SANAKHOU
By
Elizabeth Evans
Copyright 2010
All rights reserved – Elizabeth Evans
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval
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Eloquent Books
An imprint of Strategic Book Group
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Durham CT 06422
www.StrategicBookGroup.com
ISBN 978-1-60911-335-3
Printed in the United States of America
In memory of my father
Orrin C. Evans
who taught me a love of words and love for our African heritage
3
PROLOGUE
The victory of Krina was dazzling. The remains of Sumanguru’s army
went to shut themselves up in Sosso. But the empire of Sosso was done for.
From everywhere around kings sent their submission to Sundiata.”
— Keita griot, Mamadou Kouyate,
from the village of Djeliba Koro
T
he horseman, his face concealed beneath the tails of his white
turban, came galloping into the Mandinkan camp at Dayala
like a threatening storm. His traditional Konde bow was slung
across his back, its strap tight across his chest, his quiver of arrows
hung over his shoulder and held close to his side. Both horse and
rider were lathered in sweat and beating a path to the baobab tree
under which Sundiata Keita was conferring with his most trusted
generals.
Sundiata sat bare-chested with his back against the trunk of the
sprawling baobab tree, his brow furrowed in thought. The generals,
sitting in a loose semicircle before Sundiata, had been speaking in
hushed tones, not wanting to disturb the great warrior’s mental
machinations. They knew that, given quiet and time, Sundiata, the
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ELIZABETH EVANS
Hungering Lion, would emerge from his musings with another
clever strategy to finally defeat the nefarious Sumanguru despite the
enormous advantage of numbers that their enemy held over them.
The generals looked up at the sound of shouting from their
infantrymen and at the dust billowing around the hooves of the
approaching horse and its determined rider. They sprang to attention
as one, quickly and fluidly as a single, strong unit. They picked up
their spears and angled them forward to surround and protect
Sundiata, who rose slowly, wondering at the sudden interruption
and glaring angrily from between their shoulders.
The rider slowed as he neared the protective circle of warriors. He
saluted, his face still hidden by the tail of his white turban that was
wrapped across his face and left visible only an ebony strip and
piercing dark eyes. His agbada, once white, was covered with red
dust, as were the bottoms of his blue pantaloons, which were visible
under his agbada. The red dust covered his feet, making it impossible
to distinguish feet from sandals.
He removed the covering from his face and saluted again, nodding
respectfully in Sundiata’s direction. As he pulled his bay stallion to a
complete halt and dismounted, Sundiata brushed off his own dust covered rough-cotton trousers, and, pushing his way through the
circle of warrior generals, smiled at the tall, muscular rider.
“Ah, my friend! Good it is to see you again, Faony Konde! I was
beginning to think you were lost or … dead. But, praise Allah,
you’re not dead or lost! You’ve been gone for days, my friend — too
many.”
The warriors’ circle widened as Sundiata walked forward and
clasped the taller Faony Konde in a welcoming embrace. Faony Konde
leaned forward carefully to receive the honor of Sundiata’s embrace,
not wanting to unbalance his shorter comrade. But Sundiata had
assumed his long-practiced wide-legged stance so that his gamey left
leg would hold steady. The leg held, and Sundiata released his friend,
smiling broadly at the taller Konde warrior from the land of Do.
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7
Sundiata’s circle dissolved as the warriors, recognizing their fellow
general, moved forward to clap Faony Konde on his broad back in
welcome.
“Come, Faony. Walk with me and tell me where you’ve been,
what you’ve seen.” Sundiata raised his hand to stay the others from
following them. The generals shuffled their feet, anxious to know
what their comrade had done and seen since he had left their camp
three days before. They waited patiently, understanding from
experience that Sundiata would hear the Konde warrior’s report
alone, ask questions, consider all that he had heard, and formulate a
strategy; after this, he would return to the group and allow the rider
to tell his story. Then Sundiata would direct their next move.
“So?” Sundiata asked a little impatiently, resting his weight on his
stronger right leg. “Where have you been? And most important,
what have you seen? What of Sumanguru? Did you get close to the
fabled seven-story tower of the bastard?”
“Well,” began Faony Konde, “it’s been an interesting three days.
I’ve been here and … there and seen much during these bloody days.
I got close enough to view the stronghold, but not close enough to
be seen. Close enough to hear the screams of innocents being
trampled as they tried to scale the walls of the stronghold and reach
the uncertain protection it might give them.”
Sundiata shook his head and smiled. “They know. They know
the Sosso kingdom is at an end, and so they try to escape.” Sundiata’s
smile melted into a disgusted scowl. “It’s said that he’s been seen at
the high window of his infamous tower clutching the dead and
mangled body of another virgin he sacrificed to the gods to solicit
their support for my defeat. True, this?”
Sundiata, though his warriors were outnumbered by thousands,
had no doubt that he, the only son of Sogolon Kedjou, the Buffalo
Woman, was destined to defeat Sumanguru and recapture the city of
Niani, from which he would build a kingdom for his Mandinkan
tribesmen, the kingdom of Mali. Often during these many bloody
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ELIZABETH EVANS
battles against Sumanguru, he had thought of his mother and the
injustice of their exile when he was a child. His father, Maghan Kon
Fatta, chief of the Mandinkan clans that had held Niani for years, had
married Sogolon Kedjou, the Buffalo Woman of the Konde tribes,
despite the disfiguring hump on her back and the monstrous eyes that
seemed to have been placed carelessly on her face. He had married her
because of the prophecy of a traveling soothsayer. “There is a woman
you must marry, sire, for she will be the mother of he who will make
the name of Mali and the Mandinka immortal forever. You will
recognize her by the mark of the buffalo upon her.”
Sundiata’s father had married the Buffalo Woman, and because
she was smart and wise, kind and generous, Maghan Kon Fatta, the
handsome chief of the Keita clans, had learned to love, respect, and
depend on Sogolon above all other wives.
The Maghan’s first wife, Sassouma, though as beautiful as he was
handsome, did not, unfortunately, have the Maghan’s kind heart.
