Musa Ninki Nanka - Ch.3
#3 of Musa Ninki Nanka
At the word "obayifo," the knight's unaffected and "seen-it-all-before" laid back attitude halted. His body language tensed, and his eyes focused on her without moving. He rolls his dark chocolate fingers with long pointed white fingernails in a mellow but obviously agitated motion, like a cat flicking it's tail. His eyes were shifty. And it was the first time she noticed, his eyes were always shifty. Perhaps why he looked down or closed them, giving such a powerful air of absolute stillness.
"Hmmm...fairy tales. Excellent for children, and folklorists. Like Rabbit and the Hare from your motherland."
"Yes."
"Things like an "obayifo," just consider them merely like Humpty Dumpty. A non-existing being, a metaphor for school children to play with. Oh, and...I do not intend to humiliate my beloved guest, but...please refrain from placing your mouth on your lap silk. It is for comfort and decoration, and a pleasant place to sit your clean forearms when not eating."
He smiles gently, with a loving manner. But despite his words, Christiane feels like the world's biggest fumble-bum dipshit. Her pale white face blazes red as a cherry and she stares down at the cloth, realizing it is real Persian silk, designed in a style only seen in musuems.
"Oh dear Jesus!" blurbs out of her mouth without thinking. A grease spot, in perfect shape of her lips, stains the cloth. The fact that it's edges are immaculate lacey designs in a Mandinkan style only makes it worse.
She feels like a fumbling foul-up schoolgirl who slipped and fell in a mudhole while wearing a expensive all white dress. If she was hormonal right now, she'd start crying. She feels like a buffoon. Her face turns the color of an apple, and her lips have become white, draining from the shame.
Sir Djata gently claps his hands, barely any audible sound. A loud fwoooshing sound down one of the immensely long and massive hallways snaps Christiane into a jolt of alarm. The sound of fmsh-fmsh-fmshing feet hurrying down the stone floor echoes proof of a oncoming individual. Around the corner, a rather tall man, at least 6 foot 8, appears. He is dressed like a Moor, completely covered from head to toe in red and white silk and linen. Only his eyes peeping out. But this man looks more laden in cloth, as if he's a male version of a total veiled burka. As she peeks at his eyes, she notices his skin is pale as hers, and his eyes shine bright blue. Reddish-brown hair juts as wild bushy eyebrows over his eyes, which seem hyper and nervous. If not for his flat but extremely massive and muscular chest, she would've swore he was a veiled woman in a burka with a turban.
The knight mumbles nonchalantly in Wolof, and the man nods. A sort of...uneasing growl, barely heard at all, emanates from him. As if a response. "Yes, my lord." sounds about right for the tone and what it was trying to convey. The gigantic burka in red and white begins sliding towards her rapidly. Her eyes bulge instinctively. What must have been a gigantic fist, or maybe a hand held in a "flat" position, snatches the cloth from her lap. And the blue eyes stare at her intensely. Like a dog looking at meat. The man in the burka then sighs and rapidly leaves the dining room with the lap cloth tucked in his unusually long arms. Now she got an idea of them.
"Please, forgive Mr. Smith. He is not used to guests nor proper host etiquette."
"Mr. Smith?"
"Yes. I take it he comes from a line of smiths."
"That name sounds-"
"I found Mr. Smith while on one of my....eh, safaris. Big game hunting, yes. He was one of the white slaves in Benin."
Christiane knew of slavery in Africa. She also knew many African nations had swaths of white slaves for years, especially the Moors. But slavery in these countries was not the same as in the English colonies. Once a slave served their amount of years, they were free, and often joined as family members or inlaws of their master's manor.
"Heh, it's alright, Sir."
"I do say, Joseph can be rather...flighty. But don't think he is batty, since he can get rather bloodthirsty. When it comes to the antiques, that is."
"He seemed furious. I'm sure he wanted to kill me."
She stops and mentally knocks herself for using such cheap slang.
"Oh yes. He would ever love true to sink his claws in your flesh and then, fly you up into a tree....to bleed you dry."
A long silence permeates the dining hall.
Sir Djata looks at her rather matter-of-factly. A slowly sinking-in horror fills her body.
"HA HA HA HA HA!!!! I am making a joke! A joke!"
"Ohh! Heh....heh...Hehheheheheheheh!"
They talk long into the night, about more actual history than myths or lores. Christiane finds her notebook rapidly filling with all manner of things. Lines of nobles and aristocrats, knight houses, the game of thrones between the Hausa kingdoms, and the powerful influence of the Songhai. She jots down things of sheikhs and wars, and how in this land, education and money always seem to be the hammer of power rather than force or might. So alien, so foreign.
By the time Sir Djata Hawa-Daxe shifts his position, the first time he has for hours while she has constantly shifted hers, every 30-40 minutes or so, was when she realized just how long she'd been prodding the man with questions and quizzes. How could the man sit in the exact same position without moving? For so long?
But the man rose, without so much as a sigh, a stretch, or absolutely any sign of standing up after sitting too long. He moved as if he had only sat down for 2 minutes and then got back up. He folds his hands behind his back, only accentuating his massive and wide black chest dotted by a perfectly V-shaped patch of clearish-white curly hair.
"I have thoroughly found joy in every single second of your presence. But, I must head to bed. We can continue this tomorrow...if such would bring you joy?" he smiles gently, raising a thick, black eyebrow.
Christiane immediately stood, patting her dress down straight and sighing louder than she wishes. Her bones move, her tendons snap and pop pleasurably, and her muscles stretch and fill with fluid. She then notices the knight's huge pink lips seem to have...become a little wettened. As if the scent of a steak has hit him. Surely, he's licked his lips to moisten them after so long speaking. But...she never saw him lick his lips. Not even move his mouth...
