Griots

by Charles R. Saunders

  “I don’t understand why Allah punishes me. I pray, I am a fair and honest man and I give alms to the poor. Instead of blessing me he brings me troubles.”

  “It is never more than you can handle,” Changa said.

  “So you say,” Belay sighed. “Do you know Mustafa the goat herder?”

  “Barely.”

  “I’m sure you know of his daughter, Yasmine.”

  Changa answered with a smile. In a city known for its beautiful women Yasmine stood out like a diamond among gems. Not a single man in Mombasa, Changa included, would hesitate to accumulate a generous lobola if he knew she favored him.

  Changa’s scowl answered Belay’s question. “Mustafa barges in my office this morning demanding to see me. Being the Muslim that I am, I allowed him an audience despite his rudeness. He sat where you sit now and stated that Yasmine was missing and Narigisi was to blame.”

  Changa’s face and he shifted in his seat. Narigisi was Belay’s eldest son, as different from his father as oil and water. He was a vain and selfish man with the spirit of Shaitan.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Belay said. “You think Mustafa is right. I think so, too, but I could not say so in front of him. I told him I would look into the matter and you know what he did? He jumped to his feet and slammed his fist on my desk! He demanded that I either return his daughter or pay him twice the lobola offered by her suitors.”

  Changa’s mind focused on Yasmine, a familiar, uncomfortable feeling rising in his chest.

  “I have seen Narigisi courting Yasmine,” he said. “She did not seem pleased with his attention.”

  Belay stood. “We will visit him immediately and get to the bottom of this.”

  Changa stood as well. “If we go to see Naragisi we’ll need men.”

  Belay rubbed his forehead again. “Yes, that’s true. Will you see to it?”

  “Of course, bwana.”

  Changa returned to the dhow burdened with concern. Men gathered about him as soon as he boarded.

  “Bashiri, Zakwani and Tayari, get your weapons,” he announced. “We are to escort Bwana Belay to his son’s house.”

  The chosen men hurried below deck with huge grins on their faces. Escort duty was extra pay. Going with Changa meant they had a good chance of returning. Changa noticed Yusef sulking across the ship, still smarting from his recent defeat.

  “Yusef,” he called out. “Get your gear. You’re coming, too.”

  The big man smiled like a child. “Of course, Changa, of course!”

  The men met Belay at the warehouse. Belay climbed on his wagon and they set out for the mainland. After a brief stop in the country town to gather supplies they set out for the bush. Naragisi’s difference from his father went beyond personalities. Unlike most Swahili Naragisi despised the stone town, preferring life in the hinterlands. They reached his estate by daybreak the next day, the massive two-story house rising over the otherwise flat landscape. An expansive shamba filled with hundreds of Zebu cattle surrounded his elaborate home, the estate protected by Samburu warriors. Instead of the normal thorn bush palisade Naragisi had constructed a stone wall six feet high. Four stone gates allowed entrance, one at each point of the compass, each protected by a Samburu village. Changa and the others met no opposition until they reached the gate. Four Samburu guarded the gate, tall lean men with iron tipped spears and swords that flared out like fans at the tip. A red cloak fell from one shoulder, covering their bodies to the knees. A black beaded belt gathered the cloak about their waists and held the wooden scabbards for their swords and daggers. Each warrior held a broad leaf shield of cowhide, the pattern of Naragisi painted on each one.

  The guards shifted as Changa approached them.

  “Habare,” Changa said.

  “Umzuri,” the guards replied.

  “Bwana Belay wishes to see his son.”

  “That is not possible,” the warrior replied. “Bwana Naragisi is not to be disturbed.”

  Suspicion emerged in Changa’s thoughts, confirmed by the look in Belay’s eyes.

  “Must I remind you where your master’s wealth originates?” Belay said.

  The Samburu guards shifted their stances. “Our master’s wealth resides within his walls,” the warrior sneered. “Golden metal has no value here.”

  Changa’s sword sprang from its sheath before the guards could react, its tip pressed into the warrior’s chin.

  “Is your master’s wealth worth your life?”

