Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  Nyumbani Tales

  By

  Charles r saunders

  MVmedia, LLC

  Fayetteville GA

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 BY MVmedia, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  Nyumbani Tales/ Charles Saunders.—1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-9992789-4-9

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  KATISA

  THE BLACKSMITH AND THE BAMBUTI

  POMPHIS AND THE POOR MAN

  THE NUNDA

  DEATH-CATTLE OF DJENNE

  THE RETURN OF SUNDIATA

  TWO ROGUES

  OKOSENE ALAKUN AND THE MAGIC GUINEA FOWL

  AMMA

  THE SINGING DRUM

  KHODUMODUMO

  MBODZE

  ISHIGBI

  THE SILENT GHOSTS

  Publishing History

  About the Author

  INTRODUCTION

  WHEN I WROTE THE FIRST Imaro stories back in the early 1970s, I knew that even though the Ilyassai was a larger-than-life character, his epic wasn’t big enough to crowd out all the other stories that emanated from the people of the setting he dominated. That setting is an alternate- or parallel-world equivalent of Africa that I call “Nyumbani,” which is the Swahili word for “home.” The naming is symbolic, as Africa is home not only for people of black descent, but ultimately of all people.

  Like our world’s Africa, Nyumbani is a vast locale, teeming with a multitude of peoples and cultures. Even as I was shaping Imaro’s saga, other stories came into my mind. The more research I did into pre-colonial Africa, the more legends and folktales I saw that could be adapted to the milieu of Nyumbani. Often, I would write an Imaro story, then a non-Imaro story, then two Imaro tales, followed by another non-Imaro yarn. I was really winging it back then, writing whatever it was that wanted to come out of my head.

  In late 1979, I made the literary leap from short stories to novels. Naturally, those novels were about Imaro. Some of the previously written Imaro stories were incorporated into the five novels I wrote about him. Others will be included in a future Imaro collection called The Warrior’s Way.

  I also wrote several stories about a woman warrior named Dossouye. The setting in which her adventures occur has always been somewhat ambivalent. Is it, or is it not, Nyumbani? There is no unequivocal answer to that question.

  When I first wrote about Dossouye in the late 1970s, her setting was, indeed, Nyumbani. Later, I decided that the Dossouye stories needed to take place in a world different from Imaro’s. There are infinite possibilities for parallel worlds, so I chose another one for Dossouye. Is this a case of blatant inconsistency? Probably. But then, dreamers do have the prerogative of changing their minds.

  Dossouye’s stories are collected in a book titled, logically enough, Dossouye. That volume was followed up by a Dossouye novel called The Dancers of Mulukau. My Black Amazon has a space of her own.

  The stories in the present collection, Nyumbani Tales, span the length and breadth of Imaro’s milieu. Some are contemporaneous to Imaro’s time; others are not. Some of the stories even feature characters that appear in the Imaro novels. Those stories are: “Katisa,” which is about Imaro’s mother; “The Blacksmith and the Bambuti” and “Pomphis and the Poor Man,” which feature Imaro’s diminutive friend in the days before he met the Ilyassai warrior; and “The Nunda,” which is about Majnun, a prominent player in the third and fourth Imaro novels.

  Sources of inspiration for other tales in this collection are many and eclectic. Some stories, such as “Mbodze” and “The Singing Drum,” are re-tellings of African folktales, with modifications for the parallel-but-different conditions of Nyumbani. Others, such as “The Return of Sundiata” and “Ishigbi,” sprang directly from my fevered imagination. And one – “The Silent Ghosts” – was inspired by a song.

  Two stories – “Amma” and “Ishigbi” – appeared in mass-market anthologies. The others were published various small-press magazines. Before the original versions of the first three Imaro novels were published by DAW Books in the early 1980s, my work thrived in those magazines – or “zines,” as they were affectionately known. Some had fairly large circulations; other printed only a few hundred copies or less. Big or small, they provided the first exposure in print to writers who went on to fame in larger venues. Charles de Lint, David C. Smith, Ron Fortier, Joe Lansdale and Janet Fox are only a few of those writers. I am certainly proud to be included in such company.

  As I compiled this collection, I realized that most of the stories needed editing. In some cases, it was simply a matter of tweaking the content to make it consistent with changes I made when I rewrote the Imaro novels for re-publication. For others, my older self couldn’t resist revising what my younger self had written – even though my younger self might have resented it.

  During the 19th century, the infamous explorer Henry Morton Stanley published a book called Through the Dark Continent, which chronicled his wanderings in East and Central Africa. In contrast, Nyumbani Tales could very well be called Through the Bright Continent.

  As you journey through these stories, you don’t need a pith helmet or a bunch of porters carrying supplies on their heads. All you need is an open mind – and a touch of imagination.

  Charles R. Saunders

  February 2017

  KATISA

  IN THE MIDST OF WRITING my first Imaro stories back in the early 1970s, I made an ambitious effort to write a novel about the warrior’s mother, Katisa. The novel chronicled the events that led Katisa to abscond from her people, the Ilyassai, as well as the circumstances surrounding the conception and birth of Imaro ... and Katisa’s ultimate return to her harsh, unforgiving tribe.

