Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  Shocked at the sight of the blood welling in the wound, Ahmadu stepped back. Not uttering a sound, the calf stared up at Ahmadu. Regret and sorrow were mirrored in its bovine eyes. Then the calf turned and trotted away from Ahmadu, soon disappearing across the horizon of the desert.

  Ahmadu felt an inexplicable pang of remorse at what he had done to the creature he regarded as a nemesis. As time passed, he began to realize that in the wasteland, only the calf was a creature that was neither foe nor prey. Though he despised its existence, the beast had been his only companion. Now that it was gone, Ahmadu learned the true meaning of solitude.

  Occasionally, the youth thought of the lands that lay beyond the wilderness: Imal, Gaungara, Kaoka. But he knew he would find no refuge in those hostile kingdoms. Within moments of his first utterance of Ku-Djenne speech, he would be a target for a spearpoint. And Ku-Djenne was the only language he knew.

  The small bands of nomads that roamed the desert would have proved no more hospitable, for they were hereditary blood foes of Djenne. For that reason, Ahmadu gave the high, spiraling strands of smoke from their cook-fires a wide berth whenever he saw them.

  Eventually, the struggle to survive exacted its toll. A form of madness stole insidiously into Ahmadu’s mind. He began to take increasingly foolhardy and dangerous risks.

  One of the reasons he had lasted nearly a year in the wasteland was that he hunted only prey that was beneath the notice of the more formidable desert carnivores. Now, having fashioned a spear from his dagger and staff, he stalked the addax and gazelle – which were also the food of the swift cheetah and the fierce desert lion. Eventually, Ahmadu would come into conflict with the great cats. The conflict came sooner than the youth had expected ...

  CONFIDENTLY – OR, PERHAPS foolishly – Ahmadu crept closer to a gazelle chewing laboriously on tough desert foliage. Downwind, he moved silently as a phantom, tightly gripping his makeshift spear. Wilderness-honed though he had become, Ahmadu was unaware of the death that stalked him in turn.

  Suddenly, a thunderous roar shook the sand. In a flash of motion, the gazelle was gone. Ahmadu turned to confront a sight that would have terrified even the most fearless of warriors. Bounding toward him was a gaunt, bristle-maned lion, teeth bared and talons poised to rend.

  Before the youth could thrust out his makeshift weapon, the huge feline was upon him. Its great weight bore him to the ground, and cruel claws hooked into the flesh of his shoulders. Hot, fetid breath beat onto his fear-frozen face; mighty fangs drove downward toward the youth’s unprotected throat, and Ahmadu cried out as death’s yellow eyes stared hungrily into his own.

  Then the giant jaws closed ... short of their goal. The lion looked up, startled by the sudden sounds of onrushing hooves and a booming bellow. As the hoofbeats drew closer, the lion released its hold on Ahmadu. It growled furiously at the interloper, and its great thews rippled in anticipation of battle.

  Now a huge black shape loomed over the lion and its prey. Ahmadu saw only a hurtling head and a flicker of horns as the mysterious intruder slammed into the leaping lion and sent it flying. The carnivore landed a dozen feet away. Before the stunned lion could rise, its gigantic foe leaped effortlessly over Ahmadu.

  Then the black beast, which Ahmadu finally recognized as a bull buffalo that was a giant even among its own kind, drove its horns into the body of the lion. Squalling in agony, the great cat fought to free itself. But the buffalo continued to gore the lion unmercifully. As well, its hooves trampled like mauls, splintering the bones of its thrashing foe. Powerful though it was, the lion could not long withstand such punishment. Within moments, the huge cat became a battered, bloody corpse.

  As the buffalo turned from its flattened kill, Ahmadu stared at its hulking form. The youth’s mind whirled in confusion. He had heard of the ill-tempered ferocity of such beasts from travellers who had come from the southern countries. But he also knew that the buffalo did not live even as far north as Djenne-the-Land, let alone this dry wilderness.

  Questions raced through Ahmadu’s mind. He wondered how this one had come to be so far from its home grazing-ground. Why had it attacked and killed the lion, thus saving Ahmadu’s life? Most of all, the youth wondered whether the buffalo’s murderous fury had spent itself on the dead lion.

  Cautiously, Ahmadu raised himself to a sitting position. The movement caught the eye of the buffalo. Slowly, it turned to Ahmadu, who froze in sudden fear. Then the beast trotted purposefully toward the motionless youth.

