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By
Maurice Broaddus
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“I will make my arrows drunk with blood, while my sword devours flesh: the blood of the slain and the captives, the heads of the enemy leaders.” Deuteronomy 32;42
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“Favor us with a tale, storyteller,” Ghana Menin asked in his way of implying a threat if disobeyed. His lanky frame slumped in his high-backed seat, still unused to the power at his command. The celebration of their latest trade agreement had gone well. Soon, more treasure would be flowing to them, insuring Wagadugu’s place as the pride of the continent. The central fire roared before them. The tall flames danced wildly in the night, holding the ghana’s court of counselors, ministers, interpreters, and treasurers in rapt attention.
The scarlet robed griot approached. Djobo had served as the village’s memory for almost a generation. Even now, he had three young men undergoing the rites of passage to become the village’s next griot, to preserve the “heritage of ears.” Kumbi Saleh had grown fat with her wealth over the years, now serving as capital of the land. Though small of stature, Djobo moved with a lithe grace that bore a near regal air. He nodded first to the ghana’s advisor, Okomfo, then to Ghana Menin himself.
“Is there a particular tale you would like to hear?” Djobo asked.
“Tell us a tale of the first ones. How we used to be,” Ghana Menin said.
“The descendants of the Hamite, the sons of Kush, traveled toward the west and crossed the Nile,” Djobo started, without missing a beat. All his tales began with a recitation of their origins; providing him time to recall the stories. “Some—the Nubians, the Beja, and the Zanj—turned between the east and the west. The rest followed the setting sun. They were the first ones, the original settlers of Wagadugu. There were 144 ghanas leading up to the great Ghana Menin, but there was a time before ghanas, a time before the Soninke clans united.”
“You want to tell us of Dinga Cisse?” Okomfu asked. Djobo didn’t glance toward him, feeling the bristling waves of hate emanating from him.
“If you will permit me,” Djobo asked the ghana.
“Please do so. I know so little about him. Tell me of his first adventure.”
“I don’t know about his first, but this is the earliest tale that I know. It began with a raid.”
* * *
The women shrieked when they heard the crash through the underbrush. They had been down to the river to collect water for the village. Tales of the black-hooded raiders swooping down on caravans, stealing anything of value and kidnaping young women—especially girls—had spread far and wide. Things had gotten of such grave concern that most of the village’s warriors accompanied any transport of salt or gold. All that remained were the old, the young, the infirm. And the women. Never had the women been bothered along the short trek to the river. However, though so close to the village, they knew their screams would go unheeded.
If only they could make it to the clearing, within eye line of the village, surely a watchman would see them.
Their hopes died as the men overran them.
No one knew much about the raiders. Some feared they were agents of the Kushites to the west, or worse, wandering Berbers who knew no allegiance to any village save their own necks. Not much larger than the women, the raiders cut them off along the trail that led to Jenne-jeno. They bayed, little more than jackals. Their squat bodies scuttled about in something approaching triumphant glee. Their awkward musculature made every movement a lumbering effort.
“Soft,” the smallest one circled a woman, taking long exaggerated sniffs, though still skittish as a monkey. His black, open-faced hood flopped against the back of his head, revealing flat features that only rendered him more monstrous than his slight bulk would’ve allowed.
“Fun,” a lean figure brushed up against another woman, relishing the startled yelp his presence elicited.
“Red inside.” The largest of the three commanded intense, fear-filled stares from the lot, his fellow raiders included. The brute raked his gnarled nail along her face, drawing blood.
“No, we take, we take. No time for ... games.” The lean one rushed to him, holding back his arm. The brute stared at him, then back at the girl, before shrugging him off.
“Not all have to go. Some play,” the brute’s lascivious stare sent a shiver through the girl.
One of the women proved more than the small man could handle. Wriggling to loosen his grip, she reached behind her and clawed at the man’s eye. She elbowed him in his belly while he grasped at his wound. Turning to face him, she kicked him in his groin, sending him to the ground. The brute lost interest in the woman he held and snatched the feisty one from behind.
No one knew what to make of the figure who stepped through the underbrush.