She bore one son, Dankaran Touman, and had managed to fend off,
through deceit and trickery, all other wives and prospective wives
anxious to bed the handsome king and bear him children. But
Sogolon was smarter and more clever, and buoyed by the
soothsayer’s prophecy, had been able to keep the Maghan in her bed
and bear him three children, two daughters and one son, before his
untimely death at the hands of the Sosso.
Maghan Kon Fatta loved his son Sundiata, and would name him
his heir, but when he had succumbed to death to join the ancestors,
Sogolon and her children were exiled to far away Meme by the
Maghan’s jealous and vindictive first wife.
Sundiata was lame and had to crawl on hands and knees until he
had seen seven summers, but Sogolon never forgot the prophecy
and never let Sundiata forget it. The women of Meme had doubled
over in laughter at the frail, humpbacked woman and her skinny son
who could only crawl in the dust around their tiny hut. The women
regularly taunted the two as they passed the poor hovel on their walk
SANAKHOU
9
to the river for their morning ablutions. “Good morning, great king.
Oh, yes, and a good, good morning to the great king’s mother,”
they had laughed. His mother had simply smiled and nodded,
accepting their taunts as truth.
Sundiata knew in his heart that this was the final battle, the battle
that would make his mother’s words to him a reality, the battle after
which he would secure Niani once and for all and begin building his
empire, the kingdom of Mali. Those taunts and his mother’s
unwavering belief in his destiny were constants that kept his focus
clear and relentless. He knew this and had only to follow the words
of his father’s soothsayer and the words of the old crone who threw
the foretelling bones for him now.
Faony Konde waited to respond. He could see that Sundiata had
become lost in his own thoughts almost as soon as the question had
passed from his mouth. These moments of deep, concentrated
thought had become legendary as proof of Sundiata’s ability as a
brilliant strategist.
“And so?” Sundiata asked, back from his musing. “So?”
“Well,” Faony began and shook his head sadly, “I only wish I
hadn’t seen it myself, but the gods didn’t spare me that spectacle. It
seemed to be Sumanguru dangling the body but could have been
one of his followers.” He grimaced and continued. “Whoever it was
flung the lifeless body of a girl out over the crowd below. I could see
them looking up and then scattering out of the way as the body sailed
through the air. The body reaching the ground must have made a
loud noise because I could see some cover their ears and then their
eyes. The crowd was silent, probably not believing what had
happened, what they had seen. Then a few — they must have been
Sumanguru’s warriors — seemed to be cheering, however halfheartedly. But the crowd didn’t join in. They just stood there …
paralyzed, it seemed. Then as if possessed, they began to scream and
run back and forth, yet avoiding the dead girl’s body, as if they didn’t
know where to run for help. Into the hills, where our warriors might
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ELIZABETH EVANS
be laying in wait? Or into the demon’s stronghold, where their own
daughters might suffer the same fate?”
Sundiata narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “He’s a madman!
Like the hyena that screams in the night when his lair is threatened.
The gods cannot help him. They don’t help cruel rulers for long.
It’s over, you know.”
Disgusted, Faony Konde nodded. “Yes, I know,” he whispered,
“Just the capture of Sumanguru is left.”
“Hmm. But where is the devil? I must — I will kill him if I’m to
rid the Mandinkan tribes of him, but I’ve got to find him first.”
Faony Konde grinned and hoped that his information would
please Sundiata, the Hungering Lion. “I think, Sundiata, that perhaps
I can report good news about the coward’s whereabouts. Let me tell
you what I saw, and then . . . you decide.”
Sundiata raised an eyebrow and motioned impatiently for Faony
to continue.
“While the small party of our warriors you sent to scout the Sosso
camps surrounding Sumanguru’s citadel was carrying out your
orders, I was waiting, concealed just on the edge, behind some thick
bushes, thinking I would ride back here with the first wave of spies.
Well, I was looking around, trying to make sure that I wasn’t about
to be ambushed, and I notice a small party of riders heading away
from the citadel. No fanfare. No notice. They came from what
might have been a gate. Whatever it was — a gate, a door, a break
in the wall — it was behind an overgrowth of bushes and trees.
“It seemed strange to me, in all the confusion of the crowds pushing and shoving to get into the so-called safety of the stronghold and
away from the skirmishes and death outside of its walls … just odd
that this small party of riders — all with their turbans pulled down low
and their faces covered — odd that they were leaving the protection
of Sumanguru’s citadel when everyone else was trying to get in.”
Faony cleared his throat for effect and continued. “They were
moving slowly, as if they didn’t want anyone to notice them. Why?
SANAKHOU
11
I thought. So I decided I had better follow and spy a little on my
own. I tracked them for two days and a full night. On the afternoon
of the second day, when they must have been as hot and tired as I
was, they relaxed, thinking they were safe. Each had pushed his own
headdress back and lowered his face covering to his chin. I
recognized Sumanguru when he loosened the tails of his turban to
wipe his ugly face.”
Sundiata moved closer and clasped his large hands together in
expectation. “Ah yes! Well done! Well done, my friend! So where
did they go?”
“They rode to Koulikoro Mountain. Sumanguru and one other
got down from their horses and began climbing and then disappeared
into a cave near the top. I slipped away and rode back here as quickly
as I could.”
“Ah, my dear friend,” Sundiata said with satisfaction, “not only are
you my bravest warrior-comrade, you are also my wisest. When this
is over — and it will be soon — I will tell all of our followers and
all in my kingdom of our time here. Everyone will know that you
and yours are brothers to all of the Keita clans. You will enjoy the
protection and prosperity of Mali forever. We will be sanakhou, battle
brothers, brothers of history, this relationship protected by the
ancestors.”
Faony bowed deeply trying to hide the enormous smile that
pushed its way across his dark face. He did not wish to be accused
of being overly prideful. But he was proud! To be honored so by
the great warrior was beyond his expectations. Having heard tales of
the growing power of Sundiata, he had traveled with a full corps of
his best archers from his home in Do, and, leaving his new wife, he
had joined the legendary warrior on his quest to forge a new and
secure kingdom for the Mandinka. Toumaini, with whom Faony
had just celebrated their first joining, had advised him, “Better to be
friend than foe of this man. Let us not wait for him to come to
Konde. Go to him, husband. Offer your services. No need to worry
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ELIZABETH EVANS
about home, my love. Your bed will be cold until you return to
warm it for me. But you must go!”
