Keita and the Masks of Power: Chapter One

Nibiki

Keita’s mind teetered between the dreaming and waking world as he sat under the shade of the twisted acacia tree. The griot’s song and the sultry breeze were working in tandem to lull the boy into a gentle sleep, one where a wonderful dream awaited him. He was the hero in the old griot’s story, Great Sakora riding atop his armored rhinoceros, thundering over the midnight savannah, driving his iron spear through the ribs of the great and terrible moon lion, and taking a bride from one of each of the three founding tribes for himself. He saw their faces, brown and beautiful and smiling. Keita eagerly reached out to them, for it was only in dreams where the skinny second son of a goat herder would ever find such beauty.

Then a small bird flitted past his nose, and the dream vanished.

Fortunately for Keita, no one saw his sudden convulsion back into consciousness. The griot had his back to him and all the other youths sitting in the circle were too engrossed in the musician’s performance to even notice the flinching boy. Their eyes were fixed on the old man, with his blue robes, bushy white beard, and brightly painted kora harp held propped up between his sandaled feet. They watched his gnarled fingers dance along the strings, plucking and flicking soft sounds into the sweltering air. They listened as his words painted their imaginations with scenes of adventure and danger. For even though the old man sang a tale every child in Sunjatta knew, only Master Azenga could tell it the way he did.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling!

“And so it was,” Azenga sang, “that Issioka, pale as the moon, tore apart the sons and daughters of Kon, Bamburi, and Sunjatta! And no tribe alone could do anything to stop his cruel slaughter!”

Ting-a-ling-a-ling!

“Oh, Issioka, oh! With crushing jaws and bloody claws! Oh, Issioka, oh!” 

Keita had never met a lion, nor did he ever plan on meeting one. His big brother said he’d spotted one in the savanna once while he was out tending the flock, and that he scared it off all by himself. Keita didn’t believe him, though. Sidi always told stupid stories. When they were small, he tricked Keita into eating a fried piece of goat dung, claiming it was a beancake. Needless to say, that was the last time Keita believed anything that baboon’s backside ever said.

“And that’s when wise Sakora saw the way! A way none had seen before! He saw Sunjatta, Kon, and Bamburi each had a role play!” 

Ting-a-ling-a-ling! 

“Oh, Sakora, oh! He told his rival chiefs he would slay Issioka, oh! But only if they agreed to the plan! Each would give a daughter—a bride! A Kon to track! A Bamburi for metal! And a Sunjattan to teach him how to ride!”

Another small bird was hopping by Keita’s foot, or maybe it was the same one that had tickled his nose. He wasn’t sure, but it held his attention regardless. It was a shiny thing, black with a milky white head and eyes the color blue lightning. The coloring was new to him. He’d seen black birds, the kind that poked holes in dead wood, and brown ones that sometimes got into the sorghum gourds during the rainy season, and even red ones on occasion. But he’d never seen a white and black one before. This was something novel, and novelty in Nibiki was rare. So he nudged his friend Dara sitting beside him to take a look.

“What?” Dara whispered sharply. He had a right to be, though. It was rude to distract someone enjoying a master griot’s song.

“That,” Keita whispered back, pointing to the bird pecking at the ground behind them. “You know what type it is?”

Dara looked at the bird, snorted, and leered at Keita, unamused. “No idea. But you think it tastes good?” He was already reaching over to wring its neck.

Keita hissed. “No, don’t!” He caught his friend’s hand and pushed it aside. The bird, sensing danger, fluttered off high into the branches of the acacia tree. “What’s wrong with you? I just wanted you to look at it, not kill it.”

Ting-a-ling-a-ling!

“Oh, Sakora, oh!” Azenga raised his voice to cover the boys’ mumbling.

“Whatever…” Dara snatched back his hand with a huff and returned his full attention to the griot. Keita sighed and did the same.

“They taught Sakora their secrets. They taught him their crafts, and for ten long moons, Sakora prepared for the fight. When the time came, astride his rhinoceros, with iron spear and bush trail clear, he rode off into the night!”

Keita had heard some elders speak of how Sunjattans had a special connection with the rhinoceros, that it was part of their innate strength and bravery to tame such a beast, just as how the Bamburi were clever in their iron smithing, or how the Kon were good at running around in the bush. But much like lions, Keita had never actually seen a rhinoceros before.