A young man, barely a man at that, with a thinly muscled frame burned dark by the sun. A wild man, of a sort, he tramped along, as if oblivious to the scene, yet making enough noise to draw everyone’s attention. His curiosity, alerted by the screams, led him there; that and the scent of bloodlust that wafted along the air like the stink of a week-old kill. His wide eyes took in the scene with a willful nonchalance. He cut a striking figure with his small nose ring and brass armlet. The left half of his body was tattooed: his leg and shoulder, in the pattern of lines, like a maze, the pattern broken by dots. He wore a belted loincloth—a dagger’s hilt jutted from one side—the belt mainly supporting a short, heavy sword. Using a spear as his walking stick, he paused, staring at the horizon not making eye contact with any of the raiders.
“Carry on stranger. It’s healthier to mind your own business,” the lean one took a step in his direction.
He turned to them, perturbed at the intrusion into his thoughts. “Come to make sport of women. Surely, they cannot make for fair game. Come. Play with me.”
Demonic caterwauling, anticipating their thrill at the possibility of an easy kill, raise their blood. They charged him, yet he stood his ground. He spun his spear above his head in a dancing whirl that brought it to bear and slashed the first man. Blood oozed from a gash in his side, cautioning the men to be wary of the range of his weapon. They spread out to encircle him, but he didn’t wait for their simultaneous assault. Listening to the footfalls of the lean man behind him, anticipating his placement, the stranger jabbed him with the blunt end of his spear. The pop of splintering teeth sent the man sprawling to the ground. The boy-man pivoted, the blade of his spear carving a precise strike across the man’s throat. The man clutched the frothing rictus of his neck, choking on his blood as he fell.
The boy-man sprang up, glared wildly, searching for the man’s companions. Ignoring the women’s frantic terror, he spied a large black bird. He heard the snarl before he saw the man. The man hurled a dagger at him—to kill him at best; throw him off balance and into the path of the second dagger he’d drawn, at worst. The boy-man ducked, stepping into the stride of the charging man, to catch his wrist. Wrenching it with his left hand, his spear still in his right, he snapped the bone loudly, driving the small man to his knees. The boy-man snatched the dagger from him and plunged it into his chest. The man crumpled, though the boy-man had already turned his back to him in an effort to guard against the brute.
The brute had retreated to near the women, preparing to use them as shields if need be. The brute, though twice the boy-man’s size, must have sensed something about him. An untamed spirit, a warrior’s fury. The boy-man let loose a frightful cry of his own. The brute brandished his dagger, the size of a small sword to anyone else, and leapt. The boy-man slid to the ground and drew his spear up. Off balance, the brute impaled himself on it, his momentum carrying them into a tumble. The brute uttered a death scream as the boy-man, now astride him, plunged the spear into his belly and ripped it to the brute’s groin.
The boy-man stood, his arms streaked with blood, his hands frozen to the spear. Studying the crimson-soaked dust all around him, he brought the spear to the ready at the sound of the approaching soft footfalls.
“Warrior,” a gentle voice said. He turned violently, blood-frenzy still in his eye. She continued in a soothing tone. “Come with us to our village. Let us celebrate your arrival and rejoice in your victory. Many will sing of your deeds.”
The black bird regained his attention. Feeling its withering gaze, almost human in its hatred, he watched as it took off on large black wings.
* * *
Jenne-jeno was a gem lost within the jungle confines, a mysterious juxtaposition of past and encroaching present. Surrounded by rice fields, a levee for the pasture, and a deep basin, it was a mix of huts and great houses. Though some of its round houses were constructed with tauf foundations, the puddled mud stood in stark contrast to the cylindrical bricks of the city wall. The palisaded walls, tall and proud, sealed the village from the rest of the world. A swarm of huts enclosed structures of stone, as if the huts settled alongside an older, abandoned settlement. The boy-man had traveled far and wide, and though the village reminded him of cities that he saw in Egypt, the town’s architecture seemed older. Truth be told, the rumors of treasure that outshone all the neighboring nations also lured him here.
“The raiders seek new territory. They, too, suffer from the drought that plagues much of the kingdom,” a fat faced man with postulant features pronounced soon upon their arrival. With a bulbous body, like a tree frog. A band of gold girded his fat neck. He looked more wealthy merchant than war-chief. Beside him stood a fine woman of dignified air, one who had to have been quite a beauty in her youth. The concerned on-lookers waited to hear something to allay their concerns, but their war-chief was too much the politician to give them any real answers.
“It makes no sense,” the boy-man spoke up. “There is plenty of good land only a few miles north of here.”
