And so, the idea of Griots was born. Between the covers of this book are 14 writers sharing their stories of sword and soul, each spinning a tale that helps define the genre and expand its boundaries. Accompanying them are 14 artists giving tangible interpretations of these stories. Their visions are not presented to limit those of the reader but to provide a foundation from which to expand.
Jeli. Jali. Gasere. Griot. Just as there are many words to describe the legendary African storytellers/historians, we present to you a wide range of voices and images to describe this emerging genre. The storytellers are gathered under the meeting tree. Let their voices stir your soul.
Mrembo Aliyenaswa
By
Milton J. Davis
Eager spectators crowded the bulwark of the Sada, packing the merchant dhow from stern to bow. Those that couldn’t find room on the deck hung from mast ropes and sat on the bulwark. Their eyes focused on two bare-chested men circling each other, their brown skin glistening with sweat. The taller man lumbered from side to side, his huge arms swaying as he tried to keep pace with his shorter opponent. He possessed a wide chest and a wider stomach sitting on legs that resembled thick tree trunks. His short-curled hair atop his head contrasted with the voluminous beard grazing his chest with each frustrating turn of his head.
The other man moved with martial grace, his body a chiseled muscular form. His smooth face and bald head told of his youth, but his deep brown eyes revealed experience beyond his years. He observed his opponent with the skill of a man used to such encounters, a man whose battles in his past usually ended in death. Luckily for the big man, this was not such an encounter.
“Stand still, Changa!” the big man bellowed. “How do you expect me to give you a hug if you keep flittering like a moth?”
The spectators laughed and Changa grinned. “I’m no fool, Yusef. Those arms were meant to hug tembos, not men, and certainly not women.”
Yusef lunged at Changa. Changa dodged to his left, slapping Yusef across the forehead with an open right hand. The big man stopped just short of plowing into the crowd of terrified bahari.
“Damn you, kibwana!” Yusef yelled. “Stand still! From Mogadishu to Mombasa they call you Mbogo, The Bull. All I see is a skittish calf.”
Changa laughed at the insult. He planted his feet, resting his hands at his waist.
“Come then. Let’s see if your clumsy hands can crush this little calf.”
The two inched towards each other, their arms extended. Their fingers touched then intertwined as they began a test of strength as old as time.
“Hah!” Yusef shouted. He immediately pressed down on Changa, tightening his great hands around Changa’s. A normal man would have crumbled under the massive man’s weight; a strong man would have buckled in seconds. Changa stood still, the only indication of exertion the rippling muscles under his taunt black skin. Yusef pressed harder and Changa remained unmoved. The giant lost his humor; he clenched his teeth and pressed harder, his arms shaking with effort. Changa remained unmoved. Every man on the dhow fell silent to the amazing test of strength playing out before them. None doubted Changa’s strength, but this display went far beyond their imagining.
While Yusef and the others interpreted Changa’s silence as an unbelievable show of poise, the opposite was true. Changa concentrated with every pound of his muscle, fighting back Yusef’s onslaught. He was lapping at the brink of his endurance, waiting the right moment. He looked into his opponent’s face and determined the time was right.
Changa collapsed. A triumphant grin emerged through Yusef’s beard until he realized Changa wasn’t falling; he was rolling. He was too committed to pull back. Pain shot from his belly to his back as Changa drove his feet into Yusef. The big man was airborne, Changa’s face replaced by sails, seagulls and sky. His brief flight ended amidst a crowd of hands, feet, bodies and groans as he crashed among the unfortunate baharia on the deck.
“Mbogo!” the uninjured spectators cheered. Changa rolled to his feet then sauntered to Yusef and the pile of hapless victims beneath him.
“You were right,” Changa said as he massaged his sore arms and shoulders “You are stronger than me.”
“Are you done playing, Changa?” Kasim, the dhow captain walked between the two. The Sada sailors scurried to their chores at the sight of their captain, the others dispersing to their duties at the docks.
Changa looked down at Yusef, extending his hand. “Are we done?”
Yusef took Changa’s hand and Changa pulled him up to a sitting position.
“Yes, we are done...Mbogo,” he conceded, a defeated tone in his voice.
Kasim nodded. “Good. Belay wants to see you right away.”
Changa’s mood shifted from victorious to serious. He hurried below and washed himself, donned his cotton shirt and proceeded to the warehouse containing Belay’s office. The merchant sat hunched over his desk as always, studying his counting books.
“Bwana, you sent for me?” Changa asked.
Belay looked up, greeting Changa with a broad grin.
“Yes, Changa. Please, sit down.”
Belay leaned back in his chair and massaged his forehead.
“I don’t understand why Allah punishes me. I pray, I am a fair and honest man and I give alms to the poor. Instead of blessing me he brings me troubles.”
“It is never more than you can handle,” Changa said.
“So you say,” Belay sighed. “Do you know Mustafa the goat herder?”
“Barely.”
“I’m sure you know of his daughter, Yasmine.”
Changa answered with a smile. In a city known for its beautiful women Yasmine stood out like a diamond among gems. Not a single man in Mombasa, Changa included, would hesitate to accumulate a generous lobola