  The warrior opened the gate and stepped aside. The Mombassans crossed the wide expanse to the door of Naragisi’s home. A servant girl dressed in a colorful kanga and beaded braids met them at the entrance.

  “Welcome, baba,” she said respectfully. “Your son is grateful you have come to visit him. Please follow me to the veranda.”

  The girl led them to a huge courtyard, the stone floor covered by an enormous and expensive Persian rug. An elaborate table was set before them. Belay sat at the table; Changa, Yusef and the others remained standing behind him.

  Naragisi entered accompanied by a dozen Samburu warriors. He dressed simply, white pants and long shirt with a caramel vest. A small turban hugged his head held together by an amber broach. He smiled at his father as he cut a glance at Changa.

  “Baba, welcome!” he said. “I am so glad you came to visit me so unexpectedly.”

  “I have no time for your deception, Naragisi,” Belay retorted. “Mustafa the goat herder came to my warehouse today, claiming you had something to do with Yasmine’s disappearance. Do you?”

  Naragisi sat at the table, taking time to prepare a cup of chai.

  “He is Yasmine’s father, is he not?”

  Belay’s small hands clenched. “Yes, he is.”

  “Hmm.” Naragisi sipped his tea. “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean yes and no?”

  “Yes, father, I am responsible for Yasmine’s disappearance, but not in the way you suspect.”

  Changa’s hand went to his sword and Naragisi’s guards responded by stepping forward, their spears lowered.

  Belay raised his hand. “I didn’t come here for violence. I came here for answers.”

  “It’s no secret I wanted Yasmine,” Naragisi admitted. “I waited for her to arrive at the market every day and gave her gifts and kind words. It was more than any woman of her station deserved no matter how beautiful she is. She should have been grateful.”

  Naragisi paused to sip his tea again. A frown marred his face.

  “I finally explained to her my intentions and she laughed. She laughed at me! I wanted to strike her down and I would have if I didn’t cherish her beauty so much. I decided to show her what being my wife meant. I arranged to have her brought here.”

  “You had her kidnapped,” Changa said.

  “No one gave you permission to speak, mtwana,” Naragisi growled.

  “Keep your insults!” Belay barked. “Who did you hire?”

  Naragisi leaned back on his cushion and raised his teacup, staring at Changa.

  “Wal Wasaki.”

  Belay sighed, closed his eyes and hung his head. Changa fought a surge of anger as he struggled to keep his hand from his sword.

  “I really thought Wal would bring her to me,” Naragisi continued. “We have conducted business before.”

  “Wasaki deals with the highest bidder,” Changa said. “He must have received a better offer.”

  “You keep speaking as if it matters,” Naragisi commented.

  Changa was about to answer when Belay raised his hand.

  “Enough!” Belay stood. “I’ll deal with you latter, Naragisi.”

  Belay exited the room and the others followed. Changa hesitated; watching Naragisi and his men to make sure Belay’s departure was safe. He turned to leave.

  “Changa,” Naragisi called out.

  Changa turned slowly and was met by Naragisi’s cold eyes.

  “My father is a mwungwana. He’s well respected for his intelligence, ge
nerosity and piety. Your status in Mombasa is depends on him.”

  “I know this,” Changa snapped. “You’re wasting your words and my time.”

  Naragisi’s eyes narrowed. “My father will not live forever.”

  Changa smirked. “Neither will you.”

  He backed out the room and trotted to catch up with his party.

  Changa watched Belay with disappointment as they returned to Mombasa. Belay would do nothing to Naragisi. His sons were worthless but the old merchant loved them too much to punish them. He would ignore his son’s crime and attempt to ease Mustafa’s suffering with payment and favors. When they reached Belay’s home at nightfall Changa was the first to speak.

  “Bwana, let me deal with Wal,” he said.

  “That won’t be necessary, Changa. Wal is a criminal, but he is also a businessman. I’ll pay him whatever he asks.”

  “What if he doesn’t have her?”

  Belay sighed. “Then there is nothing more I can do.”

  “I will deliver your offer,” Changa said. “If he does not have Yasmine I will find out where she is.”

  “And how will you accomplish this?” Belay inquired.

  “I can be very persuasive,” Changa smiled.