  I learned a great deal about writing as this project progressed. And I applied those lessons to the Imaro stories, and, later, novels. But the Katisa novel waned as Imaro waxed, and I never attempted to get it published.

  Even so, I realized that Katisa’s story shouldn’t remain on the shelf. It’s essential to the context of Imaro’s life. Accordingly, I incorporated it – in much-shortened form – into the third Imaro novel, The Trail of Bohu. Later, I rewrote the beginning of the novel as a short story for the 1983 program book of Maplecon, the convention of the Ottawa Science Fiction Society. Because of space considerations, only the first half of the story saw print. The second half went unpublished in the wake of my departure from Ottawa. So, this is the first time the entire Katisa story has seen print.

  For this collection, I’ve done a substantial amount of editing and rewriting on the text, to make it
consistent with the way the Imaro saga has developed over the decades since it was first told. What happens here, in a clan of a tribe of nomadic warrior-herdsmen, precipitates the events that ultimately shake the continent of Nyumbani to its core.

  Consider this the true prequel to Imaro’s epic narrative...

  IN THE BRILLIANT SUNLIGHT that poured through the openings of the manyatta, a slender young woman studied her reflection in a mirror of polished iron. Admirable indeed was the image that looked back at her, for she was attired in a magnificent muvazi – the marriage robe of a woman of the Ilyassai.

  Draped loosely over the lithe contours of her body, the muvazi was made from laboriously tanned antelope-skins. Leaving one of the young woman’s shoulders bare, the robe glistened with a sheen similar to that of the satins woven in the rich kingdoms that lay far to the east. Row upon row of copper coils adorned her arms, neck and ankles, while hoops of the same metal pierced in spiral clusters through the upper part of her ears.

  Of further ornamentation, there was no need. Even without her splendid ceremonial garb, the Ilyassai woman’s appearance would have been striking.

  She stood a full ten inches over five feet in height, and her frame, though sapling-slim, was lithe, graceful and strong. Her face typified the beauty of the people who dwelled in the eastern part of Nyumbani: a narrow, mahogany-hued oval with flashing black eyes, high cheekbones, narrowly flaring nose, and full lips. The curve of her clean-shaven pate would rouse the passion of any young warrior of the vast yellow plain called the Tamburure, for the various tribes that dwelt there deemed hair on the head of a woman an abomination.

  Yet the young woman, whose name was Katisa, was not satisfied with what the mirror showed her. Frowning into the surface of the prize the warriors of her clan, the Kitoko, had taken from a trading-caravan that had ventured too close to Ilyassai territory, she adjusted the coils at her wrists and rearranged the draping of the muvazi. She wanted to look perfect for the young warrior with whom she would soon be mated.

  Then she let out a startled cry as the mirror suddenly showed another face, leering over her shoulder. Anger rose within her as she turned to face the intruder. No man was permitted to enter the manyatta of an Ilyassai woman on the day she was to be wed. Yet here one stood, shadowing the entrance-hole of the leather dwelling.

  Recognizing her unwelcome guest, Katisa scowled, and her lips curled in undisguised scorn. For the man was Chitendu, the oibonok of the Kitoko clan. A combination of shaman, sorcerer and priest of Ajunge the Spear-God, the highest deity in the Ilyassai pantheon, the oibonok’s status was second only to that of the ol-arem, the clan’s chieftain.

  The Kitoko clan’s ol-arem was Mubaku, Katisa’s father.

  “You dare to look upon me in my manyatta before my mating?” Katisa demanded incredulously. “Leave at once, or my father and Karamu will hear of it. Is that what you want?”

  The oibonok did not move. Clad in a cow-hide robe that covered him from throat to foot, his sinister appearance was heightened by a headpiece of black wood. Though he was known to be of late middle rains, Chitendu’s face betrayed scant sign of advancing age. His cold eyes, vulpine features and knottily muscled frame were at odds with the nobility of feature and form that characterized most Ilyassai.

  “I come only to inspect what will soon be mine,” the oibonok said, exposing his teeth in a sinister smile. “By now, you should be aware that nothing comes between Chitendu and what he desires.”

  In a swift blur of motion, Katisa reached beneath the mat that served as her bed and pulled out a long-bladed dagger.

  “This stands between you and I, oibonok,” she said between clenched teeth. “Come past it, if you dare.”

  The edge in her voice was as keen as the one on her blade. Even so, Chitendu laughed.

  “You wrong me, child,” he said in a mocking tone. “I was merely calling to your attention the agreement reached between your father and myself. Surely, you have not forgotten that if your betrothed, Karamu, fails in his olmaiyo today, you will be entrusted to me as a Bride of Ajunge.”

  Katisa had not forgotten. Karamu, the warrior she loved, had nearly come to blows with Chitendu when the oibonok made known his interest in her. Mubaku interceded with an alternative to which Karamu had readily agreed.

