Sanakhou

By Elizabeth Evans

Murder, mayhem, marriage and revenge are all elements of this story of the ancient kingdom of Mali. The thirteenth century warrior, Sundiata Keita, makes a sanakhou pact of mutual aid with warrior-archer Faony Konde, a chief of the Konde tribes, as thanks for the warriors help in defeating the evil king of the Sosso tribes.
Twenty years later, Sundiata Keita, calls in the pledge of sanakhou in his time of need. His need is to fi nd a husband for his unmarried daughter. Faony Konde sends his oldest son to now king, Sundiata Keita, to honor his sanakhou pact. Finally, murderers and thieves are captured; conspiracies and motives of revenge are revealed and the throne and Sundiatas power over his kingdom are secure.
This second edition of Sanakhou contains additional information about the map of ancient Mali and a genealogy chart of the Keita dynasty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483692098

Elizabeth Evans

A popular conference speaker, Liz travels in Europe and the UK supporting church leaders with prophetic ministry. She is a leader of Bath City Church.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Elizabeth Evans.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915696

ISBN:Hardcover 978-1-4836-9208-1

Softcover 978-1-4836-9207-4

eBook 978-1-4836-9209-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 01/15/2014

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Author’s Note

2000px-Genealogy_kings_Mali_Empire_1-100113.jpgMap%20of%20Ancient%20Mali.jpg

Niani, the capital of the Empire of Mali no longer exists.

Scholars speculate that it was on the Sankarani River in the fertile savannah,

surrounded by rolling hills.

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

The 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 tree and 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 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.

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 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 faraway 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 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 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 noticed 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? 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 but also 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 unduly 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 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, 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. 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 willpower 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 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 and 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 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 AD 1253 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 seed-spilling 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 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. 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 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, strong bodies. When our bodies speak of love louder than 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 to 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 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 willpower 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 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 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 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.

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’s 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 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’s body and the blood creating a puddle 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