The evening the King of Songhay was reported dead, the royal griot donned his oldest tunic, faded with repeat washes and fraying at the hem, he threw handfuls of fire ash over his head and rubbed his blackened fingers over his forehead and cheeks. He discarded his slippers and hefted his kora then walked barefoot from his dwelling in the royal compound to the largest of the palace’s 35 courtyards, the one used for the most significant events and gatherings.
The courtyard was bustling with people. Regional leaders lamented the king’s passing loudly, their curated grief swelled by the noise from their enthusiastic entourages. Local officials nervous about their positions kneeled on the scattered straw mats. Official mourners circled the courtyard united in a keeningwail they punctuated with groans of pain. A ring of dutiful attendants surrounded the King’s many children and the multi hued queens who’d birthed them. The servants fanned and mopped and patted the women and offspring who lay on animal rugs.
Above the melee sat the King on an elevated platform. He nodded as his griot approached, eyeing the musician’s dishevelment with approval. When the lion of the Kingdom has passed, what right did his subjects have to look composed and collected?
The griot mounted the platform, sank onto the cushion beside the throne and immediately began plucking at the strings stretched along the long neck of his kora. The pads of his fingers swept along the aged wood gliding over grooves his father and father’s father had once touched. His finely tuned ears listened for the slightest variation and his callused fingers twisted the knobs to tighten or loosen a string until the plucked twinevibrated with the true note. He’d replaced the cow hide that covered the half gourd that swelled the bottom half of the instrument barely a moon before, as though he’d sensed that a critical event was imminent.
He hummed as his fingers worked, warming his throat, testing the air, warning the gathering. Obligingly the noise began to recede.
The first sound from his mouth was a high pitched, moan oflamentation. He pushed the cry out into the warm air, across the gathering of bodies, over the river Nile that flowed beside the palace, across the farmlands and out into the expanse of the kingdom.
The cry went in search of its owner, Sonni Ali, Ali Ber, Ali the Great; son of Ali Kohlen – 10th si of Gao – and of the Faru of Sokoto – a magic wielder. One-time prisoner of Mansa Musa. 15th ruler of the Sonni dynasty, first ruler of the Songhai empire. Warrior horseman, military genius, feared magician. Conqueror of Timbuktu, of Djenne, first leader to use naval forces on the river Niger.
The call went out to the King’s corpse, whether it lay in water, brush land or under unmarked earth. The call said: Rest well great leader.
Town of Al-Kawkaw, Gao – November 1492
One day I plan to undertake a full length project about the kings of the Songhai empire. Until then this series is my Songhai sandbox.
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