  The young warrior was due to undergo his olmaiyo, the ritual in which Ilyassai youths claimed their manhood through the single-handed slaying of a lion. Mubaku’s resolution had thus been simple: if Karamu succeeded in killing his lion, he would then wed Katisa. If the lion slew the warrior instead, Katisa would become a “Bride of Ajunge.”

  Confident in the prowess of her warrior, Katisa had not the slightest doubt that Karamu would be victorious in his olmaiyo. Yet Chitendu spoke as though the youth were already dead, before his quest had even begun.

  As though he were reading her thoughts, the oibonok laughed again. His cold eyes held Katisa’s like those of a serpent transfixing its prey. Katisa averted her gaze and tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger.

  “Must I ask you again to leave my manyatta?” she demanded. “If you do not go now, I will tell Karamu of it. Then, even my father may not be able to prevent him from turning you into food for the jackals.”

  Briefly, something hateful and inhuman stirred in the depths of the oibonok’s obsidian eyes. Then it was gone.

  “Soon, Katisa, you will learn that your posturing father and simple-minded lover are no more to me than straws underfoot,” he said. “The learning will begin when you hear the toll of the Death Drum for Karamu. Think on it.”

  Before Katisa could respond, Chitendu turned and squeezed through the door-hole. Only iron-self-control prevented her from hurling her dagger at his retreating form. She did, however, spit at the ground upon which he had stood.

  Though her courage was exceptional even among a people for whom fearlessness was the primary virtue, Katisa still felt a sense of unease as she contemplated Chitendu’s words. The very thought of becoming a “Bride of Ajunge” caused her to shudder inside. For it was well-known that such “Brides” actually belonged to the oibonok, not the Spear-God. And the uses to which Chitendu was rumored to put them were far from religious ...

  After returning her dagger to its hiding-place under her bed, Katisa allowed herself a final glance into the looted mirror before bending to pass through the manyatta’s door-hole.

  Let others worry about Chitendu, she thought defiantly. I am the daughter of the ol-arem, and will soon become the wife of mighty warrior. Why should I believe I will ever be a Bride of Ajunge?

  Yet for all her unbounded confidence, Chitendu’s implicit threat remained a small, dark cloud of foreboding ... a cloud that did not dissipate as she stepped out into the full glare of Jua the sun.

  THE SHADOWS CAST BY the collection of leather-walled dwellings that was the temporary village of the Kitoko clan darkened as the sinking sun set the horizon ablaze. Half-naked herd-boys urged the ngombes – the long-horned Ilyassai cattle – into the thornbush boma, where the animals would spend the night. There were no fields of millet or sorghum for the animals to avoid trampling, for the Ilyassai disdained agriculture. Throughout the widely scattered manyattas, lean warriors and shaven-headed women silently awaited Karamu’s return from his olmaiyo.

  Also silent was the group of women and girls gathered near Katisa’s manyatta. Though their garments of antelope- and cowhide did not match the splendor of Katisa’s muvazi, the women of the clan would have been the envy of the seraglio of any East Coast potentate.

  The women had watched as Karamu and the warriors who accompanied him strode away from the manyattas in the morning. Katisa had favored the stalwart Karamu with a smile in anticipation of the reward she would bestow when he returned triumphant from his olmaiyo. Chitendu accompanied the warriors. For him, Katisa spared only a glare of contempt.

  Katisa wished her mother, Junyari, were present. But Junyari had died of a wasting disease several rains before. And her father, M
ubaku, had not been the same since. He had given her only a slight nod of acknowledgement as he accompanied the warriors on their hunt.

  In the hours that followed the departure of warriors of the olmaiyo, Katisa and her friends and relatives chattered about the festivities to come: the feast of antelope meat, milk and cow’s blood the older women were preparing; the ritual kidnapping and chase in which Karamu would seize Katisa from her manyatta and carry her away, with Katisa’s family in mock pursuit; the mating in a manyatta built especially for that purpose...

  But as the day dragged beyond the time when warriors usually returned from olmaiyo, the bright mood darkened, and the chatter stilled. The eyes of Katisa’s friends began to gaze at the ground, not her. For they knew as well as she that a delay of this length could be accounted for in only two ways: either Karamu had been slain by his lion, or – even worse – he had fled in fear from his foe.

  Katisa did not believe the latter alternative was possible. She knew Karamu would never turn ilmonek; never run in cowardice at the moment when his manhood came to the test. Despite the lengthening of the shadows and the lowering of the sun, Katisa refused to consider the only other explanation: that Karamu was dead.

  She impatiently dismissed the pitying gestures her friends now made. Not until she knew for herself that Karamu was not coming back alive would she accept what the others new to be inevitable. Chin upraised defiantly, Katisa continued to scan the horizon for signs of the warriors’ return.

  Thus, she was the one who first spotted line of dark figures descending along a slight rise in the yellow plain.

  “They come!” Katisa cried. “The warriors return!”

  As she ran toward the oncoming spearmen, other eyes saw what Katisa’s hope-clouded vision refused to recognize. Makaro, the aged warrior who was responsible for beating the Death-Drum, was saddened, for he had seen this sight many times before.