[ 00:00] If you close your eyes and listen, really listen, you can hear the wind moving through the dry grass of the West African Savannah.
It is a warm wind, carrying the scent of red earth, wood smoke, and the sweet, sharp promise of rain.
And if you listen beneath the wind, you will hear a sound like falling water, the bright cascading notes of the Kora.
The Kora is an instrument made from a giant gourd, sliced in half and covered with polished cowhide, with a long hardwood neck and 21 strings that stretch upward like the branches of a tree.
For 700 years, the players of this instrument have been more than just musicians.
In the great land of Mali, among the Monde peoples, they are called Griots.
A Griot is a living library.
They do not keep their stories on paper, where ink can fade or pages can burn.
They keep them in their lungs, in their fingers, and in the deep chambers of their memory.
They sing the names of grandmothers and grandfathers who lived before the great empires were born.
They remember who made peace, who broke promises, and who built the roads we still walk upon.
This is one of their greatest stories.
The tale of Sundiata Keita, the Lion King of Mali.
It is a story that has been told in a thousand different ways, by a thousand different voices, but its heart remains as solid as the red stone of the mountains.
Our story begins in the ancient kingdom of Niani, a place of green valleys and busy markets, ruled by a king named Nare Magan Konate.
He was a handsome king, well loved by his people, but he was troubled.
One day, a forest hunter came to his court.
This hunter was no ordinary tracker of beasts.
He was a seer, a man who could read the whispers of the brush and the patterns of the stars.
The hunter sat before the king, unrolled a pouch of sacred cowry shells and cast them onto the dirt.
He looked at the way they fell, squinting through the dust.
"Great king," the hunter said, his voice like dry leaves scraping together.
"Your destiny is a path of gold, but it must start in the mud.
Soon, two hunters will come to your gates.
They will bring with them a woman from the distant land of Doe.
She will be hunchbacked with bulging eyes and skin like the bark of an old tree.
People will call her Sogolon, the Buffalo woman, because they think she is ugly and wild.
But you must marry her."
The king's court fell silent.
The king already had a beautiful wife, Sasuma Berete, who had given him a strong, handsome son named Dankaran Tuman.
Why should he marry a woman who was mocked by the world?
"Do not look at the vessel," the hunter warned, pointing a long finger at the king.
"Look at what the vessel holds.
From this buffalo woman, you will father a son.
He will be the greatest king ever to walk the earth.
He will unite the clans.
He will sweep away the darkness, and he will make the name of Mali eternal.
But remember, the seed of a great tree must spend a long time in the dark before it reaches for the sun."
The king did not forget the prophecy, and indeed, months later, two hunters arrived at the palace gates.
Between them walked a woman named Sogolon Keju.
She was just as the seer had described.
Her back was curved like a river stone.
Her face was rough, and she kept her eyes cast down to the earth to avoid the cruel stares of the courtiers.
Queen Sasuma, the king's first wife, laughed aloud when she saw her.
"Is this the prize of Niani?" she mocked from her high seat.
"Is this the rival for my beauty?"
But King Nare Magan remembered the hunter's shells.
He looked past the curved spine and the rough skin.
He saw the quiet, fierce dignity in Sogolon's eyes, the spirit of the wild buffalo, ancient and unbreakable.
He welcomed her with honor, and in time, he made her his wife.
A year later, the palace filled with the cries of a newborn baby.
It was a boy.
Sogolon named him Mari Jata, but the people called him Sundiata, the son of Sogolon.
The king ran to the nursery, his heart pounding with the hope of the prophecy.
But when he looked into the cradle, his heart faltered.
The baby's legs were thin and weak, curved inward like dry twigs.
As the years went by, the other children of the palace learned to toddle, then to run, then to chase hoops through the dust.
But Sundiata did not run.
He did not even stand.
While his half-brother, Dankaran Tuman, grew tall and fleet-footed, Sundiata crawled on his hands and knees, dragging his heavy legs behind him.
He was a silent boy, with a head too large for his body, and eyes that seemed to watch everything with a deep, unreadable gravity.
And in the corners of the palace, Queen Sasuma's laughter grew louder and more bitter every day.
Final read.
As the years went by, the other children of the palace learned to toddle, then to run, then to chase hoops through the dust.
