Alex Haley - Roots - The Saga of an American Family

He knew that now and then some lucky boy was allowed to share a journey with his father, uncle, or grown-up brother. But he also knew that such boys had never been so young as his eight rains, except for some fatherless boys, who got special privileges under the forefathers’ laws. Such a boy could start following closely behind any man, and the man would never object to sharing whatever he had—even if he was on a journey lasting for moons—so long as the boy followed him at exactly two paces, did everything he was told, never complained, and never spoke unless spoken to.

Kunta knew not to let anyone, especially his mother, even suspect what he dreamed of. He felt certain that not only would Binta disapprove, but she would also probably forbid his ever mentioning it again, and that would mean Omoro would never know how desperately Kunta hoped he could go. So Kunta knew that his only hope lay in asking Fa himself—if he could ever catch him alone.

There were soon but three days before Omoro was to leave, and the watchful, almost despairing Kunta was herding his goats after breakfast when he saw his father leaving Binta’s hut. Instantly he began maneuvering his goats into milling back and forth, going nowhere, until Omoro had gone on in a direction and to a distance that Binta surely wouldn’t see. Then, leaving his goats alone, because he had to take the chance, Kunta ran like a hare and came to a breathless stop and looked up pleadingly at his father’s startled face. Gulping, Kunta couldn’t remember a single thing he had meant to say.

Omoro looked down at his son for a long moment, and then he spoke. “I have just told your mother,” he said—and walked on.

It took Kunta a few seconds to realize what his father meant. “Aieee!” Kunta shouted, not even aware that he had shouted. Dropping onto his belly, he sprang froglike into the air—and bolting back to his goats, sent them racing toward the bush.

When he collected himself enough to tell his fellow goatherds what had happened, they were so jealous that they went off by themselves. But by midday they could no longer resist the chance to share with him the excitement of such wonderful luck. By that time he had fallen silent with the realization that ever since the drumtalk message had come, his father had been thinking about his son.

Late that afternoon, when Kunta raced happily home and into his mother’s hut, Binta grabbed him without a word and began to cuff him so hard that Kunta fled, not daring to ask what he had done. And her manner changed suddenly toward Omoro in a way that shocked Kunta almost as much. Even Lamin knew that a woman was absolutely never allowed to disrespect a man, but with Omoro standing where he could plainly hear her, Binta loudly muttered her disapproval of his and Kunta’s traveling in the bush when the drums of different villages were reporting regularly of new people missing. Fixing the breakfast couscous, she pounded the pestle into the mortar so furiously that the sound was like drums.

As Kunta was hurrying out of the hut the next day—to avoid another whacking—Binta commanded Lamin to stay behind and began to kiss and pat and hug him as she hadn’t done since he was a baby. Lamia’s eyes told Kunta his embarrassment, but there was nothing either of them could do about it.

When Kunta was outside the hut away from his mother, practically every adult who saw him offered congratulations upon his being Juffure’s youngest boy ever given the honor of sharing an elder’s long journey. Modestly, Kunta said, “Thank you,” reflecting his proper home-training—but once out in the bush beyond the sight of grown-ups, he pranced under an extra-large headbundle he had brought along to show his mates how well he balanced it—and would balance it the next morning when he strutted past the travelers’ tree behind his father. It fell to the ground three times before he took as many steps.

On his way homeward, with many things he wanted to do around the village before leaving, Kunta felt a strange pull to visit old Nyo Boto before doing anything else. After delivering his goats, he escaped from Binta’s hut as quickly as he could and went to squat before Nyo Boto’s. Shortly she appeared in her doorway. “I have expected you,” she said, inviting him inside. As usual, whenever Kunta visited her alone, the two of them just sat quietly for a while. He had always liked and looked forward to that feeling. Although he was very young and she was very old, they still felt very close to each other, just sitting there in the dim hut, each of them thinking private thoughts.

“I have something for you,” said Nyo Boto finally. Moving to the dark pouch of cured bullock’s hide that hung from the wall by her bed, she withdrew a dark saphie charm of the kind that encircled one’s upper arm. “Your grandfather blessed this charm when your father went to manhood training,” said Nyo Boto. “It was blessed for the manhood training of Omoro’s first son—yourself. Your Grandma Yaisa left it with me for when your manhood training would start. And that is really this journey with your fa .” Kunta looked with love at the dear old grandmother, but he couldn’t think of a right way to say how the saphie charm would make him feel that she was with him no matter how far away he went.

The next morning, returning from prayers at the mosque, Omoro stood waiting impatiently as Binta took her time completing the adjustment of Kunta’s headload. When Kunta had laid awake too filled with excitement to sleep through the night, he had heard her sobbing. Then suddenly she was hugging Kunta so hard that he could feel her body trembling, and he knew, more than ever before in his life, how much his mother really loved him.

With his friend Sitafa, Kunta had carefully reviewed and practiced what he and his father now did: First Omoro and then Kunta made two steps out into the dust beyond the doorway of his hut. Then, stopping and turning and bending down, they scraped up the dust of their first footprints and put it into their hunters’ bags, thus insuring that their footprints would return to that place.

Binta watched, weeping, from her hut’s doorway, pressing Lamin against her big belly, as Omoro and Kunta walked away. Kunta started to turn for a last look—but seeing that his father didn’t, kept his eyes front and marched on, remembering that it wasn’t proper for a man to show his emotions. As they walked through the village, the people they passed spoke to them and smiled, and Kunta waved at his kafo mates, who had delayed their rounding up of the goats in order to see him off. He knew they understood that he didn’t return their spoken greetings because any talking now was taboo for him. Reaching the travelers’ tree, they stopped, and Omoro added two more narrow cloth strips to the weather-tattered hundreds already hanging from the lower limbs, each strip representing the prayer of a traveler that his journey would be safe and blessed.

Kunta couldn’t believe it was really happening. It was the first time in his life he would spend a night away from his mother’s hut, the first time he would ever go farther from the gates of Juffure than one of his goats had strayed, the first time—for so many things. While Kunta was thus preoccupied, Omoro had turned and without a word or a backward glance, started walking very fast down the path into the forest. Almost dropping his headload, Kunta raced to catch up with him.

Kunta found himself nearly trotting to keep the proper two paces behind Omoro. He saw that almost two of his quick, short steps were necessary for each long, smooth stride of his father. After about an hour of this, Kunta’s excitement had waned almost as much as his pace. His headbundle began to feel heavier and heavier, and he had a terrible thought: Suppose he grew so tired he couldn’t keep up? Fiercely, he told himself he would drop in his tracks before that would happen.