Ashort while after this interview between Naré Maghan and his son the king died. Sogolon’s son was no more than seven years old. The council of elders met in the king’s palace. It was no use Doua’s defending the king’s will which reserved the throne for Mari Djata, for the council took no account of Naré Maghan’s wish. With the help of Sassouma Bérété’s intrigues, Dankaran Touman was proclaimed king and a regency council was formed in which the queen mother was all-powerful. A short time after, Doua died.
As men have short memories, Sogolon’s son was spoken of with nothing but irony and scorn. People had seen one-eyed kings, one-armed kings, and lame kings, but a stiff-legged king had never been heard tell of. No matter how great the destiny promised for Mari Djata might be, the throne could not be given to someone who had no power in his legs; if the jinn loved him, let them begin by giving him the use of his legs. Such were the remarks that Sogolon heard every day. The queen mother, Sassouma Bérété, was the source of all this gossip.
Having become all-powerful, Sassouma Bérété persecuted Sogolon because the late Naré Maghan had preferred her. She banished Sogolon and her son to a back yard of the palace. Mari Djata’s mother now occupied an old hut which had served as a lumber-room of Sassouma’s.
The wicked queen mother allowed free passage to all those inquisitive people who wanted to see the child that still crawled at the age of seven. Nearly all the inhabitants of Niani filed into the palace and the poor Sogolon wept to see herself thus given over to public ridicule. Mari Djata took on a ferocious look in front of the crowd of sightseers. Sogolon found a little consolation only in the love of her eldest daughter, Kolonkan. She was four and she could walk. She seemed to understand all her mother’s miseries and already she helped her with the housework. Sometimes, when Sogolon was attending to the chores, it was she who stayed beside her sister Djamarou, quite small as yet.
Sogolon Redjou and her children lived on the queen mother’s left-overs, but she kept a little garden in the open ground behind the village. It was there that she passed her brightest moments looking after her onions and gnougous.29 One day she happened to be short of condiments and went to the queen mother to beg a little baobab leaf.30
‘Look you,’ said the malicious Sassouma, ‘I have a calabash full. Help yourself, you poor woman. As for me, my son knew how to walk at seven and it was he who went and picked these baobab leaves. Take them then, since your son is unequal to mine.’ Then she laughed derisively with that fierce laughter which cuts through your flesh and penetrates right to the bone.
Sogolon Kedjou was dumbfounded. She had never imagined that hate could be so strong in a human being. With a lump in her throat she left Sassouma’s. Outside her hut Mari Djata, sitting on his useless legs, was blandly eating out of a calabash. Unable to contain herself any longer, Sogolon burst into sobs and seizing a piece of wood, hit her son.
‘Oh son of misfortune, will you never walk? Through your fault I have just suffered the greatest affront of my life! What have I done, God, for you to punish me in this way?’
Mari Djata seized the piece of wood and, looking at his mother, said, ‘Mother, what’s the matter?’
‘Shut up, nothing can ever wash me clean of this insult.’
‘But what then?’
‘Sassouma has just humiliated me over a matter of a baobab leaf. At your age her own son could walk and used to bring his mother baobab leaves.”
‘Cheer up, Mother, cheer up.’
‘No. It’s too much. I can’t.’
‘Very well then, I am going to walk today,’ said Mari Djata. ‘Go and tell my father’s smiths to make me the heaviest possible iron rod. Mother, do you want just the leaves of the baobab or would you rather I brought you the whole tree?’
‘Ah, my son, to wipe out this insult I want the tree and its roots at my feet outside my hut.’
Balla Fasséké, who was present, ran to the master smith, Farakourou, to order an iron rod.
Sogolon had sat down in front of her hut. She was weeping softly and holding her head between her two hands. Mari Djata went calmly back to his calabash of rice and began eating again as if nothing had happened. From time to time he looked up discreetly at his mother who was murmuring in a low voice, ‘I want the whole tree, in front of my hut, the whole tree.’