“You speak Mande?”
“I speak many languages,” the brooding boy-man said.
“Your words ring with truth. They think us vulnerable because our people are divided into small clans. It is said that someday a man will rise and unite the main clans of the Soninke. Then, we will be a force to be reckoned with.” The man stopped and studied the boy-man. “Where are my manners? I am Ghana Afer. And this lovely creature is my sister, Ermene.”
“I am Dinga of the clan Cisse.”
“Cisse? I am not familiar with that clan.”
“I am Nokian.”
Whispers rippled through the fathered throng. Fresh interest quickened the ghana’s gaze. Dinga knew the rumors that spread about his people. They were a barbaric, warlike tribe, intelligent but uncivilized. Ancient and proud, they kept their old ways, and their secrets, to themselves.
“Nok is on the far side of the desert. Few venture across it and live to tell the tale. What brings you to our land. I ask, not from suspicion, but curiosity.”
Be he scout or spy, Dinga knew he wondered. “Nothing. I simply wish to prove my mettle to Onyame. And see what the many lands and people have to offer.”
“Onyame? The god above all others? What say you to that, Bida?” Ghana Afer asked.
All eyes turned to the high priest. He stood a head taller than the tallest man, skin dark as tree bark. His orange robe seemed to glow against him. The crowd parted as he neared. Dinga failed to see the source of the reverence that they showed him. The priest adorned himself like a woman. Two snakes, painted in black on either arm, coiled along the length of his arms. Serpentine bracelets of gold dangled from each wrist. Crowned with a high cap—decorated with gold—wrapped in a turban of fine cotton, a necklace of human teeth circled his long neck. The figure circled Dinga once, though Dinga stared straight at the ghana without acknowledging the priest. Fox-faced, with far too crafty eyes, he met Dinga’s frank countenance. “Such a savage deserves such a savage god.”
Dinga Cisse remained silent.
“Bida, that is no way to treat a guest. Especially one that has already done so great a service to our village. Come, Dinga Cisse, sup with us. Enjoy all that our village has to offer.” Ghana Afer offered his hand, but before Dinga could move, all eyes turned to the high priest.
Bida's body jerked like a large bird caught in the throes of strangulation. The gathered villagers drew back, a wave of fear washed over them. He strode in a large circle around Dinga and the ghana, his spastic rhythms increasing when he neared Dinga. He reached into the folds of his robe and removed a small rod with what appeared to be beads tied to it. He yanked at the bag on his hip then upended it at Dinga’s feet.
Quite the show, though Dinga remained unimpressed.
“The warrior’s arrival is a powerful omen. Our village will go through a time of testing. We must have faith and we will not only survive but will shall know prosperity greater than before. If we cling to the old ways.”
“Show Dinga Cisse to a hut. Let him enjoy the best that our village has to offer,” Ghana Afer said. “It’s best not to face times of testing on an empty belly.”
Dinga followed the ghana's retinue, first catching the high priest's gaze then turning his back to him.
The short hairs along the nape of Dinga’s neck stood on end.
* * *
Dinga held his sword before him lost in his meditations. Having cleaned and sharpened the blade, he held it aloft in front of him, knowing it, feeling its heft. Learning its delicate balance, he taught his muscles to think of it as an extension of his arm. His dagger lay to the left of him, sharp and pointing toward the hut entrance. His spear keeled to his right within easy grasp. With them he always had the trappings of a home, no matter where he rested his head.
He knew who approached his hut long before she made her presence known.
“What are you doing?” she asked, entering the hut as if it were her own.
“I am resting in the presence of Onyame," Dinga said, his eyes still closed.
“I’m not interrupting you, am I?”
“If a warrior can be disturbed so easily, he needn’t be a warrior,” Dinga said.
“I wanted to thank you personally for my rescue.”
“What rescue? You seemed to have your assailant where you wanted.”
“Still, I thought you would enjoy this.” He opened his eyes to see her carrying in a bowl of fruit and a carafe. “From the ghana’s table."
Dinga glanced up, inscrutable as ever. He had only seen fifteen summers before setting out to prove himself. The fairer sex remained as much a mystery to him as any culture he visited. He kept to a code, hating the distraction of women. They interfered with his dedication, his worship: the art of combat.
“By Onyame,” his voice trailed off.
