CHAPTER ONE - THE HARMATTAN

  On this day near the end of the sixteenth century, the wind in the vast desert raged defiantly inhibiting the way of any wayward traveler. It was a veritable sea of sand with ostensible landmarks that changed every few days making it impossible to find one’s way relying upon the naked eye. This was the scourge of the main caravan routes for travelers who braved the danger to supply the gold and salt trade, along with the many items brought from Europe and the Middle East to trade for Africa’s vast riches in gold and needed salt, which was about as valuable a commodity to the world as the golden metal. Many of the best travel guides were in fact blind or part blind, relying upon their knowledge of the trade winds and the smell of the ground, if not the stars, to trek across the desert.

  No one knew the desert in sub-Saharan Africa like the Tuaregs. Known as “the People of the Veil,” they were well aware of a peculiar aspect of desert living which may be best expressed as Esuf, which meant the “Desolation of Loneliness” in their language. It did strange things to people in terms of mood swings and odd things that occurred that they blamed on the Kel Esuf, or “People of the Loneliness.” These were ghosts that remained in a parallel world here on our Earth and caused mischievous things to happen or were assumed to be the cause of illness or madness. The enigmas of the desert have ever stood immutably silent with its mysteries obscured within its mounds of sand shifting much like the metaphorical currents and eddies of an ocean.

  A small man’s sharp eyes pierced the sand swept dunes. His squinted eyes were used to the sands of the Kalahari where he once called home but this was the Sahara, the world’s largest and most formidably hot desert, whose torrid heat had burnt and buried many an unwary traveler beneath its mounds. The small man was known simply as Kho, one of the Khoisan, better known as the San people. Through his eyes one could see all the many peoples of the world for his ancient blood ran through them all. Kho’s tribesmen were probably the most ancient in the world. A fact that had only been discovered fairly recently in the modern world, thanks to breakthroughs in DNA genetic testing, but, this was late January, in the year 1591, at the time of the Harmattan: the season when dry and dusty northwesterly trade winds blew from the Sahara over West Africa into the Gulf of Guinea; the time which the Tuareg called the month of the wind.

  The squatting diminutive man had always been called Kho because of how hard it was to understand his Khoisan dialect which consisted of lots of tonal clicks and consonants. Truth was, he himself, had forgotten his true name in time though he still had many memories of his days in his ancient homeland. He remembered well, however, how his father taught him to hunt prey and how to make the deadly poison he coated his arrow points with. His birth father died fighting the Portuguese colonialists who tried to exterminate his people. Kho was saved as a boy and taken under the wing of the man he was waiting for.

  The hooded man, braving the sand filled wind, whom Kho patiently watched approaching, was old but dignified, using a gnarled cane made of ancient wood who had served as a mentor, companion, and fatherly figure to the Khoisan native. Kho was given the opportunity to travel with this man all over the African continent and was extremely loyal to the elderly traveler known to this side of the world as Cazembi Ibn Mugabe during what was planned to be his last sojourn. 

 At sunset, amidst swirling winds, moaning but melodic calls to prayer by the Muezzins could be heard in the usually bustling oasis town of Bilma. It had become overcrowded with stranded caravans with makeshift huts and tents everywhere around the oasis which had served as one of the main watering holes for centuries serving travelers along the sub-saharan trade routes. There was a mood of ennui that matched the desolate look of the encampments. The prayers during the time of Maghrib seemed to be prayers for a change in the grip of Esuf that had entrapped the area. Cazembi laid out a carpet and crumbled to his knees bowing in the direction of Mecca to join in the sunset prayer ritual. 

  After prayer, Cazembi resided in a hut while the wind outside whistled a strange moan. Kho was content sharpening his spear in the corner while Cazembi used a cloth dipped in a pan of water to clean the sand practically glued to his face. A voice was then heard barely audible above the howling wind outside saying, “…Effendi?” 

  Cazembi looked at Kho with a puzzled expression. Effendi was a title of respect reserved for someone of authority or high education. 

  Cazembi then responded, “Come in.” 

  Kho pointed his spear towards the door as a meek Arabic man entered with his head slightly bowed while waving his hands deferentially.

  “As-Salaam-Alaikum,” expressed the man which translated meant “Peace be with You,” which was the Muslim standard salutation to which Cazembe responded in return, “Wa-Alakum-Salaam,” which meant “And Peace be also with You.”