All of a sudden a voice burst into laughter behind the hut. It was the wicked Sassouma telling one of her serving women about the scene of humiliation and she was laughing loudly so that Sogolon could hear. Sogolon fled into the hut and hid her face under the blankets so as not to have before her eyes this heedless boy, who was more preoccupied with eating than with anything else. With her head buried in the bed-clothes Sogolon wept and her body shook violently. Her daughter, Sogolon Djamarou, had come and sat down beside her and she said, ‘Mother, Mother, don’t cry. Why are you crying?’
Mari Djata had finished eating and, dragging himself along on his legs, he came and sat under the wall of the hut for the sun was scorching. What was he thinking about? He alone knew.
The royal forges were situated outside the walls and over a hundred smiths worked there. The bows, spears, arrows and shields of Niani’s warriors came from there. When Balla Fasséké came to order the iron rod, Farakourou said to him, ‘The great day has arrived then?’
‘Yes. Today is a day like any other, but it will see what no other day has seen.’
The master of the forges, Farakourou, was the son of the old Nounfaïri, and he was a soothsayer like his father. In his workshops there was an enormous iron bar wrought by his father Nounfaïri. Everybody wondered what this bar was destined to be used for. Farakourou called six of his apprentices and told them to carry the iron bar to Sogolon’s house.
When the smiths put the gigantic iron bar down in front of the hut the noise was so frightening that Sogolon, who was lying down, jumped up with a start. Then Balla Fasséké, son of Gnankouman Doua, spoke.
‘Here is the great day, Mari Djata. I am speaking to you, Maghan, son of Sogolon. The waters of the Niger can efface the stain from the body, but they cannot wipe out an insult. Arise, young lion, roar, and may the bush know that from henceforth it has a master.’
The apprentice smiths were still there, Sogolon had come out and everyone was watching Mari Djata. He crept on all-fours and came to the iron bar. Supporting himself on his knees and one hand, with the other hand he picked up the iron bar without any effort and stood it up vertically. Now he was resting on nothing but his knees and held the bar with both his hands. A deathly silence had gripped all those present. Sogolon Djata closed his eyes, held tight, the muscles in his arms tensed. With a violent jerk he threw his weight on to it and his knees left the ground. Sogolon Kedjou was all eyes and watched her son’s legs which were trembling as though from an electric shock. Djata was sweating and the sweat ran from his brow. In a great effort he straightened up and was on his feet at one go—but the great bar of iron was twisted and had taken the form of a bow!
Then Balla Fasséké sang out the ‘Hymn to the Bow’, striking up with his powerful voice:
‘Take your bow, Simbon,
Take your bow and let us go.
Take your bow, Sogolon Djata.’
When Sogolon saw her son standing she stood dumb for a moment, then suddenly she sang these words of thanks to God who had given her son the use of his legs:
‘Oh day, what a beautiful day,
Oh day, day of joy;
Allah Almighty, you never created a finer day.
So my son is going to walk!’
Standing in the position of a soldier at ease, Sogolon Djata, supported by his enormous rod, was sweating great beads of sweat. Balla Fasséké’s song had alerted the whole palace and people came running from all over to see what had happened, and each stood bewildered before Sogolon’s son. The queen mother had rushed there and when she saw Mari Djata standing up she trembled from head to foot. After recovering his breath Sogolon’s son dropped the bar and the crowd stood to one side. His first steps were those of a giant. Balla Fasséké fell into step and pointing his finger at Djata, he cried:
‘Room, room, make room!
The lion has walked;
Hide antelopes,
Get out of his way.’
Behind Niani there was a young baobab tree and it was there that the children of the town came to pick leaves for their mothers. With all his might the son of Sogolon tore up the tree and put it on his shoulders and went back to his mother. He threw the tree in front of the hut and said, ‘Mother, here are some baobab leaves for you. From henceforth it will be outside your hut that the women of Niani will come to stock up.’
