Griots

by Charles R. Saunders

  “Speak and perhaps I’ll spare your life!” Adegoke barked.

  “I am Chicha and I bring you a message from my king: Oba Fela.”

  “He is Oba of nothing now!” Adegoke sneered. “He is a coward who fled with the help of witchcraft! And the Edo empire is mine now!”

  “King Fela has joined his Esan allies in the north. He—they—will attack in the morning unless I return with an answer to his question.”

  “And what question would that be?”

  “Actually, it is a proposition,” Chicha replied. “Oba Fela proposes an alliance between the Bini and Edo kingdoms. United you will sweep across the continent to build an empire... and none will stand before you.

  Adegoke leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I’m listening.”

  “This truce will be solidified by the marriage of King Fela’s oldest son, Abayomi, and your daughter Nandi.”

  * * *

  She hunkered down in the elephant grass watching them. Nandi’s eyes drank in every fluid movement as the warriors parried, blocked and stabbed. While practicing, the young men used heavy sticks – even so these sparing sessions often ended with someone bleeding.

  Her eyes lingered upon one ebony skinned young man, “Sule . . .” she breathed his name softly, like a caress carried by the fragrant breeze.

  Nandi’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned away. Since her journey into the spirit world her mother had lifted her punishment. But it made no difference. Her future had been decided. Tonight was the celebration of her betrothal to Abayomi the eldest son of Fela, Oba of the Edo tribe. The royal clan was preparing a feast in celebration.

  Nandi’s union with him would ensure the union of their kingdoms, an end to the ceaseless fighting between them – and a powerful alliance.

  She strode into the marketplace to buy fruit and her sisters, Iverem and Effiwat, fell into step beside her. The three young women filled their baskets with guava, pineapple, melons and plantains.

  “You must be so excited,” Effiwat simpered. “Abayomi is very handsome!”

  Nandi thought of Abayomi’s arrogant, cruel face and said nothing.

  Iverem smiled slyly. “I heard that you did not want to marry him but of course that isn’t true, is it? I’d willingly share him with ten more wives.”

  “Then why don’t you marry him?” Nandi snapped.

  The women gasped in shock. “You dishonor your father!” said the first one.

  Nandi pressed her lips together and hurried away from them – her long legs quickly carrying her home. They were jealous – jealous because her mother was lead wife, because she was betrothed to Abayomi, the son of an Oba and he had paid many goats, cowrie shells and other riches for her hand.

  They should try being me. Then see how jealous they are.

  Her life would’ve been so much easier if she could smile and passively accept the demands of her parents, like they...and later her husband.

  But what if the ancestors whisper something else to your heart?

  Nandi reached the palace. Inside, and to the right of the ivory structure Adegoke’s wives and the servants were busy cooking. Yams were being pounded into FuFu. Porridge rich with vegetables and goat meat bubbled in a pot above the three stones in Mariama’s kitchen. Palm oil was already siphoned into wooden serving bowls.

  She put her fruit on a low table. At that moment Mariama, emerged from alcove to her right. “Little one, you’re back. What took you so long? Never mind, I need you to fetch some more water.”

  The young woman smiled dryly. Her mother had always liked giving orders. But today she would gladly obey them – thankful to escape all the preparation for her marriage feast. It reminded her of how precious her last days of freedom were.

  She grabbed a woven basket, and headed for their stream.

  * * *

  Nandi knelt beside the stream at the edge of the palace and dipped her basket into the water. She gazed at her reflection. How grim she looked! Like a woman about to be executed, rather than one embarking on a life of wedded bliss.

  The image disappeared. In its place a black panther stared up at her.

  In the next instant, the god Ogun appeared in panther form: gazing at her with his luminous eyes.

  “You tricked me!” she shouted, forgetting that she was in the presence of a god. “You made me think I could have more!” She covered her face with her hands, and began to weep. “There is nothing else...not for me. Go and leave me in peace.”

  The god spoke his bass voice echoing through the wood: “Do not despair Nandi, the battle is not over yet.” He vanished.

