A lengthy discussion among the chieftains followed. Ordinarily, the Ku-Djenne would not have countenanced such obvious sorcery. They would have driven both the sable beasts and their herdsman from their country. But the drought allowed for no such misgivings. Had one of the now-discredited priests of Shango attempted to intervene, his blood would have wet the dry ground.
Thus, the chieftains decided that the new herd would be divided equally among the various villages of Djenne-the-Land. As each chieftain eagerly selected his share of animals and drove them homeward, the portion allotted to Ougon remained in the parched pasture.
Sankruu was now feeling acute pain across his stomach. Dibango’s blade had cut through his skin and scraped across the hard ridges of his abdominal muscles. Yet before he would submit to the ministrations of his wives and the healers, there were still two tasks to which he must attend.
In the meantime, as the chiefs had been conferring over the distribution of the vanished stranger’s cattle, Ahmadu had become more aware of the calf whose tether he continued to hold. The sheer magnitude of the stranger’s arrival, the dread he had felt upon abandoning the pasture, and the news of his father’s duel with Dibango had encumbered Ahmadu’s mind. Only now did he look more closely at the calf, which had begun to bleat.
He saw that in many ways, it was different in appearance from the other antelope-cattle, as though it were of a separate breed. Looking into its rolling eyes, Ahmadu felt a stab of pity for the beast. Absently, he began to stroke the forehead of the calf. The beast soon ceased its incessant bleating.
Suddenly, Ahmadu felt a looming presence behind him. He turned and saw his father, who was visibly struggling to conceal the pain from his wound.
“Where are the cattle and nyuka that were here before?” Sankruu demanded.
“They ran away when the stranger came,” Ahmadu replied, hoping that Sankruu would understand. “They fled as though demons were pursuing them.”
That revelation disturbed Sankruu. But at least it answered his question, which was the first matter on his mind. Now, it was time for the second.
“To consecrate our good fortune in the eyes of the gods, we must make a sacrifice,” he said. “I believe this calf is meant for that purpose.”
“No!”
The voice that made that shout was Ahmadu’s. Time stood still as the youth realized the enormity of that single syllable, which he had never intended to speak. Slowly, Sankruu turned to his son. The chieftain’s eyes blazed like black coals.
“What did you say, boy?” he asked in a deceptively soft tone.
What happened next was as though someone else was speaking from the youth’s mouth, for it was inconceivable that Ahmadu would of his own volition have uttered the words that spilled from his trembling lips.
“No,” he repeated. “You cannot sacrifice this calf. I cannot allow it.”
Sankruu’s hand swung in a short arc. Though loss of blood was weakening him, the chieftain’s outrage lent strength to his arm, and the blow sent Ahmadu sprawling.
The youth’s cheek burned as though it were aflame. Yet the implications of the blow were far more painful than its force. For through his words, Ahmadu had profaned one of the most sacred of Ku-Djenne rituals. When a large number of new cattle were added to a herd, the weakest one was always sacrificed so that its frailty did not spread to the rest of the beasts. For a people whose lives depended on the health of their herds, failure to make the sacrifice was unthinkable.
As Ahmadu lay in the brittle grass, holding his hand to his throbbing face, Sankruu drew his bloody sword and strode purposefully toward the black calf, which rolled its eyes in terror and bleated piteously. Hearing that sad sound, Ahmadu rose as though pulled by an invisible string. He stumbled to the side of the calf, placing himself in the path of his father’s blade.
“You must not kill this calf,” he repeated, sweat beading on his brow.
Slowly, Sankruu extended his sword until its point was close to touching Ahmadu’s chest. The boy’s words were unthinkable; unimaginable. Now, he must not only sacrifice the miserable, thrice-cursed animal; his son and heir’s life were forfeit as well.
Ignoring the weakness creeping slowly into his limbs, Sankruu tensed the corded muscles of his sword-arm. He had to slay his own son. Generations of tradition demanded it ...
He could not do it.
Lowering his swordpoint, Sankruu could hear the murmurs of disbelief from the people behind him. And a great bitterness welled up in his heart, overwhelming his love for Ahmadu. With great deliberation, the chieftain of Ougon spat on the ground at his son’s feet.
“You are no longer of Ougon, or even of Djenne-the-Land,” Sankruu grated, each word costing him more pain than his wound. “Go into the desert with this beast you love more than your own people. May the curse of Shango be upon you. If ever you return to this land, you will surely die.”
Wordlessly, Ahmadu turned. As he began to walk northward, he did not look at the black calf. Nor did he pick up its tether. Even so, the scrawny beast followed him like a dog as they both slowly disappeared into the distance.
Only when Ahmadu was lost to sight did Sankruu collapse to the ground, his blood staining the dry grass to a sickly shade of crimson.
EVEN IN THE BEST OF times, the wasteland that separated Djenne from Imal was not a hospitable place. It was mostly desert wilderness, populated only by savage beasts and a few nomadic tribes. With the coming of the drought, however, the wasteland was even harsher than normal – a dubious haven for a calf or a boy.
Yet they both survived. Ahmadu lived only because of a dogged stubbornness that was all he had left. Everything else was gone, destroyed by the words