Sighing, the boy gazed at the acacia’s spindly branches up above, hoping to catch another glimpse of the black and white bird, but it was impossible to see something so small so high up. Ts! He sucked his teeth in frustration and shot a sour glance at Dara, who seemed to be actively trying not to shoot one right back.

Nibiki wasn’t like anything in the old griot’s songs. There were no brave heroes here, no mpanda kirafu—those brave sahelian cavaliers. Nor were there any fearless lion slayers. No, just goat herders, millet farmers, and brick bakers who cared only about getting on with their day. Aside from Master Azenga, anything new or interesting was met with either derision or suspicion, and even Azenga could hardly count as new. He came around once every other rain or so to sing his songs and tell his stories for a moon before wandering off again to some far flung edge of Dunia. Honestly, Keita couldn’t fathom how the old man got around so much. He was already old when Keita’s father was young, and yet he never stopped moving from place to place. He was, certainly by Keita’s reckoning, the most interesting person in the village, and the fact that he could only stomach sticking around for so long only proved Keita’s feelings on the place.

Having given up on finding the bird again, Keita scanned the crowd of listeners until he saw her. Across from him in the circle was a girl with red-stained hands and a perfect, heart-shaped face. Her name was Isutu, the fourth daughter of a potter whom Keita’s father used to drink with. Keita watched her red-stained fingers weaving a bracelet from strands of long yellow grass that grew in tufts around the tree. Keita did not know how long he’d been staring, but when she looked up at him, the boy felt his face grow hot and quickly looked away.

He had no business looking at her. She’d already rejected his company last week, and the week before that…and the week before that. After the third attempt, she’d crushed his hopes for good, being very clear in expressing what she thought about him and who she preferred to spend time with—and it wasn’t him. It was his brother. Of course, it was his brother. Sidi was everything Keita was not. However, Isutu was a quiet girl, and Sidi was forever too distracted with other options to ever notice her.

“You know she’s already betrothed,” Dara whispered, leaning into Keita’s ear.

Ting-a-liiiing!

“Oh, Sakora, oh! He rode for days tracking Issioka down! And when they met, the battle began! In that darkest night, iron clashed against claw, man clashed against beast! How the moon lion roared! How Sakora fought! The hero of our future, the demon of our past! And in their dance, time stood still! But Sakora could not be beaten, and his spear went through the moon lion’s heart!”

“What?” Keita hissed, having to stop himself from shouting the word. “To who?”

Dara shrugged his dark boney shoulders. “Who else? The chief’s second eldest son—I forget his name. It was decided the day before yesterday. The bidding for her bride price was fierce, or so I heard. Twenty-five goats—almost as much as what your sister went for.”

Keita felt his guts sink down like they’d suddenly been filled with cold sand. He knew he never had a chance, but for some reason knowing this was a viper’s strike to the heart.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling!

“With Issioka dead, Sakora took the lion’s mane for himself, wearing it as his cloak. So, when the chiefs of Bamburi and Kon saw Sakora return, they knew he had done. Oh, yes, they knew he had done what they thought impossible! Issioka was gone, and now Sakora was their king! Great Sakora, oh! Forever, Great Sakora, oh!”

Ting-a-ling-ting-a-liiiing!

The final note faded into the air, and then, all at once, the audience erupted in applause. One by one, the youths got to their feet and filed up to the griot, leaving offerings in his calabash bowl. A few of the older kids with money to spare left a cowry shell, while the younger kids offered whatever they had on them. One boy left a baobab fruit, one left a polished rock, and another, a dusty little toddler with red dirt on his legs and hands waddled up with his older sister and dropped in a dead cricket.

“A grand gift,” the griot said, smiling wide to show a gap in his front teeth. “This will taste good fried in palm oil and sprinkled with salt.”

The toddler giggled and quickly waddled away, letting his older sister chase after him.

However, many had to settle for giving Azenga words of thanks before hurrying back home. For most of them, their chores and errands were still unfinished, and no parent in Nibiki would abide having their children be away from their work for too long. The hill the acacia tree stood on was at one end of the village, prompting some of the kids to take off running lest they return home late to a wicked slap on the head.

“Eh?” Dara exclaimed, looking down at Keita still sitting on the ground. “You’re not moving? What, you want your father to beat the spit out of you again?”

