Blackman' Burden na-1

by Mack Reynolds

  Amadijue stuttered, “But, great juju come out of the sky, these are our blood enemies. For longer than the memory of the grandfathers of our eldest Hogon we have carried the blood feud with Tellum and Mosse.”

  “No longer,” Dolo Anah said flatly.

  Amadijue held shaking hands out in supplication, to this dominating juju come out of the skies. “But they will not heed us. Tellum and Mosse have hated the Dogon for all time. They will wreak their vengeance on any delegation come to make such suggestions to them.”

  “I fly to see their headmen and witchmen immediately,” Dolo Anah bit out decisively. “They will heed my message.” His tone turned dangerous. “As will the headmen and witchmen of the Dogon. If any fail to obey the message from above, their eyes will lose sight, their tongues become dumb, and their bellies will crawl with worms.”

  Amadijue’s face went ashen.

  At long last the headman of all the Sangha villages spoke up, his voice trembling its fear. “But the schools, oh great juju—as all the Dogon have decided, in tribal conference—the schools are evil for our youth. They teach not the old ways …”

  Dolo Anah cut him short with the chop of a commanding hand. “The old ways are fated to die. Already they die. The new ways are the ways of the schools.”

  Amazed at his own temerity, the head chief spoke once more. “But, since the coming of the French, we have rejected the schools.”

  Dolo Anah looked at him in scorn. “These will not be schools of the French. They will be schools of Bantu, Berber, Sudanese and all the other peoples of the land. And when your young people have attended the schools and learned their wisdom, they in turn will teach in the schools and in all the land there will be wisdom and good life. Now I have spoken and all of you will withdraw save only the sons of the headmen.”

  They withdrew, making a point each and every one not to turn their backs to this bringer of disastrous news, leaving only the terror-stricken young men behind them.

  When all were gone save the dozen youngsters, Dolo Anah looked at them contemplatively. He shrugged finally and said, pointing with his finger, “You, you and you may leave. The others will remain.” The three darted out, glad of the reprieve.

  He looked at the remainder. “Be unafraid,” he snapped. “There is no reason to fear me. Your fathers and the Hogons and the so-called witchmen, are fools, nothing-men. Fools and cowards, because they are impressed by foolish tricks.”

  He pointed suddenly. “You, there, what is your name?”

  The youth stuttered, “Hinnan.”

  “Very well, Hinnan. Did you see me approach by the air?”

  “Yes … yes … juju man.”

  “Don’t call me a juju man. There is no such thing as juju. It is nonsense made by the cunning to fool the stupid, as you will learn when you attend the schools.”

  Hinnan took courage. “But I saw you fly.”

  “Have you never seen the great aircraft of the white men of Europe and America go flying over? Or have none of you witnessed these craft sitting on the ground at Mopti or Niamey? Surely some of you have journeyed to Mopti.”

  “Yes, but they are great craft. And you flew alone and without the great wings and propellers of the white man’s aircraft.”

  Dolo Anah chuckled. “My son, I flew in a helio-hopper as they are called. They are the smallest of all aircraft, but they are not magic. They are made in the factories of the lands of Europe and America, and after you have finished school and have found a position for yourself in the new industries that spread through Africa, then you will be able to purchase one quite cheaply, if you so desire. Others among you might even learn to build them, themselves.”

  Hinnan and the others gasped.

  Dolo Anah went on, “And observe this.” He dug into the ground before him and revealed the crystal ball that had magically appeared before. He showed to them the little elevator device beneath it which he manipulated with a small rubber bulb which pumped air underneath.

  One or two of them ventured a scornful laugh at the obviousness of the trick.

  Dolo Anah took up the ball and unscrewed the base. Inside were a delicate arrangement of film on a continuous spool so that the scene played over and over again, and a combination of batteries and bulbs to project the scene on the ball’s surface. He explained, in patient detail, the workings of the supposed magic ball. Two of the boys had seen movies on trips to Mopti; the others had heard of them.

  Finally one, highly encouraged now, as were the others, said, “But why do you show us this and shame us for our foolishness?”

  Dolo Anah nodded encouragement at the teenager. “I do not shame you, my son, but your fathers and the Hogons and the so-called witchmen. For long ages the Dogon have been led by the oldest members of the tribe, the Hogons. This can be nonsense, because in spite of your traditions age does not necessarily bring wisdom. In fact, senility as it is called can bring childish nonsense. A people should be governed by the wisest and best among them, not by tradition, by often silly beliefs handed down from one generation to another.”

  Hinnan, who was eldest son of the head chief, said, “But why do you tell us this, after shaming our fathers and the old men of the Dogon?”

  For the first time since the elders had left, Dolo Anah’s eyes gleamed as before. “Because you will be the leaders of the Dogon tomorrow, most likely. And it is necessary to learn these great truths. That you attend the schools and bring to the Dogon tomorrow what they did not have yesterday, and do not have today.”

  “But suppose we tell them of how you have deceived them?” the other articulate Dogon lad said.

