Griots: A Sword And Soul Athology

Griots

A Sword And Soul Anthology

Edited by

Milton J. Davis

And

Charles R. Saunders

MVmedia, LLC

Fayetteville, Georgia

Copyright © 2012 by MVmedia, LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

MVmedia, LlC

PO Box 1465

Fayetteville, GA 30215

www.mvmediaatl.com

––––––––

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout ©2017BookDesignTemplates.com

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the Special Sales Department at the address above.

MVmedia/Griots: A Sword and Soul Anthology

Contents

The Soul In the Sword By  Charles R. Saunders

A Gathering At The Meeting Tree By  Milton J. Davis

Mrembo Aliyenaswa By Milton J. Davis

Awakening  By  Valjeanne Jeffers

Lost Son By  Maurice Broaddus

In the Wake of Mist By Kirk A. Johnson

Skin Magic By Djeli A. Griot

The Demon in the Wall By  Stafford L. Battle

The Belly of the Crocodile By  Minister Faust

Changeling By  Carole McDonnell

The General’s Daughter By Anthony Nana Kwamu

Sekadi's Koan by Geoffrey Thorne

The Queen, the Demon, and the Mercenary By  Ronald T. Jones

Icewitch By  Rebecca McFarland Kyle

The Leopard Walks Alone By  Melvin Carter

The Three-Faced One By  Charles R. Saunders

Griots Bios

To The Ancestors

A man alone cannot push a dhow into the sea.

―Swahili Proverb

The Soul In the Sword

By

Charles R. Saunders

A horizon, not a box.  A frontier, not a niche.  A wide space, not a narrow one.  Those are some of the aspects of the branch of fantasy fiction that is coming to be known as sword-and-soul.  The term has only been in existence for a few years.  Full disclosure: I started the genre nearly forty years ago; and, much later, I coined its name.

I began writing for publication in an attempt to come up with a positive response to a problem I found troublesome.  At that time, I was in my mid-20s, coming of age with my fellow members of the much-maligned baby-boom generation.  A boom of another kind was going on then as well – or, more descriptively, a deluge of books either written by or derivative of Robert E. Howard, a pulp-magazine writer of the 1930s who had died during that decade.

Howard was the creator of the iconic character Conan of Cimmeria, and in the process he spawned a new kind of fantasy story, which was eventually dubbed sword-and-sorcery.  Howard’s tales of Conan and other stalwarts such as Kull of Atlantis provided a heady brew of magic and mayhem, horror and heroism, warfare and wizardry.  During his heyday, Howard’s readers couldn’t get enough of his output, which was prodigious.  Catching the wave, others began to write similar stories, with varying degrees of success.

When the pulp era ended after World War II, Howard’s work and the genre he founded slipped into obscurity.  It took a while for publishers of the paperback books that succeeded the pulps to pick up on the potential of sword-and-sorcery.  When they finally did, Howard’s work received more attention after his death than it ever had during his short lifetime (He committed suicide at the age of 30 in 1936).

Enhanced through irresistibly eye-catching cover paintings by the great artist Frank Frazetta, paperbacks that were either Conan or In the Tradition of Conan became ubiquitous in bookstores and newsstands. I was in my late teens and early 20s when this publishing phenomenon occurred, and I was hooked from the get-go.  I read all the sword-and-sorcery I could get my hands on.  And my visits to the authors’ imaginary worlds were enjoyable – for the most part.

That lesser part, however, grated like a stone in my shoe.  That stone was racism.

Robert E. Howard and his contemporaries were products of their time. Racism, in the form of white supremacy, was an integral part of the popular culture of the early decades of the twentieth century, and as such it pervaded pulp fiction.  As a product of a later time during which the tenets of racism came under vigorous challenge, my enjoyment of fiction from past decades was often compromised by the racial attitudes I encountered in my reading.  On some occasions, I simply let it slide.  On others, I wrestled with resentment.

Then I discovered a way to resolve my dilemma.

Interest in African history and culture surged during the 1960s, and at the same time I was reading sword-and-sorcery and fantasy fiction, I was also absorbing heretofore-unknown information about a continent that was not as dark as its detractors made it out to be.  And I realized that this non-stereotypical Africa of history and legend was just as valid a setting for fantasy stories as was the ancient and medieval Europe that served as the common default setting for everything from Conan to Lord of the Rings. 

