How Anansi Won the Stories

Every old story in the world carries a name behind it, though few people ever stop to ask. Long ago, every one of those stories, without a single exception, carried the same name. They were the stories of Nyankupon, the god of the sky.

In the Akan lands, most of which are now part of Ghana, every storyteller sat by the fire each evening and opened with the same familiar line: This is a story of Nyankupon. No one could claim an old story as their own, because all of them had belonged to the sky god since the earliest times. In the middle of a certain forest lived a small spider named Anansi. Every day he heard that familiar opening ring out beside the fire. He heard it again and again, until a wish stirred in him that he could not quiet. If only those old stories carried his own name.

With that thought, Anansi set out to see Nyankupon. He wound his way up through layer after layer of cloud to the place where the sky god lived. Anansi said that he wished to rename all the old stories, so that from then on they would be called the stories of Anansi instead of the stories of Nyankupon. Nyankupon laughed when he heard it. It was the laugh of a god who saw at once how small the creature before him was. Very well, Nyankupon said, but you must bring me three things: a jar full of live bees, a long python, and a leopard. Bring me all three, and I will change the name as you wish.

Anansi took a small clay jar and went to a great beehive hanging from the branch of an ancient tree. The humming rose from it without pause. Standing right below it, Anansi pretended to mutter to himself, just loudly enough for the whole hive to hear. Surely these bees could never all fit into this tiny jar, Anansi said. Then he argued with himself. And yet, who knows, perhaps they really could. The bees were furious that anyone should doubt what they could do. They swarmed straight into the mouth of the jar, crowding in until the very last bee was inside. Anansi smiled. Quickly he sealed the jar with a large leaf and tied it fast with a few loops of forest vine.

With the jar of bees in hand, Anansi went on his way. He came to the bank of a stream, where a long python lay coiled in the shade of a tree, resting. Anansi was carrying a straight bamboo pole. He laid it down beside the snake and muttered to himself, just as before. This python can't be as long as this pole, Anansi said aloud. Whoever heard of a python that long? The python heard him and took deep offense. It stretched its whole long body straight out against the pole to prove him wrong. That was just what Anansi had been waiting for. At once he wound forest vine around both python and pole, binding them tight as one. However hard the python twisted, it could no longer pull free of the pole.

Two of the three things were in hand. Only the leopard remained, and it was the hardest. Anansi sat down in a clearing in the forest. He took some broad leaves, wove them into a thick blindfold, and tied it over his own eyes. Once his eyes were covered, he groped his way forward, crying out in delight. Oh, without his ordinary eyes he could see so many wonders, more beautiful than anything he had ever seen in his life. A leopard happened to pass by. When it heard those words, its curiosity was more than it could bear. It begged Anansi to blindfold it too, so that it could see such wonders. Anansi pretended to hesitate a little, then agreed. He carefully wrapped leaves over the leopard's eyes and tied them neatly with a soft cord. With its eyes covered, the leopard could see nothing at all. It let Anansi take hold of one end of the cord and lead it, step by step, straight to the home of Nyankupon.

Anansi came before Nyankupon with all three things. The jar of bees was still humming inside. The python was bound tight to the bamboo pole. The blindfolded leopard ambled along behind. Nyankupon looked at all three and could not hide his amazement. Here was a small spider, with neither the strength of an elephant nor the claws of a leopard. Yet he had done what many stronger creatures might never manage. Nyankupon nodded and declared then and there that from that day on, the old stories of the world would no longer bear the name of the sky god. They would bear the name of Anansi.

His promise kept, Nyankupon ordered the cords untied and the jar opened right there. As soon as the leaf came off the mouth of the jar, the bees poured out. They flew one humming circle in the air, as if saying goodbye, then flew straight back to their old hive in the forest. As soon as the vine loosened, the python slid away from the pole and crept quietly toward its familiar stream. And when the leaves were lifted from its eyes, the leopard blinked a few times to get used to the light. Then it too strolled back into the deep forest. It carried no grudge at all, only a strange story to tell all the other creatures.

From that day, no one began an old story with the name of Nyankupon anymore. Beside the Akan fires, the opening line took a new name: This is a story of Anansi. That holds for the stories that came before, and for those still to be told long after. The name belongs to the small spider who once traveled all through the old forest and gathered a whole store of stories for humankind.