Sogolon Djata walked. From that day forward the queen mother had no more peace of mind. But what can one do against destiny? Nothing. Man, under the influence of certain illusions, thinks he can alter the course which God has mapped out, but everything he does falls into a higher order which he barely understands. That is why Sassouma’s efforts were vain against Sogolor’s son, everything she did lay in the child’s destiny. Scorned the day before and the object of public ridicule, now Sogolon’s son was as popular as he had been despised. The multitude loves and fears strength. All Niani talked of nothing but Djata; the mothers urged their sons to become hunting companions of Djata and to share his games, as if they wanted their offspring to profit from the nascent glory of the buffalo- woman’s son. The words of Doua on the name-giving day came back to men’s minds and Sogolon was now surrounded with much respect; in conversation people were fond of contrasting Sogolon’s modesty with the pride and malice of Soussouma Bérété. It was because the former had been an exemplary wife and mother that God had granted strength to her son’s legs for, it was said, the more a wife loves and respects her husband and the more she suffers for her child, the more valorous will the child be one day. Each is the child of his mother; the child is worth no more than the mother is worth. It was not astonishing that the king Dankaran Touman was so colourless, for his mother had never shown the slightest respect to her husband and never, in the presence of the late king, did she show that humility which every wife should show before her husband. People recalled her scenes of jealousy and the spiteful remarks she circulated about her co-wife and her child. And people would conclude gravely, ‘Nobody knows God’s mystery. The snake has no legs yet it is as swift as any other animal that has four.’
Sogolon Djata’s popularity grew from day to day and he was surrounded by a gang of children of the same age as himself. These were Fran Kamara, son of the king of Tabon; Kamandjan, son of the king of Sibi; and other princes whose fathers had sent them to the court of Niani.31 The son of Namandjé, Manding Bory, was already joining in their games. Balla Fasséké followed Sogolon Djata all the time. He was past twenty and it was he who gave the child education and instruction according to Mandingo rules of conduct. Whether in town or at the hunt, he missed no opportunity of instructing his pupil. Many young boys of Niani came to join in the games of the royal child.
He liked hunting best of all. Farakourou, master of the forges, had made Djata a fine bow, and he proved himself to be a good shot with the bow. He made frequent hunting trips with his troops, and in the evening all Niani would be in the square to be present at the entry of the young hunters. The crowd would sing the ‘Hymn to the Bow’ which Balla Fasséké had composed, and Sogolon Djata was quite young when he received the title of Simbon, or master hunter, which is only conferred on great hunters who have proved themselves.
Every evening Sogolon Kedjou would gather Djata and his companions outside her hut. She would tell them stories about the beasts of the bush, the dumb brothers of man. Sogolon Djata learnt to distinguish between the animals; he knew why the buffalo was his mother’s wraith and also why the lion was the protector of his father’s family. He also listened to the history of the kings which Balla Fasséké told him; enraptured by the story of Alexander the Great,32 the mighty king of gold and silver, whose sun shone over quite half the world. Sogolon initiated her son into certain secrets and revealed to him the names of the medicinal plants which every hunter should know. Thus, between his mother and his griot, the child got to know all that needed to be known.
Sogolon’s son was now ten. The name Sogolon Djata in the rapid Mandingo language became Sundiata or Sondjata. He was a lad full of strength; his arms had the strength of ten and his biceps inspired fear in his companions. He had already that authoritative way of speaking which belongs to those who are destined to command. His brother, Manding Bory, became his best friend, and whenever Djata was seen, Manding Bory appeared too. They were like a man and his shadow. Fran Kamara and Kamandjan were the closest friends of the young princes, while Balla Fasséké followed them all like a guardian angel.
But Sundiata’s popularity was so great that the queen mother became apprehensive for her son’s throne. Dankaran Touman was the most retiring of men. At the age of eighteen he was still under the influence of his mother and a handful of old schemers. It was Sassouma Bérété who really reigned in his name. The queen mother wanted to put an end to this popularity by killing Sundiata and it was thus that one night she received the nine great witches of Mali. They were all old women. The eldest, and the most dangerous too, was called Soumosso Konkomba. When the nine old hags had seated themselves in a semi-circle around her bed the queen mother said:
‘You who rule supreme at night, nocturnal powers, oh you who hold the secret of life, you who can put an end to one life, can you help me?’
‘The night is potent,’ said Soumosso Konkomba, ‘Oh queen, tell us what is to be done, on whom must we turn the fatal blade?’
‘I want to kill Sundiata,’ said Sassouma. ‘His destiny runs counter to my son’s and he must be killed while there is still time. If you succeed, I promise you the finest rewards. First of all I bestow on each of you a cow and her calf and from tomorrow go to the royal granaries and each of you will receive a hundred measures of rice and a hundred measures of hay on my authority.’