  Belay returned his smile. “Take good men with you, Changa. Don’t do anything . . . foolish.”

  “I will be careful, bwana.”

  * * *

  Wal Wasaki’s compound was only a few miles from Belay’s warehouse in the center of Low Town. Though the distance between the two sections was brief, the contrast was jarring. Entering Low Town was like walking into a tempest. The thick grey walls surrounding the district were remnants from a time when Low Town served as Mombasa’s prison. A strange order existed within the barricades, a chaotic system that changed with the whims of its master, Wal Wasaki, a man who was as brilliant as he was mad. Changa thought on this as he and his cohorts approached the western gate.

  “This is the nearest entrance to Wal’s main compound,” he told the others. “We must be swift if we expect to confront him.”

  “I thought we were supposed to offer him payment,” Yusef said.

  Changa grinned at the big man. “We will, but we’ll add a little incentive.” He patted his knife bag.

  Yusef grinned back. “I like you, kibwana.”

  Changa and his cohorts entered Wal’s realm purposely, their countenances revealing their intent. It was obvious they were looking for someone. The reaction of the onlookers varied; some ran, some fell to their knees in prayer while others slipped silently into the refuge of nearby buildings. Then there were those that stood defiantly, their hands gripping daggers or swords, ready to face the danger the armed interlopers presented.

  Wal’s compound occupied the center of his district. Thick stone walls topped by jagged metal spikes encased the elaborate buildings inside. Two heavily armed guards flanked the iron gate, watching Changa and his men with little concern. Changa continued past them, waiting until Yusef was before them. He turned, throwing his knife at the guard closest to him. The knife struck the man in the head and he crumpled where he stood. The second guard threw up his shield, deflecting Changa’s second knife. Yusef pounced, knocking away the shield with his left fist as he drove his sword into the man’s gut. Changa sprinted past the dying man, leading the attack into Wal’s compound.

  Changa kicked the gate open and charged into the compound. He ran directly to the largest home surrounded by more guards. They looked stunned until they realized Changa’s intent. Changa’s companions surged around him and attacked the guards. Changa sprinted by the fray, looking for Wal. He spotted the bandit slipping out the rear of his home, accompanied by two guards. He pursued them, a throwing knife in each hand. He drew his arm back and threw both knives, striking both guards in the back. Wal spun about; his sword drawn.

  “This is a foolish thing you do, Changa,” he said.

  Changa ignored Wal’s threat. He dodged the bandit’s weak thrust and punched him across the jaw, knocking him senseless. He grabbed the bandit by the collar of his shirt and dragged him into the house.

  Yusef and the others met him inside. The house was a miniature palace, decorated with items from throughout Swahililand and the world. A huge Persian rug covered the entire tile floor. Aromatic incenses burned in lamps in every corner. Large silk pillows rested at the center of the rug, surrounding a group of women clutching each other and whimpering. Bowls of food were overturned, a sign of Wal’s hasty exit.

  Changa’s men rushed the women from the room while he towed Wal to the center. He shoved the man to the floor and dropped his foot on his chest, his sword tip to his throat.

  “Wal Wasaki, I come on behalf of Belay. He wishes to know the whereabouts of Yasmine, daughter of Mustafa. He has authorized me to pay for this information.”

  “You’re a fool, Changa, a fool!” Wal spat.

  Changa stepped away from Wal and signaled Yusef. The big Swahili snatched Wal from the rug, raised the man over his head and threw him across the room. Wal slammed into the wall and crashed to the floor.

  “Yusef!” Changa yelled.

  The big man held out his hands and shrugged. Changa glared at him as he ran to Wal. The bandit was still alive.

  “Where is Yasmine?” he asked.

  Wal stirred. “Sheik Abdul,” he whispered.

  Changa bent closer, refusing to acknowledge what he heard. “What did you say?”

  Wal winced as he rolled onto his back. “I sold her to Sheik Abdul of Zanzibar.”

  Changa closed his eyes, a curse slipping from his lips. It was worse than he imagined.

  “She is lost then,” he said.