A character came into my head then: Imaro, a black man who could stand alongside mythical warrior-heroes like Beowulf and Hercules, as well as fictional creations such as Conan and Kull.  Through determination of delusion – or perhaps both – I began to write stories about Imaro’s adventures in an alternate-Africa I called Nyumbani, from the Swahili word for home.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, my Imaro stories of the 1970s and novels of the 1980s were forming the foundation for sword-and-soul.

*   *   *

For a long time, I felt that I was alone in what I was doing ... kind of like a voice howling in the wilderness, only to hear Tarzan howl back.  A few other writers, such as Mary C. Aldridge and Robert D. San Souci, placed African-themed fantasy stories in the same small-press magazines that published my work.  But the audience for any of us seemed elusive.

Then, around the beginning of the 2000s, with the Imaro novels long since out of print, I discovered that I had more company than Id realized, such as Sheree Renee Thomas, editor of the Dark Matter anthologies; Amy Harlib, writer and interviewer; Carole McDonnell, author of Wind Follower; Brother Uraeus, creator of Jaycen Wise; Gregory Walker, author of the Memnon series; Mshindo Kuumba, artist extraordinaire, and many others.

As it turns out, more than a few people are writing African-based fantasy stories these days.  And more non-stereotypic black characters are appearing in stories set in non-black milieus.  The work of writers such as Joe Abercrombie (The First Law trilogy) and Paul Kearney (The Monarchies of God series) are examples of the latter trend.  And I feel damn good about that.

The contact I cherish above all others, though, is the one I made in 2007 with Milton J. Davis. That contact was the beginning of a friendship that has led to our joint editorship of this anthology. 

Milton is one of the most talented, creative, and energetic people I have ever known.  Without having read or heard of my Imaro stories, he developed his own alternate-Africa setting and wrote a pair of epic novels – Meji and Meji II – which tell the story of how the destiny of twin brothers separated at birth affects the fate of their continent, Uhuru. He has also written a novel about a merchant-warrior named Changa, who cuts a wide swath of derring-do on the East Coast of the Africa of our world during the time before European exploration and colonization.

Even through the middleman also known as the Internet, meeting Milton was like finding a previously unknown sibling – a sword-and-soul brother.  I’m proud to have worked with him to make Griots a reality.

So, what in – or out of – the world is this thing called sword-and-soul?

*   *   *

The term came about during a conversation I had with Brother Uraeus.  At one point, I said: Yes, I’m writing sword-and-sorcery fiction.  But considering the African-based setting, I ought to call it ‘sword, sorcery, and soul.’  That phrase seemed a bit awkward, though. 

Then it hit me.  Or maybe it should be called ‘sword-and-soul.’

Those three words sparked great enthusiasm in Uraeus, and I gave him permission to use it as the designator of his nascent publishing company, Sword & Soul Media.  Since then, Sword & Soul Media has published two of my Imaro novels, along with a volume featuring Dossouye, my Black Amazon.

Sword-and-soul is a broad term, not a confining one.  Essentially, it is fantasy fiction with an African connection in either the characters or the setting ... or both.  The setting can be the historical Africa of the world we know, or the Africa of an alternate world, dimension or universe.  But that’s not a restriction, because a sword-and-soul story can feature a black character in a non-black setting, or a non-black character in a black setting.  Caveat: Tarzan of the Apes need not apply.

A sword-and-soul story may also be set in a future in which science and magic have become interchangeable, or one in which modern technology has long since been lost.  Regardless of the setting, magic and heroism form the underpinnings of sword-and-soul.

Just as soul music can include everything from blues to hip hop, sword-and-soul encompasses everything from Imaro to ... well, go ahead and read the stories in this book and you’ll see.

A Gathering At The Meeting Tree

By

Milton J. Davis

There must be more. These four words drifted in and out of my thoughts as I typed the words of my first novel, Meji. Of course, I had no way of proving it. All my searching had turned up nothing. No matter how hard I looked, no one had ever written an African based sword and sorcery book.

