and splashed the rest onto the hornets’ nest.

“The rain is coming!” he cried. “Fly into my dry gourd before the storm destroys your home.”

The hornets hurried inside. Anansi sealed the opening.

Anansi had first poured water over the nest and over his own head so that the hornets would believe a storm had begun. He held a broad leaf above himself and called to them with great concern.

“Mmoboro, the rain will beat your wings and wash away your home. My calabash is dry. Take shelter quickly!”

The first hornets flew inside and reported that the gourd was safe. The rest followed in a humming cloud. When the final hornet entered, Anansi plugged the mouth with grass and tied it shut. He hung the calabash from the silk-cotton tree, far enough from Onini and Osebo to keep every captive safe.

“Three parts of Nyame’s price are paid,” he said. “One remains.”

Last came Mmoatia, the fairy who was difficult to approach. Following Aso’s advice, Anansi carved a small wooden doll, covered it with sticky tree gum and placed a bowl of mashed yam before it. When the fairy found the food, she thanked the doll. The doll did not answer. Insulted by its silence, Mmoatia touched it and became stuck. Anansi stepped from hiding and carefully secured his final prize.

Anansi knew that Mmoatia danced beneath a particular odum tree when people had gone home for the night. He placed the doll there, ran a vine from its neck to his hiding place and waited. When Mmoatia arrived, she saw the food and asked the doll whether she might eat. Anansi pulled the vine so that the doll appeared to nod.

Mmoatia ate and thanked the doll. It remained silent. She thanked it again, louder. Still there was no reply.

“If you ignore me once more, I shall strike you,” Mmoatia warned.

The doll said nothing. Mmoatia slapped it and one hand stuck fast. Furious, she struck it with the other hand; that hand stuck too. She pushed it with one foot and then the other until she could no longer escape. Only then did Anansi leave his hiding place. He bound the doll and Mmoatia gently with his web and carried them to the others.

All four challenges were complete, but Anansi did not boast. He remembered Aso’s plans, the patience each trick required and how easily any one of them could have failed.

He carried all four captives to the sky. Nyame called the heavenly court together and announced that Anansi had paid the price no chief or warrior could pay.

Messengers came from every corner of the sky. Nyame inspected Onini, Osebo, Mmoboro and Mmoatia and found that Anansi had delivered exactly what had been demanded. The Sky God, who had expected his price to be impossible, could not hide his astonishment.

“Great rulers offered riches,” Nyame told the assembly. “Strong warriors promised victories. None completed the task. Kwaku Anansi was small beside every creature I named, yet he used thought, preparation and the counsel of his household. A bargain made by the Sky God must be honoured.”

“From this day,” Nyame declared, “the stories belong to Anansi and shall be called Anansesem—Anansi stories.”

Anansi brought the chest to earth and opened it. Stories flew in every direction. They entered homes, marketplaces and royal courts. Grandparents passed them to children; travellers carried them across rivers and oceans; each teller shaped them for a new circle of listeners.

Some stories carried laughter. Some warned against greed or pride. Some explained why animals behave as they do, and others remembered the deeds of people who had lived long before. The more often the stories were told, the more they multiplied. A listener would carry a tale to another village, and the next teller would give it a new rhythm while guarding its heart.

Anansi discovered that owning the stories did not mean locking them away. His honour came from setting them in motion. The stories belonged to his name, but they lived only on the breath of everyone who told and heard them.

That is why, when an Anansi story is told, people remember the small spider who reached the sky through courage and wit—and they also remember Aso, whose good counsel helped make the impossible possible.