The story - from Nigeria - goes like this : Four warriors were bringing back the cattle from a raid. They heard a voice and looked around but saw nothing. Then they saw a Masai woman's sex ; it shouted at them to stop. Scared, they raced on, but the sex overtook them, and set itself down in front of the cattle, which would go no further. The sex persuaded the men to give her blood from their bull, then thanked them, but swore them to secrecy. When they got home, there were celebrations, and one of the men told the story of the blood-drinking sex. That night, the sex, which had overheard everything, crept into his hut, opened him up, took out his innards, sewed him back up again, and took them into the jungle. There she cooked them, wrapped them in a leaf and placed them just inside the doorway of the man's mother's hut. The latter awoke, took the package to be gift from her son and eat the meat. Then she went off to thank her son, and found him dead.

The people decided that the man's death was due to witchcraft, took his body out into the jungle and abandoned it. The Maasai woman's sex had been watching. She said, 'we can't be having this', and took the body back to its hut. This happened three times. On the third occasion, the villagers were waiting for the body to be returned, fell on the sex and began to beat it. The sex told them that if they stopped, it would heal the man. It did so, and told him to remember to obey orders in future. He agreed. And that is it.

Tremaine's construction of a Hausa canon seems, on the face of it, somewhat slap-dash. Although in most cases he gives the original Hausa version (which I, of course, do not understand) he gives very little clue as to how he came across the story, as to how it was told to him and who told it : the stories are not seen as 'performances', but as versions - some better than others - of an Ur-story that has its existence beyond and before any individual telling.

Telling a story is something like playing music : writing stories has similar effects to writing music ; reification of one telling as the tale - authorship. Bauman wants to give the tale-teller similar status to the writer? Hence 'performance', which is what you get when you play the notes as written. The canon is a written story about writing (and reading) stories : take Williams' 'Culture & Society' - wonderful story.

Canon or round? Try telling a story *together* - tale emerging from several voices : neither performance nor writing. Weaving? A yarn is spun. No authors, no text, no 'intellectual property'. Story-telling like jazz if we didn't know what jazz was which we don't because it never was.

Four warriors are driving home cattle, among them a fine bull. They are interrupted by a voice where there is no-one to speak. God gave the Nuer a fine heiffer and a scrawny old beast to the Dinka. The Dinka spoke with a voice that was not his own and took the better cow, so now we may steal the Dinka's cattle whenever it pleases us. But we turned around on the road to see where the voice was coming from. Blood from your bull I want. An incision in the beast's neck and the blood poured into the open sex. This is a secret.

Stories, says Thomson, are often - always? - referring to rites of initiation. The pig-woman bleeds after penetration. The Masai woman's sex, self-propelled, out-runs the warriors, and drinks warm blood. We prefer Little Red Riding Hood ; the woods are full of wolves, but the little lady will wear her bright beguiling hat. Well, what do you expect? If you break the rule, you will be eaten. One young warrior breaks the silence and is eaten by his mother. Take this, mother, and eat.

 (Boys will be boys - I always win at Trivial Pursuit and want to throw myself upon fine women. Girls will be girls, weaving stories and sewing pretty dresses to turn the young men's heads).

Breed women as you breed pigs, for fattening and eating. Pigs you eat with your spear and with your teeth, women with your spear and with your penis. Send it out hunting. Women, in their turn, eat pigs and men. If you eat your son's pig, you may discover that you have eaten your son. Let him give his pig to a woman he can eat. And let her cook it.

In the forest, a blood-sated pudenda cooks offal over a small fire. Where's the wolf?

Comments to me at tmason@timothyjpmason.com.