‘Mother of the king,’ rejoined Soumosso Konkomba, ‘life hangs by nothing but a very fine thread, but all is interwoven here below. Life has a cause, and death as well. The one comes from the other. Your hate has a cause and your action must have a cause. Mother of the king, everything holds together, our action will have no effect unless we are ourselves implicated, but Mari Djata has done us no wrong. It is, then, difficult for us to compass his death.’
‘But you are also concerned,’ replied the queen mother, ‘for the son of Sogolon will be a scourge to us all.’
‘The snake seldom bites the foot that does not walk,’ said one of the witches.
‘Yes, but there are snakes that attack everybody. Allow Sundiata to grow up and we will all repent of it. Tomorrow go to Sogolon’s vegetable patch and make a show of picking a few gnougou leaves. Mari Djata stands guard there and you will see how vicious the boy is. He won’t have any respect for your age, he’ll give you a good thrashing.’
‘That’s a clever idea,’ said one of the old hags.
‘But the cause of our discomfiture will be ourselves, for having touched something which did not belong to us.’
‘We could repeat the offence,’ said another, ‘and then if he beats us again we would be able to reproach him with being unkind, heartless. In that case we would be concerned, I think.’
‘The idea is ingenious,’ said Soumosso Konkomba. ‘Tomorrow we shall go to Sogolon’s vegetable patch.’
‘Now there’s a happy thought,’ concluded the queen mother, laughing for joy. ‘Go to the vegetable patch tomorrow and you will see that Sogolon’s son is mean. Beforehand, present yourselves at the royal granaries where you will receive the grain I promised you; the cows and calves are already yours.’
The old hags bowed and disappeared into the black night. The queen mother was now alone and gloated over her anticipated victory. But her daughter, Nana Triban, woke up.
‘Mother, who were you talking to? I thought I heard voices.’
‘Sleep, my daughter, it is nothing. You didn’t hear anything.’
In the morning, as usual, Sundiata got his companions together in front of his mother’s hut and said, ‘What animal are we going to hunt today?’
Kamandjan said, ‘I wouldn’t mind if we attacked some elephants right now.’
‘Yes, I am of this opinion too,’ said Fran Kamara. ‘That will allow us to go far into the bush.’
And the young band left after Sogolon had filled the hunting bags with eatables. Sundiata and his companions came back late to the village, but first Djata wanted to take a look at his mother’s vegetable patch as was his custom. It was dusk. There he found the nine witches stealing gnougou leaves. They made a show of running away like thieves caught red-handed.
‘Stop, stop, poor old women,’ said Sundiata, ‘what is the matter with you to run away like this. This garden belongs to all.’ Straight away his companions and he filled the gourds of the old hags with leaves, aubergines and onions.
‘Each time that you run short of condiments come to stock up here without fear.’
‘You disarm us,’ said one of the old crones, and another added, ‘And you confound us with your bounty.’
‘Listen, Djata,’ said Soumosso Konkomba, ‘we had come here to test you. We have no need of condiments but your generosity disarms us. We were sent here by the queen mother to provoke you and draw the anger of the nocturnal powers upon you. But nothing can be done against a heart full of kindness. And to think that we have already drawn a hundred measures of rice and a hundred measures of millet33—and the queen promises us each a cow and her calf in addition. Forgive us, son of Sogolon.’
‘I bear you no ill-will,’ said Djata. ‘Here, I am returning from the hunt with my companions and we have killed ten elephants, so I will give you an elephant each and there you have some meat!’
‘Thank you, son of Sogolon.’
‘Thank you, child of Justice.’
‘Henceforth,’ concluded Soumosso Konkomba, ‘we will watch over you.’ And the nine witches disappeared into the night. Sundiata and his companions continued on their way to Niani and got back after dark.
‘You were really frightened; those nine witches really scared you, eh?’ said Sogolon Kolonkan, Djata’s young sister.
‘How do you know,’ retorted Sundiata, astonished.
‘I saw them at night hatching their scheme, but I knew there was no danger for you.’ Kolonkan was well versed in the art of witchcraft and watched over her brother without his suspecting it.