  * * *

  At nightfall, the two royal clans gathered for the feast. Oba Fela and Abayomi arrived with their royal entourage of ten warriors. Nandi had been bathed and perfumed with oils. Her hair was now braided in an elaborate upswept and decorated with beads. Bangles hung from her neck and wrists. She wore a cloth of colorful printed design wrapped about her shapely frame. Her feet were encased in paper thin sandals, more bangles decorated her ankles.

  Nandi’s parents presented her to Abayomi. The prince was a young man with a face that seemed to be entirely crafted of hard arrogant edges. His head was shaved except for a beaded topknot, and he wore cape of white linen about his shoulders, and golden bracelets.

  He smiled, his teeth flashing against his dark skin, and eyed Nandi as if she was his personal possession. “You’ve grown even more beautiful, since our last meeting.” And she managed a stiff smile.

  Adegoke beamed at his future son-in-law. “Truly this marriage has been blessed by the gods. I know it will bring prosperity and long life to both the Bini and Edo realms.”

  At this Abayomi bowed respectfully and took his seat opposite them. Nandi’s parents escorted her to the low seat facing the circle of wedding guests. Behind them in covered dishes the feast awaited.

  Inside the circle the dance began. The unmarried Bini women entered the space: moving their hips and shoulders in demure, sensuous rhymes of virgins not yet captured by their lovers. The men danced into the space and the women swayed out of their reach. The warriors followed never touching the virgins, but seductively moving about them—all the while soulfully expressing, with hands and pelvis, the ultimate joy of wedded bliss.

  Nandi spotted Sule among the dancers. It had been he, not Abayomi, that wooed her with eyes full of longing. And she’d answered his call with a body that burned for a touch that never came. He was no Oba’s son. He had no political alliance to offer her father, nor riches to give.

  Only his heart.

  Sule caught her gaze and quickly shifted his eyes to his partner lest his face betray the swirling emotions within.

  Outside the circle in the savanna Ogun appeared. He spoke his voice like thunder: “COME!” Nandi glanced about wildly. Surely the guests heard his basso profundo command?

  And she could not leave her wedding party. To do so would violate Nubian customs – tantamount to slapping her future husband in the face.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Mariama hissed. “You’re embarrassing us!”

  “Heed my command Nandi! COME!”

  I cannot disobey a god. What’s more she didn’t want to – she longed to escape. The young woman stood.

  Mariama grabbed her daughter’s arm, digging her nails into Nandi’s flesh. “What are you doing? Sit down! Or so help me –!”

  Nandi snatched her arm away and raced to Ogun.

  * * *

  She followed the god deep into the forest. In the moonlight, scant yards ahead she saw them. Hundreds of Edo and Esan warriors armed with spears and swords creeping to her village under the cover of night. In minutes they would be upon her.

  And she knew.

  “So, the proposal was a sham!” she whispered fiercely. “The Edo never wanted peace – or me!”

  “Oh, Abayomi will marry you,” Ogun rumbled at her side, “after he’s conquered your city, and taken your family hostage.”

  “What can I do? Eve
n if I could warn them it is too late!”

  A cold rage filled her, rage at her parents for forcing her into a marriage she didn’t want—for denying her the man she loved.

  And rage that she’d been denied her right to be a warrior. At this final thought, a great wind swirled about her shaking the trees and bending the grass, so that even the marauders looked up uneasily.

  Ogun open his jaws in a loud coughing roar and the wind tore at her clothing – embracing her with power and knowledge.

  A sword appeared in her hands and she loped across the grass with preternatural speed to meet the invaders. They were alarmed by her sudden appearance but quickly regained their hubris. She was after all only one. And she was female.

  “Who are you,” their leader barked, “the mad woman of the forest?” He was a giant of man with his hair gathered in trademark Edo topknot. Those closest to him chuckled.

  She glared at him with flashing eyes. “I am Nandi!”

  He looked nonplussed. “Nandi –? Abayomi’s betrothed!” The leader turned to his men. “She has discovered us! Bind and gag her –!”

  “I give you one warning!” Nandi hissed. “Leave now, and I will spare your lives!”

  At this the warriors roared with laughter. “Take her!” the leader sputtered.

