Granite. Jenny Robson

said Tshangani. “We have already lived through fourteen winters.”

      Silently I prayed to my ancestors and even to our god Mmwahhari. “Please not today. Just not today.”

      Yet that was the very day the command came.

      Not an initiation call though. No. It was a call of a very different nature. And even more frightening to me.

      But as I have said, I am a coward.

      *

      And I – I am Shafiq bin Fatmar, who will write down this chronicle.

      I was born in a small town west of Cairo in Egypt, on the edges of the great desert we call Sahra. But it was always my wish to travel far and wide, from my earliest years.

      Yes, to travel like my grandfather, who headed east to the strange lands of India and China beyond. To travel like my great-uncle, who headed westward to explore the exotic lands of the Crusaders, those strange and savage white-bodied peoples.

      They returned, both men, with such stories! Such stories that were the sounds of my childhood!

      “Come, young Shafiq, let me describe for you the court of the great Emperor of China. Such a place of luxury and magnificent gifts! Yes, my grandson. And with so many wives and all of themwith feet so tiny it is a wonder they can stand upright …”

      “Come, Shafiq, my young grand-nephew, while your mother is out at the market. Come let me tell you of the strange customs of the Crusaders: the Franks, the Germanics, the Englishers. How they torture their prisoners. Aah, it is a tale to turn your blood cold …”

      But I wanted to find my own stories. I wanted to explore new places of my own. So as soon as I became a man, I headed southwards. Sailing with Arab traders along the coast of Afrika, down to the Land of the Jenz, the people of the dark-brown bodies.

      I was drawn to the fabled kingdom of Zimba Remabwe, from where so much gold came. And to the fabled walls of that kingdom, walls that could stand – to the height of six men – without cement between their stones. Without mortar to bind them fast and steady, and keep them from toppling. So I had heard.

      “For a short time,” I told myself as I journeyed there. “Just long enough to gather stories.”

      But in the end I have stayed these past seven years. Seven! And they have been years of great marvel for me. I could not tear myself from Zimba Remabwe’s many charms.

      But now, as Mokomba tells us, “The walls stand silent and the huts are empty.”

      I have brought Mokomba with me to the port town of Sofala. How could I leave him behind in those silent walls? His late father, ReDombo, was ever my good friend, giving me shelter in his compound. He had his slaves build a hut for my use alone.

      ReDombo said, “Shafiq the Arab, it is our custom to welcome foreigners. Who knows what wonders we may learn from them?” He made a space for me at his family’s fire and ordered his wife to serve me from the family’s cooking pot. And this was before ever the King took notice of me, beforeever I was summoned up to the hill-fortress and asked for advice and information.

      Poor lad! Poor fatherless and homeless lad!

      Mokomba sleeps now in this small Sofala room I have rented.He murmurs constantly. He thrashes his arms about and whoknows what nightmares crowd his dreams?

      My blessed mother said, “Speak your heart to ease your heart.” That is why I have asked Mokomba to dictate his story. Perhaps it will help to ease his heart? Perhaps it will give him some measure of peace?

      And too, there is the matter of how I always planned to pen a chronicle, like my great-uncle before me. A chronicle that would take its place in the great libraries back home.

      And also, for a third reason, there is the matter of the reams of paper here. Paper from India, good and thin and easier to write upon. Along with the pens and inks that I ordered from my friend, the trader Mustapha.

      Yes, at the King’s request. Well, his command. The King of Zimba Remabwe does not request, he commands. And his commands must be obeyed with speed.

      The King spoke from his high rock-throne, there in the council area of his hill-fortress. Hidden from our view as he always was. Though his voice echoed and slid down the rock face. “Yes, Shafiq, this is a fine idea. You will teach the sons of my noblemen this craft of writing. Yes, this is a project that pleases me.”

      I was glad to obey such a command. With haste, I rushed to my fellow-Arab Mustapha, who was in the city at the time. I ordered the goods needed for my task. That was two years back.

      But the papers have only just now arrived in Sofala. Time is always an enemy in these parts. Mustapha brought them to our rented room.

      “The order is fully paid for, Shafiq,” he said. He is an honesttrader. “But I understand there is no longer a city where they can be delivered. No bearers dare to head that way.”

      And then I remembered my blessed mother’s words. So I took the papers from Mustapha and piled them in the corner of our room. Then I said to Mokomba, “Speak and I will write your words. And the story of your marvellous city will not be lost to the world.”

      It is difficult for me, this task.

      As he dictates, I must translate his words into my own Arabic language, and then write down the translation. Difficult and tiring. But in my seven years, I learned well the language of the Kingdom.

      I was always quick with new tongues. From my grandfather, I learned Chinese words and Indian phrases. From my grand-uncle, I learned sentences from the many Crusader dialects: Neapolitan and Frankish, Germanic and Englisher. So many, many dialects do the white-bodied people of the west speak.

      Still, I must stop writing now. This chronicle is to be Mokomba’s story. Not mine. And tomorrow he will dictate the message of the King’s command, I think. The command that set in motion so much tragedy.

      Insha’Allah.

      2. Beneath the hill-fortress of Zimba Remabwe

      Yes, and so it was that very morning while we sat above the well of the commoners. Tshangani and I. All the pretty common girls had left now, back to their huts and compounds that spread far across the valleys. To perform their daily duties.

      Tshangani was practising his Storykeeper craft.

      “There is so much to remember, Mokomba,” he said. “Most especially with the forbidden stories that cannot be recited at feasts and festivals.”

      “So tell me again about mad King Mudadi.” I whispered even though it was only the two of us there.

      Tshangani whispered back the whole story. From a time four kings back. His words drew pictures before my eyes, so clear they were. How King Mudadi was frightened of dirt. How his servants must carry water up the steep steps of the hill-fortress. All the way up to his private chambers so that he might wash. Seven times daily!

      I looked up towards the hill of the King, so high and still hidden by morning mists. With a hundred hundred steps that twisted and turned unevenly. Poor servants, I thought.

      And then there was the episode of Mudadi and the moon.

      King Mudadi decreed to his councillors, “The moon is so pure and so clean and without dirt. I want the moon collected and brought down here for my throne. Yes, I will only sit on the moon. No other cushion. Then I will be safe from dirt.”

      And of course his councillors had no way to collect the moon. They begged and pleaded for royal reason. They asked the priests to petition on their behalf. But the King was without reason. So the councillors were punished for their disobedience, all of them. Flung down from the highest wall atop the hill-fortress, the wall of death. Flung down to lie broken and dying in the valley below.

      “I am glad we don’t live in such bloody times,” I said.

      And this is true. Or this was true. It was seldom that