“Forgive me, Effendi,” the man explained, “I am Fareed Al-Aziz. My brother, the honorable Hamid Al-Aziz, bids you welcome to Bilma. We congratulate you on your safe arrival and would like to invite you to break fast at our residence.”

  Cazembe then motioned for Kho to lower his weapon and answered, “Thank you for your hospitality. I am Cazembe Ibn Mugabe but I think you were already aware of that.”

  “My brother Hamid keeps himself well informed which can be a way of survival in these parts, Effendi,” Fareed said.

  Kho made a remark consisting of clicks, mumbles and a trilling sound of alternating notes that went up and down the tonal scale. Fareed turned his head like a dog trying to comprehend its meaning.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I recognize the dialect of your friend?” Fareed said.

  “Few people can,” Cazembi replied, “Kho came from a land very far away.” 

  Fareed then said, “May we expect you soon when you’ve freshened up, Effendi?”

  “I’ll be honored,” Cazembi replied.

  In Hamid al-Aziz’s hut, it was adorned with plush pillows and ornate carpets in stark contrast to the bleak habitats of his neighbors. Cazembi and Kho were met at the door by a constantly bowing Fareed who ushered them to sit before Hamid, a plump man who looked like a man of wealth not used to physical labor. Servants brought in the coffee pot with fancy cups to drink from. Arabica coffee was cultivated in Ethiopia and Yemen originally in the twelfth century. Its beans contained antioxidants as well as small amounts of vitamins and minerals. It has been to this day a popular drink that tended to have a smooth, sweet taste with notable amounts of chocolate and sugar. Cazembi seemed uncomfortable being served by servants and politely preferred to pour his own cup of coffee. A degree of slavery was commonplace in Sub-Saharan Africa but it was a condition Cazembi, being a humble man, personally disagreed with and preferred to be treated like any commoner. Hamid was all smiles as he greeted Cazembi. 

  “Welcome! Welcome, my friends,” Hamid said, “You’ve traveled a long way I understand.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality, sir,” Cazembi said as he took a sip of tea, “You seem to have taken quite an interest in my travels.”

 “It isn’t everyone who has apparently been traveling under the protection of the Sheik of Kel Ayr,” Hamid stated.

  Cazembi modestly took a sip as another servant passed by with a plate of dates. Hamid couldn’t resist plucking one from the plate. Kho stopped the passing servant and took a tasty date for himself. Cazembi politely declined any.

 Hamid asked, “The Kel Ayr is a very dangerous area to travel. I hope I’m not being too intrusive if I asked how you earned such a favor from such an esteemed figure as the Sheik?”

  “I just happened along when a relative of the Sheik was very ill,” Cazembi answered, “I was lucky to have had some experience with the illness and helped his relative recover.”

  “Ah, hah! You are a Hekim Effendi, a chief physician to a sultan,” Hamid declared.

  “Not really. I’m a professor at the University of Sankore,” Cazembi stated. 

  “I see,” Hamid said. 

  Hamid then winced in pain. His foot was bandaged and propped on a pillow so Fareed could periodically dab some ointment on it.

  “What happened?” Cazembi asked.

  “It’s those damn burrs that are in the sand everywhere in this infernal land.” Hamid said, “They call them kram-kram and they are demonic thorns when you get them in your shoe.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Cazembi said with sympathy.

  “Just an annoyance. Don’t worry about me,” Hamid said, “May I ask where are you traveling to from here?”

  Cazembi replied, “I am returning to Timbuktu.”

  Hamid said, “I assume you have safe passage from here?”

  Cazembi said, “Well, it’s been difficult to find a caravan going west out of here.”

  Hamid motioned his fingers as though he had a secret to tell.

  “You won’t find a Madagu who will travel out of here,” Hamid said, “The Songhai Empire always guaranteed safe passage for caravan routes up til now with their fifty thousand man army but there is a civil war going on within the kingdom and most of their armies are tied up with that.”

  “You mean…” Cazembi thought aloud.

  “The Tuareg Kels rule the desert now,” Hamid interjected, “No one can travel anymore unless they allow it. The Kel Ayr have no authority over the other clans to the west if you’re traveling that way.” 

