by Yaba Badoe
It was hard to tell how much Musa understood of what his father was saying to him. After all, he was only six years old and, though he was clever and hoped never to bring shame to his family, he was still a child. But as he waved his father goodbye his hand held the amulet, and he believed he would hold fast to his father’s words: he was his father’s son, a precious child of the soil.
***
A few days after Musa’s arrival at his great-uncle’s compound, the rains came – falling in fat drops like eggs smashing on the ground. The flamboyant trees flowered in showers of scarlet, and the sweet smell of frangipani wafted from inside the old man’s compound throughout the village. Musa had never seen such abundance in his life. His great-uncle’s granaries were loaded with sacks of corn, millet and rice, and each of his three wives cooked meat every day.
Everyone was kind to Musa, admiring his intelligence and commenting on the beauty of his appearance. ‘Look how bright his blue-black eyes are,’ women whispered. ‘And look how straight and strong his limbs are growing,’ said passers-by as they watched Musa running through the village.
The boy enjoyed living in his great-uncle’s compound. He looked after the goats and ran errands for his aunts. For the most part, he was pleased with his new life. But sometimes at night, when mosquitoes disturbed his sleep and tree frogs croaked noisily, Musa remembered the family he had left behind and cried himself to sleep. Whenever this happened, his mother appeared in his dreams, singing the lullabies she’d once sung him when he was a baby.
On the second anniversary of his arrival at his great-uncle’s house, the old man summoned Musa to sit beside him at the entrance to his room. ‘I’ve been watching you,’ the old man said, gazing at Musa through milky eyes. ‘And I like your ways. You’re modest and truthful, a credit to the family. I’d like to help you, but as you know I’ve already allocated my land to my sons. My only regret is that I have no one to teach the art of storytelling to. Would you like to learn, Musa?’
‘But I am a child of the soil,’ the boy replied, ‘the son of a humble farmer.’
‘Just like I was when I started out. It’s often people like us who tell the best stories. Would you like to learn how to tell a story?’
Musa said that he would.
Every day after that, when he had finished herding goats and running errands, and had swept the compound clean, Musa joined the old man for lessons in storytelling. To begin with, he was given a kora to play – a large gourd of an instrument with many strings. His fingers learned how to pluck chords, nimbly stretching to make the sound of running water. Musa learned how to beat the side of the kora in imitation of armies marching to war.
Through listening to the old man’s words, Musa learned to sing refrains within stories; to sing and play like a young woman smiling, a lioness prowling or a young man hunting.
‘You’re an excellent student,’ said the old man. ‘I believe that in time you’ll become a master kora player and people will come to you to learn.’
Soon Musa became so adept with the instrument that his great-uncle asked him to accompany him when he performed at weddings. While the old man told stories that made the gathering laugh and then cry, Musa, dressed in fine embroidered clothes, sang melodious refrains. Strumming and plucking, he gently teased music from the gourd; music so moving that when the wedding guests heard it, they showered money over Musa.
One day, late in the afternoon, the old man summoned his great-nephew to sit down beside him. ‘It is time you learned our stories,’ he declared. ‘It’s time you moved on from simply singing my refrains.’
Musa was delighted. Hour after hour he sat with his great-uncle learning the stories of West African peoples. He laughed at the antics of Ananse the spider- man, folk hero of the Ashanti. He memorised the tales of travelling Fulani herdsmen, the stories of Wolof and Mandinka warriors and, finally, the adventures of magic hunters from Guinea, who fly by night and converse with spirits in daylight. Musa had never been happier in his life.
If his favourite Aunt happened to ask him for a story, he would pluck it like a feather from the amulet around his neck, and then grooming it with words, fluff it out, until the feather grew into a mighty pair of wings that flew to the listener like a golden bird. Every night, hugging the amulet, Musa recited the story that his great-uncle had taught him that day, repeating it till the rhythm of his words was exactly like that of the old man.
Musa became so enchanted by the stories he was learning that as he slept he dreamed he was a magic hunter, a victorious warrior. He was Musa, the son of a magnificent, powerful King; Musa, a great hero.