But the scientist in me knew better. Ten years prior I’d submerged myself in African history, culture and mythology. Segu, the excellent historical fiction novel by Marse Conde sparked my imagination and my efforts. I had expected to find few books and sources but instead I was overwhelmed with information. Shifting through it all I realized I had discovered my passion and eagerly set about writing the type of stories I always wanted to read. This was when those four words first entered my head.

In 2005 I finally focused my efforts and began writing Meji. I pulled together my scattered notes and prose that had accumulated over twenty years, the four words still lingering in my head. Then it happened. I discovered a book titled Dark Matters. As I read the stories, I came across a story titled Gimmile’s Songs, a story about a female warrior woman named Dossouye penned by Charles R. Saunders. I immediately took to the internet, attempting to find out more about this writer. I came up with nothing. Years later as I worked on Meji I took to the internet on my periodic search and there he was. Nightshade Books had re-released Imaro and Charles R. Saunders was everywhere. I immediately purchased Imaro and was overjoyed. It was exactly what I had been searching for.

Once again, I sought him out and was finally able to meet him and came up empty. Then hope sprang forth again. Uraeus, a member of Black Super Hero started a thread announcing that Nightshade Books was dropping Imaro but that he was going to continue producing the books for Charles through Sword and Soul Media. I quickly contacted Uraeus who was kind enough to put me in contact with Charles. At that point a great friendship began and I learned that Charles had coined a name for what I wrote: Sword and Soul.

So, I was not alone, but the words still lingered. There must be more. And there were. As Charles and I released our works and networked through the Black Science Fiction Society and across the cyber universe we found them. Some were published writers delving in other genres; others were aspiring writers following the arduous path of publication. Soon we were exchanging notes, stories, critiques and opinions, reveling in the conversation and comradery. The next decision was obvious to me. There needed to be a meeting, a gathering of story tellers to celebrate sword and soul and display the diversity of interpretations.

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 if he knew she favored him.

Changa’s scowl answered Belay’s question. Mustafa barges in my office this morning demanding to see me. Being the Muslim that I am, I allowed him an audience despite his rudeness. He sat where you sit now and stated that Yasmine was missing and Narigisi was to blame.

Changa’s face and he shifted in his seat. Narigisi was Belay’s eldest son, as different from his father as oil and water. He was a vain and selfish man with the spirit of Shaitan.

I know what you’re thinking, Belay said. You think Mustafa is right. I think so, too, but I could not say so in front of him. I told him I would look into the matter and you know what he did? He jumped to his feet and slammed his fist on my desk! He demanded that I either return his daughter or pay him twice the lobola offered by her suitors.

Changa’s mind focused on Yasmine, a familiar, uncomfortable feeling rising in his chest.

I have seen Narigisi courting Yasmine, he said. She did not seem pleased with his attention.

Belay stood. We will visit him immediately and get to the bottom of this.

Changa stood as well. If we go to see Naragisi we’ll need men.

Belay rubbed his forehead again. Yes, that’s true. Will you see to it?

Of course, bwana.

Changa returned to the dhow burdened with concern.  Men gathered about him as soon as he boarded.

Bashiri, Zakwani and Tayari, get your weapons, he announced. We are to escort Bwana Belay to his son’s house.

The chosen men hurried below deck with huge grins on their faces. Escort duty was extra pay. Going with Changa meant they had a good chance of returning. Changa noticed Yusef sulking across the ship, still smarting from his recent defeat.

Yusef, he called out. Get your gear. You’re coming, too.

The big man smiled like a child. Of course, Changa, of course!

The men met Belay at the warehouse. Belay climbed on his wagon and they set out for the mainland. After a brief stop in the country town to gather supplies they set out for the bush. Naragisi’s difference from his father went beyond personalities. Unlike most Swahili Naragisi despised the stone town, preferring life in the hinterlands. They reached his estate by daybreak the next day, the massive two-story house rising over the otherwise flat landscape. An expansive shamba filled with hundreds of Zebu cattle surrounded his elaborate home, the estate protected by Samburu warriors. Instead of the normal thorn bush palisade Naragisi had constructed a stone wall six feet high. Four stone gates allowed entrance, one at each point of the compass, each protected by a Samburu village. Changa and the others met no opposition until they reached the gate. Four Samburu guarded the gate, tall lean men with iron tipped spears and swords that flared out like fans at the tip. A red cloak fell from one shoulder, covering their bodies to the knees. A black beaded belt gathered the cloak about their waists and held the wooden scabbards for their swords and daggers. Each warrior held a broad leaf shield of cowhide, the pattern of Naragisi painted on each one.

