Niani, January, 1324, Morning
Today is the day that my thoughts are committed not only to memory, but to paper as well--in fear that I may not come to see the end of this hajj.
This journey, this lavish caravan of gold, may be the death of me. But if I am to leave this world, I shall do it dedicated to my duties as a griot.
I was walking across this worn, dusty path, conversing with Kankou, while we both headed to meet with everyone else of the hajj.
"No," I told her, reflecting on the idea if I were to mine gold, "I believe that as soon as I was to climb into the hole, I would fall to the very bottom. No other way would that ha--" I felt my toe jam itself into a stone lodged into the earth. I flung myself forwards to the ground, arms flailing, and made the abrasive impact. Kankou laughed, throwing her head back. And as I gathered the wit to stand again, I looked up. And there was this glow. It was long and narrow, just at the horizon--perhaps a bit under. My arms that were previously forced underneath me for support gave out as the sight, and I hit the ground again, stinging.
"There it is!" I yelled, gasping and scrambling to my feet. Kankou started at me, but not without afterwards staring at what I saw: the golden caravan of Kanka Musa's Hajj.
When we finally arrived, the first thing noticed was the shine. Gold was everywhere-- as nuggets in the hands of slaves, as dust on the backs of the hundred camels, and as jewelry on the forms of the Royal Family of Mali themselves. I had never seen them before, but they were regal and gilded, their vibrant, graphic clothes sewn with shimmering thread.
As I stared, I felt another sharp jostle. I turned to see Kankou replaced by a young boy--likely a slave, and no older than 12-- wrapped in stained and dusty rags. He looked up at me with a dilated expression that most resembled fear.
He stuttered "P-please forgive me, m-miss! I wasn't watching were I was going a--"
I cut him off, my tone level and kind, "Hey, buddy."
His face was so surprised that I think it would've been he who'd've fallen into the gold mine hole.
"I'm sorry," I told him. "I was just standing in the middle of the busy path--very much in the way. My fault. Not yours. I insist." There were looks of protest on the boy's face, but he didn't protest.
"Say, kid," I started, "What's your name?"
"Khalifa," he replied, a bit surprised that an adult would ask him such.
"Well, Khalifa," I told him, the both of us smiling, "Aren't you excited about smelling the camels for the next four months?"
This journey, this lavish caravan of gold, may be the death of me. But if I am to leave this world, I shall do it dedicated to my duties as a griot.
I was walking across this worn, dusty path, conversing with Kankou, while we both headed to meet with everyone else of the hajj.
"No," I told her, reflecting on the idea if I were to mine gold, "I believe that as soon as I was to climb into the hole, I would fall to the very bottom. No other way would that ha--" I felt my toe jam itself into a stone lodged into the earth. I flung myself forwards to the ground, arms flailing, and made the abrasive impact. Kankou laughed, throwing her head back. And as I gathered the wit to stand again, I looked up. And there was this glow. It was long and narrow, just at the horizon--perhaps a bit under. My arms that were previously forced underneath me for support gave out as the sight, and I hit the ground again, stinging.
"There it is!" I yelled, gasping and scrambling to my feet. Kankou started at me, but not without afterwards staring at what I saw: the golden caravan of Kanka Musa's Hajj.
When we finally arrived, the first thing noticed was the shine. Gold was everywhere-- as nuggets in the hands of slaves, as dust on the backs of the hundred camels, and as jewelry on the forms of the Royal Family of Mali themselves. I had never seen them before, but they were regal and gilded, their vibrant, graphic clothes sewn with shimmering thread.
As I stared, I felt another sharp jostle. I turned to see Kankou replaced by a young boy--likely a slave, and no older than 12-- wrapped in stained and dusty rags. He looked up at me with a dilated expression that most resembled fear.
He stuttered "P-please forgive me, m-miss! I wasn't watching were I was going a--"
I cut him off, my tone level and kind, "Hey, buddy."
His face was so surprised that I think it would've been he who'd've fallen into the gold mine hole.
"I'm sorry," I told him. "I was just standing in the middle of the busy path--very much in the way. My fault. Not yours. I insist." There were looks of protest on the boy's face, but he didn't protest.
"Say, kid," I started, "What's your name?"
"Khalifa," he replied, a bit surprised that an adult would ask him such.
"Well, Khalifa," I told him, the both of us smiling, "Aren't you excited about smelling the camels for the next four months?"