Indeed, of all the people of besieged Kotoko, only Kiemba had believed in the songs of the griots – songs that hinted cryptically of a cave hidden in the rocky foothills that led to the Gwaridi Milima Mountains. No one had paid much heed to Kiemba’s interpretation of the griots’ songs. She had seen the passing of only sixteen rains, and she had only recently undergone the shakati rite of passage, which allowed her to wear her hair in the beaded braids of womanhood. Her father, Otunji, did not listen to her. Neither did her lover, whose name was Musonkino. Both were preoccupied with the battle against the invaders.
But Kiemba’s belief in the legend of Sundiata was strong. Three nights past, she had slipped from her father’s house and out of the besieged city, confident that she could follow the griot’s directions to the fabled Cavern of Sundiata. But in the hills, she had fallen captive to a band of Sao scout-troops. After discovering that she knew nothing of the military plans for Kotoko, the troops had raped her, brutally and repeatedly. She had ended up with the scouts’ leader, who insisted upon being both the first and last Sao man to have her.
Sleep finally claimed the soldier, but not Kiemba, who slew the Sao with his own dagger. Revolted by her deed, she dropped the weapon – but retained sufficient presence of mind to escape undetected from the encampment. The scouts had discovered the corpse of their leader, and pursued Kiemba to the cavern.
At the conclusion of Kiemba’s tale, Sundiata stared impassively at the ashes of the Sao.
“The Staff of Nyankuma slew them too swiftly,” he murmured.
“Time grows short, O Sundiata,” Kiemba said, urgency underlining her words. “The Sao have surrounded our city, and Oshahar demands that we either surrender or face destruction. The Amir, our king, defies him. But Oshahar will surely overwhelm us, for neither sword nor spell can affect him. More and more of our people oppose the Amir’s stand against Oshahar.”
“We must go to Kotoko at once,” Sundiata declared.
“But we are three days’ journey from the city!” Kiemba exclaimed.
“Distance means nothing to the Staff of Nyankuma,” he said. “Come. Grip the staff with both hands. Do not fear it.”
Kiemba reached out and gripped the staff, her hands touching those of the God-who-was-a-man. A vibration tingled through her fingers, and she could feel the outlines of strange carvings pressing against her palms.
Sundiata spoke words from a language Kiemba couldn’t understand. Then the cavern disappeared.
UNDER THE BEST OF CIRCUMSTANCES, the sudden appearance of a strangely garbed man and a half-naked young woman in the middle of Kotoko would have disconcerted the inhabitants of the city. To materialize thusly at night in a city under siege would have been suicidal for anyone – save for Sundiata. Musonkino, lover of Kiemba, was the leader of the night-watch. He stood within two feet of the spot where the two figures appeared, seemingly from nowhere.
Musonkino’s first reaction was to assume that Kiemba and Sundiata were ghosts summoned by Oshahar. Swords drawn, Musonkino and his fellow soldiers advanced on the intruders. Then Musonkino recognized Kiemba. Considering her tattered condition and the strangeness of Sundiata, the words that came from Musonkino’s mouth were not surprising.
“Take you hands off her, you – ” the young soldier snarled as he reached to drag Kiemba away from the man he considered to be her captor. Neither his sentence nor his motion was completed.
Sundiata touched Musonkino gently with the tip of his staff. The soldier fell as though struck by a giant. He sat up, shaking his head in confusion. The rest of the night-watch stopped short, weapons raised.
Kiemba disengaged herself from Sundiata and rushed to the side of Musonkino. She cradled his head in her arms, and stared up at the other soldiers.
“Oh, you fools!” she cried, scorn lacing her words. “Do you not recognize Sundiata, the God-who-is-a-man? The only one who can stand against Oshahar? And you dare to raise your weapons against him!”
There was a compelling glint in Kiemba’s eyes as she faced the armored soldiers. Then the stresses of the past few days overwhelmed her, and she slid into a state of exhausted semi-consciousness.
Sundiata spoke for the first time then, his voice quiet, yet carrying an undertone of authority.
“It is true,” he said. “I am Sundiata. Because Kiemba believed in me, I live again. I must speak with your Amir at once. Please take me to him, and see that Kiemba is treated well. She has endured much for the sake of Kotoko.”
Incredulity was written deeply on the faces of the soldiers. Yet as they gazed at the faintly glowing Staff of Nyankuma, they were compelled to believe that this was, indeed, Sundiata, who had passed into myth before the grandparents of their grandparents were born. They hastened to carry out Sundiata’s wishes.
Thus, Sundiata was escorted to the gold-spired palace of the Amir, while Musonkino himself carried Kiemba to the house of her father. While the God-who-was-a-man conferred with the bemused Amir, Kiemba thrashed and moaned in distress on a sweat-soaked bed. Otunji and Musonkino kept vigil at her side, along with her mother, Sahia.
The herb-woman they had summoned had long since completed their ministrations. Yet Kiemba continued to cry out in delirium. When she spoke of her rape by the Sao scouts, it took the combined efforts of Otunji and Sahia to prevent Musonkino from rushing out to confront Oshahar’s army single-handed.
Later, when Kiemba spoke of Sundiata, Musonkino did depart the house of the drum-maker. For when Kiemba blurted disjointed words about how Sundiata had come to live, and wreaked vengeance upon the Sao, her trembling and tears ceased. A smile spread across her face, and she spoke in a way Musonkino had always thought was meant only for him, not Sundiata.
Musonkino walked Kotoko’s streets like a man bearing a difficult burden. If Kiemba truly loved Sundiata, how could