  Dolo Anah chuckled and shook his head. “They will not believe you, boy. They will be afraid to believe you. And besides, men are almost everywhere the same. It is difficult for an older man to learn from a younger one, especially his own son. It is vanity, but it is true.” His mouth twisted in memory. “When I was a lad myself, on the beaches of an island far from here in the Bahamas, my father beat me on more than one occasion, indignant that I should wish to attend the white man’s schools, while he and his father before him had been fishermen. Beneath his indignation was the fear that one day I would excel him.”

  “You are right,” Hinnan said uncomfortably, “they would not believe us.” Instinctively, the son of the head chief assumed leadership of the others. “We will keep this secret between us,” he said to them.

  Dolo Anah came to his feet, yawned, stretched his legs and began to pack his gadgets into the small valise he carried. “Good luck, boys,” he said unthinkingly in English.

  As he left the hut, he emerged into a respectfully cleared area around the hut. Without looking left or right he approached his folded helio-hopper, made the few adjustments that were needed to make it airborne, strapped himself into the tiny saddle, flicked the start control and, to the accompaniment of a gasp from the entire village of Ireli, took off in a swoop.

  In a matter of moments, he had disappeared to the north in the direction of the Mosse villages.

  III

  The Emir Alhaji Mohammadu, the Galadima Da-wakin, Kudo of Kano, boiled furiously within as his gold plated Rolls Royce progressed through the Saba N’Gari section of town, the quarter outside the dirt walls of the millennium-old city. He rode seated alone in the middle of the rear seat and his single counselor sat beside the chauffeur. Before them a jeepload of his bodyguard, dressed in their uniforms of red and green, cleared the way. Another jeep followed, similarly laden.

  They entered through one of the ancient gates and swept up the principal street. They stopped before the recently constructed luxury hotel in the center of town and the bodyguard leapt from the jeeps and took positions to each side of the entry. The counselor popped out from his side of the car and beat the chauffeur to the task of opening the Emir’s door.

  Emir Alhaji Mohammadu was a tall man and a heavy one; his white robed figure towered some six and a half feet and his scales put him over the three hundred mark. He was in
his mid-fifties and almost a quarter century of autocratic position had marked his face with a permanent scowl. He stomped now into the western style hotel.

  His counselor, Ahmadu Abdullah, had already procured the information necessary to locate the source of the Emir’s ire and now scurried before his chief, leading the way to the suite occupied by the mysterious strangers. He banged heavily on the door, then stepped behind his master as it opened.

  One of the strangers, clad western style, opened the door and stepped aside, courteously motioning to the large inner room. The Emir strutted arrogantly inside and stared in high irritation at the second and elder stranger who sat there at a heavy table. This one came to his feet, but there was no sign of acknowledgment of the Emir’s rank. It was not too long a time before that men prostrated themselves in Alhaji Mohammadu’s presence.

  He looked at them. Though both were of dark complexion, there seemed no manner of typing them. Certainly they were neither Hausa nor Fulani, there being no signs of Hamitic features, but neither were they Ibo or Yoruba from farther south. The Emir’s eyes narrowed and he wondered if these two were Nigerians at all!

  He barked at them in Hausa and the older answered him in the same language, though there seemed a certain awkwardness in its use.

  Emir Alhaji Mohammadu blared, “You dare summon me, Kudo of this city? You presume …”

  They had resumed seats behind the table and the two of them looked at him questioningly. The older one interrupted with a gently raised hand. “Why did you come?”

  Still glaring, the Emir turned to the cringing Ahmadu Abdullah and motioned curtly for the counselor to speak. Meanwhile, the ruler’s eyes went around the room, decided that the couch was the only seat that would accommodate his bulk, and descended upon it.

  Ahmadu Abdullah brought a paper from the folds of his robes. “This lying letter. This shameless attack upon the Galadima Dawakin!”

  The younger stranger said mildly, “If the charges contained there are incorrect, then why did you come?”

  The Emir rumbled dangerously, ignoring the question. “What is your purpose? I am not a patient man. There has never been need for my patience.”

  The spokesman of the two, the older, leaned back in his chair and said carefully, “We have come to demand your resignation and self-exile.”

  A vein beat suddenly and wildly at the gigantic Emir’s temple and for a full minute the potentate was speechless with outrage.

  Ahmadu Abdullah said quickly, “Fantastic! Ridiculous! The Galadima Dawakin is lawful ruler and religious potentate of three million devoted followers. You are lying strangers come to cause dissention among the people of Kano and…”

  The spokesman for the newcomers took up a sheaf of papers from the table and said, his voice emotionless, “The reason you came here at our request is because the charges made in that letter you bear are valid ones. For a quarter-century, you, Alhaji Mohammadu, have milked your people to your own profit. You have lived like a god on the wealth you have extracted from them. You have gone far, far beyond the legal and even traditional demands you have on the local population. Funds supposedly to be devoted to education, sanitation, roads, hospitals and a multitude of other developments that would improve this whole benighted area have gone into your private pocket. In short, you have been a cancer on your people for the better part of your life.”

  “All lies!” roared the Kudo.

  The other shook his head. “No. We have carefully gathered proof. We can submit evidence to back every charge we have made. Above all, we can prove the existence of large sums of money you have smuggled out of the country to Switzerland, London and New York to create a reserve for yourself in case of emergency. Needless to say, these funds, too, were originally meant for the betterment of the area.”