But Sundiata did not run.
He did not even stand.
While his half-brother, Dankaran Tuman, grew tall and fleet-footed, Sundiata crawled on his hands and knees, dragging his heavy legs behind him.
He was a silent boy, with a head too large for his body, and eyes that seemed to watch everything with a deep, unreadable gravity.
And in the corners of the palace, Queen Sasuma's laughter grew louder and more bitter every day.
To grow up in a palace where everyone expects you to be a king, but you cannot even stand to greet your father, is a heavy burden.
Yet, the wrong was never in the boy.
The wrong was in the eyes of those who looked at him and saw only what was missing.
Queen Sasuma made sure that everyone in Niani knew of Sundiata's weakness.
"Look at the great savior," she would whisper to the merchants in the market.
"Look at the lion who cannot even chase away the flies.
My son Dankaran is already practicing with the spear.
He will be the king, while the buffalo's son will spend his life eating the scraps that fall from our table."
Sundiata's mother, Sogolon, felt these words like knives in her chest.
She would sit in her small hut, away from the grand halls of the court, and weep as she washed her son's useless legs with healing herbs.
She prayed to the spirits of the land.
She cried out to the ancestors, but still, Sundiata's legs remained limp.
Yet, Sundiata did not cry.
He would reach up with his thick, strong arms, arms that had grown powerful from dragging his weight across the earth, and gently wipe the tears from his mother's face.
He could not speak many words yet, but his voice, when he used it, was surprisingly deep.
"Patience, mother," he would whisper.
"The lion is only sleeping."
The king too was troubled.
He wanted to believe the hunter's prophecy, but his own body was growing old and frail, and his counselors were whispering that a kingdom could not be left to a boy who crawled.
Before the king died, he called Sundiata to his bedside.
Next to the king stood a young boy about Sundiata's age, holding a small drum.
This boy was Bala Faseke, the son of the king's own court Griot.
"My son," the king said, his voice failing.
"Every king must have a guide, a keeper of his deeds, a voice to speak to the future.
I give you Bala Faseke to be your Griot.
He will be your tongue when you are silent.
He will be your ears when you must listen.
Treat him not as a servant, but as your brother."
Sundiata looked at Bala Faseke.
The young Griot did not look down at Sundiata with pity or amusement.
Instead, Bala Faseke bowed low, then struck his drum, a sharp, clear beat that echoed in the quiet room.
In that moment, a bond was forged between the prince who could not walk and the boy who was born to sing.
When the king closed his eyes for the last time, the elders of the court met to choose the next ruler.
They did not choose Sundiata.
They feared Queen Sasuma's anger, and they could not imagine a king who lived on the ground.
They placed the crown of Niani on the head of Dankaran Tuman, the first wife's son.
Now that her son was king, Sasuma's cruelty knew no bounds.
She stripped Sogolon and Sundiata of their royal quarters and forced them to live in a mud-walled hut near the palace kitchens.
Sundiata was nine years old now, a heavy, powerful boy from the waist up, but still bound to the dust.
Every day, Sasuma's servants would throw their garbage near Sogolon's door, and the queen herself would walk past, smiling her cold, bright smile.
The breaking point came on a hot afternoon during the dry season.
In Mali, the women use the leaves of the great baobab tree to flavor their stews and sauces.
Sogolon's garden had withered under the heat, and she had no leaves left to cook the evening meal.
With a heavy heart, she went to the palace gardens to ask the other women for a handful of baobab leaves.
Sasuma was there, surrounded by her handmaidens.
When Sogolon asked for help, the queen burst into high, mocking laughter.
"Baobab leaves?" Sasuma cried out so that all the cooks and guards could hear.
"You come to beg from me?
My son Dankaran is a young man now.
He climbs the highest trees and brings me the freshest leaves every morning.
But you?
You have a son who is nine years old, and he still crawls in the dirt like a lizard.
Go on.
Take these leaves from the ground.
It is all your useless boy will ever be able to provide for you."
She threw a handful of dry, dirty leaves into the dust at Sogolon's feet.
Sogolon did not answer.
She did not pick up the leaves.
She walked back to her hut, her shoulders shaking, her tears falling into the red earth.