And go he had. He smiled even more as he relished his luck in
winning, through an impressive show of competitive horsemanship,
archery, and a considerable bag of gold, the right to marry the
beautiful and clever Tuareg princess, a marriage that had forged an alliance, however uneasy, with the wandering Tuareg tribes. Now, to
be made sanakhou to the great Sundiata would assure the security of
his smaller cluster of tribes and prove to Toumaini’s Tuareg kinsmen
once again that he was a worthy husband for their precious princess.
“Please, stand up! Stop bowing! You make my back ache. It
stiffens just watching you bow so long and so low!” Sundiata joked.
Faony stood and shared a smile at Sundiata’s joke, but they both
knew that the relationship of sanakhou was a serious one, never a
joking matter. It was a relationship that was honored above all others
among warriors.
Faony nodded and said the words that would seal the relationship. “I am honored to be sanakhou to the great Sundiata.”
“And I am honored to count you as sanakhou,” replied Sundiata.
“Now, come. Let us join the others. Your report of Sumanguru’s
retreat has made his defeat and death a certainty that will, I am
certain, be met with much cheering. We shall tell the others everything and then prepare to leave at dawn for Koulikoro Mountain.”
Just as the old crone prophesied, thought Sundiata as his mind began
working out the strategy for this final battle to regain his father’s
lands.
The two warriors strode confidently back to find a gathering of
warriors clustered excitedly in a small clearing beyond Sundiata’s
temporary seat of power beneath the baobab tree.
“What do you think has them so worked up? A lot of wiggling
backsides and shuffling feet over there,” Sundiata chuckled, pointing
to the circle of warriors and grabbing Faony’s arm.
Faony, realizing what was happening, answered quickly, “Oh, yes,
SANAKHOU
13
my apologies. In my rush to tell you of Sumanguru, I forgot to
mention the, uh, the gift.”
“Gift?” queried Sundiata.
“Well, perhaps. I mean, I do not know your tastes, and I could not
keep her…my new wife, and … well, I am just up from the marriage
bed and … you know. But thought…perhaps you?”
“A woman?” groaned Sundiata. He was surprised but conflicted.
True, he had not lain with a woman since the start of this battle for
Sosso and his manliness did itch ever so often to be buried inside a
woman’s warm and lusty gate, but the old crone who had told of
Sumanguru’s magical powers had thrown the bones, read them, and
warned him with her crooked twig of a finger jabbed into his chest
that he, Sundiata, could not plant his seed in any woman until the
evil magician of Sosso was defeated and dead. Sundiata had vowed
that he would not — and he had, so far, kept that vow. However,
alone at night, his hands satisfied the longings of his stiffened
manhood as he spilled his seed more than once on the ground after
a grueling battle.
But this gift of a woman? he thought nervously. I cannot refuse such a
generous gift after honoring this friend with sanakhou. I cannot insult him by
refusing. The expert battle strategist was stymied by this unusual
situation. What do I do now? If it were a simple thing of battling a host of
warriors or killing an enemy, easy! But to refuse this gift . . . and a woman.
Black balls of a warthog! Where is the old bone-throwing crone now when I
need her advice?
Sundiata flashed an effusive smile at Faony to hide his struggle.
He slapped Faony on the back and chuckled. “A …thoughtful gift!”
he said. “I am honored, Faony, honored! But I must ask … in the
midst of the battlefield, where did you find such a … gift? Where did
you find a lone …” with cautious apprehension Sundiata added,
“There is only one, is there not?”
Faony smiled sheepishly and nodded. “Only one, Sundiata. And
I found her cowering behind a prickly bush on my way back here.
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Trying to stay hidden, I suppose, but not very well. I trapped her
against the bush with my horse and commanded her to stand. When
she did, I saw that she was unusually beautiful. You will see. So I
thought to bring her back to you … thought she would make a
pleasant bed warmer, perhaps?”
“Where did she come from?” Sundiata asked suspiciously.
“I know not. She whimpered, gasped, and pointed to the citadel
of Sumanguru, but she hasn’t spoken a word since I found her. I can
only surmise that she fled the city and became lost. She is young and
alone. Very dangerous for her. She must have become separated from
her family. Perhaps they’re dead. Or perhaps she was one of those
virgins waiting to be sacrificed. Who knows?” Faony shrugged his
shoulders trying to contain his pride at being able to present this
timely and, it seemed, welcome, gift to his new battle brother.
“But she is beautiful. You’ll see,” he added.
As they moved closer to the men crowded around what could
only be the woman Faony had found, Sundiata smiled at the raw
maleness he could smell floating up from the circle. His men had
been away from home for too long, but that would all end soon,
and they could begin their long trek to Niani loaded with the looted
riches of the Sosso. They would return to lovers and wives as rich
men. They were warriors, good men, loyal and trusting of his vision,
but Sundiata reflected that most lacked his control, the will power
that had kept him celibate throughout this campaign.
“Let us see what has you all squirming and panting like bush dogs
in heat! Step aside!’ he commanded.
They did, and Sundiata stopped short of their heated circle. He
wanted to reach out and grab Faony’s arm to steady himself. Faony
was right. The woman — no, the girl — was unusually beautiful.
She was not very tall, but from the look of her voluptuous woman’s
body, she had reached full maturity. Her face and body were a warm
curry color and silky smooth, and her youth and innocence were
confirmed in her enormous, liquid dark eyes. Those eyes, now
SANAKHOU
15
widened in fear, were the blackest Sundiata could remember ever
seeing. They seemed bottomless, as if light were being swallowed
by their dense blackness. Her full, dark lips were parted in alarm,
accenting the perfect oval of her face. A halo of tight curls framed her
young face. Her body, though small in stature, was the body of a
courtesan, now soaked with perspiration and covered only with the
tattered bits of her cotton wrap. Her unintentionally seductive
movements shouted desperation as she spun in a small circle, keeping
her enormous eyes on the circle of men and the hungry arms that
seemed to claw at her.
