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- an early memory. you're curled up on the floor, face half-pressed into the raffia mat, one eye open so you can watch him sleep. you can’t be any older than eight, but he’s still small enough to fit comfortably in the hollow made by your stomach and indrawn knees, impossibly tiny hands tucked into fists underneath his chin. the courtyard is bathed in a haze of red-gold light, compound walls and far-off baobabs silhouetted black against the sinking sun. a little before suppertime, maybe– yes, you can smell the familiar aroma of cooking jollof and meat on the breeze. you can’t remember why they’re letting you watch over him instead of joining the meal, but even at this age you know enough to be grateful for it. he is your mother’s second child, your first badenya. that means he will be different from your older siblings, the ones from the other wives that jeer at your mother and rip up your nice bazins and leave bruises on your arms. he is strange and loud and annoying but he is yours, yours in a way no else will ever be. doomakewo, sologon-jara, son-jara, you whisper to him. my little brother, my mother’s lion. mine. you tap your nose to his, breathing in the faint scent of shea butter and herb oil. the last rays of the sun are illuminating you both, now. when you squint just so, the light blazes around his head like a crown.
- powerless as he may seem, son-jara is still a threat to your father’s other wives. the prophesied king, the son destined to eclipse all of theirs in glory. something to be neutralized. you were ten when they drove the three of you away from the compound in the middle of the night, backed by several muscular guards. one of them had been kind enough to carry son-jara, gently cradling the toddler’s immobile legs while the rest of him howled and raged. you remember sleepily trudging behind him, yawning and toying with the bangles that coated your arms. it must have been the first time you saw the du fitini, that ridiculous little hut located an almost comical distance away from the compound. no access to the riches or slaves you had been accustomed to since birth. no purchase into the gwabougu houses or granaries where all the food was kept. no aid, no protection. you fell asleep that night to the sound of son-jara crying, and awoke later to find your arms bare and your mother gone. twelve matching bracelets of amber and gold in exchange for one cow, she told you later. not a good deal, but the only one I can make right now. kebaa siitoo ka meŋ je, diŋo lootoo buka woo je. don't make a fuss over it, diŋo. we will need this to survive.
- the years pass, a weary blur of labor and begging. you quickly learn how to swallow your rage. other skills follow– how to haggle, how to forage for wild kandia and bǎn, how to re-thatch a roof after the rainy season, how to birth a calf. and, most importantly, how to take care of your brother. at fifteen, you start filling out in all the places they say a woman should; hips, belly, breasts. this is accompanied by a newfound aptitude for dalilu– magic-using. but it’s different from your mother’s buffalo spirit or the prophetic fetishes wielded by that pesky sorcerer king. your nyama is really only good at completing soft, palatable tasks– speeding up chores, healing minor injuries, making crops grow well. you thank allah that it isn’t worth keeping as a secret. even so, when people talk about you, it is in hushed tones. that daughter of sologon and maghan kon fatta. my, she’s grown. lucky thing she takes after her father… yiroo simee baa kono naa-o-naa ate kela bamboo ti, right. wouldn’t she make a fine wife? shame no man would ever take her– royalty or no, who wants to be stuck living with that family? you pretend not to hear them, of course. it has taken you years to present a normal front, to maintain good business relationships with the professional caste despite the ongoing campaign against your family. the hardest skill to learn is how to smile beatifically and stare at the ground, gritting your teeth all the while.
- your mother was never quite the same after carrying son-jara– the pregnancy was long and hard, the birth even worse. she is a shell of the powerful beast that you hear about in the tales, the buffalo woman’s wraith who could terrorize entire kingdoms. you love her, and hate that you are embarrassed by what she is: a shambling, stuttering hunchback, growing weaker and weaker by the day. your brother is no more endearing; completely devoid of the talent or sparkling personality that might make up for his disability. your cousins and half-siblings sometimes walk all the way over to the du fitini and poke him with sticks until he moves, just to snicker and point at the way he crawls elbow over elbow in the dirt. their griots come, too, noisy men always laden with instruments and alcohol. faloo buka sawuŋ a diŋo ye ŋunuma, they mutter. not good for that boy to have only a sister and mother for company, he’s going to grow up a woman. you try to make sure the worst of their words never reach him, but you know it’s ultimately futile. when he thinks you aren’t watching, an angry, cold look will come over his face. a promise of vengeance, a threat to one day be carried out. you try not to think about that.
- you weren’t there for the moment when everything changed, but you can imagine most of it. sassouma bereté, first of the other wives and leader of the cause against your mother, standing in your doorway with one hand resting on the shoulder of her son and the other filled with baobab leaves. knowing her, she is likely dripping with high-quality gold and clad in the most richly-dyed bazin possible, cut tightly to show off her figure. you have witnessed scenes like this play out before, so you know that your mother probably shuffled backwards, glowering and vulnerable. that the muscles in your brother’s arms– large and well-defined, now– tightened in frustration and barely-contained rage. you can even imagine the taunts themselves, down to the satisfied smirk that sassouma bereté wore once she was finished. the silence that hung between everyone in the room, thick and hateful. but then son-jara stood up.