When she pushed open the wooden door, she saw Sundiata sitting in the corner, eating a bowl of cold millet.
Sogolon's grief turned to anger, not at the queen, but at the cruel hand of fate that had given her this child.
She took a wooden stirring stick and struck her son across his broad shoulders.
"Why?" she sobbed, falling to her knees.
"Why did I ever believe the prophecy?
Why did I marry a king, only to be laughed at by the women of the town?
Your father is dead.
Your brother is king, and I am insulted in the public square because my son cannot even walk to the forest to fetch a leaf for my pot."
Sundiata did not flinch from the blow.
He looked at his mother's tear-stained face, then down at the dust.
A strange, terrible quiet fell over the hut.
The silence grew so heavy that even the birds outside seemed to stop their singing.
Sundiata placed his hands on the ground.
His chest rose and fell with a deep, slow breath.
"Mother," he said, and his voice was no longer that of a child.
It was the low growl of thunder before a storm.
"Dry your eyes.
Today, you will have more than just a handful of leaves.
Today, I will walk."
Sundiata looked at his Griot, Bala Faseke, who had just entered the hut.
"Go to the blacksmiths," Sundiata commanded.
"Tell them to forge the strongest bar of iron they have ever made.
Tell them the lion of Niani has need of a staff."
Bala Faseke's eyes lit up with a sudden, wild hope.
He did not ask questions.
He ran through the streets of Niani, his feet flying over the dirt, until he reached the quarters of the blacksmiths.
In Mali, the blacksmiths are not merely workers of metal.
They are master craftsmen who understand the secrets of fire and earth.
They knew the prophecies of the buffalo woman's son.
When Bala Faseke gave them the message, the chief blacksmith, Farakuru, nodded his head.
"The time has come," Farakuru said.
The blacksmiths worked through the heat of the afternoon.
Their hammers rang out in a steady metallic rhythm.
Clink, clink, clink, clank, as they drew the red hot iron from the furnace.
They hammered and folded, hammered and folded, until they had created a massive bar of iron, so thick and heavy that it took six strong apprentices just to carry it through the town.
The news spread like wildfire through Niani.
"The crawling prince has called for an iron staff.
He says he will walk today."
By the time the apprentices reached Sogolon's hut, a massive crowd had gathered.
Queen Sasuma stood at the front, her arms crossed, a sneer of disbelief on her lips.
"Let us see this miracle," she whispered to her son, King Dankaran.
"Let us see the lizard pretend to be a man."
The apprentices laid the heavy iron bar on the ground in front of Sundiata.
It looked like the axle of a giant chariot, cold and unyielding.
Sundiata crawled out of the dark hut into the bright, blinding sunlight.
He did not look at the crowd.
He did not look at Sasuma.
He looked only at the iron bar, and then at his mother, who stood trembling by the doorway.
Sundiata reached down, his massive hands, calloused from years of gripping the earth, wrapped around the cold iron.
He drew a breath that seemed to pull the very air out of the courtyard.
His shoulder muscles bunched like coiled ropes.
The veins in his neck stood out, thick and blue.
He began to pull himself up.
The crowd held its breath.
The only sound was the low, steady drumming of Bala Faseke, who had begun to sing the ancient song of the ancestors, the hymn to the bow.
"Rise, lion of Mali," Bala Faseke sang, his voice rising above the crowd.
"Rise, son of the buffalo.
The path is long, but the first step is yours."
Sundiata pulled.
His knees, which had never borne weight, began to straighten.
But the weight of his massive body was too much for the iron.
Under the incredible force of his grip and the downward pressure of his struggle, the heavy iron bar began to bend.
The crowd gasped.
The iron, forged by the master smiths, meant to be unbreakable, was curving like a green twig.
It bent into the shape of a bow.
For a second, it seemed Sundiata would fall back into the dust.
Sasuma took a step forward, a laugh rising in her throat.
But Sundiata did not give up.
He let go of the bent iron and reached out with his bare hands.
He gripped the wooden pillars that held up his mother's hut.
His fingers sank into the wood.
With a mighty roar that shook the thatch of the roof, he threw his shoulders back and forced his legs straight.
Crack!
The wooden pillars groaned, but Sundiata's feet were planted on the ground.