Keita sucked his teeth. “Ts! He’s slapped me so many times I can’t even feel it anymore.” He didn’t turn to look at Dara, instead he was busy watching Isutu walk away, his eyes following the rolling of her hips under her orange kaftan.

Dara followed Keita’s gaze and laughed. “You’re still sour about that?  Be serious. Like you had a shot in the first place.” He nudged Keita with his foot, but the boy was quick to slap his leg away. Dara could only sigh. “Fine. You stay here and sulk. I have work to do.” The lanky boy started off down the hill, leaving Keita alone with the old griot.

“Master Azenga,” Keita started, “are all the demon beasts dead?”

“Ha!” Azenga turned to look at Keita. His eyes were a faded blue. The rigors of long life had sapped their dark color away long ago. “That’s what they say. But we’ve talked about that before. Shouldn’t you be hurrying back home with the rest of them, eh?”

Keita yawned and stretched his arms out in a wide arc. “Back to what? Shoveling goat shit?”

Azenga snorted and picked up his offering bowl. He sifted through it, tossing out the more eclectic offerings littered amongst the fruit and shells. The cricket was the first to go.

“I thought you said they were good fried in oil and salt,” Keita said, smiling.

“They are, when they’re fresh,” Azenga said, dumping the rest of the offerings into his satchel. “But the boy’s heart was in the right place, but a single half-rotten cricket is no use to anyone. Now come, get up. I know your father. He will be furious if you don’t finish your work on time.”

“That mangy baboon is always furious,” Keita said. “Issioka take him!”

Azenga pursed his wrinkled brow with disapproval. “Hard times come when sons curse their own fathers. I know you didn’t mean those words.”

Keita got to his feet and dusted himself off. “And what if I did, eh?”

Ignoring the boy’s petulant response, Azenga stood up from his little stool and stretched his back with a groan. Keita could hear the old man’s joints pop like kola nuts, and he wondered if it hurt to be so absolutely ancient. It was hard to think a man his age could travel like he did. Whatever pains he may have suffered from, he certainly didn’t show them.

“I can carry your kora back for you,” Keita said. “Both that and your stool. It won’t be a problem.”

“Oh ho! If only you showed that much respect towards your parents!” Azenga bent down and picked up his kora but paused before he bent down again. “Fine... Take the stool.”

Keita picked up the wooden stool and followed the old griot down the hill towards the center of the village. Nibiki was a small collection of squat adobe houses and animal pens encircled by a squat stone wall. From atop the hill, Keita could see patchy fields of sun-dried grass stretching in every direction beyond the wall. On the horizon, here and there, were herds of goats, appearing as distant blotches of brown and white. Somewhere out to the north was his insufferable brother with their father’s flock.

At this burning hour, the streets of Nibiki were still empty, as anyone with a handful of sense would get as much work done indoors while waiting for the worst of the heat to let up. Awnings and canopies pitched beside houses and workshops were gathering spots for the few who did dare to be outside. Under one such awning, a small group of old men reminisced about better times, sitting on squat stools or raffia mats, sipping their sorghum beer and melon juice as they swapped sordid stories. Under another awning, a pair of men in dust-stained trousers sat at a table, battling each other in a game of mancala. Judging by how one player had his side of the board filled with seed-stones, though, it was not an equal match.

“This will be your fourteenth rain coming up?” Azenga asked, gazing up at the clouds in the sky.

“Sixteenth!” Keita corrected. “And not one less. When the season changes, I’ll be cut in the ayojo and be a man.”

Azenga teased his cloudy white beard in thought. “Hmph… You will be a young man. Not much of a difference between that and a boy if my experiences have taught me anything.” He chuckled and shook his head. “However, you won’t understand that for a while yet.”

Keita kicked a small rock in his path. “Manhood is manhood. All that matters is that I’ll be free from my father’s house.”

The old griot raised a wiry eyebrow. “Oh? And what will you do with your newfound freedom?”

“Whatever I want. Maybe I’ll go to the capital and train to become an mpanda kifaru, or a griot like you. I’ve memorized a bunch of your stories, you know.”

“A bunch, you say?” Azenga smiled. “Which ones?”

Keita held up a hand and started counting off on his fingers. “The Song of Sakora the Lion Slayer, obviously. Then there’s Mamadi and Bida, The Curse of the Impundulu…uh…” Keita started to falter. “Wait! Ugh… Um… The Coral Princess!”

