Anansi
Based on Wikipedia: Anansi
The Spider Who Owns Every Story Ever Told
Here is a question worth considering: who owns stories? Not the copyright, but the stories themselves—the right to tell them, the power to shape what counts as a tale worth telling.
According to the Akan people of southern Ghana, that question has a definitive answer. Every story in the world belongs to a spider named Anansi.
He won them fair and square. Or rather, he won them through trickery, cunning, and a series of impossible challenges that he completed anyway. Which, if you understand Anansi, amounts to the same thing.
A Trickster in a Culture of Order
The Akan are a close-knit people who prize social harmony and proper behavior. Their communities run on unwritten rules about respect, hierarchy, and collective responsibility. Into this world of careful order comes Anansi—a character who breaks every rule, defies every expectation, and somehow makes the culture stronger for it.
This is the paradox at the heart of trickster figures across human cultures. Every society that values order seems to need a character who embodies chaos. The Norse had Loki. Native American traditions have Coyote. West Africa has the spider.
But Anansi is more than comic relief or cautionary tale. By incorporating rebellion and doubt into their folklore, the Akan people created a kind of pressure valve for their orderly society. You can laugh at Anansi's schemes. You can shake your head at his greed. And in doing so, you reinforce exactly why the rules exist in the first place.
How a Spider Became the Owner of All Stories
The most famous Anansi tale explains how he came to own every story in existence. Like many origin myths, it involves an impossible task and a clever solution.
Long ago, all stories belonged to Nyame, the sky god. He kept them to himself, hoarded in the heavens where no one could reach them. Anansi, being Anansi, decided he wanted them.
Nyame laughed at the tiny spider's ambition. But he was also curious. So he set a price: bring me four impossible things, and the stories are yours.
The challenges were designed to be unwinnable. Capture Onini, a python of terrifying size. Trap the Mmoboro, a swarm of hornets whose stings could kill. Subdue Osebo, the leopard whose strength and speed made him lord of the forest. And finally, catch Mmoatia, a dwarf spirit who could turn invisible.
Anansi agreed to all of it. He even threw in his own mother, Ya Nsia, as part of the wager—that's how confident he was.
The Cunning Solutions
What makes Anansi stories so satisfying is how he wins. Never through strength. Always through cleverness.
For the python, Anansi started an argument with his wife Aso about whether Onini was really as long as everyone claimed. He made sure the python overheard. Pride wounded, Onini agreed to stretch out next to a bamboo pole to prove his length. By the time he realized Anansi was tying him to the pole, it was too late.
The hornets fell for an even simpler trick. Anansi filled a calabash with water, poured some over himself, and approached the swarm during a rainstorm. "Quick," he told them, "hide in this dry gourd before you drown!" They swarmed in. He plugged the opening.
The leopard required a pit trap—straightforward enough. But catching an invisible fairy? Anansi carved a wooden doll and covered it with sticky tree sap, then placed it near where Mmoatia liked to wander. When the fairy touched the doll, she stuck fast. The more she struggled, the more stuck she became.
Anansi delivered all four captures to the sky god. Nyame assembled his entire court—the Kontire and Akwam chiefs, the Adontem general, all the important figures of his kingdom—and formally announced that henceforth, all stories would be known as spider stories. Anansesem, in the Akan language.
The word literally means "spider tales." And in Ghana today, it still refers to the entire tradition of folklore and fable that children grow up hearing.
The Journey Across the Atlantic
Stories travel with people. When the Atlantic slave trade forcibly transported millions of Africans to the Americas, Anansi went with them.
This wasn't just cultural survival. It was resistance.
Think about what the Anansi stories actually teach. A small, seemingly powerless creature outwits larger, stronger opponents. He uses cunning because he cannot use force. He turns the powerful's assumptions against them. For enslaved Africans, these weren't just entertaining fables—they were instruction manuals.
Within the brutal hierarchy of plantation life, there was little room for open rebellion. But there was room for the kind of subtle resistance Anansi exemplified. Playing dumb. Appearing compliant while quietly subverting. Finding leverage in unexpected places.
Historian Lawrence W. Levine, in his study of Black American culture, noted how enslaved people adapted the structure and message of African tales to address "the compulsions and needs of their present situation." Anansi became a model for survival, a folk hero whose victories offered both practical wisdom and psychological sustenance.
Jamaica and the Preservation of Tradition
Jamaica received the largest concentration of enslaved Ashanti people anywhere in the Americas, and the island became a stronghold for Anansi stories. The Jamaican versions are considered among the best-preserved, maintaining structural elements—like the proverbs that conclude each tale—that can be traced directly back to Ghana.
One such proverb comes from the story "Anansi and Brah Dead," in which the spider is pursued by Death itself. The moral: "If yuh cyaan ketch Kwaku, yuh ketch him shut." Meaning: if you cannot catch your target, you will settle for those close to him—his family, his loved ones.
Notice that the proverb uses "Kwaku," Anansi's original Akan name. Even under slavery, even after generations in the Caribbean, the cultural memory persisted.
