Once there was a man, lazy from birth, who married a lazy woman. She wouldn’t sweep, wash, or even iron.
They had a child without really trying. They lived happily, doing nothing, nothing at all that required any effort. Sleep- ing like logs, singing and dancing, that’s how they spent their time. Everybody else was heading slowly toward the end of their lives weighted down with work and fatigue, but these lazy people had everything they needed and always had enough to eat.
However, the man got old, without bitterness and without even realizing it. So did the woman. And the child became a man, a big solid fellow, as big as a pillar of the night.
And he never lifted a finger.
He always said that he was tired. And “Why do that?” And “What does that have to do with me?” And he would drag himself around everywhere – when he wasn’t dancing – just like his father, and just like his mother.
The lazy old man had a cousin he didn’t remember. A dis- tant cousin, distant like everything that belonged to the lazy fellow. And that cousin who had no father, no mother, no brothers, no wife, no children, nothing but a nice fertile little plot of land, he just died. Just up and died, without even suf- fering.
His friends laid him out and attended the wake and wept for him in good old African tradition. (They tied a white hand- kerchief around his jaws as if he had a toothache.) They walked around his body several times, saying:
“The cart maker turns, he turns, Oh, and the cart turns too.”
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They recited “Our Father” and “Mary, Queen of Grace!” And they sang:
“Embámbálele, embámbálele, y tú-tú bamba, embámbálele!” And:
“Oh! Imbariya, ta amimian túmba, Aínbariyaya! (My God, look with favor upon my brother lying here!)” The old-timers told stories until the rooster crowed, and af- ter pouring several gourds of water behind the corpse so that his spirit would stay refreshed as it ventured into the next life, they carried him off to the cemetery.
And the lazy man, who counted on nothing but expected ev- erything, found himself the owner of a lush field.
Having something of their own, like everyone else, was so foreign to those lazy folk that for a few days they thought that they had a lot to do. So all three of them went to hoe the field – though they were looking more than working! – complaining all the time of the sore muscles that the excessive work caused them. But they soon grew weary. So weary that they aban- doned the property completely.
One day someone came to tell them that the totíes1
were eat- ing their corn.
The old man shouted, “I’m going to shoot them right away!”
And the next morning he sent his son, who left with a bor- rowed gun and lay down on his back to watch.
He was just beginning to fall asleep when the mayitos2
flocked in. They weren’t totíes at all. Poor birds! They get the bad reputation, but it’s the mayitos who stuff their stomachs.
1. Totíes are blackbirds (Dives atroviolaceus). There is a Cuban saying that may have racial overtones: “The totí is guilty of everything.”
2. The mayito is also a blackbird (Agelaius humeralis), but is smaller than the totí.
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A huge flock of mayitos, led by their chief, hopped around drunkenly three times, not expecting to find a man there, much less a giant with a gun. And the man yawned, stretched out about twice his own length, rubbed his eyes to get the sleep out, and aimed angrily at the little chief.
His movements were about to panic the robbers (“What’s happening here? Aren’t we going to be able to eat today?”), when their chief, quick as an arrow, flew up to perch on a bare branch right in front of the enemy and said to him (and his clear, pure voice enchanted the man, the earth, and the sky):
‘Tío! Tío Tío Tío, tío kandenboka
tío kandenboka
tío kandenbo furumina, gandenbesú!”
And then the mayitos divided up into two groups, and their chief was quiet a few seconds. And then, with much sweet- ness, so much sweetness and grace that he caused the man to drop his gun, he said:
“Chiérre néné, chiérre néné. Ie chiérre néné.”
And leading his crowd of soldiers, he continued: “Give me peanuts, chácháchá
Give me peanuts, chácháchá Give me peanuts, chácháchá
Cha, cha, chaá Cha, cha, chaá Good buddies, eat!”
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And they all began to sing in chorus, turning the morning into a most joyous occasion. And the big black fellow, throw- ing down his gun, began to dance too, along with the spirits of the air, the sky, and the green leaves, dancing to the music of the birds:
Ariyáyá, Kinyánya! Kinyányáyá, eat, good buddies.
Ariyáyá, Kinyányá! The next day, the old man said: “Give me that gun! It’s all rusty!”
And he went off himself, determined to protect his prop- erty.
The morning was cool, ideal for sleeping. And then the mayitos flocked in.
“Tío! Tío Tío
Tío, tío kandenboka tío kandenboka tío kandenbo furumina, gandenbesú!
Ie Chiérre néné, chiérre néné. Chiérre néné. Give me peanuts, chá chá chá Give me peanuts, chá chá chá Give me peanuts, chá chá chá
Cha, cha, chaá Cha, cha, chaá Good buddies, eat!
Ariyáyá. Kinyánya, Good buddies, eat! Ariyáyá, Kinyánya!”
A soft breeze played over the old lazybone’s forehead as he lay spread out on the grass, his arms crossed and heavy with comfort.
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“How great it is to sleep like this!” the old man thought as he listened to the birds singing. God be praised! And he al- lowed his soul to wander with the clouds. . . .
When he woke up, what destruction those nasty birds had caused during his siesta! He picked up his gun. But the chief of the birds, always alert, always moving, stopped him:
“Come here, chéché3
Come here, chéché Come here, chéché Que abukía kengué
Give him some manguancha! Give him some more! Que abukía kengué!
Manguancha, give him some more, que abukía. . . . Kitíkin!”
“Kitíkin!” The old man’s heart leapt up with youthfulness. He tossed his gun aside. He danced until Night came, asked the mayitos to be silent, and gathered them under its breast.
And the next day, it was the old woman’s turn.
She saw the ravaged field. It was a joke to her. But when she loaded the gun, the chief called out to her:
“You’re even more chéché You’re even more chéché You’re even more chéché Que abukía kengué!”
“Mayito, I’m going to kill you,” said the old woman. “But before I do, you’ll let me dance a little, won’t you?”
And with the mayitos singing and the old woman dancing and laughing, they finished their work.
Soon, there was not a single grain left.
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Night fell. The old woman looked at the Heavens, the Vast Indifferent Heavens! . . .
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