For the first time in his 15 years of life, he was standing.
He was not small.
He stood taller than any man in the courtyard.
His chest was as broad as a shield, his shoulders wide, his posture straight as a spear.
The limpness in his legs had not vanished, but it had been conquered by the sheer, roaring power of his will.
He stood like an ancient tree that had finally broken through the stone.
Sogolon fell to her knees, weeping tears of joy, her hands raised to the sky.
Sundiata took a step.
It was a heavy, limping step, but it was solid.
The earth seemed to tremble beneath his heel.
He took another step, then another, walking past the stunned crowd.
He did not stop at the palace gates.
He walked all the way to the edge of the forest, where a great baobab tree grew.
He reached out his massive arms, wrapped them around the thick trunk of the tree, and with a heave that set his muscles on fire, he tore the tree, roots, dirt, and all, straight out of the ground.
He hoisted the giant tree onto his shoulder, walked back to the town, and laid it gently in front of his mother's hut.
"Here, mother," Sundiata said, his voice ringing through the silent streets.
"Now the women of Niani will come to your door when they need leaves for their stew."
From that day on, no one in Niani laughed at the buffalo's son.
But where laughter died, a dark, cold fear was born in the heart of Queen Sasuma.
Queen Sasuma knew that as long as Sundiata lived, her own son's throne was in danger.
She began to whisper to the dark sorcerers of the night, searching for a poison or a curse that could fell the young giant.
Sogolon, wise in the ways of the world, saw the danger.
She knew that her son was strong, but he was still young, and a knife in the dark can kill even a lion.
"We must leave, my son," Sogolon said one evening, as they sat by the fire.
"We must go into exile.
You must learn the ways of the world before you can rule it.
A king who has never been a guest does not know how to be a host."
So, in the dead of night, Sundiata, his mother, his younger sisters, and his faithful Griot, Bala Faseke, slipped out of Niani.
For seven long years, they wandered.
They traveled through the dry lands of the Sahel, through the deep forests, and across the dusty trade routes.
They were refugees, begging for shelter at the gates of foreign kings.
Some rulers, fearing the anger of Niani, turned them away.
But others welcomed them.
In the kingdom of Wagadu, the king saw the young prince's strength and made him a commander of his warriors.
In the kingdom of Mima, the king grew to love Sundiata like his own son, teaching him how to govern, how to listen to the elders, and how to judge fairly between the rich and the poor.
Sundiata grew wiser with every passing mile.
He learned the languages of different tribes.
He watched how merchants traded gold for salt, how farmers irrigated their crops, and how different laws brought either peace or war.
He was no longer just a strong boy.
He was becoming a leader of men.
But while Sundiata was learning how to build a kingdom, a dark shadow was falling over his homeland.
Far to the north, in the rugged hills of Soso, lived a king named Somaoro Kante.
He was not a normal king.
He was a sorcerer of terrifying power.
It was said that he wore a coat made from the skins of defeated kings, and that his shoes were crafted from human leather.
In his high castle, Somaoro kept a secret chamber.
Inside this chamber sat a magical balafon, a large wooden xylophone that was guarded by three-headed serpents.
Whenever Somaoro struck the keys of this balafon, the spirits of the underworld would rise to do his bidding.
No army could defeat him, because his magic made him immune to iron and wood.
No spear could pierce his skin, no arrow could draw his blood.
Somaoro's army marched south, conquering one kingdom after another.
He was ruthless.
He burned cities, salted fields, and carried away the young men and women into slavery.
Finally, the sorcerer king reached Niani.
Dankaran Tuman, Sundiata's weak half-brother, did not even try to fight.
He fled into the forests, leaving his people to the mercy of the conqueror.
Somaoro entered Niani and declared himself the ruler of Mali.
He took the palace, demanded heavy taxes of gold and grain, and crushed any who dared to whisper against him.
While searching the palace, Somaoro found Bala Faseke, who had returned to Niani briefly to gather news.
Recognizing the young Griot's talent, the sorcerer king did not kill him.
Instead, he kept him prisoner, forcing Bala Faseke to play the magical balafon in his secret chamber.
The people of Mali wept under the sorcerer's iron fist.
They realized now how foolish they had been to reject the buffalo's son.