  The Emir’s eyes were narrow with hate. “Who are you? Whom do you represent?”

  “What difference does it make? This is of no importance.”

  “You represent my son, Alhaji Fodio! This is what comes of his studies in England and America. This is what comes of his leaving Kano and spending long years in Lagos among those unbeliever communists in the south!”

  The younger stranger chuckled easily. “That is about the last tag I would hang on your son’s associates,” he said in English.

  But the older stranger was nodding. “It is true that we hope your son will take over the Emirate. He represents progress. Frankly, his plans are to end the office as soon as the people are educated to the point where they can accept such change.”

  “End the office!” the Emir snarled. “For a thousand years my ancestors …”

  The spokesman of the strangers shook his head wearily. “Your ancestors conquered this area less than two centuries ago in a jehad led by Othman Dan. Since then, you Fulani have feudalistically dominated the Hausa, but that is coming to an end.”

  The Emir had come to his feet again, in his rage, and now he towered over the table behind which the two sat as though about to physically attack them. “You speak as fools,” he raged. “Are you so stupid as to believe that these matters you have brought up are understandable to my people? Have you ever seen my people?” He sneered in a caricature of humor. “My people in their grass and bush huts? With not one man in a whole village who can add sums higher than those he can work out on his fingers? With not one man who can read the English tongue, nor any other? Would you explain to these the matters of transferring gold to the Zurich banks? Would you explain to these what is involved in accepting dash from road contractors and from politicians in Lagos?”

  He sneered at them again. “And do you realize that I am church as well as state? That I represent their God to my people? Do you think they would take your word against mine, their Kudo?”

  In talking, he had brought a certain calm back to himself. Now he felt reassured at his own words. He wound it up. “You are fools to believe my people could understand such matters.”

  “Then actually, you don’t deny them?”

  “Why should I bother?” the Emir chuckled heavily.

  “That you have taken for personal use the large sums granted this area from a score of sources for roads, hospitals, schools, sanitation, agricultural modernization?”

  “Of course I don’t deny it. This is my land, I am the Kudo, the Emir, the Galadima Dawakin. Whatever I choose to do in Kano and to all my people is right because I wish it. Schools? I don’t want them corrupting my people. Hospitals for these Hausa serfs? Nonsense! Roads? They are bad for they allow the people to get about too easily and that leads to their exchanging ideas and schemes and leads to their corruption. Have I appropriated all such sums for my own use? Yes! I admit it. Yes! I admit it. Yes! But you cannot prove it to such as my people, you who represent my son. So begone from Kano. If you are here tomorrow, you will be arrested by the same men of my bodyguard who even now seek my son, Alhaji Fodio. When he is captured, it will be of interest to revive some of the methods of execution of my ancestors.”

  The Emir turned on his heel to stalk from the room but the older of the two murmured, “One moment, please.”

  Alhaji Mohammadu paused, his face dark in scowl again.

  The spokesman said agreeably, “It is true that your people, and particularly your Hausa serfs, have no understanding of international finance nor of national corruption methods such as the taking of dash. However, they are susceptible to other proof.” The other man raised his voice. “John!”

  From an inner room came another stranger, making their total number three. He was grinning and in one hand held a contraption which boasted a coglomeration of lenses, switches, microphones, wires and triggers. “Got it perfectly,” he said. “You’d think it had all been rehearsed.”

  While the Emir and his counselor stared amazement, the spokesman of the strangers said, “How long before you can project?”

  “Almost immediately.”

  The other young man left the room and returned with what was obviously a movie projecto
r. He set it up at one end of the table, pointing at a white wall, and plugged it in to a convenient outlet.

  Before the Emir had managed to control himself beyond the point of saying any more than, “What is all this?” the cameraman had brought a magazine of film from his instrument and inserted it in the projector.

  The photographer said conversationally, to the hulking potentate, “You’d be amazed at the advances in cinema these past few years. Film speed, immediate development, portable sound equipment. You’d be amazed.”

  Someone flicked out the greater part of the room’s light. The projector buzzed and on the wall was thrown a reenactment of everything that had been said and done in the room for the past ten minutes.

  When it was over, the lights went on again.

  The spokesman said conversationally, “I assume that if this film were shown throughout the villages, even your Hausa serfs would be convinced that throughout your reign you have systematically robbed them.”

  Emir Alhaji Mohammadu, the Galadima Dawafctn, Kudo of Kano, his face in shock, turned and stumbled from the room.

  The gymkhana, or fantasia as it is called in nearby Morocco, was under full swing before Abd-el-Kader and the camel- and horse-mounted warriors of his Ouled Touameur clan came dashing in, rifles held high and with great firing into the air. The Ouled Touameur were the noblest clan of the Ouled Allouch tribe of the Berazga division of the Chaambra nomad confederation —the noblest and the least disciplined. There were whispered rumors going about the conference as to the identity of the mysterious raiders who were preying upon the new oases, the oil and road building camps and the endless other new projects springing up, all but magically, throughout the northwestern Sahara.