“Four?” Azenga tilted his head from side to side, weighing how much he should appear impressed. “A modest start. Alright, let’s say you become a griot, then what?”

A broad smile stretched across Keita’s face, as if he’d been waiting for that question. “Then I’ll travel across Sunjatta,” he started, arcing a hand across an imaginary scene. “Singing stories…going wherever I like. Then I’ll marry a pretty girl, prettier than Isutu, and I’ll settle down in a big city in a fancy palace far away from here, like Sogolon or Edo’abai.”

The old man chuckled at that. “And eat roast guinea fowl and date cakes until the end of your days?”

The boy shot the old man with a hurt look. “You mocking me?”

Azenga cleared his throat. “Hmph! Of course not.”

On several occasions Keita had tried to tell Dara of his plans for the future only to have his friend dismiss them as children' s fantasies. He expected better from Master Azenga. “You don’t get it. You’ve already been everywhere and seen everything. You’re not trapped here and forced to clean up after goats all day. You don’t have to deal with Sidi’s jokes either.”

Azenga sighed, seeing how crestfallen the boy was. “I understand more than you realize. I ran away from home before my thirteenth rain, you know.”

Hearing that perked up the boy’s head, and he stared at the old man with wide-eyed interest. “You never told me that before!”

“Ha! For good reason!” He held up two gnarled fingers in the boy’s face. “I almost died twice before I saw my fourteenth! I wanted to run away from my family so badly I didn’t see what I was running towards. I lived on the streets of the capital for two rains, stealing and fighting to survive before I was taken on as an apprentice. I was lucky.”

“Still sounds more fun than cleaning goat shit.”

“Eh? Fun, he says!” Azenga gave a dry, pitying laugh. “Fun… That is exactly why I never told you before! I tell you a warning, and you see an adventure! The gods are stingy with their blessings, Keita. Never forget. They don’t help those who could just as easily keep themselves out of trouble.”

Keita rolled his eyes in agitation. Even Master Azenga wasn’t above lecturing. He was starting to suspect it was just something that came with age, like drinking sour pombe, or complaining about back pain. Keita figured it was best to change the subject. “You’ll be staying until the rains come, right? I want you to play a song for the ayojo.”

“A song?” Azenga hesitated, looking up at the cloud-streaked sky. “Hmm… The ayojo is still some time away, a quarter moon at least, and I already run the risk of overstaying my welcome as it is.”

“But you’re the chief’s honored guest, aren’t you? Surely, you can stay as long as you want. I mean, not that I don’t understand why you’d want to leave, but still…” Keita lowered his voice to a whisper. “People say there’s danger on the road these days, you know. They say beast men are on the prowl.”

“Beast men?” The old man raised an eyebrow in doubt. “Who told you that?”

“Sidi told me, he said that…” As Keita said the words aloud, his brow wrinkled up in realization—another one of Sidi’s lies. “Nevermind. Just stay for a while longer!”

“A traveling griot is an honored guest for a moon, but he’s a beggar after two…” Azenga paused and looked at Keita. The boy’s face was growing more dour with each word he spoke. “But I will speak to Chief Bana and see if he will permit me to stay a tad longer.”

Hearing that finally brought a smile back to Keita’s face. “There’s no chief in Sunjatta who would say no to having a master griot perform at their village’s ayojo!”

Azenga nodded, basking in the compliment. “If it keeps you from running off and getting captured by rogue slavers, so be it.”

“Pfft! I’m already my father’s captive.”

Azenga could only shake his head and mumble to himself. “I’ll hold my lips on that.”

They reached the chief’s house at the center of the village, a broad circular building surrounded by a short wall with a singular wooden gate. By the gate were a pair of spearmen, grim-faced with only patterned calabash helmets to keep the sun off their brows. Recognizing the old man, one guard stepped forward to carry Azenga’s burdens. Azenga handed over his kora, and Keita gave up the stool. Keita was more than happy to be rid of it. Carrying the thing across the village was starting to build an ache in his arm. To think that Azenga had dragged it up to the acacia tree on his own was hard to believe.

Before saying his goodbyes, Azenga slipped a cowry from his pouch and gave it to Keita as payment for his help. Keita rubbed the shiny white shell between his fingers. In a town where most people bartered for what they needed, seeing actual money was a bit odd. The guard told Keita to run along and turned to usher Azenga through the gate. Keita stood there for a moment, watching Azenga leave and wondering what it must be like to travel the world, to be hosted by chiefs wherever he went, spending nights under their roofs.