“I am Ifriquia of the Kante clan.”
“How many clans are there?”
“The major Soninke clans are the Kante, the artisans and metal workers; and the Drame and the Sylla, who see to agriculture, fishing, animal husbandry.”
“Maybe it is time to add a fourth. Cisse. The ruling clan.”
“You shouldn’t joke. Bida, too, speaks of there needing to be a ruling clan.”
“What clan is Bida?”
“He is a foreigner. Like you. From Kawkaw.”
“Kawkaw? The land of magicians?”
“The Pharaoh has chosen many from Kawkaw for his personal court.”
“Bah.” His dismissive snort belied the fascination he held for the city of Kawkaw. He heard tales of its gleaming cities, dark ways, and darker gods. His heart longed to one day see it, yet he feared it all the same. Still, he was young and had time.
“And what stirs your heart for Onyame?”
Dinga took his knife and scratched a symbol in the earthen floor. Ifriquia stooped to study it over his shoulder. His reedy frame leaned to the side of scrawny, as if he had been sickly. His round face beguiling in its innocent air, hid hints of mischief in his grin. “‘He Who Roars So Loud that the Nations are Struck with Terror.’ The name above all names. Honor, bravery, loyalty; these are virtuous traits. Honorable combat is my worship.”
“That sounds . . .”
“Barbaric? Simple? Yet, I know who I am and what I am called to do. Fulfilling who I am is how I draw close to him.”
“And where would Onyame take you for your next trial?”
“I plan to return well north of Kush and Egypt. Into the hinterlands and beyond before returning home.”
“Why?”
“My grandfather wandered to the four winds before settling among his people. He called it the rite of Onyame. He took part in many a battle, faced many a beast, before proving his worth as leader of a people.”
“Is that what you plan to do? Lead a people?”
Dinga smiled a wolfish smile.
* * *
The fire was warm, the food filling, and the wine soothing. Despite his wishes, eventually he had to sleep, to prepare himself for the next day. But when he slept, he dreamt of death and dying comrades.
Comrades betrayed.
And when he awoke, his friends were no less dead.
* * *
The next day, the ghana was found dead.
There was no talk of a new ghana. Ermene’s son, though destined to be the next ghana, was only months old. Bida, himself, had cut his umbilical cord with an arrow to ensure that he would be a good hunter. Until he came of age, Ermene allowed Bida to assume the role of his uncle.
Noting Ermene’s weakness, Dinga watched all with a detached bemusement.
“The time of testing has begun,” Bida announced, preparing the village for the ceremonies that would accompany his burial. Per the old ways, the villagers interred Ghana Afer with food, clothes, and cooking pots—the things he would need in the next world—with the funeral lasting several days. As divine minister, harborer of the protective powers of the spirit world, Bida oversaw the ceremonies. The high priest was seen as the spirits’ representative; in exchange, he was protected by the spirits and could make use of their power. “The ghana has passed over. He has joined with our ancestor spirits but remains present with us. May we continue to benefit from his wisdom.”
Ifriquia led the women in their dance about the spewing pyres of the central fire. The warriors gave voice, yelling as they pounded the drums. Their grim beat—a dull throb with a near sinister aspect—stirred the ladies to swaying. The drum mutterings increased, building in intensity until they swept the ladies up in their contagious rhythms. The ladies gyrated and pranced, oblivious to the stares, caught up in the spiritual ecstasy of their dance.
Dinga’s eyes followed her every movement.
Only then did Bida begin his harsh, guttural intonations. His peacock feathers clung to his back, leering over each shoulder. He appeared almost regal in his high head dress. The drum ceremony continued. Bida moved to the uncomfortable rhythms, though—surely a trick of the dim light—he seemed like an old man in the fire’s lurid glow. Ancient and gnarled, Bida appeared ravaged by years under an unceasing sun and wind. Withered hands cast herbs and totems into the flames, changing their hue to the delight of the onlookers.
Ermene took her place beside Bida, though his attentions grew distracted. Dinga tracked his eyes. Bida eyed her daughter. Despite Ifriquia's youth, his eyes, greedy and grim, locked on her with the mad tinge of lust dancing in them.
Dinga did not acknowledge the songs sang on his behalf, comparing the number of his superior kills to those of Ghana Afer. He had no time for the politics that masked civilization. It was another game people felt they had to play to further separate themselves from their true natures.