As she turned, Sundiata noticed her buttocks, high, firm and more
than ample for a man’s comfort. Her hips flared seductively, but most
tempting was the tiny waist that accented the breasts above, breasts
that rivaled her buttocks in size and lushness, a waist that Sundiata’s
hands trembled and itched to embrace as the beginning to a
passionate exploration of this young and tender woman.
Sundiata swallowed hard, gulped silently, and narrowed his eyes
as the men backed away and bowed to acknowledge his presence.
The girl felt the warriors’ emotional retreat, watched them turn and
honor the man who had just commanded them. She stopped
spinning and skewered Sundiata with angry, murderous eyes. Then
she raised her head and marched toward him in recognition with a
natural swinging gait that lacked only the practiced smile of seduction
that would have suggested an offering if the anger in her eyes had not
contradicted her swaying walk. She slowed when she was within
striking distance. An unbidden and unexplained thought shook
Faony, and he instinctively moved protectively in front of Sundiata.
The girl burst into keening sobs and threw herself on the ground at
Faony’s feet.
Sundiata gently pushed Faony aside and reached his hand out to
the young girl.
That night Sundiata once again spilled his seed on the ground.
But not until he had lain between the firm thighs of the unspeaking
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temptress and had kneaded and suckled at the luscious, berry-black
nipples of her breasts and clung in ecstasy to the voluptuous buttocks
as he rubbed his hungering manhood between his one hand and the
tensed muscles of her inner thigh to find his release.
I will send her to that randy stepbrother of mine, Manding Bory, he
thought as he lay exhausted but energized and ready to do battle
with Sumanguru in the morning. I’ve been honorable and accepted this
gift from Faony, and he never need know that I passed her on to Manding.
She’ll keep that handsome older brother of mine from scavenging the local
villages for widows and unsupervised maidens.
Sundiata marveled not only at the girl’s delectable body but also
at her stoic silence as he had noisily released himself on top of her.
Not a sound from her, not a whimper, not a cry of protest, nothing.
Just deadly silence.
Strange, he thought. And then the Hungering Lion, Sundiata
Keita, slept the sleep of the deeply sated, ready for the next battle.
CHAPTER 1
West Africa in the year 1253 A.D. in the reign of Sundiata Keita,
Lion King of the Empire of Mali.
KHNEMES
A
fine story. I remember how much I enjoyed it the first time
I heard it told by one of the Keita griots. Of course, the
story the griots tell leaves out the delectable girl and the
great king’s seed-spilling bit. Faony told me that piece himself. And
yes, he did know that the great king planned to send the girl to his
stepbrother, Manding Bory. Faony said that it didn’t matter. He was
nervous about such a gift, anyway, having heard later that day of
Sundiata’s vow of celibacy. The memorable part of the story for him
was sanakhou. At least then it was. But now? I’m not so sure.
I was also not sure, not completely convinced, that the seedspilling bit was true. I mean, if this woman — girl — was so beautiful, so breathtakingly luscious, as Faony described her . . . well, I just
do not know. And how do we know that Sundiata’s claim to have
“spilled seed” was true? According to Faony Konde, the Great King
shared that piece of information privately the next morning. Perhaps
Sundiata just wanted Faony to know that he did appreciate his gift
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and that he had used it…in a way. Well, I was not there. You were
not there. So we will never know, will we? But if it is true, well,
Sundiata the seed-spiller is surely a better man than I could ever hope
to be. Then again, I, too, might have been strong and shown that
kind of self-control . . . that is, until she lay down next to my sleeping
mat, which is how I was told it happened. Then all bets would have
been off.
Granted, I have been celibate, by choice, for some time — well,
perhaps not entirely by choice. When I first arrived in the main
Konde village as a younger man, well, I enjoyed many sexual favors
because I was new, most likely unique to the court of Faony Konde.
But as the years stretched on, I was like a goat trying to run with
gazelles. I had no skills, you see. I wasn’t a hunter, wasn’t a warrior
or a farmer, and I was no longer young and cocky, and so had no
appeal for younger women. And without some useful skill … true
enough, I can read, write, cipher, but those skills are of little use to
a practical-minded woman…and so I had no appeal for older women
looking for a mate. The result? I’ve been celibate for some years
now, and, I must admit, I have not had temptations like that young
girl thrown in my face … or on my sleeping mat. But if I had, well,
believe me, once I got started … trust me, no spilling my seed on the
ground. I would want it all! The whole, delicious sheathing of my
sword in a warm woman!
But soon I would see the great man myself. Perhaps I would ask
him, “Forgive me my impudence, great king, but is that part about
the girl and your spilled seed true? I know the rest of the story is
true as the griots tell it, but the spilled seed part is missing whenever
I have heard the story of the great and mighty Sundiata told.
However, I did hear that piece from the warrior who was there,
Faony Konde, now Mansa of the Konde people. The same Faony
whose son I’m delivering to you now.”
Ha! Would that not be a great introduction to the court of the
Lion King of Mali! Gossip about spilled seed and beautiful women.
SANAKHOU
19
And then the end of my life and possibly that of the prince. Foolish
thoughts! But I can tell you that, in my younger, rowdy days I might
have shown such disrespect for a royal one … and paid for my smart
mouth with my head! But no longer. Not that I’ve grown so
wise…just older with a greater desire to keep my head on my neck.
Though there have been times when I’ve wanted to wring the
prince’s royal neck a bit myself.
So. I am Khnemes. Slave of Queen Toumaini and retired — I use
the term loosely, considering how I came to be “retired”— but yes,
retired assassin to the sultan of Egypt, the Greek name for what my
Nubian ancestors and those of us who carry the blood of those
ancestors still refer to as Kemet, or Nubia. Take your pick. Personally, I prefer Nubia. Ancient Nubia. Glorious kingdom before the
ancient Hittites, the Syrians, and countless others conquered the rich,
fertile land surrounding the great river and began their own dynasty
building. But all things circle down to dust, do they not? Even
dynasties. Even empires.