  She leapt into the air, grabbing his topknot and severed his head in one swipe, stabbed the warrior to his right in his heart, and sliced the one on his left across the chest in a fatal blow. Nandi bowed like a dancer, arms straight out then whipped the machete to the left and right – dropping warriors.

  She was a fury – chopping and stabbing through their ranks – a whirlwind of slaughter.

  Behind her Ogun transformed into the towering a giant of a man with midnight black skin, and the teeth and claws of a panther. From the grass more panther warriors rose like deadly blossoms, and joined Nandi’s army – ‘outnumbered but with fangs and talons to compensate for their numbers. And the woman who led them was equal to four men.

  In a very short while it was over, and their enemies lay dead the grass, the rest fled back across grasslands.

  Ogun faced her now still as a man, with a rope of iron about his neck. “This is your destiny Nandi,” he rumbled, “one given to you by your ancestors. It is written in battle, blood and glory.” The forest god smiled – a terrible and wondrous smile. “Go and claim it now.”

  Nandi bowed reverently. “Thank you, how do I repay you?”

  “By embracing your destiny.”

  Nandi turned to go. “Wait!” Ogun called. He smiled his terrible smile once more. “Take something with you to convince your parents.”

  * * *

  The Bini wedding party cried out at the sight of her striding back into their midst. Except for Sule who smiled as if his life had just begun.

  Nandi’s dress was torn and dirty, she was splattered from head to foot with gore. In one hand she held a sword and in the other, the severed head of an Edo general.

  She pointed her sword at Abayomi. “Betrayer! Your army has been defeated!” She threw the severed head at his feet. “By me!”

  Mariama clung to her husband, gawking at a woman she no longer knew. “Daughter?”

  “You?” Adegoke breathed. “You did this?” Yet he could not disguise the pride intermingled with shock upon his broad face.

  She turned her flashing eyes to him. “Yes father, I am Nandi! And I will choose my own path!”

  Lost Son

  By

  Maurice Broaddus

  “I will make my arrows drunk with blood, while my sword devours flesh: the blood of the slain and the captives, the heads of the enemy leaders.” Deuteronomy 32;42

  “Favor us with a tale, storyteller,” Ghana Menin asked in his way of implying a threat if disobeyed. His lanky frame slumped in his high-backed seat, still unused to the power at his command. The celebration of their latest trade agreement had gone well. Soon, more treasure would be flowing to them, insuring Wagadugu’s place as the pride of the continent. The central fire roared before them. The tall flames danced wildly in the night, holding the ghana’s court of counselors, ministers, interpreters, and treasurers in rapt attention.

  The scarlet robed griot approached. Djobo had served as the village’s memory for almost a generation. Even now, he had three young men undergoing the rites of passage to become the village’s next griot, to preserve the “heritage of ears.” Kumbi Saleh had grown fat with her wealth over the years, now serving as capital of the land. Though small of stature, Djobo moved with a lithe grace that bore a near regal air. He nodded first to the ghana’s advisor, Okomfo, then to Ghana Menin himself.

  “Is there a particular tale you would like to hear?” Djobo asked.

  “Tell us a tale of the first ones. How we used to be,” Ghana Menin said.

  “The descendants of the Hamite, the sons of Kush, traveled toward the west and crossed the Nile,” Djobo started, without missing a beat. All his tales began with a recitation of their origins; providing him time to recall the stories. “Some—the Nubians, the Beja, and the Zanj—turned between the east and the west. The rest followed the setting sun. They were the first ones, the original settlers of Wagadugu. There were 144 ghanas leading up to the great Ghana Menin, but there was a time before ghanas, a time before the Soninke clans united.”

  “You want to tell us of Dinga Cisse?” Okomfu asked. Djobo didn’t glance toward him, feeling the bristling waves of hate emanating from him.

  “If you will permit me,” Djobo asked the ghana.

  “Please do so. I know so little about him. Tell me of his first adventure.”

  “I don’t know about his first, but this is the earliest tale that I know. It began with a raid.”

