Sundiata, Lion King

Part One · The Child Who Could Not Walk

Draw near and open your ears, for I am a griot, and the entire memory of the Mandinka people has been entrusted to my keeping. My father preserved it before me, and his father before him, and through all those generations not a single syllable has been lost, although several goats have been. I charge a small fee for interruptions. I shall tell you of Sundiata, whom posterity named the Lion King of Mali. Long ago, in the dry country beside the great river Niger, there reigned a king named Naré Maghan, a man admired for his wisdom and his impartial justice. A hunter had once prophesied that a woman of extraordinary ugliness would bear the king a son whose reputation would eventually surpass that of every sovereign in the region, so the king married Sogolon, the hunter's sister, despite the objections of his courtiers, and she gave birth to a son whom the people called Mari Djata, a name that time shortened to Sundiata.

But the child did not develop as other children develop. At the age when his companions were racing through the courtyards and climbing the enormous baobab trees, Sundiata remained on the mat where his mother had placed him, unable to stand. At seven years old he could not walk, and at eight his legs still refused every encouragement. The neighbors whispered constantly, and the king's senior wife, Sassouma Bérété, whose own son Dankaran Touman was perfectly healthy, took considerable pleasure in each unkind rumor. She ridiculed Sogolon publicly and described the boy as a permanent humiliation to the royal household. Sogolon wept in private, yet she never abandoned her conviction that the prophecy would be fulfilled. Sundiata himself was thoughtful and observant, and while he listened to the drums and absorbed the ancient histories recited by the court griot, Balla Fasséké, he understood considerably more than anyone imagined.

When Naré Maghan grew old and recognized that his final illness had arrived, he summoned his griot and placed a trembling hand upon Sundiata's forehead. He declared that the throne should belong to this particular child, whatever the councillors might argue afterward. Nevertheless, the promise died with the king, because Sassouma Bérété possessed far greater influence among the elders than any grieving widow could hope to command. She arranged for her own son to be crowned, and she made it unmistakably clear that Sogolon and her disabled child were no longer welcome in the palace. They were assigned a small and neglected corner of the compound, and the servants offered them food only after everyone else had eaten. Sogolon endured this humiliation with remarkable dignity, although her heart grew heavier each year, and every evening she repeated the hunter's prediction to her son, who gazed toward the doorway with an expression she could not interpret.

Then arrived the day about which all of Mali still speaks. Sogolon had asked a neighbor for a few baobab leaves to season the evening meal, and the woman, who had always resented her, replied contemptuously that anyone whose son could not stand had no business requesting favors. Sogolon returned home in tears. Hearing her sobs, Sundiata inquired gently what had happened, and when his mother explained, he answered calmly, Mother, do not grieve, for today I will walk, and I will bring you the leaves myself. He instructed the blacksmiths to forge an iron rod as thick as a man's arm, and they labored throughout the morning until the enormous bar was finally driven into the earth in front of him. The entire village assembled to observe, and as Sundiata seized the metal with both hands, the iron began to bend beneath his extraordinary strength like a green branch in a storm.

Slowly, with the muscles of his shoulders quivering from the effort, he pulled himself upward, and his legs, which had never supported him before, gradually straightened beneath his weight. The rod curved into the shape of a hunter's bow, and the boy who had never walked stood magnificent before the astonished crowd. Balla Fasséké improvised a celebratory song on the spot, and the people insist that it is still sung today. Sundiata took a single step and then another. Then he walked directly to the nearest baobab, tore the entire tree from the ground with its roots, and placed it at his mother's feet, declaring, There are your leaves. Sogolon wept once more, but these were tears of overwhelming happiness. The neighbor fell completely silent, and the gossip that had circulated through the palace for years ended that same afternoon, as though it had never existed.

Part Two · The Years Away

But the miracle brought no tranquility. A young man capable of uprooting a tree was a young man whom a frightened half-brother could not comfortably ignore, and Sassouma Bérété, who had been hoping that the boy would stay on his mat forever, now began to grind her teeth so loudly that the servants could hear it from the kitchen. While Sundiata matured into a powerful hunter, admired by his contemporaries and respected by the village elders, the queen mother began devising conspiracies against him. Sogolon, who valued her son's safety far above any throne, understood that the palace had become dangerous. She gathered her children, Sundiata, his sisters, and his younger brother, and together with the faithful griot Balla Fasséké, she departed from the capital of Niani in the silence before dawn. It was a bitter departure, because this was the homeland of his ancestors, but a person who remains in the place where he is hunted can never become what he was destined to be.

For many years the travelers wandered between unfamiliar kingdoms, receiving hospitality in some towns and hostility at the gates of others. In the prosperous city of Mema, the ruler recognized in the young man an exceptional quality that could never be taught. He treated Sundiata almost as a son. There Sundiata studied the principles of military organization, learning how armies are arranged, how horses are trained, and how a commander must speak so that thousands of anxious men will listen. His reputation steadily increased until he was given command of the royal cavalry, and the soldiers who served beneath him discussed his generosity as frequently as they discussed his courage. Yet no foreign comfort could make him forget his homeland. Late at night he often climbed to the roof of his residence and gazed eastward toward the river country, and Balla Fasséké, who understood the heavy responsibility of memory, would sit beside him in complete silence.

