Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [31]
“Only those who permit themselves to be are despised,” he told Kunta—those who had been made slaves because they were convicted murderers, thieves, or other criminals. These were the only slaves whom a master could beat or otherwise punish, as he felt they deserved.
“Do slaves have to remain slaves always?” asked Kunta.
“No, many slaves buy their freedom with what they save from farming on half share with their masters.” Omoro named some in Juffure who had done this. He named others who had won their freedom by marrying into the family that owned them.
To help him carry the heavy sections of palm, Omoro made a stout sling out of green vines, and as he worked, he said that some slaves, in fact, prospered beyond their masters. Some had even taken slaves for themselves, and some had become very famous persons.
“Sundiata was one!” exclaimed Kunta. Many times, he had heard the grandmothers and the griots speaking of the great fore-father slave general whose army had conquered so many enemies.
Omoro grunted and nodded, clearly pleased that Kunta knew this, for Omoro also had learned much of Sundiata when he was Kunta’s age. Testing his son, Omoro asked, “And who was Sundiata’s mother?”
“Sogolon, the Buffalo Woman!” said Kunta proudly.
Omoro smiled, and hoisting onto his strong shoulders two heavy sections of the palm pole within the vine sling, he began walking. Eating his palm fruits, Kunta followed, and nearly all the way back to the village, Omoro told him how the great Mandinka Empire had been won by the crippled, brilliant slave general whose army had begun with runaway slaves found in swamps and other hiding places.
“You will learn much more of him when you are in manhood training,” said Omoro—and the very thought of that time sent a fear through Kunta, but also a thrill of anticipation.
Omoro said that Sundiata had run away from his hated master, as most slaves did who didn’t like their masters. He said that except for convicted criminals, no slaves could be sold unless the slaves approved of the intended master.
“Grandmother Nyo Boto also is a slave,” said Omoro, and Kunta almost swallowed a mouthful of palm fruit. He couldn’t comprehend this. Pictures flashed across his mind of beloved old Nyo Boto squatting before the door of her hut, tending the village’s twelve or fifteen naked babies while weaving baskets of wigs, and giving the sharp side of her tongue to any passing adult—even the elders, if she felt like it. “That one is nobody’s slave,” he thought.
The next afternoon, after he had delivered his goats to their pens, Kunta took Lamin home by a way that avoided their usual playmates, and soon they squatted silently before the hut of Nyo Boto. Within a few moments the old lady appeared in her doorway, having sensed that she had visitors. And with but a glance at Kunta, who had always been one of her very favorite children, she knew that something special was on his mind. Inviting the boys inside her hut, she set about the brewing of some hot herb tea for them.
“How are your papa and mama?” she asked.
“Fine. Thank you for asking,” said Kunta politely. “And you are well, Grandmother?”
“I’m quite fine, indeed,” she replied.
Kunta’s next words didn’t come until the tea had been set before him. Then he blurted, “Why are you a slave, Grandmother?”
Nyo Boto looked sharply at Kunta and Lamin. Now it was she who didn’t speak for a few moments. “I will tell you,” she said finally.
“In my home village one night, very far from here and many rains ago, when I was a young woman and wife,” Nyo Boto said, she had awakened in terror as flaming grass roofs came crashing down among her screaming neighbors. Snatching up her own two babies, a boy and a girl, whose father had recently died in a tribal war, she rushed out among the others—and awaiting them were armed white slave raiders with their black slatee helpers. In a furious battle, all who didn’t escape were roughly herded together, and those who were too badly injured or too old or too young to travel were murdered before