home,” said Omoro. “But they were dragged and beaten on.” Even in the small canoes out in the water, he told Kunta and Lamin, some kept fighting against the whips and the clubs until they jumped into the water among terrible long fish with gray backs and white bellies and curved mouths full of thrashing teeth that reddened the water with their blood.
Kunta and Lamin had huddled close to each other, each gripping the other’s hands. “It’s better that you know these things than
that your mother and I kill the white cock one day for you.” Omoro looked at his sons. “Do you know what that means?”
Kunta managed to nod, arid found his voice. “When someone is missing, Fa?” He had seen families frantically chanting to Allah as they squatted around a white cock bleeding and flapping with its throat slit.
“Yes,” said Omoro. “If the white cock dies on its breast, hope remains. But when a white cock flaps to death on its back, then no hope remains, and the whole village joins the family in crying to Allah.”
“Fa—” Lamin’s voice, squeaky with fear, startled Kunta, “where do the big canoes take the stolen people?”
“The elders say to Jong Sang Doo,” said Omoro, “a land where slaves are sold to huge cannibals called toubabo koomi, who eat us. No man knows any more about it.”
CHAPTER 17
S o frightened was Lamin by his father’s talk of slave-taking and white cannibals that he awakened Kunta several times that night with his bad dreams. And the next day, when Kunta returned from goatherding, he decided to turn his little brother’s mind—and his own—from such thoughts by telling him about their distinguished uncles.
“Our father’s brothers are also the sons of Kairaba Kunta Kinte, for whom I am named,” said Kunta proudly. “But our uncles Janneh and Saloum were born of Sireng,” he said. Lamin looked puzzled, but Kunta kept on explaining. “Sireng was our grandfather’s first wife, who died before he married our Grandma Yaisa.” Kunta arranged twigs on the ground to show the Kinte family’s different individuals. But he could see that Lamin still didn’t understand. With a sigh, he began to talk instead of their uncles’ adventures, which Kunta himself had thrilled to so often when his father had told of them.
“Our uncles have never taken wives for themselves because their love of traveling is so great,” said Kunta. “For moons on end, they travel under the sun and sleep under the stars. Our father says they have been where the sun burns upon endless sand, a land where there is never any rain.” In another place their uncles had visited, said Kunta, the trees were so thick that the forests were
dark as night even in the daytime. The people of this place were no taller than Lamin, and like Lamin, always went naked—even after they grew up. And they killed huge elephants with tiny, poisoned darts. In still another place, a land of giants, Janneh and Saloum had seen warriors who could throw their hunting spears twice as far as the mightiest Mandinka, and dancers who could leap higher than their own heads, which were six hands higher than the tallest man in Juffure.
Before bedtime, as Lamin watched with wide eyes, Kunta acted out his favorite of all the stories—springing suddenly about with an imaginary sword slashing up and down, as if Lamin were one of the bandits whom their uncles and others had fought off every day on a journey of many moons, heavily laden with elephants’ teeth, precious stones, and gold, to the great black city of Zimbabwe.
Lamin begged for more stories, but Kunta told him to go to sleep. Whenever Kunta had been made to go to bed after his father told him such tales, he would lie on his mat—as his little brother now would—with his mind making the uncles’ stories into pictures. And sometimes Kunta would even dream that he was traveling with his uncles to all the strange places, that he was talking with the people who looked and acted
Kunta and Lamin had huddled close to each other, each gripping the other’s hands. “It’s better that you know these things than
that your mother and I kill the white cock one day for you.” Omoro looked at his sons. “Do you know what that means?”
Kunta managed to nod, arid found his voice. “When someone is missing, Fa?” He had seen families frantically chanting to Allah as they squatted around a white cock bleeding and flapping with its throat slit.
“Yes,” said Omoro. “If the white cock dies on its breast, hope remains. But when a white cock flaps to death on its back, then no hope remains, and the whole village joins the family in crying to Allah.”
“Fa—” Lamin’s voice, squeaky with fear, startled Kunta, “where do the big canoes take the stolen people?”
“The elders say to Jong Sang Doo,” said Omoro, “a land where slaves are sold to huge cannibals called toubabo koomi, who eat us. No man knows any more about it.”
CHAPTER 17
S o frightened was Lamin by his father’s talk of slave-taking and white cannibals that he awakened Kunta several times that night with his bad dreams. And the next day, when Kunta returned from goatherding, he decided to turn his little brother’s mind—and his own—from such thoughts by telling him about their distinguished uncles.
“Our father’s brothers are also the sons of Kairaba Kunta Kinte, for whom I am named,” said Kunta proudly. “But our uncles Janneh and Saloum were born of Sireng,” he said. Lamin looked puzzled, but Kunta kept on explaining. “Sireng was our grandfather’s first wife, who died before he married our Grandma Yaisa.” Kunta arranged twigs on the ground to show the Kinte family’s different individuals. But he could see that Lamin still didn’t understand. With a sigh, he began to talk instead of their uncles’ adventures, which Kunta himself had thrilled to so often when his father had told of them.
“Our uncles have never taken wives for themselves because their love of traveling is so great,” said Kunta. “For moons on end, they travel under the sun and sleep under the stars. Our father says they have been where the sun burns upon endless sand, a land where there is never any rain.” In another place their uncles had visited, said Kunta, the trees were so thick that the forests were
dark as night even in the daytime. The people of this place were no taller than Lamin, and like Lamin, always went naked—even after they grew up. And they killed huge elephants with tiny, poisoned darts. In still another place, a land of giants, Janneh and Saloum had seen warriors who could throw their hunting spears twice as far as the mightiest Mandinka, and dancers who could leap higher than their own heads, which were six hands higher than the tallest man in Juffure.
Before bedtime, as Lamin watched with wide eyes, Kunta acted out his favorite of all the stories—springing suddenly about with an imaginary sword slashing up and down, as if Lamin were one of the bandits whom their uncles and others had fought off every day on a journey of many moons, heavily laden with elephants’ teeth, precious stones, and gold, to the great black city of Zimbabwe.
Lamin begged for more stories, but Kunta told him to go to sleep. Whenever Kunta had been made to go to bed after his father told him such tales, he would lie on his mat—as his little brother now would—with his mind making the uncles’ stories into pictures. And sometimes Kunta would even dream that he was traveling with his uncles to all the strange places, that he was talking with the people who looked and acted
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