  The term Kel in the Tamasheq language meant “People Of “ or “Those Of.“ A clan such as the Kel Dennig meant “Those Of The East” or the Kel Atarem meant “Those Of The West” or the Kel Owey were “Those Of The Bull.” Another name the Tuaregs were known to be called was the mysterious Blue Men of the Sahara due to the indigo dye that stained their tagelmust, which was the name for the turbans they wore, and the alasho, which was the name for the veil which covered the nose and mouth. The dye used to stain their wrapped headwear also stained the mens’ faces. Oddly enough, only the men wore the veils while the women did not wear them which was the opposite of other Islamic cultures which forced the women to wear veils while the men didn’t need to. Concern clearly showed on Cazembi’s brow as he rubbed his head while he considered the danger of continuing his journey. 

  “May I offer a solution to your dilemma?” Hamid said, “You need someone in your caravan who even the Tuaregs may fear to tread upon.”

  “The Tuaregs are fierce warriors. They are one with the desert.” Cazembi replied, “Who is such a man that they would fear him?

  “Seek out the man they call the Waardiye, the bodyguard.” Hamid answered.

  Cazembi said, “If I obtain the services of this bodyguard then the Madagu and his men will assemble the caravan?”

  “Caravans protected by him are the only ones who make their way through the Sahara nowadays,” Hamid said, “He’s not just any man. He came from the land of the Danakil Depression.”

  “The Danakil Depression is a volcanic area, the hottest and most inhospitable area on Earth,” Cazembi said, as though reading from geographic scrolls.

  “And the Danakil warriors are deadly, more feared than even the Tuaregs and according to my contacts he should be with a caravan returning here tomorrow,” Hamid said confidently, “He is obviously in great demand so you will need to give him some incentive to hire on.”

  Hamid then took out a heavy pouch of coins and placed it on the carpet. Kho’s eyes widened at the sight of it while Cazembi remained stoic. Fareed picked up the pouch with reverence and presented it next to Cazembi with his head bowed in respect.

  Cazembi said, “I appreciate your generosity but of course I am not so naive as to believe you are doing this purely out of the goodness of your heart. Surely you want something out of all this?”

  “You are indeed wise,” Hamid replied with a smile, “If you do go on your journey, I’d like to insure my passage with you. I have many goods to sell in Gao.”

  Cazembi said, “I suppose there’s a reason you don’t contact this Waardiye directly. You must have need of an intermediary?”

  “Ah, you have deciphered my problem,” Hamid admitted, “My brother Fareed made the unknowing mistake of referring to him as a Danakil, which was considered a grave insult to him. They prefer to be known as the Afar.”

  Fareed held his head down but Cazembi wasn’t sure if it was in shame or if he was just quietly taking the blame for his brother’s own indiscretion. In any case, Cazembi accepted the money.

  The next day, the winds had subsided and the oasis was buzzing with activity as Cazembi and Kho made their way through Bilma’s Garare marketplace where traders bartered bales of camel fodder or goatskins of produce for dates, millet, beans, maize, cheese and dried vegetables. Haggling over wares had always been the marketplace norm for those who came there. The population was largely Kanuri, many of whom were very tall, and their population, which stretched from Mali to Nigeria, was once part of the Bornu Empire at its greatest height before the Songhai Empire took power as the center of the gold and salt trade. There were also many Hausa, Teda nomads and Tuaregs who passed through or lived there. 

  Within Tuareg society there were different castes. Below the nobles who were the warrior caste were the semi-nobles called the Marabouts who were religious clerics, judges and Imams. 

  The next caste would be the craftsmen and vassal herdsmen while below them were the slaves called the Iklan. There were other castes such as the Inadan, who made items of wood or metal or the Izaggaren who were agricultural workers or tenants.

  Cazembi walked with Kho, who had apparently developed a taste for dates for he was chewing one as they strolled through the marketplace. They met a Madagu, or “chief caravaneer”, named Hosseyni Ag Rali, then went through the usual Muslim salutations before getting to the business of enlisting him as the organizer of a caravan. Hosseyni agreed under the condition that the mysterious Waardiye was onboard as a bodyguard for the sojourn through the desert. 

  Hosseyni led Cazembi and Kho to the area beyond the excavation of salt pits where traders made salt pillars to be taken by caravan. This was a harsh landscape and only the hardest of men forged by the heat of the Sahara could survive. Hard men of this sort inevitably would clash. Cazembi noticed that a crowd was gathering towards one such disturbance. 