The rains could not come fast enough. After the ayojo, after he was made a man, he’d be able to make his own way in the world and leave all of this behind. Keita turned, head low, and headed home, rubbing the cowry shell between his thumb and forefinger, all the way, imagining his life as an adult. 

His father’s house was a squat collection of square pressed together, like any other in the village, with a number of rooms protruding from a central chamber. The adobe façade was decorated with white swirling patterns, while the houses beside it had patterns of their own–some black, some red, some angular, some smooth. Waiting in the doorway was Keita’s mother, Iyana, a large woman dressed in a grass green kaftan that hugged her overbearing curves. Her matching headwrap was slightly askew–a bad sign, Keita knew.

“Where have you been?” his mother asked. She came over to Keita and snatched him by the arm. “You’re late!”

Keita didn’t resist. He was too worried his arm would tear off if he tried to fight back. “I was taking my noon rest.” Keita stumbled over the threshold as he was dragged into the house.

“Don’t make me ask again, boy. Where have you been?”

“I went to the acacia hill to listen to Master Azenga’s songs! That’s all!”

His mother arched a painted eyebrow. “Eh? The hill? All the way ‘cross the village?” She sucked her teeth. “Ts! No wonder you’re so late.” She let go of Keita’s hand and pointed to someplace behind her. “You never finished cleaning the goat pen this morning. And did you fetch the water for the troughs?”

“No…”

“Or what about mending the break in the fence?”

“No…”

His mother’s eyes pursed into slits, echoing his answer. “No. So you’d better get back to work then.”

Keita groaned. “But–”

“Hold your lips!”

It was Sidi’s fault the fence was broken in the first place, but there was nothing he could say to get him to fix it. The oaf had come stumbling home drunk last night, reeking of sorghum beer and piss. He tripped and fell right through the fence. Keita had spent most of the morning trying to mend the damage, but set it aside once the sun got too high.

“Keita here?” asked a gruff voice from further inside the house.

“Aye, baba!” Keita said, shouting down the hall. “I’m here!”

“He was listening to that griot again!” his mother added.

For a moment, there was an uneasy silence, then Keita felt the whip of his father’s voice. “Get over here, boy!”

His mother gave Keita a small, but stern push in the back, and Keita went to the sitting room, pulling back the curtain that divided it from the rest of the house. He found his one-legged father reclining on a small pile of cushions with his back against the wall. He was puffing aggressively on an ivory pipe, the head of which was carved in the likeness of a rhinoceros. From one side of his mouth, white smoke shot out, filling the room with a sweet-smelling haze. His yellowed eyes peered through the cloud, eyeing the boy up and down.

His voice was slow and clear. "What've I told you about wasting time with that old jackal?”

Keita scowled. “Don’t call him that!”

His father’s face lit up with amusement. “Oh ho! You’re telling me what I can and cannot say now, eh?” He set his pipe down on the small table beside him, cutting back to his usual grim expression. “Is this not my house?”

Keita didn’t respond.

“Is this not my house?” Slowly, Keita’s father reached for one of the crutches resting on the wall beside him. He always had them within reach. “Hmm?”

“It’s your house, baba.”

“Ah, you understand. Good. Good…” He smiled and let his hand fall away from his crutch. “And so, since it is my house, I will call any man whatever I want within it. Are we clear?”

“Yes, baba, but he—”

Wham! The crutch whacked Keita across the top of his head. Keita winced, clenching his jaw to avoid crying out in pain. He was too old for crying according to his father. Crying would only get him another beating.

There was a moment of throbbing silence as Keita clutched the crown of his head. Then an infant’s wailing sounded from an adjacent room. A curtain pulled back, revealing a slim young woman with a bright chestnut face. She was Sena, father’s second wife. In her arms she held Keita’s young half-brother, his fat face scrunched up in a wrinkly, toothless sob.

“Kodjo, beloved,” she began, her voice honey sweet, “please keep it down. You’ve upset the baby.” She noticed Keita and gave a polite smile. “Warm greetings.”

“And warm greetings to you, Aunty Sena,” Keita said, doing his best to keep his eyes away from the swollen breast hanging out of her robe. “How’s the baby?”

