My wild car ride with an African king
James Michael Dorsey travelled to Africa in search of a legendary king - and found himself on the ride of his life. Once, I went to Africa in search of a king. I have met more than a few kings over the years, but this was the only one I made an effort to find.
Several kings whose paths I crossed had appropriated the title while being mere chiefs, while others had bought and paid for the moniker. It was difficult to get a definitive answer as to what constituted being a chief as opposed to being a king; it all came down to being able to get away with what they called themselves.
Africa is a land of few written languages, where storytelling is a fine art. But oral histories allow for personal interpretation and the expansion of the truth. Stories of great men usually carry much embellishment, creating a chasm between the myth and the actual person.
I’d heard stories of the ruler of the Gaan people who lived deep in the bush of western Benin and could only be called legendary. I heard that he was a shape shifter, assuming the guise of a panther at night to prowl the tribal lands of his people. Some said he could fly, talk to animals and was a gifted healer. They also said he was only a boy ‒ that he took the throne at 11 and was wise beyond his years with worldly insight that far exceeded his isolated existence.
Such a story begged to be followed.
Monsoon-clogged roads forced me to abandon my vehicle, stuck in mud up to the axles, and bushwhack through millet fields dried by a scorching sun. Hours passed slowly, but in time I broke into a clearing, my feet awash in the sweat inside my boots. Before me in a field stood seven diminutive stone houses, windowless, with door openings but no doors; each contained a seated, life-sized clay effigy of a former king, and each image was inlaid with cowrie-shell eyes and mouth.
I had stumbled onto the voodoo soul of the Gaan village, a ritual burial ground holding not the bodies of kings, but their magical essence. The burial ground was the source of the king’s power, where he would seek the advice of his ancestors when the mantle of rule grew heavy.
I did not linger; in many tribal areas, violating a burial ground, even a virtual one, is a serious offense, so I followed a critter path into the bush to continue my search for the illustrious king.
Within minutes I arrived at the Gaan village, where I saw his majesty sitting placidly in a wooden deckchair under a tree. He was not a boy, but not yet fully a man either. His ebony skin was flawless and his long, thin fingers that would be at home on a piano keyboard were locked in clenched fists under his chin, suggesting deep thought. His flowing caftan and skull cap did not betray his status, and none of the ostentatious trappings that usually accompany royalty were in evidence. In fact, he had images of turkeys wearing pilgrim hats on his robe.
He turned to offer a slight smile at my approach, saying in French, “I knew you were coming.”
His prophetic announcement threw me off balance. He motioned me to a bench in front of him as a lady approached, stately seating herself at his side with her hand on his shoulder and introducing herself in English as his fourth wife and thus a queen. Several curious villagers gathered to watch our meeting. The king spoke directly to me in the native language of the Gaans while his wife explained in English that he was in mourning for the death of one of his three other wives and not in the best of spirits, although his quick smile did not betray any such emotion.
I couldn’t help but notice the bonnet of an aging saloon car poking out from behind a neighbouring hut, and wondered how such a vehicle had made its way to this place when my own four-wheel drive sat useless in the mud.
I spoke with the king, through the queen, on all manner of topics,