In a flash, I arrived in a Mali savanna. Yellow grass tickled my knees, and I could spy scraggly trees in the distance. A barren village loomed on the hazy horizon. Smiling at the yolk colored sun , I meandered toward the mud huts. As I started to enter the surrounding fields, workers stared at me suspiciously. In the heart of the small town, a metal worker created ornate dishes out of scraps. Intrigued, I paused and watched. The artist was an old man, but he still moved with a spirited grace. In an instant, he had whipped up a gorgeous work of art. Deciding that I wanted to learn the ways of the metalworkers, I asked about apprenticeships.
We had a conversation in Bambara, a popular language in Mali. He informed me that many people wanted to become his apprentice, for he was the only metalworker that wasn't part of a guild. Young, talented, workers had traveled from miles away to earn his teaching, and all had failed. All apprentices with potential had to make a sample piece that was put through intense scrutiny. Despite his warning, I made up my mind to try. Inspired by the Benin plaques, I formed a wax model. It was a snapshot of the metalworker.
I surrounded the wax form in clay, then stuck it in the fire. Soon the wax had melted. I created an alloy out of scrap metal and poured it into the empty clay mold. After a half hour, the metal hardened. Using a hammer, I chipped away the clay, revealing a perfect plaque. Proudly, I showed the metalworker. Alarmed, he covered my work with a piece of Kente cloth. "Don't you know anything?" He yell-whispered. " This village has converted to Islam. I am the only animist left. Creating art that depicts people or animals is sacrilege, because only god can create life. If we are caught with your plaque, we will be punished." Astonished by this display, I winced and accidentally pushed aside the cloth covering my treasonous art. A collective gasp was released by a gathering crowd. "Run," the metalworker spat through gritted teeth. "RUN"
As I slipped through a gap in the people, I noticed the metalworker had been grabbed by the chief's advisers. Cursing myself, I turned on my heels and walked to the captors willingly. We were taken to the chiefs house. "You have been caught practicing animism. This is a great crime and you will both have to pay severe fines." the chief chastened. He addressed the metalworker with scorn. "I expected much better of you, griot." Surprised, I studied my companion with respect. The griot opened his mouth, and a flood of words spilled out. In a hypnotic voice, he told onlookers about how I had come from a place without the light of Islam. He wove a magical story that had the chief tearing up. When the griot finally stopped talking, the chief let us go with many apologies. The griot seemed weary of me now, so I thanked him and went on my way.
As I walked out of the village, people smiled and waved. I pondered my new adventure and all I had learned. Griots have great power, but the power of Islam is greater. Sometimes though, a griot can tell a story that combats this power. No matter what anybody said, I was proud of my plaque. Contentment spread through my veins as I waded to my Porsche.