In their misery, they remembered the boy who had stood, the prince who had carried the baobab tree.
A group of elders decided to find him.
They knew he was in exile, but they did not know where.
To search for him, they disguised themselves as merchants.
They traveled to the great markets of the north, carrying baskets of Monde vegetables, baobab leaves, nugus, and bitter tomatoes, hoping that someone would recognize the tastes of home.
They traveled for months until they reached the bustling market of Mima.
Sundiata's sister, Kolonkon, was walking through the market when she saw the familiar green leaves.
Her heart leaped.
She ran to the merchants and asked where they had come from.
When the elders saw her, they fell to their knees.
"Are you the daughter of Sogolon?" they asked, their voices trembling.
"I am," she replied.
"Then take us to your brother," the elders begged.
"Mali is broken.
The sorcerer king has taken our land, our homes, and our freedom.
The people are crying out for their true king.
The lion must return."
When Sundiata heard the news, his heart burned with a quiet fury.
But his grief was doubled, for his mother, Sogolon, was very old and sick.
She lay on her mat in the kingdom of Mima, her breath shallow.
Sundiata knelt beside her, holding her frail hand.
"Go, my son," she whispered, her eyes shining with the last of her strength.
"Your journey in the dark is over.
The sun has risen.
Do not seek revenge for the laughter of the past.
Seek freedom for the people of the future."
With those words, the buffalo woman closed her eyes.
Sundiata buried her in the red earth of Mima, thanking the king who had given them shelter.
And then, he turned his face toward Mali.
He did not go alone.
The king of Mima gave him a troop of his finest cavalry.
As Sundiata marched south, the news of his return spread like a drum beat through the hills.
The kings he had helped during his exile, the clans who had grown tired of Somaoro's cruelty, all sent their warriors to join him.
By the time Sundiata reached the plains of Krina, he was leading a massive army of united clans.
But they were afraid.
They knew that Somaoro was a sorcerer.
How could they defeat a man who could not be killed by iron?
Meanwhile, in the castle of Soso, Bala Faseke was waiting for his chance.
He had spent months playing the magical balafon for Somaoro, pretending to be loyal while watching the sorcerer's every move.
One evening, after Somaoro had drunk deeply of palm wine, Bala Faseke began to sing a song of praise, flattering the king's great power.
"Oh, great Somaoro," Bala Faseke sang, his fingers dancing over the wooden keys.
"You are the mountain that cannot be moved.
You are the fire that cannot be quenched.
Surely, there is nothing in this world that can harm you."
Somaoro, puffed up with pride and wine, laughed aloud.
"It is true, Griot.
No spear of iron, no arrow of wood can touch me.
My life is bound to the spirits."
"But surely," Bala Faseke whispered softly.
"Every great man has one small thing, one secret taboo that can break his strength."
Somaoro leaned close, his breath hot and sour.
"There is only one thing," he whispered.
"My power can be broken only by the touch of an arrow tipped with the spur of a white rooster, but no one knows this, and no one ever will."
The next morning, while the sorcerer king slept, Bala Faseke slipped out of the castle.
He stole a fast horse and rode like the wind until he reached Sundiata's camp on the plains of Krina.
When Sundiata saw his childhood friend, he embraced him with tears in his eyes.
Bala Faseke did not waste time.
He drew Sundiata into his tent and told him the sorcerer's secret.
Sundiata immediately called for his blacksmiths.
They found a white rooster, removed its sharp leg spur, and carefully bound it to the tip of a wooden arrow.
The next day, the two armies met on the dusty plains of Krina.
It was a terrifying sight.
Somaoro's army was vast, dark, and silent, bristling with black spears.
Somaoro himself rode at the front, wearing his coat of human skin, his face painted with the symbols of his dark magic.
Sundiata rode at the head of his men, his iron bow slung across his back.
He looked at the enemy, then turned to his warriors.
"Today, we do not fight for glory," Sundiata shouted, his voice carrying across the plain.
"We do not fight for gold.
We fight so that our children can walk in the sun without fear.
Stand firm!"
The battle began with a roar that shook the hills.
The cavalry clashed, dust rising in a thick red cloud that blocked out the sun.
Spears shattered against shields.
The air was filled with the screams of horses and the shouts of brave men.