- this is always where your imagination fails you.
- you come home that day to find the roof of your house cracked open like an egg, an uprooted baobab protruding from it at a jaunty angle. you drop everything and run, then, mind conjuring the worst possible scenarios– only to be joyously greeted at the front by a man you barely recognize. son-jara. standing. walking. he’s so uncharacteristically ecstatic that it takes him many tries to properly explain what happened: and then I said, ‘well, mother, everyone will have to come here to pick baobab leaves now.’ isn’t that a great line? you should have seen the look on her face. bismallah, kotomuso– next time I do something that cool we have to make sure you’re there! talking about it just isn’t the same. he grins, then shimmies a bit. aghhh, I’m antsy now. all that sitting around. I feel like I could fight a lion! fifty lions! with that alarming proclamation, he drops the iron rod he has been leaning on and stretches out to his full height, fingertips to the sky. it is then you realize, in your state of dazed shock, just how tall he is. your first badenya. your mother’s son. her lion… oh, little brother, your voice breaks. what will we do now?
- and suddenly your brother’s name is on everyone’s tongue, the only thing people can seem to talk about. griots and ambitious young women and power-hungry men flock to him, drawn in by the dazzling way he combines your father’s smile and your mother’s strength. he is not beautiful, not like you– but that unwavering self-assuredness and those inhumanly muscular arms make him popular all the same. sunjata, his people cry, or sundieta, or manding diara, naareng makhang konnate. he has so many names now, even more than you, more than you can count, and titles that seem to grow longer every time he leaves the house. you try not to mourn that he is not son-jara any longer, not the little boy who sat at your feet and sang as you pounded the millet into naara. he is a man now, you have to remind yourself, and a high-achieving one at that– a hunter who regularly goes into the bush and comes out beaming, bògòlanfini stained red with blood. you try not to resent how quickly he leaves you and sologon behind in the mad dash to reclaim his boyhood, to keep a level head as he draws more and more violent attention to himself. sometimes you have to physically restrain him from fights, pulling from reserves of nyama so deep that you can barely move for days. you wonder if it’s selfish not to be happy, now that sologon is content and sunjata can walk. you wonder if anyone can hear you when you cry in the dark, asking yourself why everything still is not enough.
- you meet your husband at the height of the dry season, on a day so hot and still that even the sky’s blue feels stifling. for months now, you have been running yourself ragged in an ongoing attempt to clean up sunjata’s messes. you’re tired, sweaty, and bored. when a slight figure on the horizon beckons, you’re not sure why you decide to follow. it’s not magical coercion, you would have sensed that. definitely not curiosity. sunjata has already fallen for a couple of the sorcerer’s traps, and you don’t plan on springing another. maybe it’s simply the power that does it– that heady swirl of energy that you will come to learn always surrounds them, that stimulus you can never seem to resist. looking back, you will not even be able to recall which face they were wearing that day– only their smile, a soft, predatory gleam like nothing you’d ever seen before. not a man’s smile, not even a human’s smile. it sent chills down to pit of your stomach, but for whatever reason, you didn’t want to leave. the memory blurs at that point. you remember their laugh, though, genuine and arcing and sonorous. the outline of their fingers as they point to where they live, explaining that its name means ‘kingly hill’ in a language you don’t speak. when they lean into your ear and whisper that you are the most radiant woman in all of susu and manding, you realize that they actually mean it. the compliment excites and terrifies you in equal measure, and it is then that they propose the deal. lessons in controlling nyama in exchange for a couple nights a week spent at the kingly hill. your body for the chance to claim the power that is your birthright. doomaŋ doomaŋ le ka noowulu. it’s so patently in your favor, you want to laugh– two things that you desire, for the price of one. they’re looking at you expectantly. patiently. you can refuse, you realize, and they will respect it. you consider saying no… but then they smile again, that gorgeous crescent smile– and you already know your answer.
- their voice is rich and low when they ask you to marry them, their face slick with sweat. you’re lying on your side atop a pile of silks they stole from traders in the sahel, staring at the familiar brace of their elbow as they peer down at you. waiting, once again, for an answer. you can feel a headache coming on, and close your eyes briefly in a vain attempt to ward it off. they should recognize that you’re in no mood for this. it was, what– less than an hour ago? that you came to their house, crying and pleading. sologon has recently died in her sleep, and the sorcerer king has declared war on manding. you need their help. I have nothing left except him, you had wailed. I’m not strong enough to protect him on my own, not anymore. please, please, if I have ever meant anything to you at all– they had cut you off with a kiss, then. whispered a soothing yes against your lips and licked the tears off of your face. you should have known they would ask for something in return. this is just how your relationship works— another proposition, another transaction. you wonder if this is the only way they know how to offer love. you wonder what it says about you, that this is the only way it could possibly be accepted.