The Kel Ulli were Tuareg lower caste goat herdsmen with their leaders wearing straw hats shaped like lamp coverings. Some wore tagelmusts, a wrapping cloth that served as a turban and an alasho veil, They had brought their flocks to the water hole and began pushing aside caravaneers who were watering their camels so their own thirsty herds could get water. A teenage caravaneer named Yaya stood defiantly against a tall Tuareg named Ilaman, who was used to bullying smaller men.

  “Hey, we’re watering here! You wait your turn!” Yaya boldly said.

  Ilaman became angry and growled, “Get out of the way! Our herds come first.”

  “No!” Yaya said defiantly.

  Ilaman yelled, “Our goats are starving! They need water!”

  “So do our camels!” Yaya replied defiantly.

  The other herdsman were watching so Ilaman’s status as leader was at stake. He then struck the boy viciously with his large herding stick but Yaya still wouldn’t withdraw. Ilaman continued beating the boy until he crumbled to the ground in pain. The other Caravaneers tried to intervene but they feared Ilaman’s might as he swung at them as well. A tall, dark skinned, young warrior with only a sprout of painted hair atop his otherwise bald head, pushed his way past the gaping bystanders. The young warrior wore a white war paint design on his face and body while he wielded a very long stick. Cazembi recognized his attire as being similar to the stick fighting warriors he once saw when he visited the Mursi tribes of southern Ethiopia. The warrior prepared his stick by pulling his hand through the length of the shaft in a ritualistic way the Mursi would prime it for battle. All the crowds gave way knowing a mighty duel was about to ensue. 

  The warrior slung his stick like an expert thrashing Ilaman from one direction then whipped his stick back the other way in a side sling, which caused blood to spill with each crack of his stick. Ilaman’s hat was smashed when the stick hit him from one direction then it was knocked off his head when it swung back the other way. Ilaman was beaten soundly as though he was but a boy, again and again, in different parts of his body until he crumbled to his knees, then he fell helplessly to the ground like a fallen tree. 

  “You like to hit young boys? How do you like it?” The Mursi warrior said standing over the beaten Tuareg.

  “Is this the bodyguard you spoke of?” Cazembi asked. 

  Hosseyni did not answer and just continued to watch. 

  The other herdsmen encircled the Mursi warrior to defend the honor of their fallen comrade, a couple of them had drawn their Takoubas, which were swords with wide blades. The odds had shifted against the Mursi warrior for he and his companions were outnumbered. The Warrior deftly swung his stick at his enemies as they tried to get within striking distance.

  Suddenly, an odd sound was heard that created confusion in the ranks of the surrounding Kel Ulli. The sound was heard of an object twirling through the air. The object was some sort of oddly shaped sword that twirled like a boomerang causing the surrounding herdsmen to stare with astonishment at the flying object. They ducked in fear, unsure of where its edged blade would strike. The magical weapon encircled the men as it twirled end upon end until it returned to the hand of its owner. 

  Hosseyni exclaimed, “That—is the Waardiye I spoke of!”

  The Waardiye wore a white robe that covered his head like a hood and draped behind him like a cape. Beneath it he wore what was known as the sanafil of an Afar warrior consisting of a cloth tied at the waist that reached down to his calves. He wore no shirt so his rippling stomach muscles glistened in the sun. The weapon in his hand was called a Jile, a long double edged curved sword that was wickedly lethal. The Waardiye had two Jiles: one shaped more like a boomerang that he regularly carried in a sheath on his back; and another blade not quite as curved he kept in a sheath at his waist. The herdsmen scattered in a hurry at the sight of him. The Mursi warrior named Hoodo and his fellow caravaneers cheered and repeatedly shouted, “Waardiye!” 

  The Waardiye ignored the applause then simply turned and disappeared into the crowd as the crowd also cheered. Hoodo checked on how badly Yaya was hurt but the youth apparently was bloodied but unbowed and managed to smile despite his aches and pains. Hoodo gave him a hug and cheered him as well.

  “Yaya! Yaya!” Hoodo shouted.

  The caravaneers there cheered the young man who smiled despite feeling pain whenever any of the men touched or bumped into him in their enthusiasm. Hosseyni nodded his head with pleasure at the sight.

  The herdsmen wrapped Ilaman’s bleeding head and helped him to his feet though it took the tall man a while to be able to support his own weight. They backed away to let Hoodo and his men finish watering their camels. Kho gave his nod of assent as Cazembi realized he had finally found his man.