You wouldn’t have noticed watching him grow into a young man that there was anything amiss in his character. At sixteen, Musa was given some of the old man’s cattle to look after. He found them grazing- land, where the grass was moist with dew. Yet when he returned home from the savannah, there seemed less of the old Musa about him, and more of something new.
‘He’s becoming a man,’ thought his favourite Aunt, as she handed him a bowl of cassava and guinea fowl. ‘He keeps more of his heart to himself now.’
No one seemed to realise that Musa’s love of stories was changing him. Alone with the cattle on the grasslands, he became the heroes he sang about. He was a warrior with a burning sword, a hunter with a spear that killed lions. He fought with the greatest of men, outwitting them. Then, after he’d forced them to bow down before him, men and women, old and young, threw garlands at his feet.
No one seemed to realise, when he sang at weddings, that the gleam of conviction in Musa’s eyes was a sign that a craving for greatness was gnawing at his bones. ‘Who respects a man who sweeps the yard like a woman and leads a handful of cattle to graze?’ he asked himself. ‘Or for that matter, who respects the son of a farmer, when those who are remembered are men who’ve performed extraordinary deeds? More than anything in the world I want to be a warrior!’
Before long, there wasn’t a task he did in the old man’s compound that pleased him. Whether he was feeding husks to goats or leading cattle to graze, he felt ashamed, believing that such chores were beneath him. Eventually, the old man, sensing the unease within Musa, called him to his side.
‘Musa,’ he said gently, ‘you haven’t been yourself for some time. Now that you’re old enough to travel on your own, I think you should visit your family.’
Musa nodded, excited at the old man’s suggestion. The old man gave Musa a gold necklace to take as a gift to his mother and a magnificent smock in blue, red and green to give to his father. ‘Walk carefully on your journey home,’ he said, after giving Musa his blessing. ‘And when your visit is over and you’re yourself again, you’re very welcome to return to my house.’
***
The next day Musa set off on his journey. But instead of taking the path that would lead him back to his father’s village, he walked due south to seek advice from Nana – a wise woman who lived deep in the forest and understood the wishes of the gods.
When he arrived at the forest’s edge, Musa, pretending that his steel cutlass was a silver sword, slashed the undergrowth, notching a mark on the trees so he would be able to find his way out again. Cutting away creepers, he plunged deeper and deeper into the jungle, little knowing that a thousand hidden eyes were spying on him, warning Nana of his progress.
On the third day of his journey, Musa stumbled into a clearing where a thatched hut stood beside a crooked Nim tree. Sitting in the shade of the tree was a wizened woman, her grey hair plaited. She was throwing cowry shells to look into the future, and as the shells fell, she sang a rhyme to herself:
‘Birds fly and spiders creep,
Men sometimes cry
But Musa shall weep.’
The old woman looked up and smiled. ‘Musa,’ she said, ‘I was expecting you over an hour ago. What can I do for you?’
Without further ado, Musa sat down beneath the Nim tree and opened up his heart. ‘I want to be famous,’ he said. ‘I want my dr
eams of glory to come true. Tell me, Nana, how can I make that happen? How can I make my name known?’
‘Are you sure that’s what you really want?’
‘Oh yes,’ Musa sighed.
Nana asked him to throw the cowry shells. He shook them in both his hands, blew his breath over them for good luck, and then flung them to the ground.
Nana shook her head sadly, for spread out before her like fragments of speckled eggshells was Musa’s future. ‘You have a gift for storytelling Musa, be satisfied,’ she urged. ‘Soon your fame will spread, and you will become a master kora player and a great storyteller. Go home, Musa.’
‘But I want to be a great hunter and warrior,’ the young man replied.
Nana asked him to throw the cowry shells a second time and once again she told him to go home and be satisfied with his lot.
‘Why won’t you help me?’ Musa cried. ‘I know I’m the son of a humble farmer, but that shouldn’t stop you from telling me how I can become a magnificent warrior so that I too will be someone people sing about.’
‘So you won’t heed my warning? Didn’t you hear my song, Musa?’