Sundiata fought like a true lion.
He moved through the battle, his great strength clearing a path through the enemy lines.
But his eyes were fixed on one man, Somaoro Kante.
Through the dust, the two kings saw each other.
Somaoro laughed, raising his hand to cast a spell of darkness over Sundiata's warriors.
Sundiata did not hesitate.
He pulled the iron bow from his back, the very bar of iron he had bent as a boy.
He fitted the arrow tipped with the white rooster's spur to the string.
He drew it back, his muscles straining, aiming through the swirling dust.
From!
The arrow flew straight and true, a streak of white light through the red haze of battle.
It did not strike Somaoro in the heart.
It did not need to.
The arrow grazed the sorcerer king's shoulder, just a light scratch that drew a single drop of dark blood.
But the moment the rooster's spur touched his skin, Somaoro felt his magic drain away like water into the sand.
The spirits that had protected him fled with a howling sound that could be heard above the din of battle.
His skin turned pale.
His coat of human skin withered into dust.
Somaoro looked down at his bleeding shoulder, his eyes wide with a sudden, terrible understanding.
The invulnerable king was mortal after all.
Fear struck the heart of the sorcerer king.
He turned his horse and fled from the field.
When his army saw their leader run, they threw down their weapons and scattered into the hills.
Sundiata chased Somaoro into the rocky mountains of Kulokoro.
The sorcerer king climbed higher and higher, trying to escape the lion of Mali, until he reached a deep, dark cave.
Realizing he could go no further, Somaoro turned to stone, disappearing into the gray rock of the mountain forever.
The war was over.
The darkness had been defeated.
But the true work of the lion was only just beginning.
Heeful.
If this were a story about ordinary kings, it would end with a grand feast, a pile of treasure, and the execution of the defeated enemies.
But Sundiata Keita was not an ordinary king.
He remembered his mother's dying words.
"Do not seek revenge for the laughter of the past.
Seek freedom for the people of the future."
Sundiata did not march into Niani to punish those who had laughed at him, or those who had served the sorcerer king.
Instead, he called for a great assembly of all the clans, the chiefs, the warriors, and the common people.
They met at a place called Kuru Kan Fuga, a vast, grassy plain under the shade of a giant sacred tree.
Sundiata sat on a simple wooden stool, not a throne of gold.
Around him sat the representatives of the 44 clans of Mali.
Next to him stood Bala Faseke, ready to record the words that would be spoken.
"We have fought to free our land," Sundiata declared to the assembly.
"But a land without law is like a house without a roof.
We must write a charter, a promise between the ruler and the ruled, between the strong and the weak."
For many days, they spoke, they debated, and they listened.
Under Sundiata's guidance, they created the Kuru Kan Fuga, one of the first declarations of human rights in the history of the world.
They decreed that all human lives were sacred, and that no one could be harmed without a fair trial.
They decreed that women must have a voice in the government, and that they must be treated with respect and honor.
They decreed that strangers must be welcomed and protected, and that even the poorest traveler must find food and shelter in any village in Mali.
They even made laws to protect the earth, forbidding the cutting of young trees and the mistreatment of domestic animals.
"If you must take from the earth," Sundiata said.
"You must also give back.
If you cut a tree, you must plant two in its place."
When the charter was finished, Bala Faseke stepped forward.
He struck his drum and sang the laws so that everyone, even those who could not read, could remember them.
Under Sundiata's rule, the Empire of Mali grew into one of the wealthiest and most peaceful kingdoms the world has ever known.
The gold roads flourished, the universities of Timbuktu were founded, and travelers from distant lands wrote with wonder of a country where a woman could walk alone with a bag of gold and fear no thief.
Sundiata ruled for many years, not with the fist of a conqueror, but with the wisdom of a man who had known what it was to crawl, what it was to be mocked, and what it was to rely on the kindness of strangers.
And so, the Kora continues to play.
The Griots of West Africa still sing of the boy who stood, the lion who united the clans, and the buffalo woman who believed in her son when the rest of the world laughed.
As the music fades into the quiet of the night, and the wind carries the notes away over the hills, we are left with a thought to hold close.
What do the people who laugh at you today owe you tomorrow?
And what will you owe them?