Still, the songs flattered him.
The warriors soon gathered, a stirring formation before Bida in order to receive his blessing.
“Go. I will secure a good hunt.” The men left, confident in their presumed success. Bida turned to Dinga. “If you will, come talk with me later.”
* * *
Bida held his audience in a domed pavilion, a massive round structure near the rear of the village, off to itself, yet large enough for three families. A grove separated it from the rest of the village. Behind it, several wooden figures lined the path. Totems, like a shrine, of carved figures. Short, squat depictions of men and women with exaggerated features of long faces and broad flat noses. Their sagging breasts, long necks, and capped heads, seemed carved from hate. Their hollow eyes, more alive than not, stared with life-like intensity from their wooden sockets.
“You wished to meet with me?” Dinga asked, a mocking tone marked his being perturbed by the odd formality of the wish to talk.
“I’ve heard tales, young Dinga, of some wild young men. The sons of certain chiefs who indulged all manner of ... extravagances,” Bida said in a cold whisper. An air of ancient calm settled on him, though his fox-face was still a mask of deceit.
“Indulgence makes one soft,” Dinga said.
“Then you’ve heard the tales?”
“Only offering comment. Please, continue.”
“These young men drew lots for some among their brethren to go explore the desert parts. A foolhardy quest. You see, the desert is a mysterious and powerful place, where arrogant young men may quickly find themselves in over their heads. Then their baser instincts are forced to take over. Friend turns on friend as a matter of survival, until only one remains alive to tell the tale.” Bida crossed the distance between them, his eyes locked on Dinga's. Without thought, his hand brushed against the hilt of his knife at Bida's approach. “It is a blessing and a curse: to do whatever it takes to survive. They were a band. He was their chieftain, though he never asked for it. He was not the oldest or the biggest, but they admired him just the same.”
“He failed them,” Dinga whispered.
“No, he lived,” Bida paused. “You are a child of fate. You have the eyes of one who has seen much, despite your few years. The Soninke’s lost son. I could build a mighty kingdom on your brave back.”
“I don’t have the stomach for politics. Or scheming my way to power,” Dinga's words carried the sting of disdain. A crest-fallen look flashed on Bida's face before he turned away. Still, he salvaged his spurned offer as best he could.
“You have the need to adventure. It is written all over you. Best not to tarry in one place for too long, then. Follow your heart and go your own way.”
The implicit threat—masked as permission—was not lost on Dinga, though he made no attempt to match wits and intrigue with Bida. Though his nature was to be suspicious, he trusted in one fact: that no matter their color or culture, people were people. Self-serving and ever true to their baser nature. “Where do you think the raiders come from?”
“Why do you ask?”
“A wise man does not go out of his way to stir up trouble.”
“Wise words indeed. The Berber nomads range toward the north, not quite to Kush, though east of the Bantu.”
“Then perhaps I shall visit the villages to the south,” Dinga said.
"A good decision."
* * *
Dinga shaved his head with his dagger, his rough scraping aided only by a bowl of water. Bloodshed and violence were all that he knew. The causes mattered a little, but the means remained the same. He had little use for the trappings of civilization, the lie of man. Barbarism was the natural state of man, so he concerned himself with life’s fundamentals.
Food. Shelter. Worship.
Ifriquia entered his hut, then stood at the doorway in silence.
Pleasure.
“You can come in,” Dinga said.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your meditations again,” Ifriquia said.
“I was not in prayer. Merely testing my blade.”
“You have a strange god with strange demands.”
“We all walk in our own ways.” Dinga continued to clean his blade.
“They say that there are prophecies that say Onyame would someday take flesh and become the rightful ghana.”
Dinga smirked. “Did your ghana die without a son?”
“It doesn’t matter. It is the sister of the ghana who provides the heir to the throne. I am Ermene’s eldest daughter. The future ghana’s sister.
“What of Bida?”
“What of an old man with useless bits?”
“He’s neither old nor useless. The shamans of Kawkaw are a powerful lot. More spirit than man, if you believe the tales. Shape changers who speak tongues so ancient that only the shadows understand them.”
Ifriquia approached. Dinga glared, more aloof than malicious, as if he’d forgotten the emotions of friendliness. He struggled to recall the expected response.
“The people whisper that you are destined to rule.”