The old woman repeated the rhyme, but this time she sang slowly so that every word of the song could be heard:
‘Birds fly and spiders creep,
Men sometimes cry
But Musa shall weep.’
‘Don’t you know it’s dangerous to tamper with your destiny?’ she said. ‘Put aside your childish dreams. Go home a man, my son!’
Having travelled so deeply into the forest, Musa couldn’t turn his back on his dreams. So at last, realising that nothing she said would dissuade him, Nana asked him to throw the shells a third time.
After carefully weighing up what the cowries were telling her, Nana said: ‘In the savannah lands near your home, Musa, lives a magic elephant, who many warriors have tried to destroy. This elephant has a name: Imoro. He’s as black as ebony and as strong as twenty hippopotamuses. His only weakness is that he can’t resist wild honey. If you succeed in killing him, Musa, you must grind his tusks to powder and then drink them with milk. Then you’ll have all the power you need to perform extraordinary deeds. But be careful,’ Nana added. ‘Hold your amulet close when you’re near Imoro, for should you fail in your task your fate will be fearful indeed.’
Musa thanked the old woman for her advice and following the trail he’d made, found his way out of the forest. A week later, he reached a town near the village where his parents lived and headed for the market. He looked around until he found what he was searching for: a table laden with jars of wild honey.
‘Come and buy, come and buy,’ a woman sitting at the stall yelled as she suckled her baby.
‘Will you give me all the honey that you have in exchange for this trinket?’ Musa asked. He opened the package that his great-uncle had asked him to give to his mother.
The trader’s eyes widened at the sight of such a chunky gold necklace.
‘I want every single jar of your honey,’ Musa explained, ‘and a cart and ox to pull it.’
The woman stared at Musa, shifting her baby from one breast to the other. ‘Aren’t you the child of Musa Baba?’ she asked, mentioning the name of Musa’s father. ‘Aren’t you the child he sent away during the great drought?’
‘Indeed I’m not,’ Musa replied.
‘Are you sure? Your face looks just like Musa Baba’s when he was younger, and your hands remind me of his before they grew rough tilling soil.’
‘I assure you, I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ said Musa. ‘Will you or won’t you sell me your honey?’
‘Of course,’ the woman said, quickly pocketing the necklace. She then called a boy to her side who arranged for all the honey to be placed on an ox-drawn cart.
Musa left the market, pulling the ox and cart behind him. After a couple of miles, he stopped at the roadside to drink cold water from a calabash. As he quenched his thirst, he heard the plaintive cry of an old man singing to a kora. Musa followed the sound till he found its source. The man, sitting beneath a flowering frangipani, was playing a silver- studded kora, the most beautiful instrument Musa had ever seen.
‘Will you give me your kora in exchange for this outfit?’ Musa asked, unpacking the hand-woven smock in blue, red and green that his great-uncle had asked him to give to his father.
The old man studied Musa’s face carefully. ‘Aren’t you the son of Musa and Meta Baba, who was sent away and is now a kora player?’ he enquired, naming Musa’s parents. ‘Your face is like his and so is your voice. In fact, when I saw you walking towards me, I thought Musa Baba had become young once again.’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ Musa said. ‘Will you or won’t you sell me your kora?’
‘I can hardly refuse,’ replied the old man. ‘Age has cracked my voice, and I shall soon need a fine smock to wear with my shroud. You may take this kora with pleasure.’
Satisfied with his purchases, Musa began the long journey deep into the savannah lands, to perform the deed that would make him famous; the deed that would make him the greatest warrior of all time.
There are places in West Africa where few men have walked, which echo with the hum of another world. Places where the songs of birds and the cries of animals sound strange because they are swept along by a cold, dry wind that blows from the Sahara. In one such space the grass, rustling uneasily, listens to the tread of a new step. It is Musa, silver kora slung over his shoulder, pulling the ox-cart of wild honey. Musa is tired and thirsty and glistens with sweat.
Unloading his cargo, he ties the ox to a tree and begins digging a hole. He lines the cavity with smooth, flat stones and when he has finished, pours in jar after jar of wild honey.