  * * *

  The women shrieked when they heard the crash through the underbrush. They had been down to the river to collect water for the village. Tales of the black-hooded raiders swooping down on caravans, stealing anything of value and kidnaping young women—especially girls—had spread far and wide. Things had gotten of such grave concern that most of the village’s warriors accompanied any transport of salt or gold. All that remained were the old, the young, the infirm. And the women. Never had the women been bothered along the short trek to the river. However, though so close to the village, they knew their screams would go unheeded.

  If only they could make it to the clearing, within eye line of the village, surely a watchman would see them.

  Their hopes died as the men overran them.

  No one knew much about the raiders. Some feared they were agents of the Kushites to the west, or worse, wandering Berbers who knew no allegiance to any village save their own necks. Not much larger than the women, the raiders cut them off along the trail that led to Jenne-jeno. They bayed, little more than jackals. Their squat bodies scuttled about in something approaching triumphant glee. Their awkward musculature made every movement a lumbering effort.

  “Soft,” the smallest one circled a woman, taking long exaggerated sniffs, though still skittish as a monkey. His black, open-faced hood flopped against the back of his head, revealing flat features that only rendered him more monstrous than his slight bulk would’ve allowed.

  “Fun,” a lean figure brushed up against another woman, relishing the startled yelp his presence elicited.

  “Red inside.” The largest of the three commanded intense, fear-filled stares from the lot, his fellow raiders included. The brute raked his gnarled nail along her face, drawing blood.

  “No, we take, we take. No time for ... games.” The lean one rushed to him, holding back his arm. The brute stared at him, then back at the girl, before shrugging him off.

  “Not all have to go. Some play,” the brute’s lascivious stare sent a shiver through the girl.

  One of the women proved more than the small man could handle. Wriggling to loosen his grip, she reached behind her and clawed at the man’s eye. She elbowed him in his belly while he grasped at his wound. Turning to face him, she
kicked him in his groin, sending him to the ground. The brute lost interest in the woman he held and snatched the feisty one from behind.

  No one knew what to make of the figure who stepped through the underbrush.

  A young man, barely a man at that, with a thinly muscled frame burned dark by the sun. A wild man, of a sort, he tramped along, as if oblivious to the scene, yet making enough noise to draw everyone’s attention. His curiosity, alerted by the screams, led him there; that and the scent of bloodlust that wafted along the air like the stink of a week-old kill. His wide eyes took in the scene with a willful nonchalance. He cut a striking figure with his small nose ring and brass armlet. The left half of his body was tattooed: his leg and shoulder, in the pattern of lines, like a maze, the pattern broken by dots. He wore a belted loincloth—a dagger’s hilt jutted from one side—the belt mainly supporting a short, heavy sword. Using a spear as his walking stick, he paused, staring at the horizon not making eye contact with any of the raiders.

  “Carry on stranger. It’s healthier to mind your own business,” the lean one took a step in his direction.

  He turned to them, perturbed at the intrusion into his thoughts. “Come to make sport of women. Surely, they cannot make for fair game. Come. Play with me.”

  Demonic caterwauling, anticipating their thrill at the possibility of an easy kill, raise their blood. They charged him, yet he stood his ground. He spun his spear above his head in a dancing whirl that brought it to bear and slashed the first man. Blood oozed from a gash in his side, cautioning the men to be wary of the range of his weapon. They spread out to encircle him, but he didn’t wait for their simultaneous assault. Listening to the footfalls of the lean man behind him, anticipating his placement, the stranger jabbed him with the blunt end of his spear. The pop of splintering teeth sent the man sprawling to the ground. The boy-man pivoted, the blade of his spear carving a precise strike across the man’s throat. The man clutched the frothing rictus of his neck, choking on his blood as he fell.

  The boy-man sprang up, glared wildly, searching for the man’s companions. Ignoring the women’s frantic terror, he spied a large black bird. He heard the snarl before he saw the man. The man hurled a dagger at him—to kill him at best; throw him off balance and into the path of the second dagger he’d drawn, at worst. The boy-man ducked, stepping into the stride of the charging man, to catch his wrist. Wrenching it with his left hand, his spear still in his right, he snapped the bone loudly, driving the small man to his knees. The boy-man snatched the dagger from him and plunged it into his chest. The man crumpled, though the boy-man had already turned his back to him in an effort to guard against the brute.