- you are standing in your brother’s courtyard, face to face with the premier dignitaries of manden, naked as a bush animal and trembling with rage. one of your half siblings– what’s his name, bori? stands behind you, the remainder of your dampé in his hands. he, like everyone else, is studiously focusing his gaze at the floor. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so so sorry, he manages to garble out, I didn’t mean to grab your clothes I just wanted to talk about the enchanted meat I would never– sunjata is only a couple feet away, clearly trying to stifle a laugh, and just for a moment you despise everything about the man that he has become. you are mortified to realize that your vision is blurring with tears. you are a married woman, even if you have no children to show for it. mistake or not, you shouldn’t be treated this way. they wouldn’t have treated your mother like this. you had actually been excited to help prepare a meal for the ambassadors. you thought nothing of playing a little practical joke on your brother, using dalilu to remove the organs from his and bori’s game without leaving a trace. but then bori charged in while you were welcoming the guests, demanding an explanation. and then he grabbed your arm… he is petrified with fear, now, wringing the cotton material of the dampé so hard it nearly rips. you step close to him, dig your fingers into his bicep and watch him wince, before pouring all your anger into nyama. you hiss the curse into his ear. hear me, fadenya: for as long as there is rule in the lands of manding and soso, your children will not be part of it. your cows will fall sick, your fields will rot, your wives will turn against you. your household will fall into disrepute. your descendants shall never know what it is to be king. this is how I curse you, fadenya. remember it.
- sunjata is collapsed on the floor, an unfamiliar expression of fear gripping his face. your husband is lying on your bed and laughing so hard that tears are streaming down their cheeks. ah, my beautiful wife, they wipe their eyes, my favorite witch. how you have shamed me! the other spirits told me not to pursue an insignificant human, but they failed to warn of your duplicity… am I really worth less than a xylophone to you? all my aid to your brother, and this is how he repays me? so excessively dramatic. you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes. they were never in any actual danger– sunjata’s assassination plot was as idiotic as it was spur-of-the-moment. you step gingerly over the spear fragments that litter the ground to help your brother up. he is still unsteady, reflexively clutching at the grisgris hanging from his neck as if it could be any use against the wrath of a spirit king. your husband’s eyes flick to him, sneering with genuine displeasure. and you. stupid little lion boy. do you really think anything goes on in my house that I don’t know about? that I wouldn’t sense you hiding under my bed, weapons at the ready? I help you out of kindness, because you are sumolu, and you betray me for an instrument? sio le ka jutoo wuluu, I suppose. take it and leave. sunjata gathers the xylophone in his arms and shakily walks to the door, confident smile already restored. wait! you cry, unable to stop yourself. sunjata, wait. you look at the destruction surrounding him, the dead bodies at his feet. was it– was it worth it? he stops and turns to face you, eyes burning bright. I got what I wanted, didn’t I, kotomuso? I always get what I want.
- and then it’s just you and your husband, sitting side by side on a bed filled with splinters. I don’t know why you keep protecting that man, they grumble. by way of apology, you link your arms around their neck. rest your chin upon their shoulder. he’s my brother, you hear yourself say. he is mine to protect.
- so that’s the way it’s going to be. for all your talent and connections, in the end it is nothing more than the promise of your body that will win this war. you stroll up to the sorcerer’s gates wearing your nicest bazin, and stand there until he calls for the guards to let you in. susu sumanguru baamagana, your brother’s nemesis. the threat that has loomed over your family for as long as you can remember. so powerful and wily as to be resistant to magic and force, but apparently not strong enough to resist his appetite for a beautiful woman. you are struck by just how normal he seems– a short, scrawny man, with a nervous habit of flicking his eyes about and a high, reedy laugh. you force yourself to laugh at his jokes, pretend to gulp down the drugged palm wine he pours. your gaze is heavy-lidded when you tilt your head and ask, innocently, if the rumors are true. if he’s really immortal. no? what do you protect yourself with, then? please, please, I promise this isn’t boring me. no, really, go on. I find you fascinating… it’s almost sad, how quickly he falls for it. when you walk to the bathroom, pretending to drunkenly stumble and slurring promises of a quick return, he does nothing more than smile as he watches you go.
-
“…Nene Faamaga leapt over the town wall and off she went.
She found Sunjata at Bala Faasigi Kuyate’s house…
…She said, ‘Sunjata,
My younger brother,
You can have a little mother,
You can have a little father,
But you cannot have a little elder sister.
I am your older sister, my brother.”
Thus concludes the tale of Nene Faamaga, or Kolokan, or Nana, the woman of countless other names and sister to Sunjata the Lion King, as told by Bia the undergrad in the year 2024 CE, with one exert from Banna Kanute’s Sunjata as published in 1974 CE.
Long may she shine.