No Matter How Far

1. The Road From Home and Ganeni Mereti

This story was told to me by my mother when I was a child. She wanted to instill in us a sense of our black culture and the culture of our Dardian Ancestors. So, every chance she could get, she would either drag us to a museum of some important black figure, to a Dardian cultural fair, or buy us books based on either of these cultures. When I was a kid, I didn't really care much for all this black pride sort of training. I never realized the importance of understanding the motivations and cultures of people thousands of miles and centuries away or how it impacts myself and others of my race. But it was important to my Mom, so my siblings and I went along with it without much complaint. This story and the way she told it was always a favorite of mine, involving all the things that little boys love in stories; a strong hero, battles, and monsters to fight. Which was all I ever was concerned about. It wasn't until much later and with my own story to unfold that I realized the story had a much different meaning than the one I had understood as a child. One that resonates with me more now that I'm an adult and have been on a few adventures of my own. So, in wanting to do the story justice and give a little information on a culture that many of my kin, in this country at least, have largely forgotten, I tracked down a more historically accurate version of the tale my mother used to tell. So, here I have reproduced that account, in my own words, hoping to shed a little light on its relevance to my journey.

The day Tafari Okoro left his village was a somber one. Only the day before had he passed the tests of a warrior and had been anointed into manhood. His life was now his own. To do what he wished, whether to join the hunters on their hunts or to call one of his own, marry, or even leave their tiny village that sat nestled on the outskirts of Libi forest. It was his right to do what he wished with his life, and he wished to leave. He gathered his things that lay about his mother's hut. He collected the black iron iklwa his father made, blessed, and sanctified for him on the day of his anointment and slung it into the leather thong that hung on his waist. He placed the large silver medallion with a tremendous leafy tree engraved in the center around his neck that marked him as a member of the T'enikaralibi clan, then tied three cords braided with red and blue around his upper right arm. Those cords were the most important to him, beyond the iklwa his father had made for him. The cords showed the world that he was a man and a warrior.

His mother squatted next to the door. She stared at him intently, watching as he prepared. The ghost of a sad smile on her face. The kind of smile she had given him when he was young and stubborn. The same smile she wore when, as a boy, Dejen Deresse challenged him to stay in the forest by himself at night. That little boy armed with only a stick masquerading as a spear strode confidently towards the door at dusk. His mother, wearing that smile, could stop him then but no longer now.

"Tafari, warrior, why are you going?" She spoke suddenly from where she squatted. Her voice was crisp and firm despite the age cracking across her face and the time creased in her hands.

"I am going to make my name, mother," he replied, gathering up a few other odds and ends. She laughed, the same dry crackle she laughed when he was being foolish.

"You have a name, warrior. Or does Tafari Okoro not suit you? Okoro suited your father and his father, and his father's father. I think it's a good name."

He picked up a long knife, slammed it into his sheath, and strapped it to his waist.

"The name is worthy of my father, his father, and his father's father. Great warriors all. But I am yet not worthy of the name."

Tafari had become a warrior because his father had been one, but also for the glory that warriors bring. But the last time the warriors strode out to protect their tiny village, his father's father was a young man. Now, the warriors settled petty disputes amongst the villages. Shields and spears were shaken in anger, but no battle was ever fought. No skills were ever shown or tested. If, by the misfortune of the Last Enemy, someone sustained an injury, then the offending warrior would make his apologies to the victim and pay him and his family restitution. To Tafari, this seemed as honorable as winning a game against a child ignorant of the rules. He needed something more. Something worth doing.