  Wal managed to laugh. “Do you think Abdul would come to me for a common slave? He could get that from any of a hundred slavers working the coast. Yasmine was special. Her life with Abdul will be better that she deserves, much better than living with Naragisi surrounded by savages and cow shit.”

  Changa wanted to drive his sword between Wal’s shoulders but he didn’t come to kill the man. He dropped the bag of gold by Wal’s face.

  “Your payment.” Changa stepped away, signaling Yusef and the others. They emerged into an eerie silence; their exit much quieter than their entrance. Yusef found his way to Changa’s side.

  “That was good, kibwana. Belay will be happy.”

  Changa nodded.

  Yusef scratched his beard. “I don’t understand why you paid him.”

  “The payment will allow Wal to save face,” Changa answered. “It will also keep us alive. Wal wouldn’t allow us to live if word spread of what we did. He wouldn’t touch Belay for that would risk vendetta. But we’re nothing to him. He’d keep sending assassins until we were all dead.”

  Changa and his companions relaxed once they emerged from Wal’s district. They headed directly to Belay’s warehouse with their news.

  Belay paced as he spoke. “Wal may be right about Yasmine’s fate.”

  Changa was confused. “You agree with him, bwana?”

  “Yasmine may be better off with Abdul,” Belay reasoned. “Her virtue has been compromised. No man will marry her now, not even Naragisi. She will have a good life as Abdul’s concubine.”

  Changa bristled. “She will still be a slave. She has no one to protect her from the whims of Abdul. What if tires of her? She’ll be casted into the masses. Yasmine should not be punished for her beauty. She did not ask for this fate.”

  Belay stopped pacing and looked at Changa with sympathy. “Your feelings are personal and you raise valid questions. However, I did not make the world.”

  “She should have a choice,” Changa retorted. He was pushing his authority, spurred by shame of his memories. “This was Naragisi’s doing. You are always fixing his mistakes. You should fix this.”

  Belay dropped his head. “That is true. I would be a much richer man if not for the debts of my sons. Prepare the Sada. We will sail to Zanzibar and meet with Sheik Abdul. We will see how much a concub
ine is worth these days.”

  * * *

  The Sada sailed into the harbor of Zanzibar on a clear, cloudless day. Belay sent messengers to Abdul as soon as they docked. The Mombassans awaited the sheik’s reply on board. Changa did not take part in the dhow’s chores; he, Yusef and others were present as Belay’s bodyguards. The messengers returned quickly. Sheik Abdul would meet with them in three days.

  While Belay took the time to conduct business, Changa’s anxiousness grew. His mind kept slipping back to his early days of captivity, remembering the pain and confusion as he was torn from his family. The images of what the women and girls suffered were too terrible for him to clearly recall. He followed Belay about in angry silence, the minutes passing like eternity. When the day finally came for the meeting, Changa’s mood was at the least tense.

  Sheik Abdul’s palace lay south of the harbor, surrounded by the slave pens. Changa tried to ignore the human cages but his eyes betrayed him. Hundreds of people lay chained in the filthy compartments waiting to be sold to slavers who would take them north to Arabia and beyond. He looked into their desperate eyes and saw a sense of hopelessness far beyond anything he ever experienced while similarly confined. Abdul’s control was more that physical; there was something deeper at work.

  One pair of eyes caught his attention. They belonged to a boy clutching the bars with emaciated fingers. Changa found himself falling into the boy’s gaze until he looked into the streets of Zanzibar from the cage. He saw dense forest as the cage rocked back and forth with the contours of the wooded hills as the caravan travelled the muddy road leading from his city, his kingdom and his family. The fear of an eight-year-old boy returned, the terror of a child that saw his father murdered and his mothers and sisters taken as wives of the murderer.

  “Kibwana, are you well?”

  Yusef’s deep intrusive voice shattered his waking nightmare.

  “I’m fine.”

  They stood before Abdul’s palace. A servant greeted them at the gates, a welcoming smile on his face.

  “Welcome, Bwana Belay. My master awaits you in the veranda.”

  The servant led them through the gates to the veranda. Sheik Abdul sat before a table filled with food and sweets, a banquet fit for a dignitary. A solemn servant offered Belay a seat. Changa and Yusef flanked the merchant.