But Sankruu felt no joy in the end of the long drought. Louder than the peals of thunder, his words of banishment rolled through his head: “If you ever return to Djenne-the-Land, you will surely die ...”
“Sankruu! Your wound is healed,” one of the warriors said in wonder.
The chieftain looked down and saw that the redness in the middle of his garment was gone. Slipping his hand inside, Sankruu discovered that the flesh of his stomach was smooth, with no sign of the unhealing wound.
Instead of rejoicing, though, Sankruu tore the garment, as though he wished to wound its cloth. Then he walked to the still form of Ahmadu. Somehow, he found the strength to lift his son’s body in his arms, and shout at the sky.
“I would bleed forever from a hundred wounds, if only Ahmadu could live,” he cried as tears mingle with the rain on his grief-laden face.
OUTSIDE THE VILLAGE of Ougon, where lean youths tend herds of spotted cattle and fat nyuka, a stone monument created by the finest sculptor in Djenne-the-City stands. It is carved in the shape of a youth astride a mighty bull buffalo. It is said that if one stands near this monument during a rainstorm, the face of Ahmadu can be seen among the thunderclouds.
THE RETURN OF SUNDIATA
THE NAME “SUNDIATA” resonates through the history of the Africa we know. He was the first monarch of Mali, which was the greatest African kingdom of the Middle Ages. Reigning from 1230 to 1255 AD, he expanded Mali’s agriculture and gained control over the trade of salt and gold. This trade formed the basis for the kingdom’s ascendance. In Nyumbani, there is a different Sundiata, whose story is heroic in its own right. My interpretation of the African icon Sundiata first appeared in a magazine called Cascade, in 1982.
SOBBING SOFTLY, KIEMBA stumbled unsteadily along the narrow hill-trail. In the muted glow of the moon, tears streamed in silver tracks down her ebony cheeks. Behind her, a line of crimson blotches marked her progress up the steep, stony path. With each step Kiemba took, more blood trickled down her thighs. Her clothing was torn. Her half-naked body throbbed with pain, and her soul was seared with humiliation and despair. Still, she continued to struggle upward. She knew what awaited her if she stopped or retraced her way back down the hill.
Ahead of her lay ... a dream. Despite the sobs shaking her slight frame, Kiemba was buoyed by that dream. She refused to consider the possibility that she had suffered greatly for a mirage. The one she sought must ... must abide at the summit of the harsh, craggy hill. He must ...
Suddenly, Kiemba stopped. Standing motionless as a carving, she listened. Yes ... she could hear it again. A distant suggestion of sound ... a clink of metal against metal, a scuff of leather against stone. Kiemba looked down the trail and saw several dark, indistinct shapes in the distance.
Panic seized her. She began to run desperately, terror rushing through her in sick waves. So soon had the Sao discovered what she had done. Now they pursued her, easily following her crimson spoor.
In that single glimpse downward, Kiemba had realized that the Sao were not hurrying. How long, they undoubtedly thought, could a bleeding young woman remain ahead of them?
Longer than you think, Kiemba vowed fiercely. Her determination was as hard as steel. But the outrages she had endured earlier in the day were beginning to exact their toll. The wings fear had lent to her feet vanished. Her footsteps faltered, and her knees began to buckle. She knew she would collapse soon. She would lie exhausted on the trail, helpless when the Sao finally came for her.
She tripped and sprawled painfully on broken stone. The sounds behind her grew louder. Kiemba forced herself to her feet ... and gazed wide-eyed at the yawning mouth of the cave that marked the termination of the trail. Despite the fatigue creeping through her limbs, a flame of gratification kindled in her heart. She had been right! The legend sung by generations of griots was true. She had found the Cavern of Sundiata, the God- who-was-a-man ... and Sundiata would be there.
Without hesitation, Kiemba made her way into the beckoning blackness of the cave. Squealing, leather-winged bats brushed past her face. She paid them no heed. Her attention was claimed by a splash of golden luminescence deep within the cavern’s interior.
Kiemba walked through the darkness, unmindful of the possibility of pitfalls or unseen projections of rock. The splash of light grew larger, taking the form of a half-circle. The golden glow seemed to suffuse her soul. And in the peaceful emanations it bore, Kiemba could almost forget what the Sao had done to her, and what she in turn had done to their leader.
She reached the half-circle that led into another chamber of the cavern. With a broad smile on her dark face, Kiemba entered the chamber to meet Sundiata.
THE GLOW ILLUMINATING the chamber had no discernible source, but that mystery was not Kiemba’s major concern. Disbelief replaced the joy that had lit her features as she stared at the figure that sat on a raised dais of granite.
It was a man ... a tall man of spare physique and serene countenance. His body was draped in a single length of unembroidered cloth. He wore not ornaments. Across his lap, a long, tapering staff rested in long-fingered hands. Despite the simplicity of his garb, the figure exuded an impression of peace and power harmoniously combined ... for all that it was a figure carved from