The Many Faces of the Spider
Anansi's name varies across the diaspora: Ananse, Anancy, Kwaku Ananse, Ba Anansi, Kompa Nanzi, Nancy, Aunt Nancy, Sis' Nancy. That last variation—giving him a female-coded name—is curious, since Anansi is always depicted as male in traditional stories.
His appearance varies too. Sometimes he's simply a spider. Sometimes he's a spider with a human face, unsettling and liminal. Other times he's a man with spider features—eight limbs, perhaps, or the quick scuttling movements of an arachnid.
He has a family. His wife, known variously as Okonore Yaa, Aso, Crooky, or Shi Maria, is typically portrayed as long-suffering—a sensible counterweight to her husband's schemes. His sons appear in various tales: Ntikuma the firstborn, Tikelenkelen with his oversized head, Nankonhwea with his spindly limbs, and Afudohwedohwe with his pot belly.
In the playwright Efua Sutherland's work, Anansi also has a daughter named Anansewa. Her father's mission in that story is to find her an appropriate suitor—through trickery, of course.
A Connection to the Divine?
Some Akan traditions suggest a deeper significance to Anansi. Odomankoma, the creator deity, is sometimes called Ananse Kokuroko—the Great Spider. Whether this makes Anansi an aspect of the divine, a relative of the creator, or simply a figure who shares certain qualities remains a matter of interpretation.
Akan theology is complex. The sunsum, roughly translated as spirit or soul, can transfer between beings, particularly through paternal lines. Some myths suggest that after the creator Odomankoma was killed by Owuo (Death), aspects of his spirit may have passed into Anansi. This would explain why a mere spider has such cosmic significance—he carries something of the creator within him.
Wisdom Belongs to Everyone
Not all Anansi stories end in triumph. Some of the most beloved tales show his schemes backfiring, usually through greed or arrogance.
Consider the story of the wisdom pot. Anansi once decided to gather all the wisdom in the world and keep it for himself. He traveled far and wide, collecting wisdom wherever he found it, and stored it all in a large pot.
Then he set out to hide his treasure by placing it at the top of a tall tree. But climbing while carrying a pot in front of you is awkward. He slipped and fell repeatedly.
His young son Ntikuma watched these attempts and finally spoke up. "Father, why don't you tie the pot to your back? Then you could climb easily."
Anansi was furious. Not because the advice was wrong—it was obviously right. He was furious because after all his efforts to hoard wisdom, his own child knew something he didn't. In his rage, he threw the pot against the tree. It shattered. The wisdom spilled out and was washed away by rain into rivers, spreading across the world.
Anansi eventually calmed down and recognized the lesson. If his son could teach him something, then he clearly hadn't managed to collect all wisdom in the first place. The very fact that he needed to be corrected proved he wasn't ready to be wisdom's sole keeper.
This is why wisdom exists everywhere, the story explains. Because of Anansi's failure. Or perhaps—because of his success in teaching us that wisdom can never truly be hoarded.
The Skull That Wouldn't Stay On
Some Anansi tales venture into stranger territory, blending the comic with the genuinely unsettling.
During a famine, Anansi went searching for food and discovered a stream being drained by spirits who appeared human. When he approached, Anansi noticed something odd: the spirits were using their own skulls as scoops to remove water from the river.
The spirits offered Anansi the same arrangement. They removed his skull—painlessly, somehow—and he joined their work. As they labored, the spirits sang a song that Anansi found irresistible. He learned the words. He joined in.
When the work was done, the spirits gave Anansi his share of food and replaced his skull. But they warned him: never sing that song again, or your skull will fall off.
Anansi agreed. Of course he agreed.
He heard the spirits singing in the distance. He couldn't help himself. He sang along. His skull fell off.
He begged the spirits to fix it, and they did, warning him this was his last chance. He agreed again, more sincerely this time.
He heard the song once more. He sang it.
This time, as his skull tumbled from his shoulders, Anansi caught it with his rear end and fled in humiliation before the spirits could see.
The story is absurd, yes. But it captures something essential about Anansi. He cannot resist temptation. He will agree to any terms and break them immediately. He is incorrigible—and somehow that makes him endearing rather than villainous.
How the Sun Became Chief
Anansi doesn't just trick others for his own benefit. Sometimes his cunning serves higher purposes.
The sky god Nyame had three sons: Esum (Night), Osrane (Moon), and Owia (Sun). Nyame loved them all but favored Owia, the youngest. Rather than simply name Owia his successor—which might have caused resentment—Nyame devised a test.
He secretly harvested a yam and gave it an obscure name: Kintinkyi. Whoever could guess this name would inherit his royal stool and become chief after him.
Anansi happened to be present when Nyame announced this challenge. Being Anansi, he claimed he already knew the secret. He was lying, of course. But the lie gave him an opportunity.