Sena had no chance to answer. His father put his crutch back on the wall and grumbled. “Ugh… Just stuff your teat back in his mouth and keep it quiet.”

Sena bounced the bawling babe in her arms a bit, pressing its head into her bosom, but the child refused its food. Annoyed with the wailing, Kodjo barked at his second wife to take the baby outside for a bit of fresh air, and Sena did as instructed. Keita turned to watch her pass.

“Boy!” father said, snapping his fingers at him. “I’m not done talking to you!”

Keita returned his attention to his sickly father.

“You know, everyone else in this family does their part. Sena and Chidinma do the cooking and caring for the little one. Your lovely mother does the washing and shopping at the market, and Sidi does the herding. Heh! And Kieshu knows I did my part. I raised this family from the mud and dirt. I built the house you sleep in with my own hands, and I showed you and your brother both how to work before the sickness took my leg.” He pointed to the calloused stump below his right knee.

“Even Amara did her part to bring fortune to this family when she married that merchant from Jodisha. But you, you’re the only one who thinks they can take without giving.” His father reached for his pipe, feeling the tension in his own voice. He took a deep drag to stoke the ember inside and let out a big puff of smoke through his nose. “Nearly a man and you still act like a spoiled child. I hear your grandfather’s spirit laughing at me.” He let those words hang in the air with the sour smoke. “Finish your chores out back, then help Sidi bring in the goats. The flock is too large now for one pair of eyes at sunset.” He took another puff from the pipe and blew a ring. “Do it all or forget about eating tonight.”

“Yes, baba.” Keita turned and headed for the door.

The sun’s bottom was scratching the top of Nibiki’s wall by the time Keita got his chores done. The sky was a deep orange, and crickets chirped from the bushes. The air, though still warm, had lost the worst of the midday burn. Men and women were in the streets again going about their errands. Some were getting dinner started, judging by the smells wafting from many windows. Elders loitered by their front doors, watching people pass by as they idled in gossip.

The goatherders were returning home from the fields, guiding their flocks back to their respective households. The animals, bleating and bobbing their heads, plodded along, kicking up the red dirt under their hooves. It was the smaller flocks that usually returned to the village first, ones of ten or less. They could be herded more quickly and were less likely to have strays, whereas bigger ones always came in last.

It made sense Keita didn’t find Sidi at the gate, though that didn’t stop him from grumbling to himself. Stepping out into the savannah so close to sunset was not something he enjoyed. The shadows were growing long, and in them waited all manner of hungry things. So when he finally saw his brother, in the distance, coming behind the three-dozen white and brown goats, Keita thanked the gods and ran over to help hurry the flock along.

“Baby brother!” shouted Sidi as he saw Keita approach. His voice had that upward, teasing tone. It always did when he spoke to Keita. “What are you doing out here? Aren’t you afraid the wild dogs will get you?”

Sidi was everything Keita was not. He was tall and well-muscled, with a square jaw and a dark red umber complexion. People liked him. And as he strode behind the goats, lazily waving his herdsman’s staff to urge the animals forward, he wore that same, self-assured grin he always did, even when he had no right to.

“I’m not afraid!” Keita said, reflexively glancing at the darkness on the horizon. “Baba sent me. Said you needed help with getting the flock home in one piece.”

Sidi sucked his teeth. “Ts! I lose one goat and now baba sends you? He lost faith that fast, eh?”

Keita came next to Sidi and started waving his arms to help shoo the goats forward. “Guess so. Now let’s just hurry before we get caught in the dark.”

“Ha! See? You are afraid!” Sidi gave Keita a playful punch in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Keita rubbed his shoulder, knowing full well that it would be tender in the morning. Sidi always put too much strength in his hits. “That hurt, you goat-kisser!”

“Eh? What did I just say?” He smiled and laughed, but nearly knocked the boy over with a shove to the head. “Quit crying. Your ayojo is soon. Is this how you want to face the knife?”

Keita retaliated with a punch to Sidi’s arm, but he might as well have been a bird pecking a hippo’s backside. Sidi laughed but didn’t break stride. Keita tried to come from behind to grab his neck, but when he got his arms around him, instead of dragging his brother down like he’d hoped, Keita simply hung there, feet dragging over the dirt as Sidi continued on.