‘What is this man doing and what is his mission here?’ ask invisible spectators behind twitching grasses. They have never seen this before, a man emptying honey into a deep hole.
Soon, ants, smelling the sweet scent, cluster around the rim; with them come hornets and flies. Musa sits beneath the tree and begins singing to his kora. His voice cuts through the air with chords that drive the insects away.
The wind carries Musa’s message to birds, who sing it to every animal in the savannah. Lions, leopards and antelopes hear the song. They pass the message on to crocodiles and buffalo, till eventually it reaches the animal for which it is intended: the black elephant, Imoro, wallowing in a pool of water.
‘Your friend Musa invites you to a feast of wild honey,’ the animals cry. ‘He is sitting beside a tree waiting for you. Come quickly, Imoro, for the honey is good.’
Imoro, resplendent in his black skin, his white tusks gleaming in the sun, slowly rises from the pool. He steps out, following a bird who takes him to Musa.
The young man singing with the voice of a friend invites Imoro, the magic elephant, to eat. At first the animal is suspicious. Men have tried to trick him before but no one has ever presented him with his favourite food of wild honey. Imoro sniffs Musa’s scent and steps back. He sniffs again. What he senses confirms what he hears: the soothing balm of a young man’s music.
Imoro steps forward licking the basin of honey from the rim to the centre. Very soon all the honey is eaten and, kneeling down in gratitude, he wraps his trunk around Musa’s neck and caresses him.
At once, the young man’s voice becomes like that of a mother singing her child to sleep – the kora, a fountain trickling in the background. And while Imoro nuzzles Musa’s neck, stroking the red amulet, the young man is thinking, ‘First I must kill him. Then I must cut off his tusks, grind them to powder and drink them with milk, so that at last I will be the greatest of all warriors.’
Imoro’s eyes are closing. He is almost asleep. He dozes as Musa prepares to strike.
***
Musa set the kora aside and slowly inched his hand behind his back to where he had hidden a cutlass. Imoro’s eyes flickered open and then shut again, the way eyes often do when closing in sleep. Musa raised his
arm, the cutlass glinting.
Just at the moment he was about to slam the weapon on Imoro’s head, the elephant opened its eyes again. The trunk, caressing Musa’s neck, jerked and as it did so, the amulet around Musa’s neck tore open, tumbling to the ground.
The cutlass came crashing down but instead of wounding Imoro, it tore a gaping hole in the earth. Realising that he had been tricked, Imoro shrieked with rage. He shrieked a second time, his tusks poised, his trunk about to dash Musa to the ground.
‘Magic amulet,’ the young man cried, petrified. ‘Help me! Magic bird who helped my ancestor, please come to my aid. Imoro, the magic elephant, is about to kill me!’
Three golden feathers from the amulet fluttered into life, and all at once became a gigantic golden eagle. Musa didn’t know which to be more frightened of: the shining bird or the black elephant. Both were enormous and both stood, side by side, glaring at him.
It was the eagle who spoke first and in the voice of the Orcadian Queen, Romilly. ‘Musa,’ she said, ‘you’ve brought shame to the family I’ve protected for years. I never imagined when I befriended your ancestor that one day I would be called to defend a man who dared forsake his family. What vain dreams of glory have possessed you, Musa? What foolish fantasies have led you to this?’
Musa trembled before the eagle and the elephant, and for the first time in years he longed to feel the touch of his mother’s hand and hear the voice of his father speaking. Even though he had pretended not to know them, Musa would have gladly exchanged his dreams of glory to be back in his family compound again.
‘I’d like to crush you to death,’ trumpeted Imoro, ‘but the eagle here says she has a better punishment in mind for you.’
‘Indeed,’ said the bird. ‘You wanted to be a warrior Musa, and now you will become one. Hidden in the Indian Ocean at the bottom of a mountain range is the Purple Lake. Your task will be to guard the lake with a sword made of a thousand shark’s teeth. You will stay there, alone and underwater, until the gods finally take pity on you.’