"I apologize for keeping you up so long, Sir Djata!"
"Do not apologize, but boast of it! No human being has brought such bright light into my life in such a long time. Finding you has been like finding treasure, that sings and only brings happiness."
He was so foreign, so she didn't know if he was just so smooth, or just giving a platonic thanks. Sometimes, things he said which were strictly platonic sounded so romantic to her, and....flustered her a bit.
He stood there in his toga, and almost-black skin, holding his pale palm out towards one of the huge halls.
"This castle is...rather...old. And though this does belong to my family's order, not all parts are yet...eh, what is the term.....oh, yes.... Refurbished."
The way he said "refurbished" seemed so sad, as if speaking of a death in the family. He walked her to the front door, walking by her side. But she noticed as she bounced up and down, clock-clock-clonk-ing on the stone floor, it seemed he almost just....floated. Yet, his thick and muscular legs simply took longer and steadier strides. And literally walked from heel to toe, perfectly balanced, with his hands folded behind his back.
Christiane looked up and around in awe at the iron contructs that held entire rows of old weapons, or formed T's, which hung with the padded and metal armor and turbans of knights from so very long ago. If not for the fine layers of dust and sand coating everything, she'd swear they were new. Yet, not one web, or any sign of animal life was found in the castle. Not even in the darkest, most forlorn corners. Even the yard outside seemed completely devoid of plantlife. Except those that stood as dead and dried husks.
When they arrived to the huge, perfectly square wooden double doors, the same two unusually and freakishly skinny men in turbans and wrapped in silk with nothing but their turned-away eye slits open, crank open the doors. She felt ashamed that they reminded of her of when Professor DePaul would hook up a skeleton to puppet strings and make it move. Except the jerky puppet motions were not there, and they moved like living people. Just...unusually skinny. Even for being drapped in such swaddling clothing.
The massive iron and wood doors open to reveal....
Nothing.
Nobody.
Merely seas of desert. Not even footprints. Except for hers, and hers alone.
"It....did he....the Dogon boy leave me here?" she turns around, looking up at the massive older knight. He breathes deep a sigh, with the inflection of a humorous chuckle, yet without chuckling.
"Ever the trickster."
"Sir Djata, I...I do not mean to be a bother, or to...I do not intend to see a white foreign woman impose upon you, bu-"
"Think nothing of it. And you are here, in a African country. No offense, but whilst your land was still castles of crude stone and battling one another with knights, we spiraled our lives around college. We do not see "white" here, nor do I. First comes your religion, and then, your nationality. For, what else is there?"
"I...you're correct."
"My homeland has seen so many aristocrats and princes gluttoned on riches that we value one's nation, and who_m_and_what_one claims loyalty to, rather than such a small, worthless thing as skin or hair color. The emperors and kings and nobles for centuries have had white wives, white guards, white knights, and white servants, white friends, and white adopted children. There is no "white." Only they who you claim your fealty to, your path in faith, and who your body is pledged to. Your homeland did not see race either, until....until...that...foolish mark of Cain concept."
"I'm French, Sir."
Christiane does not intend to be confused with any racist or a woman from a land obsessed with color or ethnicity. And she let's him know her national superiority, for what country is more advanced than the French empire?
"Indeed." He looks out over the endless ocean of sand, seeing the black sky now a dark navy blue. "You may rest here for the morning, and I will see to it that you are cared for and safely in pure comfort. And, I will send for a transport for you."
"Thank you so much, Farima Djata Hawa-Daxe." she curtsies before him. The massive knight smiles gently, and bows in the Songhai fashion. "Is it not a man's nature to protect a woman?"
She bites her lip. The quote alone, said in French, with his thick Wolof accent, and the sweet scent of his spice-covered body, sends a tingle to her groin. She hates feeling this way.
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Christiane awakens in a thick circular bed, sitting upon golden and iron legs shaped like an elephant's. A circle of 5 red and gold striped poles encircle it, forming African-mask type heads at the top. The bed is filled with silk, satin and plush pillows. The windows are small, shaped like 6 foot tall arches only inches wide, forcing moonlight to break in as stripes and wide beams. Walls of moonlight. The wall is white sandstone, perfectly aligned with iron hooks for clothing, wooden shelves at table height, comfortable chairs, and even a washbowl sitting on a tall pillar of elephant's tusks. The hard stone floor is layered with lush colorful carpeting, which hug and kiss her naked feet as she arises out of bed.
She startles to see a small table, only a mere foot off the ground, sitting on the main rug. On bronze and gold plates, a golden top covers the massive bowls, steaming a heavenly scent that sends her hunger into overdrive. Without thinking, she immediately drops to her knees and pulls the top off, only to see it is filled with steaming water and various sized cloths.
((Ohhh, right...)) she reminds herself of just where she is, (( ...traditional morning wash.)) In the Songhai tradition, bathing is daily. Often multiple times a day, and to skip washing was taboo. Horribly taboo. She laughs to herself, thinking of just what they'd think of people bathing once a week. Then she remembers that Persian explorer that visited Europe in Medievel times, and all the disparaging things he considered after witnessing the hygiene.
"Unhhh...foreign perspectives..." she bemoans to herself in French, before dipping her hands in hot, steaming, spiced water filling the bronze bowl and washing her face, hands, neck, and arms. Spiced water runs down her pale throat and collarbone to glisten and glaze her bosom, filling her with a feeling she hadn't felt since sailing off for the deserts.