“It is not yet my time.”
“It is mine.”
She stood close enough for him to feel her heat. It occurred to him that he had never seen so dazzling a beauty. Her unruly locks held at bay by her sleight headdress. Her eyes, brown as fresh timber, matched her perfect ebony body. Full, enticing red lips. She was strong in all the right ways; an independent spirit to match his own. His eyes smoldered with longing for her. In that moment, a warrior’s madness swept him up in desire. Blood pumped hotly through his veins, stirring his untamed soul.
They engaged in combat of a different sort.
* * *
“I must leave,” Dinga said, Ifriquia still coiled in his embrace. She rolled over to face him.
“Where do your travels take you now?”
“North.”
The Soninke had entrusted themselves to his care. Dinga could not simply abandon them.
He couldn’t betray their trust.
* * *
Dinga found the raiders quickly enough. He knew of the traders’ caravan, trafficking in salt, daggers, silk, jewelry, fine cloth. The traders’ route from Maghreb to Wagadugu followed a simple path starting in Tahert, near the north. Coming down through Sjilmasa, the trail went south and inland—parallel to the coast—then round the south east, through Audaghust to Jenne-jeno. The raiders weren’t attempting to hide their trail much. Either they didn’t think much of the Soninke people or they trusted too much in the protection of their master.
Sweat dripped from Dinga's body, but he remained motionless, save repositioning his grip on his spear. He ignored both the stifling heat and the cloying dampness, waiting with the patience of a poised spider. The raiders—small fumbling creatures—turned upwind, then vanished into the bushes. Still he waited. Then an uneasy thing stirred in his stomach triggered by the sudden oppressive silence. He held his breath, not sure if he actually heard anything. Again, he scanned the stillness of the forest trail. He moved through the dense underbrush with the practiced ease of a hunter. His heart shot to his throat.
A wild scream cut through the jungle.
Puffing a curse under his breath, Dinga raced toward the source in an instant. Instinct drew his hand toward his sword’s hilt; he reveled in the opportunity to fight with both weapons. He brushed back branches with his spear, then withdrew along the dense foliage. He paused, meeting with a slight shaking of leaves. The bushes parted as the raiders came into view. They carried a woman between them.
Light dappled through the leaves. Large globules of sweat beaded along his brow. With no wind against his face, he took a more comfortable grip on his spear. A few heartbeats later, he bounded from the bushes. The first raider dropped his end of his prize, quickly bringing a shard of sharpened bone to bear. Dinga disarmed him with a casual flick of his spear. The scrape of metal on bone tore through the air. Enjoying the heft of his sword, Dinga flailed down. The blow was swift, brutal, and strong, crunching through flesh and bone. He split the raider's skull, releasing a mass of blood and brains. He waited for the other raider to reveal himself.
Suddenly, he cursed himself for a fool. He felt lured deep into the jungle, where even during the day, huge shadows loomed. Something shifted along the corners of his vision. A blur of motion. The woman had vanished. The shadows congealed, cutting him from the most direct way back whence he came. A low wail erupted along the forest floor. A wisp of spirits, engulfed in darkness, coalesced into the form of a fat beast, bulbous, like a tree frog. The shadow creature spoke in a language older than men; a spirit thing in thrall to an unseen master.
Its claws struck through the shadows. A hot wet gush of blood fled Dinga’s side. Its touch defiled him, mocked him. Its slow, lumbering movements parried his. Dinga ran, pushing his way through the underbrush, each movement sending a hot spike of pain through his side. However, he wasn't going to face this shadow beast on these terms. He entered a glade where the forests merged into the grasslands, his trail cut short by the sheer drop off that emptied into a ravine. The creature staggered wildly, weakened by the seething sunlight. Dinga stopped at the cliff's edge, waiting on the creature's slow approach. When he sensed that it was within range, he turned with an impetuous ferocity, shoving his upthrust spear into the beast's belly, sending it tumbling down the ravine. It may not be dead, Dinga thought to himself. Though there was one way to make sure: cut the head from its master.
Clutching the wound in his side, he plunged on. Running proved to be torturous. He soon spied the movements of the surviving raider. The raider pursued its own course oblivious to it being followed. He ran with ape-like lopes to the rear wall of Jenne-jeno, scaling it with ease. By the time Dinga had reached a good vantage point, he neared delirium. That was the only explanation for what he saw. Discerning the shadows, the raider he trailed halted at the grove. His skin hardened, took on a waxy complexion. Cracks formed along his face, smooth features giving way to flattened crags. Its flesh molded and hardened until it completed its transformation, assuming the form of another totem.