And so now, we Nubian descendants, mixed with the blood and
cultures of many — Hittites, Syrians, Israelites, Greeks, Romans,
and, of course, Arabs — find ourselves scattered like the wheat the
Israelite Joseph of the many-colored coat used to save the reign of
one of those early pharaohs of Kemet. And, yes, it is true. The
famous one, the skilled seductress, Cleopatra, though mostly Greek,
had our Nubian blood sprinkled through her veins. Probably why
she was so clever, eh? Well, don’t we all take ancestral credit for the
things we admire in others? So, it follows that I would say that her
demise was not because of her Nubian blood. No, her demise was
because of what we all succumb to at some time in our lives. Yes,
even she of the dusky enticements and clever ruses — rolling herself
in a rug to get to Julius Caesar is my favorite — even she succumbed
to love. Like we all do at least once in our lives. And, oh, the
contortions of the spirit it can put us through. Particularly when we
are young and the balance of love is still tipped in favor of our young,
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strong bodies. When our bodies speak of love louder that our brains
and when our insistent bodies drown out anything our brain tries to
tell us. True? Oh yes, I remember it well! But that’s another story for
another time.
And now, here, centuries past our glory, we Nubians are as varied
as the African Sahel that I crossed to get to my new home with the
Konde people. I, Khnemes, am an amalgam of those many conquerors of Kemet, not massive and black like the earlier Nubians, and
not slender and fair like the present rulers of our land. No, I am just
average. Average height, quite a bit less in stature than Prince Ayinde
who, much to my annoyance, is goading his black stallion into a faster
and faster gallop up ahead … no, not that tall, but of a respectable
and useful size for my former work as an assassin. My skin, thankfully,
retains the mahogany of my ancestors, deep brown like dark, red sand
when soaked by plentiful rains, dark enough to maintain my heritage
though not as beautifully black as Prince Ayinde.
However, I must admit, without bragging, of course, that my
physique is impressive. Strength as well as stealth was crucial in
fulfilling the tasks given me by my former employer.
Hair, brown, eyes the color of the midday sky, odd — some say
cursed — to those who don’t know our history or who forget what
conquering armies leave behind. Somehow, the conqueror’s mark is
reflected in the eyes of some of us for generations. In spite of the
startling blue color of my eyes against this dark skin — or because of
it, you decide — my face is pleasant, with full Nubian lips. Because
of the demands of my former profession, my shoulders are broadly
muscled, my arms and hands powerful. And if I were not astride this
equally powerful bay stallion, you would see that in spite of the slight
— very slight, mind you — paunch, due to years of easy living
among the Konde people, you would see that my hips and thighs
remain taut and my legs well formed.
Thank the gods that the other mark of the conquerors, thin lips,
did not make it to my face. Those thin lips that I often saw in the
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21
Sultan’s court were, at first, a puzzle to me. As a very young and
very ignorant page at court and first learning about the pleasures men
and women share in the bedchamber, I often wondered —
remember, I was young — how one could pleasure a woman with
so little flesh around one’s mouth. But, I learned, pleasure was given
somehow, as there was always much slipping behind the draperies
and veils of the court; and the ladies of the court seemed always
anxious to return for more from their thin-lipped lovers.
But as age and a little wisdom have taught, love is indeed blind.
Pleasant lips, flashing eyes, well-formed limbs, even thick cocks have
no meaning to the very focused spirit of love. That spirit loves in
spite of what the eyes initially perceive, and both the best and the
worst of us succumb to its power.
I wondered if the great Sundiata, the “seed-spiller,” in addition to
his incredible will power and self-control, ever succumbed. It is not
told by the travelers who carry the tales of his greatness throughout
this part of Africa. Never any tales of great loves, only great battles.
However, Faony did say that his daughter, Chinue, was the only
child of a favored wife who died giving birth to her. Perhaps this
was the love to which the mighty king succumbed. Perhaps this was
why he favors this child so. Perhaps this was why he tried so hard to
give her happiness, or at least his idea of happiness. Perhaps this love
was what was guiding his decision. Oh yes, love does have that way
of guiding, even unknowingly, our steps. Just as my steps were
guided from Kemet to the Konde capital by the tragedy of my own
love … but, as I said earlier, that’s a telling for another time … and
as those steps leading us to Niani were being guided by the love of
a father for a favored daughter, as well as leading those of the young
prince to a new and very unwelcome life.
Interesting. We usually talk and hear about the lengths a mother
will go to for her own. But to hear this about a father? Interesting.
I was looking forward to seeing this king who spilled his seed for
honor and called on his relationship with another king through
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ELIZABETH EVANS
sanakhou just to make his daughter happy. Perhaps? Hmm. The Lion
King of Mali is still known as the master strategist.
But then again, the need to protect, to see one’s young settled
and strong, is built into us by the ancestors. Even into animals, I have
noticed. The mothers protect and nurture their young until they are
strong and ready to live their own lives. One of the harder lessons I
had to teach the young prince, one about pride and respect, was
learned because of a mother’s will to protect her young. He must
have seen perhaps eight summers at the time. It seems so long ago.
I had been at the Konde court as his teacher for perhaps six years
and had become a comfortable member of the royal family. As usual,
I had risen early to prepare items I needed for the prince’s lesson for
that day, one in spear throwing.
What a beautiful morning it was! The sky was blue and clear over
the distant hills, their tops traced with the golden colors of the
morning sunrise. I understand why he was anxious to be up and
about on such a day. I’d noticed him slip out of the royal compound
dressed only in his cotton loincloth, carrying the new wooden boy’s
spear I had just made for him the day before. I remember smiling at
the joy his steps revealed. I could see that he was feeling very grown
up, all eight summers of him. He understood that the use of the spear
was an important accessory to the famous Konde bows and must
have been anxious to try his out. The Konde are renowned as skilled
archers and Ayinde, even then dedicated to perfecting every Konde
skill, was anxious to perfect his skill with the spear so that, in a few
short years, when he would be given his first real spear to accompany
his warrior’s bow and arrow, he would be the best. That first spear
lesson had been about respect, as it always should be. “Respect and
honor your spear. Respect and honor the animal or adversary who
will receive its sting,” I had taught.