Meanwhile, alarming reports traveled across the savanna. In the mountain fortress of Sosso, far to the north, there ruled a sorcerer-king named Sumanguru Kanté, whose power was dreaded in every village between the desert and the forest. People whispered that his cloak was embroidered with enchantments, that no ordinary weapon could injure him, and that he kept a chamber of owls who reported to him every night everything that anyone had said about him, which is why nobody ever said anything. Sumanguru had invaded the small kingdoms of the Mandinka and compelled each of them to deliver tribute, and Dankaran Touman, who had desired the crown so intensely, discovered that he was incapable of defending his own capital. He fled in terror, abandoning his throne, his servants, and, according to the griots, one of his shoes, and Niani was occupied by foreign soldiers who marched through its gates in lines as straight as spears.

Under the occupation a dreadful silence settled over the markets of Niani, where the merchants no longer haggled and the children no longer shouted. At night the sorcerer's laughter drifted down from the mountain like smoke, and mothers pulled their shutters closed and whispered to their sleeping babies to be quiet, and the owls watched from every rooftop with their round unblinking eyes, turning their heads to follow anyone who walked past. The elders of the Mandinka assembled secretly, in a cellar with the lamps put out, to consider their options, and eventually they reached a unanimous decision. They would search for the exiled son of Naré Maghan, the boy who had once bent iron with his bare hands, and they would implore him to return, though nobody could say whether he was still alive, or whether the owls had been listening to that suggestion too. The youngest elder fainted, just a little, and was fanned with a basket lid.

Part Three · The Lion Returns

Messengers traveled across the continent, and after an exhausting search they discovered Sundiata in Mema, where they knelt before him and described the suffering of his people. They reminded him that he was the legitimate heir. They promised that the entire population would rise at his command. Sundiata listened, then remained thoughtfully silent for some time, because it is no trivial matter to carry the expectations of a whole nation. Finally he responded, saying that he had been a stranger in many countries and that each one had taught him something valuable, but that a person ultimately belongs to the place that remembers him. He promised to return. The king of Mema gave his blessing and provided a formidable cavalry, and other rulers, hearing of the young commander's reputation, contributed warriors of their own. By the time Sundiata crossed the border into Mandinka territory, an enormous army of volunteers was marching behind him.

On the broad plain of Kirina the two armies finally confronted each other. Sumanguru's warriors stood in disciplined ranks beneath their banners, confident that their king's sorcery would determine the outcome, and the sorcerer himself rode forward in his enchanted cloak, laughing, with an owl on each shoulder. The battle was long and tumultuous, and I will not describe all its details, because the griots remember the courage of that day far more vividly than its sorrow. Every arrow aimed at Sumanguru turned aside in the air, as though the wind itself were afraid of him. But Balla Fasséké had discovered the secret of the sorcerer's vulnerability, and at the decisive moment Sundiata drew his bow, and the arrow, tipped with the spur of a white rooster, barely grazed the great king's shoulder. Somewhere in the ranks a rooster crowed. The enchantments instantly lost their strength, the owls shrieked and flew away, and the sorcerer's overwhelming confidence abandoned him completely.

Sumanguru turned away from the battlefield and galloped toward the mountains, and his army, observing their king's departure, immediately lost every desire to continue fighting. The people say that he disappeared into a cave and was never again seen upon the plains. The noise of the conflict gradually faded, and in its place arose a different sound, the exuberant singing of the Mandinka, who finally understood that they were free. Sundiata did not boast, nor did he permit his soldiers to seek revenge against those who had surrendered. Instead he walked among the abandoned banners and conversed quietly with the captured commanders, and many of them, deeply impressed by his compassion, pledged their loyalty to him voluntarily. A ruler who is feared may win a single battle, but a ruler who is trusted can construct something permanent, and Sundiata, who had learned this during his long years of wandering, began applying the lesson that very evening.

Soon afterward, the chiefs and kings of the Mandinka lands convened a magnificent assembly and proclaimed Sundiata their mansa, which means emperor. Twelve separate kingdoms acknowledged his authority. He united them into a single realm, which we now call the Empire of Mali. He rebuilt Niani into a thriving city of markets and scholars. He administered the empire so carefully that travelers claimed no road within its borders was dangerous. He distributed the responsibilities of society among the clans, so that farmers, blacksmiths, fishermen, and griots each possessed an honorable occupation. At the great gathering known as the Kouroukan Fouga, he proclaimed principles that protected human life, prohibited the cruel treatment of captives, and guaranteed every citizen the freedom to speak. Many of those declarations are remembered even now, and the griots of Mali continue to recite them at ceremonies, celebrations, and the naming of children.

Sogolon lived long enough to witness her son's coronation, and the neighbor who had once refused her a handful of leaves came forward humbly to request forgiveness. She granted it freely, because the buffalo woman had never possessed a small heart. Under Sundiata and the kings who followed him, Mali became one of the wealthiest empires in the world, celebrated for its gold and its universities, and merchants discussed it in countries that Sundiata had never visited. When the Lion King finally died, his people mourned him through an entire season, but they did not say that he had vanished, for he had bequeathed to them a nation and a story. That is the reason I, a griot, am seated before you tonight. The throne is empty now, and the iron bar has long since rusted, but the story survives, and you are its guardians. Remember it faithfully, and tell it onward.