“Onyame take their hearts,” Dinga swore.
With that, he passed out.
* * *
When he awoke, Dinga’s keen eyes studied the shadows. He planned his entry through the thinned grove of totems etched against the night sky. Ten horses, bedecked with gold embroidered fabrics, surrounded Bida’s pavilion. Though silent as a cat, Dinga felt the sting of his lacerations as he moved; however, neither weakness nor mercy dimmed his eyes. His blood was up, his muscles twitched beneath his skin. He snuck into Bida’s quarters. Sons of a vassal ghana stood to his right, resplendent in their splendid garments and hair plaited with gold. At the door, dogs of excellent pedigree, strutted with collars of gold and silver, each collar studded with matching balls of each metal.
Coming into full view, Dinga grinned with painful effort. He helped himself to Bida’s wine. Bida glared at him with baleful eyes, then dismissed his court with a wave of his hand. The men scattered, leaving the plates of their interrupted meal. Dinga approached the lapis lazuli steps that led to the massive chair with jewel-bedecked arms and high back.
“You’ve returned, wayward son of the Soninke.”
“I have unfinished business, pretender chieftain.”
“I am no pretender,” the high priest smiled, “I am Bida the Eternal.”
“Ghana for now.”
“Once I secured the uncle-nephew relationship. After that, Ermene had but one further use to me.”
“What was that?”
“Dinner.” Bida picked clean another bone from his plate, sucking loudly for emphasis.
Dinga quaffed the remainder of the wine. “I dispatched your raiders.”
“They, too, served their purpose; stirring up fear in the people. And collecting my ... sacrifices. The villagers prove more tractable, increasing their dependence on whoever can guarantee protection. Look out that window. What do you see?”
“A farmer foraging for scraps.”
“Some Berber. If I wanted, I could lend him my aid in turn for sacrifice and make him into the ruler of a mighty nation.”
“I have no use for magic. What problems I have can be solved with my sword arm.”
Bida rose, growing in stature even as the shadows deepened. Dinga choked back the cry that sprang to his lips, in a mix or horror and near-panic. Surely this had to be a trick of the mind. He met Bida’s contemptuous stare. The red rage welled up in him. He ground his teeth until his gums bled. His head swam, the roar of war-chariots echoing in his ears. Shadow talons raked across his chest, sending him tumbling backwards. He withdrew his sword. In his travels, too many myths had shown themselves to be realities. Thus, the old, often conflicting legends about the age before man, the rise of the Nephilim and the power of the dark lords of Kawkaw. Surely, his magicks were no match for Dinga’s iron. His quick eyes and sure feet allowed him to scramble out of Bida’s grasp. Dinga possessed an unusual wiry strength and agility, leaping to the back of the high chair to face his foe.
Dinga cleaved the robed figure at the neck.
Bida erupted into a ball of flames. His essence, what remained of it, took to the sky. Dinga followed the display to the front of the pavilion, staring transfixed. Among the gathered on-lookers, he eyed Ifriquia. A brief smile passed between them, then he turned away as if called. He locked his gaze to the horizon. Without straying, he clutched his spear, leaning on it, then marched through the parted crowd.
And thus, he departed. His eyes forever fixed on the horizon.
* * *
The old griot spoke for almost two hours. The ghana’s court dispersed slowly at the close of his tale as if their blood had congealed. The ghana left, his thoughts all his own. Only two figures remained. Okomfo approached Djobo.
“You risked great offense,” Okomfo said.
“What do you mean?”
“Ghana Menin is a Berber.”
“I know. I am both fool and truth-teller,” Djobo said. “People listen, or not, as they will.”
“Dinga Cisse truly was a man who walked a lonely path and carried a heavy burden,” Okomfo said.
“That is the way of leaders. And heroes.”
“There are others who walk such roads, but cling to the shadows.”
“I pray that I didn’t offend you,” Djobo said, hoping to spare himself any harsh words.
“Not at all, story-teller.” Okomfo adjusted his gold serpentine bracelets. “I merely wanted to congratulate you on a tale well told.”