That lesson had taken a full morning. How to care for, polish, store,
and carry his spear. How to show honor and respect with a quick and
clean death for adversaries, whether animal or man. And then when I
SANAKHOU
23
thought he understood, I had given him his new spear to keep. I am
sure he slept with it that night and dreamed of being a mighty warrior,
as all young boys do. Until their first kill, and then … well, then if the
warrior has grown in the straight path of the ancestors, he will
understand why a true warrior honors his adversaries. Why a true
warrior gives a quick and sudden death whenever possible.
The lessons in spear use were to begin that day. How to hold a
spear at the balance point so that it would fly straight and true when
released. How to stand firm at the release so that the spear’s path does
not alter from its intended goal. How to peer down the shaft of the
spear to measure the distance and point of entry for its intended goal.
But of course my headstrong young charge couldn’t wait for the day’s
lesson. When I realized what he was up to, it was almost too late.
Two lion cubs were tumbling and playing in the tall grass near an
old baobab tree that sat atop a small rise just north of where he was
standing with his spear raised over his head. He was thrusting it back
and forth as he had seen the seasoned warriors do. I don’t think he
had noticed the cubs because they were on the far side of the old
tree, and he was focused on some imaginary prey that, in his youthful
bravado, he was tracking. But I saw their fuzzy golden heads bobbing
up and down as they rolled and batted at each other with their
chubby paws. And so I moved quietly toward Ayinde, hoping not
to startle him or the cubs. Of course, at the same time, I was also
looking around cautiously for the lioness. A more ferocious mother
the savannah does not know. Suddenly, I saw Ayinde crouch, bring
his spear down to his shoulder, and throw it toward the spot where
the cubs were playing. He had seen the yellow flash of the cubs at
play and thought to play as well, thinking that they would somehow
know that a wooden boy’s spear was not threat. Just play. But who
can describe adequately what goes through the mind when the hunt
is on? Even in the mind of a young boy playing at hunting. You
become so intent on your target, the thinking stops, if you’re good,
and only your hunter self moves you forward to the kill.
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ELIZABETH EVANS
And just as Ayinde released his insignificant boy’s spear, we both
heard the rumbling roar of the lioness and breathed in the familiar
scent of her presence. Fortunately, the prince had learned to react
immediately to the voice of the undisputed queen of the savannah.
He ran quickly – I had not known he could move so quickly – threw
himself against the broad trunk of the tree, and scampered up until
he was able to grab the lowest branch of baobab and pull himself up.
Not having brought a weapon with me – I had not expected to
have to do battle with a lioness – I shouted at Ayinde to climb
higher. He heard me and, for once, without question he did as he
was told, climbing as close to the top of the old tree as he could.
There he sat on his perch, peering down at the honey-colored lioness
as she gathered her cubs to protect them from the danger she
recognized in men who carry spears. Rather than looking frightened,
he seemed curious, just as he always did when presented with some
new and, to him, fascinating piece of information. As I ran to grab
a spear from the nearest storage hut, I shouted at him, “Ayinde! Stay
put! Don’t move!” I could just imagine his curiosity bringing him
dangerously near the lower branches of the tree so that he could
study the animal more closely.
I hadn’t taken more than a few running steps when I was joined
by Konde hunters who must have heard the protective roar of the
lioness as well as my shouting at the prince. The frightening
combination of the lioness’ roar and my shouting the prince’s name
brought them running at full speed from all directions. I spun around
and joined them in their rush toward the tree. No one offered me a
spear. They knew me only as teacher to the prince and knew nothing
of my former profession, so they let me stand behind them to fume
at the young prince. We saw the lioness clawing at the tree where
Ayinde, we knew, had found only temporary protection. The large
cats are not partial to tree climbing but are capable, when driven, of
springing into action to protect territory or young ones. And so the
royal hunters had no choice but to kill the lioness, determined as she
SANAKHOU
25
was to remove the threat to her cubs. Because she was focused on her
adversary in the tree, she was an easy kill for the skilled hunters who
surrounded her from behind to plunge their weapons first into her
neck and then into her breast as she turned to bare her teeth at them
and snarl ferociously. Though bleeding profusely from the wounds
on the back of her neck that must have severed muscles, she seemed
to have pulled strength from somewhere deep within her protective
mother’s spirit to turn and threaten an attack on the men. But as her
breast spouted more blood, she went down with a thud and a
whoosh.
I was frightened for Ayinde, then relieved that he was safe, then
angry, and then furious. Trying to remain calm, I walked slowly to
the tree, stepping around the lioness’ body and the blood puddling
around her head. Her cubs had disappeared into the tall grass and
could be heard mewing from some distance away. I was too angry,
too furious to shout. And so I said, with what I experienced as cold
fury and with as much control as I could muster, “Come down!
Now! And quickly!”
He did, and so quickly that he was sent scrambling among the
spindly outer branches of the baobab to the ground, scraping his arms
and legs on the way. His left arm caught on a sharp branch that
seemed to reach out to punish the impetuous young prince by slicing
his arm open just below the elbow. He landed on his side holding
his hand over the bleeding wound. He looked around wide-eyed. I
knew he was looking to see where that spear had fallen, and so I told
him that he was not to speak and not to move to try to retrieve his
spear. I ignored the blood running into his hand from his wound. I
forced him up on his knees. Then I dragged him through the
puddling blood to kneel beside the head of the dead lioness. The
hunters watched, some frowning, others stone-faced, either in
disapproval or dismay, I didn’t know at the time. I turned to them
and announced that the prince’s lesson this day would be a blood
lesson. They made no move toward us but watched quietly.
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ELIZABETH EVANS
“Place your hand on her still-warm head, Ayinde, and listen as
her spirit leaves her body,” I said.