Anansi gathered feathers from every bird he could find and fashioned them into wings. Disguised as a bird, he flew above Nyame's village. The sky god, not recognizing the spider, spoke aloud to himself about his hopes for Owia's success—including the secret name of the yam.
Armed with this knowledge, Anansi visited each of Nyame's sons to summon them for the test. Esum gave him roasted corn in thanks. Osrane gave him a yam. But Owia offered the best hospitality—a fine sheep prepared as a feast.
Touched by this generosity, Anansi decided to help Owia. He revealed the secret name and even crafted drums that would repeat it, ensuring Owia wouldn't forget at the crucial moment.
When the three sons gathered before Nyame's court, each was given a chance to guess. Esum guessed "Pona." Wrong. The crowd booed. Osrane guessed "Asante." Wrong again. More boos.
Then Owia stepped forward. Anansi played his drums. Owia remembered: "Kintinkyi."
The crowd cheered. Nyame declared Owia the chief and established that all important matters would be settled during the day—during Owia's time. He punished Esum by decreeing that evil things would happen at night, and relegated Osrane to being the time when only children would play.
As for Anansi, Nyame rewarded him for somehow knowing the secret by making him the sky god's official messenger.
This tale illustrates something important about Anansi's moral complexity. He lied. He eavesdropped. He used deception throughout. But the result was just—the most deserving son became chief, and the natural order of day, night, and moon was established. Trickery in service of right outcomes.
The Sheep, the Women, and the Broken Promise
Anansi's schemes don't always end well, and some stories show him at his most selfish.
He once approached Nyame with a proposition: let him take a sheep named Kra Kwame, and in return, he would bring the sky god a maiden from one of the villages. Nyame agreed.
Anansi killed and prepared the sheep, then went searching for a village. He found one inhabited only by women. Rather than fulfill his promise to Nyame, he shared the sheep meat with the women and married every single one of them.
A passing hunter witnessed this arrangement and the story ends abruptly in our version—but the implication is clear. Anansi's greed and faithlessness will catch up with him. The sky god's sheep has been eaten, the promised maiden has not been delivered, and Anansi sits contentedly in a village of wives, having betrayed his word entirely.
Stories like this balance the tales where Anansi triumphs. He is not simply clever—he is flawed. Greedy, lustful, dishonest. The stories don't excuse these traits; they present them plainly for audiences to recognize and judge.
A Tradition of Telling
For generations, Anansi stories existed purely in oral form. No written texts. Just voices passing tales from parent to child, storyteller to audience. The spider himself was synonymous with skill in speech—"the wisdom of the spider is greater than that of all the world together."
This oral tradition shaped the stories' structure. Each tale typically begins with a ritual disclaimer, acknowledging the story's fictional nature while inviting listeners into its world: "We do not really mean, we do not really mean that what we are about to say is true. A story, a story; let it come, let it go."
And each tale ends with a formula that releases the story back into the world: "This is my story that I have related. If it be sweet, or if it be not sweet, take some elsewhere, and let some come back to me."
These framing devices remind us that stories are communal property. They circulate. They belong to everyone who tells them and everyone who hears them. Which is fitting, given how Anansi won them in the first place.
The Haitian Connection
Anansi's influence extended beyond the Anglophone Caribbean. In Haiti, the trickster tradition manifested in a figure called Ti Malice—"Uncle Mischief"—who constantly outsmarts his foolish companion Ti Bouki.
The name Bouki is fascinating. It comes from the Wolof language of Senegal and refers to the hyena, itself a trickster figure in West African folklore. Here we see how the Middle Passage jumbled together different African cultural traditions, creating new hybrid stories. Anansi the spider met Bouki the hyena in the New World, and both were transformed.
In Suriname and the Dutch Caribbean islands of Curaçao, Aruba, and Bonaire, Anansi became Kompa Nanzi, with stories called "Kuenta di Nanzi." The tales adapted to new languages and new circumstances while retaining their essential character: the weak outwitting the strong, the clever defeating the powerful.
Beyond the Trickster
Scholars now consider Anansi something more than a mere trickster figure. The sheer volume of stories, their geographic spread, their cultural significance across multiple continents and centuries—all of this has elevated the spider to the status of a classical hero.
But what kind of hero? Not the muscle-bound warrior of Greek myth. Not the noble knight of European romance. Anansi represents a different heroic ideal: the triumph of wit over power, the victory of the small and clever over the large and strong.
In a world where most people feel small and relatively powerless, that's a hero worth having.
The stories also refuse to simplify Anansi into pure virtue. He's greedy. He lies. He breaks promises. He sometimes hurts the innocent. And yet we root for him anyway, because his flaws make him recognizable. He is us at our worst and our best—scheming for advantage, but also finding clever solutions to impossible problems.
That's the real wisdom of the spider. Not some abstract philosophical principle, but a practical truth: life rewards cunning, mistakes are inevitable, and even the cleverest among us will sometimes catch our own skulls with our rear ends and have to flee in embarrassment.
The stories continue. They have for centuries. Anansi won them fair and square, after all, and he shows no signs of letting them go.