Story of the Basket at the Crossroads
Folklore of Bassa people of Africa (as told by Nouk Bassomb)

Soon after a boy has been initiated, that is, soon after he has been allowed into the society of adults, African Bassa people put him to a test. Seven to nine elders materialize one morning, at around five o'clock, outside his father's compound.

"Step outside, boy!" they shout.

The boy comes out. The elders place themselves between him and the door.

"It's time for you to depart, boy. Go! Now!"

The morning this happened to me, I had only a little piece of cloth called sarja around my waist. I turned my back and left.

My mom ran after me, but the elders, who were behind me to make sure that I would cross the boundaries of our village, kept her from hugging me.

"Go away, woman!" I heard the elders say. "For the next eighteen-moons ... minimum, this boy has nothing, and we mean nothing, to do with the people of this village. That's the law. Let him go."

I did not even have the right to look back. I kept going. I had to show that I was a man, a little man, who one day would be a man, a grown man, an adult. A firm, upright support for the entire village. I was thirteen.

"Be humble and compassionate," I heard Mom shout, "and praise the Father each and every day!"

"Yes, Mom, I will not miss a day," I said to myself.

"Don't forget to put your baskets at the crossroads. And check them often," she added.

Those were the last words I heard from her.

This was not the first time I heard about crossroads. Three months prior to my departure, during my initiation, I heard the word almost every day.

Dad called me one morning: "Come on, boy, wake up! The time has come for you to follow the path of men."

He meant that I had to be initiated.

To undergo the transition from being a boy to becoming a man, male children spend ninety days in the deep forest. It is required. They must learn to survive in a dangerous and hostile environment, to find their food, cook it, and share it with fellow comrades. There are no females around. In my age group, there were twenty-seven of us.

Samnik Mapuna was our initiator. I can never thank this man enough for all he taught me. Before handing me over to him, Dad hugged me. He put my head against his chest and told me to listen.

"Do you hear something?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"What?"

"Your heartbeat!"

He nodded, and whispered, "Go now."

I went my way, crossing the river. Samnik Mapuna was waiting for me on the other side. He, too, hugged me, and put my ear to his chest to listen to his heartbeat.

"Do you hear something?" he asked me.

"Yes."

"What?"

"Your heartbeat."

He sighed. "Let's go, now," he said simply.

That very morning he told me about crossroads: "When you walk on a path going north, you will only meet people coming from the north. At the crossroads, you'll meet people coming from the east, from the west ... Do you understand?"

"Yes," I replied. That was my first lesson. But, to be honest, I paid it no mind.

Another day, he asked me to look at him. I did. "You and I," he started, "are from different age groups, but our coming together creates crossroads between generations. Do you understand?"

That day, and the following night, I learned that crossroads are not only where people coming from south, north, east and west meet, but there also come together the old and the new, the traditional and the modern, the archaic and the contemporary, the young and the aged, the visible and the invisible, the world of the living and the world of the dead.

Crossroads.

Three months later, when the time to say goodbye came, Sam Mapuna asked me to hug him. I did. He put my ear against his chest. "Do you hear something?"

"Yes," I replied.

"What?"

"Father's voice."

"What says he?"

"It's a long song, a very long song."

"Tell me the first words," he said.

"Keep the flame burning in the Father's house, the voice says. And there will always be someone to feel the warmth of the legacy. Keep the flame alive," I answered.

"Aha!" He shouted, smiling. "Go now, boy. Go!"

I crossed the river. Dad was waiting for me, to take me home. He hugged me and put my ear against his chest. "What do you hear?" he asked.

"Father's voice."

"And what is He saying?"

"Keep the legacy! That's what He's saying. Increase the vital force. Keep the flame burning, the voice says. Even when there is no one to feel the warmth of Father's house, the fire must be kept burning."

Dad smiled. I read pride and affection in his eyes. It was important for his son to know the myth of origins. The son was on his way to becoming a man. And so we went home. The boy was ready to enter the society of adults.

Nine days later, I was accepted into our clan's High Order of the Hunters.

"One thing, boy," interjected the eldest of the Mbog-Mbog (patriarchs), during the rites of passage: "You must learn to keep the fire burning in Father's house and you must experience the crossroads."

"Absolutely," the audience replied with one voice.

They meant that we, the neophytes, had to become wanderers, to learn how to sustain our culture and traditions, to learn to open the third eye, the one that enables us to see clearly.

At one point during the ceremony, the patriarch said these words: "If you come back, we'll celebrate your return to your native land; but if you don't, it will mean that you weren't meant for us."

The Ibibio of Nigeria, who live next to the ocean, say these same words to their newborn. They throw the infant with an overhand, pushing motion into the water. If he emerges, he was meant to stay. If not, they let him go, without a wince.

It is at the crossroads that we learn kindness, love, respect for the elders, protection of children, compassion for the weak and the meek. Being generous, compassionate, humble, hospitable, all help to fill our baskets.

"Check the baskets often"' Mom said. She is the one who taught me to pray, which is to say to put my basket at the crossroads, an empty basket.

I do check the baskets, Mom. I do. Today I understand the source of all wealth and personal growth. My baskets are filled with stories, teachings, experiences, wisdom. There will be a lot to talk about when I get home.

How have I made my choices? Why do I go north instead of south? Why do I go west instead of east? I always have good reasons for acting boldly. The best way to keep alive the flame in the Father's house is to think of the children - and their children. We can't change the past, can't do much to affect the present, but we can do something to improve the future. Our future, as Bassa people, but also as humans. So what do I do? I fill my baskets, not with gold and silver, but with stories and experiences. One day I'll return to my native land and, as a grandfather, I'll spark the imagination of children with my stories.