He did as he was told. And I churned out my lesson. More than
was probably necessary. But this was a lesson after all.
“Where are this mother’s cubs now? What will happen to them
without their mother? Who will protect them as they play in the tall
grasses? Will you hunt for their food? Will you protect them from
foolish boys who play at hunting?”
He squirmed in the coagulating blood as I held his hand firmly on
the head of the dead lioness.
“No! You will not! You cannot! You are not a lion! You do not
know lion ways! You are a foolish boy who will one day be a man
and must learn man ways! You are a prince, and your royal birth
requires that you learn this deeply. What is required of you is more
than is required of others, Ayinde! You must learn the ancestor
lessons better! You must live them better! You have caused your
father’s hunters to kill this animal. Not for food! Not to protect the
village! Not in battle!” and with increasing control and quiet I added,
“None of these caused the death of this lioness … just a little boy’s
foolish and prideful game.”
I released his hand and stood. He surprised me and did not jump
up but kept his small hand on the lioness’ head and began to weep.
I knew him well enough by then to know that he understood and
had learned his first blood lesson well.
The hunters looked at me and nodded. We stood quietly and
waited for Ayinde to rise. When he did shortly after, I turned and
walked, with him following at a safe distance, back to the royal compound. The hunters remained behind to skin and butcher the remains
of the lioness. Because the lioness had been killed unnecessarily, they
left the butchered carcass as an ancestor offering to feed other animals
of the savannah and returned to the royal compound with the prized
skin of the lioness.
I was proud of him that day, proud of his sensitivity and the depth
SANAKHOU
27
of his understanding of the lesson. And I have felt that pride many
times since then. Even when he stretched my considerable patience
during his lessons, I have always been proud of the young prince.
That same prince, riding like a madman ahead of me now!
“Ayinde! Ayinde!”
He is so focused on chasing after the djinn that he cannot hear me.
“Ayinde! Ayinde!”
So why do I continue to shout after the dust swirling around the
hooves of that wild black stallion of his? Ha! Because I always hope
that he will heed me.
I certainly cannot complain, however. Not really. My joy these
last eighteen years has been in teaching him, guiding his early steps,
watching him grow into the intelligent, deeply caring and, yes, as
the women at home would tell you, handsomest man in any
kingdom. I used to smile each time I overheard them giggling about
his come-hither eyes and succulent lips. How the women came up
with “succulent lips” … but it’s their description, and so be it. He
and I do not discuss those charms of his often … seems he has needed
little guidance in those matters. But actually … now that I think on
it … I have had to discuss those so-called charms of his once, perhaps
twice. Both times were necessary to dampen his enthusiasm for a
hasty and dangerous liaison. The overly aggressive wife of one of his
father’s chief warriors looking for some adventure. I think Ayinde
was a little afraid of her and was looking for the right words or moves
to untangle himself without causing her to lose face and, perhaps,
falsely accuse him of seduction. I pointed out to him the warning
signs that he had seemed to miss: rubbing the scar on his arm
whenever that arm was near his groin and other more obvious ploys.
I helped him by speaking directly to the harlot; I suggested that the
pain one unseen man could inflict on her husband if such accusations
were to be made because of a loose word from her lips could
incapacitate a husband for any future bed play. And then where
would she be, when she tired of her occasional dalliances with others
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ELIZABETH EVANS
and returned to her own marital bed and a crippled cock? She
understood and drifted on to other victims.
The only other time was when a particularly well-developed
twelve-year-old – she was from a neighboring village and was
unknown to us — left her mother at the marketplace and wandered
back and forth in front of the royal compound. She “stumbled”
across Ayinde, told him she was a young widow of sixteen years and
offered herself — actually offered her body to him! She was a bold
little one! But I can smell a liar, even a female one, though most are
better liars than men. Or perhaps it’s just that, as a man, my lie
detection becomes muddled around any female, and women aren’t
really better liars. Men are just bad readers of women. Well, I
grabbed her by the arm and delivered her to her mother. A furious
mother. I almost felt sorry for the pouting child.
But as the women have said, he is handsome, this prince of the
Konde villages. He is tall, a good head taller than I, and taller than
most at home. Some might describe him as long because, though he
is strong and has the muscled broad shoulders of an expert archer, his
musculature is elongated, giving him a graceful dancer’s look. His
skin is the deepest black with those interesting variations that only
truly black skin has, sometimes with subtle hints of the darkest
brown, sometimes with hues of blue — yes, blue, like midnight.
You understand the description of this color? Good! Then, I will go
on, though I was always better at hearing descriptions of men,
particularly of those who were my next job, than I was at telling the
descriptions to others. But I will continue.
Ayinde’s face is the part of him that first attracts attention. He has,
of course, the totem scarification of his initiation, three carefully
placed, keloid-beaded lines on each cheek that move from his high
cheekbones to just parallel to his nose and above his “succulent” lips.
He is not lacking in flesh around his lips. His nose is strong and
straight, flaring broadly at the nostrils. His eyes have an interesting
slant to them. So, I suppose the slant of his dark eyes makes them
SANAKHOU
29
“come-hither” eyes. When he smiles — and he does so often —a
slight dimpling appears on the left side of his mouth. His mother has
two such disturbances on her face. In this he is like her. In skin color
and size, he is like his father. .
This journey, of course, means that we must discuss his succulent
lips yet again and his habit of licking those lips in the company of
attractive — and not so attractive — and young — well, not always
young — women. What can I say? The boy just loves women!
But I must discuss it and rely on his honor as a prince of the
Konde to listen and to hear. No more lip licking and what comes
after for that boy! Nothing of the sort until he has fulfilled his
obligation to his father.
Tch, I must stop calling him a boy. He is not a boy. I keep telling
him, “Ayinde, it’s time to grow up,” and yet I persist in calling him
a boy. He is a full-grown man of twenty years. My habit of calling
him a boy is, truth be told, just me denying that he is no longer a
boy, that he is no longer the boy I taught the magic that turns letters
into the written word, whose education and guidance was entrusted
to me by Queen Toumaini. That boy is gone and has been folded
into a virile and, yes, handsome young man. Funny the tricks we
use to try to hang on to the past: words, actions, potions, even those
face preparations so widely used in Kemet. Yet none of it does us any
good, this pretending to be what we are not, pretending that the past
is not gone but can be held on to like the wriggling child who is
anxious to be gone from his mother’s smothering embrace.