  As the buffalo drew closer, Ahmadu looked closely at its face. What he saw there caused him to tremble in dread ... for the face of this buffalo bore a livid, crimson scar that stood out against its coal-black hide. The scar lay in the exact spot where Ahmadu had slashed the calf several months before ...

  Then the buffalo spoke.

  IN OUGON, THE YEAR that followed the exile of Ahmadu was a strange one. At first, there seemed little cause for concern. The grey-clad stranger’s antelope-cattle flourished, providing more than enough meat and milk for all the people of Djenne-the-Land. Yet the flesh of the red-eyed beasts did not nourish the people who ate it. Though they experienced none of the suffering of starvation, they grew thin, as though they were eating nothing at all. Even so, no one died – and that prevented the civil war Sankruu had feared.

  Two other mysterious occurrences transpired that year ...

  The long-delayed rains of Shango never fell. In the past, Shango had at times released his rain much later than was convenient for the Ku-Djenne. But never before had he entirely withheld his life-giving gift. Wise men and women speculated, and fools fulminated. But no one could say why the god of rain, lightning and thunder had forsaken Djenne.

  The other mystery was the wound Sankruu had received from Dibango. It never healed. Steadily, it seeped small amounts of blood, never beginning to form scar tissue. Neither the care of his wives nor the ministrations of the herb-doctors affected the insidious bleeding. In time, Sankruu weakened until he became but a shadowy husk of his former robust self. Yet despite the constant bleeding, he did not die.

  Fearful whispers and averted eyes began to follow him as he passed. Some speculated that the never-healing wound was caused by the vengeful ghost of Dibango. Others held that the affliction was a curse laid by the gods as punishment for his failure to carry out the ritual of sacrifice. Still others considered it the work of his banished son, Ahmadu.

  In Ougon the long, dry year passed in fear and uncertainty. In the other villages of Djenne-the-Land, people also experienced the starvation-without-hunger phenomenon. But no one suffered an affliction like Sankruu’s wound. To the other villages, the passage of time meant little as long as their herds flourished and continued to provide sustenance. The gray-clad stranger became little more than a fading – albeit disquieting – scrap of memory.

  To Sankruu, however, the memory remained vivid, because it was inextricably linked with the bitterness of the banishment of his son. The chieftain had ordered a record kept of the number of days that passed since the stranger’s coming. Upon the day that marked a year’s passage, Sankruu prepared himself for the stranger’s promised return.

  Accompanied by a contingent of warriors, elders and priests, the chieftain of Ougon set out for the pasture of his village’s cattle. Grimly, he noted that none of the other chieftains of Djenne-the-Land had responded to his request that they join him on this day.

  The Sankruu who limped unsteadily between two warriors bore scant resemblance to the mighty figure of a rain ago. His garments clung in loose folds from an emaciated frame, and his dark face was gaunt and weary in mien. A moist red stain marred the middle of his garment, and at times his bony hand trembled as he gripped the stout staff he needed to help him walk. Yet for all his frailty, Sankruu maintained his dignity, and his companions still respected him.

  When they reached the pasture where the antelope-cattle grazed on remnants of vegetation, they found the funereally clad stranger waiting. The man’s eyes
gleamed coldly as he watched the contingent’s approach. Like a harbinger of doom, he stood silhouetted by the crimson rays of the Nyumbani sun. Silently, he waited for Sankruu to speak.

  “You have come to claim your price for the cattle that have saved Djenne-the-Land,” the chieftain said in a voice that was strong enough to belie the weakness of his body.

  “Yes,” the stranger agreed. “My price, you will agree, is a simple one. You need only to tell me my name.”

  “Your name?” Sankruu repeated hollowly. “How can I know your name? You never told it to us.”

  The stranger’s eyes gleamed pitilessly in their hollow sockets. The cloth that covered his mouth moved, as if the lips hidden beneath were shaping themselves into a smile.

  “Most unfortunate,” he said. “For in the absence of my name, the price must be your soul. Yours, and those of all the people who ate the flesh of my cattle. You will become my servants, as they are.”

  Waving his shroud-swathed arms toward the red-eyed cattle, the stranger uttered an incantation, the very syllables of which caused the Ku-Djenne to shiver in superstitious dread. They stared spellbound as the outlines of the cattle became blurry and indistinct.