“That’s more like it, Keita!” Sidi said, pulling his brother off of him. “Show some fire!”

Keita fell to the ground, and when he stood up again, he felt his foot squish on something soft. Goat droppings were all over his right sandal, threatening to fold over onto his toes. “Baba should be the one out here dealing with his damn goats!”

“He can’t!” Sidi said, rolling his eyes.

“He could!” Keita insisted, kicking the ground to smear the dung off his foot. “Instead, he just smokes all day!”

“Keita, the man has one leg—!”

“And may Issioka take the other one!”

Sidi sucked his teeth again. “Tssw! And you wonder why I’m his favorite.”

“Issioka take you too! Issioka, take the goats! The whole damn village! After the ayojo, I don’t care what happens to this place!”

Sidi smiled knowingly. “What? And leave Isutu behind? Impossible.”

Keita flung a hand up. “Psh! She’s already betrothed.”

Sidi turned back to look at Keita, a brow arched with intrigue. “Ai! Really? Who is it?”

Now it was Keita’s turn to roll his eyes. “Who do you think? The chief’s second eldest. Her bride price was too much for anyone else.”

“Eh? Sambou? He’s only twenty rains and he’s already getting a second wife?” Sidi shook his head in disappointment. “Oh yo! Too fast! You’re supposed to let the first wife ripen before getting a fresh one! What’s the point of having two wives nearly the same age, eh? When they’re old it’s just twice the saggy fruit! Ah well… Sorry.” He offered Keita a sympathetic shrug. “You were going on and on about her.”

“Will you marry soon? This will be your eighteenth rain.”

“Ugh! Don’t you start. I get enough of that talk from baba. He’s always trying to set me up. Last week he tried to arrange a meeting with me and one of Kossi’s daughters.” He gestured to the village as a cheeky grin parted his lips. “Why buy two goats when you can taste the milk of the whole herd for free?”

“Because when the herder finds you, he beats you dead.”

“Ha!” Sidi shrugged at the truth in Keita’s words. “Well, no one’s found me yet. And besides, I can handle anyone who wants to fight. But even more, what would baba do if I moved out, eh? He needs my help.” Sidi sighed and let his thoughts trail off.

Keita eyed his older brother. It wasn’t like him to be so serious. But more importantly, seeing his brother off his guard meant that he had a chance to deliver some long-awaited revenge. Up ahead was another pile of goat droppings, so Keita took the opportunity to let himself fall behind a few paces to position himself for the surprise. Then he dashed forward, ready to push his brother over while he was lost in his thoughts. But just as he was about to go in for the strike, something unusual caught his eye. “Hey, do you see that?”

A humongous bird swept overhead and landed atop the squat watchtower beside the village gate. It was a vulture, though unlike any Keita had ever seen. It was taller than a man, with inky black feathers across its body save for a white collar of fluff around its bald, pale neck. It stood there, perched above the village, gazing out into the savanna with its glinting black eyes. A moment later, a strong wind blew over them, startling the goats to a standstill.

“I saw that bird earlier today…” Sidi said as he stared up at the giant vulture. “It was flying high when I saw it, though. Had no idea it was so big. And gods, is it ugly.”

“Why’s it here?”

Sidi shook his head. “Don’t know. Something died maybe?”

Then the horn sounded from the watchtower.

Woooooooo! It was a long, wailing note that cut across the orange and magenta sky. Keita jumped, startled by the great bird taking off. Its large wings beat the air, sounding like sheets slapping the wind. Then the horn blew again. Wooooo! Then again for a third time. Woooooo! Then again. Wooooo! Four cries of the horn. Four? One call was for trade caravans, a signal he heard maybe only once a season. Two calls were for envoys of the mansa’s authority; a signal Keita had never heard. Three were for dangerous wild beasts, which were sounded on rare occasions when a leopard or pack of wild dogs was spotted prowling nearby. But four? Four calls meant an armed, unknown force was approaching. But that was impossible. Nibiki, in all its rustic nothingness, had always been protected by how utterly unknown it was.

For once, Keita turned to his older brother for a genuine answer. “Sidi? Are we under attack?”

We hope you enjoyed this excerpt! Keita and the Masks of Power by Donovan Hall will be available directly from MVmedia and anywhere books are sold September 3, 2026. Preorder from MVmedia today and receive a special discount! Just click the link below.

Keita and the Masks of Power