Anansi and the Figs (Prefix)
The big fig tree by the town has the best figs in all the wood. Its branches bend low with sweet, ripe figs. But this year, the wasps defend every last one.
The wasps sting all who come near. They sting goats, hens, and kids. They even sting old Gran, who drops her basket and beats a fast retreat. For seven days the town eats only plain yams. No figs for the kids. No figs at all.
Anansi the spider hears the fuss, and his own belly growls too. He does love figs. He goes to the tree and calls up to the wasps. 'I will fix this,' he declares. No one thinks Anansi can do it, but no one has a better plan.
First, Anansi finds Kofi the drummer. 'Kofi, take the big drum down to the ravine across the river. Beat it. Beat it slow, and do not stop, no matter what Kofi hears.' Kofi shrugs. He will not protest a spider who pays so well. He tucks the drum under his arm and goes.
Then Anansi climbs a branch near the fig tree, close by, so the wasps turn to watch him. 'Oh, great wasps,' he says, soft and low, 'I come to explain just one thing. The wasps should know.' The whole swarm goes still. Wasps do love to know things.
'There is a new swarm,' says Anansi, 'across the river in the ravine. Big wasps. Loud wasps. They say the buzz here is weak, like a bug too weak to buzz.' He stops. 'They say they are the true kings of this wood.' The swarm roars, keen to defend its name. 'Buzz loud! Prove we are best!' the queen yells, and every wasp buzzes as hard as it can.
Just as the wasps settle back, sure they have won, Kofi's drum rolls across the ravine. Boom, boom, boom, boom. It sounds just like a rival swarm beating its wings. The wasps freeze, unsure how to react. Could that truly be a new swarm, calling out to them?
Anansi leans in. 'Hear that?' he says. 'They mock the wasps here. They drum to say the buzz can't even reach the river.' The queen's eyes blaze. She turns to her swarm. 'We will go and buzz at them till they flee!' she declares. And Anansi nods. 'Yes,' he says. 'Buzz loud! Prove we are best!'
The wasps stream across the sky in a long, roaring line, every last one, off to the ravine. Kofi hears them come. He tucks his drum under his arm and runs up the far bank into the deep wood. The wasps invade the empty ravine, buzzing at rocks and roots, hunting for the rival swarm. No one is there.
Anansi races back to town. 'Come quick! Bring the baskets, all of them!' Folk dash out with pots and baskets and pick figs as fast as they can. The kids eat as they pick. Old Gran fills three baskets. Then, from across the river, comes a mad buzz, growing loud. The wasps decode the trick.
The wasps return, screaming back across the sky. Anansi is still in the fig tree. He grabs one last fat fig, just one, and drops into his web, spinning down so fast he is a brown blur. He hits the ground and runs. The wasps reach a bare tree, and Anansi waves as he slips off to town.
That night, the town feasts on figs and palm soup. Drums play. Kids dance with fig-sticky hands. Anansi sits in the best seat and eats till his belly is round as the full moon. He did not defeat the wasps with muscle or magic. He did it with their own pride, the oldest trick in the wood. The wasps go off and find a new tree, far, far from town. And to this day, when pride drags someone into a foolish fight, the old folk smile and say, 'Buzz loud! Prove we are best!' They know just what comes next.