Curtis D Cushman | The Innocents of Eden

The first story in I Lay a Stone in Zion is this retelling of the Garden of Eden told by storyteller. M’ba Kouma is based on a real man, but, although he could tell great stories, I wrote this one.

THE INNOCENTS OF EDEN

As told by

M’Ba Kouma

Curtis D Cushman

We were camped near Nobéré in Burkina Faso, West Africa when we were invited one evening by the Grand Chef to visit. That evening I walked over, and found my African prospectors there, among them M’Ba Kouma. I sat down with them on a banco bench. The local schoolteacher was there to translate for the Grand Chef and the many others of the village who didn’t speak French and Moré. We drank dolo millet beer around a fire as the Harmattan wind, early after the rains, was cold at this time of year. After some gossip and local news, stories were told. This one was from M’Ba Kouma, who mixed his good French with terms of Moré, his native tongue. Thus, the mix of words as I recollect them.

Most every wind has a name.

This one tonight we call the Harmattan. But north, across the great empty land, there is the Haboob, and, chez les Blancs, across the sea, they speak of the Mistral. There are simple names, too; the East Wind, the Wind from the Sea, and Ouragan, the pre-rain wind. There are such names for them in all places.

Like our winds, we have named our villages and cities: Ouagdougou, Fada N’Gourma, Niamey, and of course, Nobéré. And we name our children so we know them and they remember us: Sibiri, Boulabo, Lansané, and Tasséré.

But, as even the world had its beginning, so all things in the world had to come to be at some time. And so it was, long ago, when names were brought into the world.

Toward the setting sun there was a garden; created by the Almighty whose name to us is Wêna. The garden was green and golden, glowing in the light, rich in color and smells. These things had no names, but Wêna had reached forth His hand and the garden blossomed between the four great rivers.

To the sunrise flowed what we now call the winding Bougariba, and, to the sunset, the precious Longo. Toward the North Star went the great Bafing, or the Volta Noire, which turns to flow to the Great Sea. Finally, in the direction of the Southern Cross flowed the wide and nourishing Comoé.

Wêna made it all. The rocks, the plants, even the blessing of sunlight and the faces of the moon, the changing lamp in Wêna’s own night. He made the winds and the rivers. The great garden He made flourished as a home for new life, and Wêna had decided that the blessed would dwell there. So, there came the day when Wêna created His beloved animals and placed those he could within the garden. Those others who live in the deeps, He placed in his great rivers, or further on in the sea, or lakes, where they swam in the blessed waters flowing from the garden.

Some of the animals flew, some hid, some strutted, and some crawled. There were animals that swarmed, and others that lived alone: all according to their place in Wêna’s garden.

In the center of the garden jutted a great rock some call a kopje. Not very tall, it looked out over the garden plains where gathered the animals. Wêna stood there in front of a vast and leafy tree, its large red fruit aglow in the sunlight. This was the acacia in the center of the garden of creation.

Wêna looked out and saw the animals. His goodness was such and His love so deep He had made many more than He had planned to make. They were everywhere in the garden and the fountains of the earth. But, the garden was not to be theirs alone. Wêna thought “I could use some help.”

“I have My eyes upon you.” He said to the animals, and His voice reached every one. “And this garden is, only in part, yours. You shall share it now.

“Wêna sees all, and I tell you, you must all be named, for you will be part of all the earth.”

The animals, unafraid, did not understand. Part of the earth? Were they not so, already? They chattered or chaffed, brayed or barked; each wondered in its own way.

Then, there was one like Wêna, but not so grand, alongside Him.

“This is Adam; he is man. He shall have dominion over you, here, in this garden. But, as there are so many of you, it is right he give you your names.”

Adam was ebony with shining eyes. He walked upright, on two legs, with none of the awkwardness of other two-legged animals; it was the graceful movement of the spirit of Wêna flowing through him. The animals awaited his presence, his touch, and they heard his words.

“You are great in size and strength, grey one, and I hear the might of your voice. I shall name you Wobogo.

“And you, swimming in the stream, a smooth name shall be yours: Ziima.” And so he went to each and all. The chattering ones playing in the trees he named Wamba, and the great cat became Boyêega. The green croaker in the pond was named Louanga, the little wooly one, Pesgo.

These he named, there in the fastness of the garden. We would now call them Elephant, Fish, Monkey, Lion, Frog, and Sheep. But, there were so many more.

Wêna looked out and saw the work Adam was doing, and knew he could not be alone. So when Adam had finished and returned to the side of Wêna, from him was brought forth his woman, Ève, by the great power of Wêna.

Then Wêna told them of all the growing things to be tended in the garden; Ki to make Sagabo and Maana, Suuma and We-tiiga. Thus there was millet for dough, okra for gumbos, peas, and baobab whose great pods gave monkey bread. All the other trees were named, as well, including the green lemon, the banana, and the precious mango that Wêna Himself called the “fruit of life.”

Now, Wêna spoke to Adam and Ève as well as the animals, and told them that the fruit of the great acacia was not to be eaten; it was the tree of knowledge, and was the roof of the garden. It was the sacred totem of Wêna whose roots held together the black soil of the garden and from whose branches fell the water that fed the great rivers after the rainy season. Its fruit was blessed and sacred.

Wêna then took Adam and Ève into the garden, to view the yam fields. There was at first great silence among the animals, then sounds of wonder and the odd noise of a growing hunger.

Now, there was one animal who was wusro néré: great in beauty. He moved like a cobra, but was the color of sand and leaf and black-of-night, with a restless tongue of fire-red and horns above deep wedge eyes.

But inside, his beauty was trapped by his own jealousy and envy. What might have been radiance failed to glow. Still, he had such assurance in himself that, when he climbed the low rock, the animals waited for him to speak.