So, on this trip I will drop “this boy” and “that boy” — even “my
boy” — from my speech. It will be good practice for me as I learn
to let go of this bond — no, as I learn to stretch it long and thin. I
could never break this bond we have or let go of it completely. By
reminding myself that he is no boy but a grown man, it will be a
little easier for me to leave him in Niani and return to Do.
Ah, here he comes now, beating up dust, robes flying, and headed
straight for me. I’ll need to cover my face to keep from choking on
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ELIZABETH EVANS
the dust he brings with him. How he is able to stir up dust from this
savannah at this time of year when all is green and lush after the
rains…
“Khnemes! I’m sure this so-called djinn is related to our other
djinn, just as I said.”
“Just as I said,” he claims. I have only been trying to tell him this
for the entire morning.
“Fine! Just as you said, but please stop walking that cursed horse
in circles around me. My horse and I are both getting sore necks
following your path. Do you and that wild horse of yours know only
two gaits, walk and wild?’
“Well, yes. You know Azwad has a beautiful trot. But what do we
usually do? We — you and I — are either walking or galloping.
Right?”
“I suppose. I actually enjoy a good trot sometimes. Moves you
along at a good clip, but at the same time lets you enjoy the passing
scenes. You should try it more often. At any rate, so, it is not a djinn
that has taken the form of a man to punish us. Fine. Had you listened
— and heard me — before you rushed off like a mad bull elephant
after that Mandinkan horseman, you would have heard me say that,
no, this is not a djinn that has been plaguing our steps through our
morning but a Mandinkan, perhaps a warrior . And you would have
given me a chance to explain why I called this Mandinkan a djinn.”
“How, oh wise one, do you know our djinn is Mandinkan?”
“Oh wise one” indeed! Now, he’s trying to say he’s sorry without
having to say it. But he knows that I know that he’s sorry and that I
will forgive him for his impetuous behavior…once again. However,
we play this game. I’m angry; he’s contrite. Then we move on.
“Ayinde, you know I can still knock you off your princely feet if
I need to. And wipe that silly grin off your face. Yes, even though you
haven’t removed your face covering, I can see the giggle in your eyes.
“As for the Mandinkan rider, first, I recognized the unique breed
of horse. You will remember that Sundiata is known to breed the
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31
best dish-faced horses in West Africa. Even the Arabs marvel at what
his warriors have bred into their original Arabian stock. And
naturally, the skill of the rider. Only a Mandinkan warrior could
outride you and Azwad.”
“Oh, no! No! He didn’t outride us! He had a head start! You saw
that, Khnemes! But I’ll admit that, from what I could see, the horse
wasn’t bad looking. Not as beautiful as Azwad, of course!”
See now how he bends down to pat Azwad’s neck, as if my words
might insult the animal. Well, there is a bond there, an old one. I
helped the prince raise and train his Azwad, this black stallion, from
a young colt still wobbling on new legs. And they do seem to
understand each other’s language. But the horse does not understand
me, so couldn’t possibly be insulted by my admiration for Mandinkan
horseflesh. But try telling the prince that!
“The horse was not as tall as Azwad and had that odd color we
sometimes see, all dappled. Khnemes, you cannot think that that
horse was as handsome as Azwad! And as for skill, I’ll admit he rode
fairly well, but still … he had a big head start!”
“Ayinde, I’m only repeating what everyone in this part of Africa
knows. The Mandinkan are superb horsemen. Do not say anymore.
I know it is fruitless to talk with you about who is the better horse,
who is the better rider. So I will not. You are too full of yourself
right now. Too much air in your saddle. So as I was trying to say,
young master . . .”
“Khnemes, I am listening so that I can hear, so you can stop calling
me ‘young master’.”
This, too, is part of our game. I take the wind out of his sails by
calling him “young master” and in that way get his attention.
“So glad to hear it, Ayinde. Now, as I was saying — three times
now — we are not being followed by a djinn waiting to punish us
for some misdeed or looking to tweak our noses if we are not careful
and alert warriors. I said all of this earlier at camp, you know that! We
need to keep the warriors believing in the djinn. Since they are
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ELIZABETH EVANS
carrying amulets in their pouches to ward off evil spirits, they feel
safe. But! If they knew what we suspect, that this may be a
Mandinkan spy sent by Sundiata, the seed sp…”
“What?” Ayinde interjected. “Another one of his damn titles to
learn? The Great Strategist, the Empire Builder, the Hungering Lion,
the Lion King of Mali, the Great King. What’s this new one,
Khnemes? Seed? Seed what?”
Now he listens! “Nothing new. No, I … uh … was just reflecting
on the great warrior’s fame as a … uh …a seer. Sundiata, the seer of
Niani. But that isn’t a title you need to remember. You know all of
the important ones already. At any rate, if the men thought that our
travels were being tracked by one of his spies, they would be
confused, some frightened. And the elders who fought alongside
Faony and Sundiata would be deeply hurt, puzzled, and angered to
think that sanakhou, the battle brotherhood pledge, made between
the Mandinkan and the Konde was not being honored by Sundiata.
It could be very nasty. And we need everyone calm and focused
when we arrive in Niani tomorrow.”
“Well. Yes, I thought the same, but…”
“And yes, I thought you’d worked it out, figured you were just
using the djinn as an excuse to run that wild horse of yours across the
savannah and frighten small animals into scurrying among the tall
grasses for protection. Now take your face covering down. I know
you grin under those folds of white. That black band of your face and
eyes against the white can be intimidating to some. But you forget.
I know that face even if I can only see the top half. And I can see it
chuckling.”
And so our morning goes. Only one more night under the stars,
and we shall pass through the gates of Niani. To what? Only Allah
knows.
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