  Slowly, the shapes of the beasts changed, until they were transformed into things that vaguely resembled men ... naked, hideous, demonic caricatures, purplish-blue in color and still possessing the curved, spiraled horns that sprouted from their foreheads in their former guises. Their eyes rolled in mad anguish, the only indication that these creatures had once been human.

  “Shango save us!” cried one of the elders as the demonic creatures moved toward the knot of Ku-Djenne.

  The stranger laughed. The sound had a horrible timbre, as though the stranger had seen and done things that had driven him into a type of madness unimaginable to ordinary people.

  “Shango is dead!” he cried. “I imprisoned his godhood in the body of the black calf you sacrificed when I brought you the herd! Well do I know your customs, O Ku-Djenne. Now, I am the master of the rains ... and they will not fall until the souls of all belong to me!”

  “But we did not sacrifice the calf,” said Sankruu. “My once-son interceded, and he and the calf were banished to the wilderness.”

  For the first time, the stranger appeared to lose his composure. Uncertainty surfaced in his cold eyes – but only briefly.

  “No matter!” he shouted, as if to reassure himself. “You still do not know my name, and your souls are still mine.”

  Some of the Ku-Djenne shrank back fearfully when they heard those words. But not Sankruu. The chieftain drew himself up to his full, still-impressive height, and spoke in a quiet tone.

  “You will not, while I live, have the souls of the people of Ougon – no matter what your name may be.”

  “Then die, fool!” the stranger shouted.

  He gestured to the horned demons.

  “Take them!” he cried.

  Slowly, the creatures advanced. Despite their obvious terror, the men of Ougon prepared for battle. But the closer the demons approached, the weaker the warriors’ will became. With a growing sense of horror, they became aware of sudden, subtle changes beginning to occur in their bodies ...

  Suddenly, a shout rang across the pasture, breaking the concentration of mystic forces that were slowly turning the men of Ougon into death-cattle.

  “Wa Nkeri!” a clear, strong voice cried. “Wa Nkeri!”

  All heads turned to the source of the shout. The sight that met their eyes was as incredible as that of the stranger and his death-cattle. They saw Ahmadu, exiled son of Sankruu, sitting astride an enormous black buffalo. The time he’d spent in the desert had toughened the youth; he had become as lean and hard as a young leopard. Flashes of sunlight glittered from the point of his makeshift spear and the scythe-like horns of the buffalo.

  “Wa Nkeri!” Ahmadu shouted again.

  Then the buffalo charged into the ranks of the demons. Its horns smashed left and right, sending broken bodies sailing through the air. With deadly effect, Ahmadu wielded his makeshift spear, all the while shouting his curious battle-cry: “Wa Nkeri!”

  At first, Sankruu and the others could scarcely believe that Ahmadu had dared to defy his banishment. Then, in a flash of insight, the chieftain realized the significance of the huge buffalo and the name Ahmadu was shouting. Forgetting his weakness, Sankruu raised his staff high over his head.

  “Wa Nkeri!” he cried. “Hear your name and tremble, you masked dog!”

  After only a moment of hesitation, the others followed, all yelling the same war-cry. Fired by fear and hatred, they fought furiously against their demonic foes, even as the changes in their bodies began to reverse.

  The effect of this sudden turn of events was immediate and astonishing. Crying out in terror, Wa Nkeri stared wildly as the Ku-Djenne and the buffalo wreaked havoc among his demons. Then the buffalo came toward Wa Nkeri. Ahmadu leaped lightly from the animal’s back and stepped aside. And the buffalo lowered its horns and charged.

  “No!” Wa Nkeri wailed. “My spells imprisoned you! The power of the Mashataan is mine! I did not endure a thousand rains of imprisonment beneath a mountain in Cush to be thwarted like this. Die, Shango!”

  From the outstretched hands of the sorcerer, twin bolts of emerald incandescence shot out and struck the face of the charging buffalo. As the bull bellowed in pain, the odor of charred flesh filled the air. Still, the huge beast barreled into the gray-clad form, impaling it with a sidewise swipe of its horns. Half rearing from the ground, the beast slammed the shrieking sorcerer down.

  Then the buffalo trampled Wa Nkeri into the dust until noting remained but a mound of pulped, bloody flesh and shattered bones. Wa Nkeri had screamed far longer than would an ordinary man beneath the great, pounding hoofs.