The guards shifted as Changa approached them.

Habare, Changa said.

Umzuri, the guards replied.

Bwana Belay wishes to see his son.

That is not possible, the warrior replied. Bwana Naragisi is not to be disturbed.

Suspicion emerged in Changa’s thoughts, confirmed by the look in Belay’s eyes.

Must I remind you where your master’s wealth originates? Belay said.

The Samburu guards shifted their stances. Our master’s wealth resides within his walls, the warrior sneered. Golden metal has no value here.

Changa’s sword sprang from its sheath before the guards could react, its tip pressed into the warrior’s chin.

Is your master’s wealth worth your life?

The warrior opened the gate and stepped aside. The Mombassans crossed the wide expanse to the door of Naragisi’s home. A servant girl dressed in a colorful kanga and beaded braids met them at the entrance.

"Welcome, baba, she said respectfully. Your son is grateful you have come to visit him. Please follow me to the veranda."

The girl led them to a huge courtyard, the stone floor covered by an enormous and expensive Persian rug. An elaborate table was set before them. Belay sat at the table; Changa, Yusef and the others remained standing behind him.

Naragisi entered accompanied by a dozen Samburu warriors. He dressed simply, white pants and long shirt with a caramel vest. A small turban hugged his head held together by an amber broach. He smiled at his father as he cut a glance at Changa.

"Baba, welcome! he said. I am so glad you came to visit me so unexpectedly."

I have no time for your deception, Naragisi, Belay retorted. Mustafa the goat herder came to my warehouse today, claiming you had something to do with Yasmine’s disappearance. Do you?

Naragisi sat at the table, taking time to prepare a cup of chai.

He is Yasmine’s father, is he not?

Belay’s small hands clenched. Yes, he is.

Hmm. Naragisi sipped his tea. Yes and no.

What do you mean yes and no?

Yes, father, I am responsible for Yasmine’s disappearance, but not in the way you suspect.

Changa’s hand went to his sword and Naragisi’s guards responded by stepping forward, their spears lowered.

Belay raised his hand. I didn’t come here for violence. I came here for answers.

It’s no secret I wanted Yasmine, Naragisi admitted. I waited for her to arrive at the market every day and gave her gifts and kind words. It was more than any woman of her station deserved no matter how beautiful she is. She should have been grateful.

Naragisi paused to sip his tea again. A frown marred his face.

I finally explained to her my intentions and she laughed. She laughed at me! I wanted to strike her down and I would have if I didn’t cherish her beauty so much. I decided to show her what being my wife meant. I arranged to have her brought here.

You had her kidnapped, Changa said.

"No one gave you permission to speak, mtwana," Naragisi growled.

Keep your insults! Belay barked. Who did you hire?

Naragisi leaned back on his cushion and raised his teacup, staring at Changa.

Wal Wasaki.

Belay sighed, closed his eyes and hung his head. Changa fought a surge of anger as he struggled to keep his hand from his sword.

I really thought Wal would bring her to me, Naragisi continued. We have conducted business before.

Wasaki deals with the highest bidder, Changa said. He must have received a better offer.

You keep speaking as if it matters, Naragisi commented.

Changa was about to answer when Belay raised his hand.

Enough! Belay stood. I’ll deal with you latter, Naragisi.

Belay exited the room and the others followed. Changa hesitated; watching Naragisi and his men to make sure Belay’s departure was safe. He turned to leave.

Changa, Naragisi called out.

Changa turned slowly and was met by Naragisi’s cold eyes.

"My father is a mwungwana. He’s well respected for his intelligence, generosity and piety. Your status in Mombasa is depends on him."

I know this, Changa snapped. You’re wasting your words and my time.

Naragisi’s eyes narrowed. My father will not live forever.

Changa smirked. Neither will you.

He backed out the room and trotted to catch up with his party.

Changa watched Belay with disappointment as they returned to Mombasa. Belay would do nothing to Naragisi. His sons were worthless but the old merchant loved them too much to punish them. He would ignore his son’s crime and attempt to ease Mustafa’s suffering with payment and favors. When they reached Belay’s home at nightfall Changa was the first to speak.

Bwana, let me deal with Wal, he said.

That won’t be necessary, Changa. Wal is a criminal, but he is also a businessman. I’ll pay him whatever he asks.

What if he doesn’t have her?

Belay sighed. Then there is nothing more I can do.

I will deliver your offer, Changa said. If he does not have Yasmine I will find out where she is.

And how will you accomplish this? Belay inquired.

I can be very persuasive, Changa smiled.

Belay returned his smile. Take good men with you, Changa. Don’t do anything . . . foolish.

I will be careful, bwana.

*   *   *

Wal Wasaki’s compound was only a few miles from Belay’s warehouse in the center of Low Town. Though the distance between the two sections was brief, the contrast was jarring. Entering Low Town was like walking into a tempest. The thick grey walls surrounding the district were remnants from a time when Low Town served as Mombasa’s prison. A strange order existed within the barricades, a chaotic system that changed with the whims of its master, Wal Wasaki, a man who was as brilliant as he was mad. Changa thought on this as he and his cohorts approached the western gate.

This is the nearest entrance to Wal’s main compound, he told the others. We must be swift if we expect to confront him.

I thought we were supposed to offer him payment, Yusef said.

Changa grinned at the big man. We will, but we’ll add a little incentive. He patted his knife bag.

Yusef grinned back. "I like you, kibwana."

Changa and his cohorts entered Wal’s realm purposely, their countenances revealing their intent. It was obvious they were looking for someone. The reaction of the onlookers varied; some ran, some fell to their knees in prayer while others slipped silently into the refuge of nearby buildings. Then there were those that stood defiantly, their hands gripping daggers or swords, ready to face the danger the armed interlopers presented.

Wal’s compound occupied the center of his district. Thick stone walls topped by jagged metal spikes encased the elaborate buildings inside. Two heavily armed guards flanked the iron gate, watching Changa and his men with little concern. Changa continued past them, waiting until Yusef was before them. He turned, throwing his knife at the guard closest to him. The knife struck the man in the head and he crumpled where he stood. The second guard threw up his shield, deflecting Changa’s second knife. Yusef pounced, knocking away the shield with his left fist as he drove his sword into the man’s gut. Changa sprinted past the dying man, leading the attack into Wal’s compound.

Changa kicked the gate open and charged into the compound. He ran directly to the largest home surrounded by more guards. They looked stunned until they realized Changa’s intent. Changa’s companions surged around him and attacked the guards.  Changa sprinted by the fray, looking for Wal. He spotted the bandit slipping out the rear of his home, accompanied by two guards. He pursued them, a throwing knife in each hand. He drew his arm back and threw both knives, striking both guards in the back. Wal spun about; his sword drawn.

This is a foolish thing you do, Changa, he said.

Changa ignored Wal’s threat. He dodged the bandit’s weak thrust and punched him across the jaw, knocking him senseless. He grabbed the bandit by the collar of his shirt and dragged him into the house.

Yusef and the others met him inside. The house was a miniature palace, decorated with items from throughout Swahililand and the world. A huge Persian rug covered the entire tile floor. Aromatic incenses burned in lamps in every corner. Large silk pillows rested at the center of the rug, surrounding a group of women clutching each other and whimpering. Bowls of food were overturned, a sign of Wal’s hasty exit.

Changa’s men rushed the women from the room while he towed Wal to the center. He shoved the man to the floor and dropped his foot on his chest, his sword tip to his throat.

Wal Wasaki, I come on behalf of Belay. He wishes to know the whereabouts of Yasmine, daughter of Mustafa. He has authorized me to pay for this information.

You’re a fool, Changa, a fool! Wal spat.

Changa stepped away