  With Wa Nkeri’s death, the demon-things ceased their struggles and crumpled to the ground. Sankruu and his companions stared blank-eyed at the carnage around them. Then they averted their gazes, for the bodies of the former death-cattle were reverting to their original human form. The sight was not a pleasant one ... nor was the awful understanding of what the Ku-Djenne had been eating during the rainless rain ...

  Sankruu moved Ahmadu, intending to greet his son and rescind the banishment as a reward for the youth’s heroic deeds this day. But when Ahmadu looked at his father, something in the younger man’s eyes forestalled the words Sankruu was about to say.

  The buffalo came to Ahmadu. Though its face was singed, it showed no other effects from Wa Nkeri’s fiery attack. Ahmadu stroked the burnt flesh for a moment. Then he looked at his father again. Without speaking, he nodded to the bull – a signal for what was to happen next.

  Without warning, the buffalo swung its head at the youth. One horn punched sickeningly into Ahmadu’s chest. The point pierced his heart, killing him instantly. Then, as Sankruu and the others looked on in disbelief, the shape of the buffalo began to swell and expand, as though its flesh could no longer contain the powerful forces within it. Finally, the beast burst asunder, and in its place stood a gigantic, man-like form, black as a thundercloud and carrying a titanic, double-bladed axe that resembled the horns of a buffalo.

  “Shango,” the awe-struck group of Ku-Djenne murmured as one.

  “Yes, I am the Thunderer,” the deity boomed. “If only the generous Cushites had slain Wa Nkeri before they buried him. But now, thanks to Ahmadu, I am free to stride the skies once again, and bring the rains you need.”

  “But ... why did you slay my son?” Sankruu asked in anguish.

  “By your own words, he had to die,” Shango replied. “For he had nowhere else to go, and a sacrifice was needed.”

  Then, in a deafening clap of thunder, the towering manifestation of the deity vanished. Again, thunder sounded ... this time, from high in the sky. Great ramparts of dark clouds formed overhead. Then drops of rain began to fall ... the first in many months. A downpour followed, quickly soaking the parched earth and the grateful Ku-Djenne.
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  But Sankruu felt no joy in the end of the long drought. Louder than the peals of thunder, his words of banishment rolled through his head: “If you ever return to Djenne-the-Land, you will surely die ...”

  “Sankruu! Your wound is healed,” one of the warriors said in wonder.

  The chieftain looked down and saw that the redness in the middle of his garment was gone. Slipping his hand inside, Sankruu discovered that the flesh of his stomach was smooth, with no sign of the unhealing wound.

  Instead of rejoicing, though, Sankruu tore the garment, as though he wished to wound its cloth. Then he walked to the still form of Ahmadu. Somehow, he found the strength to lift his son’s body in his arms, and shout at the sky.

  “I would bleed forever from a hundred wounds, if only Ahmadu could live,” he cried as tears mingle with the rain on his grief-laden face.

  OUTSIDE THE VILLAGE of Ougon, where lean youths tend herds of spotted cattle and fat nyuka, a stone monument created by the finest sculptor in Djenne-the-City stands. It is carved in the shape of a youth astride a mighty bull buffalo. It is said that if one stands near this monument during a rainstorm, the face of Ahmadu can be seen among the thunderclouds.

  THE RETURN OF SUNDIATA

  THE NAME “SUNDIATA” resonates through the history of the Africa we know. He was the first monarch of Mali, which was the greatest African kingdom of the Middle Ages. Reigning from 1230 to 1255 AD, he expanded Mali’s agriculture and gained control over the trade of salt and gold. This trade formed the basis for the kingdom’s ascendance. In Nyumbani, there is a different Sundiata, whose story is heroic in its own right. My interpretation of the African icon Sundiata first appeared in a magazine called Cascade, in 1982.

  SOBBING SOFTLY, KIEMBA stumbled unsteadily along the narrow hill-trail. In the muted glow of the moon, tears streamed in silver tracks down her ebony cheeks. Behind her, a line of crimson blotches marked her progress up the steep, stony path. With each step Kiemba took, more blood trickled down her thighs. Her clothing was torn. Her half-naked body throbbed with pain, and her soul was seared with humiliation and despair. Still, she continued to struggle upward. She knew what awaited her if she stopped or retraced her way back down the hill.