Today we are featuring Inklings Book Contest 2016 finalist, Sophia Bertoldo! Sophia finished 7th grade this past school year. She wrote a piece of historical fiction about a young girl going on the Hajj – the Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca. We found her story exciting and captivating.
Here’s a little more information Sophia shared with us about the Hajj:
The Hajj is a trip all Muslims must complete once in their lives. They travel with camels who are great animals for crossing the desert. Once the people arrive, they must complete 7 circles around the Hajj area. This is part of their religion and the king usually takes large groups of people along on this journey.
Enjoy!
Hope
by Sophia Bertoldo
Prologue
When Kankou was born in dry and hot Niani, West Africa in 1312, she was born into a family with a mother named Ameenah, a father named Aabis, one seven-year-old sister named Saamiya, and one eleven-year-old brother named Jaad. This family was not considered poor, but was far from rich. Trading was something that you had to do to survive and one day, when Kankou was three-years-old, her father went across the Sahara to trade and never came back. His family always assumed that he was killed by the Tuareg Warriors.
At the time Kankou’s mother was pregnant and nine months later, she gave birth to a baby girl named Muskaan. By now Kankou was four-years-old and at this point, her brother Jaad had gone somewhat insane. Jaad got out of control, and killed Saamiyah. That night when Ameenah came home and found Jaad holding the bloody knife and Saamiya dead, she was horrified. They got into a horrible argument and Jaad shot an arrow at Ameenah as he backpedaled off a cliff and fell to his death. Kankou was now by herself with her three-month-old sister to care for. She traveled by herself, not knowing where she was going and one month later, the heart of Muskaan stopped beating.
A short time later, she was captured by Mansa Musa (the sultan of Mali) and became a slave to all of his scholars. Now she is twelve years old and is assisting a scholar on Mansa Musa’s Hajj.
Niani, 1324, Morning.
The sun rays fall directly on my neck as I hold on to the rusty old handle to pull my tired self to the seat near the front of the caravan. The air has begun to absorb the heat and my head starts racing with thoughts and ideas. The dehydration has already settled inside me and we have not even begun the journey. The mumbling between people has surrounded my thoughts as I see everybody working to get ready for the Hajj. What have I gotten myself in to? I then remember that both of my parents participated in the Hajj and suddenly feel a great sense of connection to them. It’s almost as if my mother and father are now a part of me, calming me down and reassuring me that I will be fine.
The small gust of wind transfers my attention into the distance and I try to remember the faint memories of my family that I still have. Suddenly a rush of wind passes by and I lose all sense of connection I was just feeling. My brain channels a memory of the griots (storytellers) and all the stories my siblings would tell me about how Mecca is 4,000 miles away from Niani and how there are usually about 60,000 people that will be participating in the Hajj. That seems like so many people to me! It is almost as if I am falling into a deep daydream, thinking about the stories of Mansa Musa and how he was given the name Musa because it means king or sultan.
In the midst of my daydream, the scholar I will be assisting, named Sologon, enters the caravan and drops a huge trunk of what I am guessing is gold on the dirty floor.
“Hello, who are you?” she asked with a curious expression on her face, her big blue eyes looking at me patiently awaiting an answer.
I manage to stutter out a few words, “Umm. I will be uh, assisting you on this journey.”
She looks at me and says, “Ok,” a smile appearing on her face. “My name is Sologon. Umm. Do you want to help me package things onto the camels? We have about four hundred out of one thousand done.”
“Sure,” I say proudly, happy to be asked for assistance on what seems like such a big duty. I look up at her light blue eyes and add, “My name is Kankou, by the way.”
Now, off I go to assist Sologon and I hope to fill my journal with many tales of the journey I will be taking.
Walata, 1324, Morning.
The date tree provides much needed shade. Sologon is a wonderful scholar and is treating me well. I hope one day I can become a scholar like her. The luscious date palm cools my throat as I think about the amusement behind the trading. I find it so interesting how people can trade without speaking.
The salt is definitely one of the most important trade items. This I have learned from Sologon. The salt can preserve food and carries lots of nutrition which is needed on this tough journey. The rainy season is starting, although there won’t be much of it. Sologon has informed me that Mansa Musa will be following his existing trade routes to Cairo. This means that from Taghaza to Cairo it will be about 2,100 miles. Hopefully there will be enough water so that nobody dies of thirst.
We have been traveling for a few days now, and the agony of continuously stepping on the hot sand without many breaks is pushing me over the edge. I hope the next leg of the journey will be better or maybe I will be used to it soon. The oasis is beautiful today and I love seeing the camels drink. Their long necks reach down into the water and slowly they raise back up as the cool water sloshes down their dry throats.
Mansa Musa’s dry voice is an alarm in my head reminding me we must meet him by the caravans. As I begin to get up my legs remind me of what agony they have been going through and a scowl appears on my face. Off I go because as much as it hurts, I need to push through it.
Taghaza, 1324, Dusk.
The sun has finally given up and it’s strong, hot rays are disappearing into the darkness. I lift the burlap water canteen to my dry mouth and the taste of salt slips down my throat. It seems so ludicrous how they get so much salt from one mine. I feel bad for the slaves who have to live here. I certainly would not want to live here and be forced to dig up salt and package two slabs of salt to each camel every single day.
From what I can tell, there are no other ways to get across the Sahara except for going north which worries me, because I have heard lots of chatter and worry over on the Hajj. The route that the Hajj has taken so far has been difficult, however I feel a sense of relief when I start to walk again because I have gotten used to this journey; walking long distances, burning on my little toes and the heat settling on my face.
This journey that the Hajj has taken has definitely opened my eyes to different lifestyles and stories. The journey has been long and challenging but I know that I must do it because I am a Muslim and I must do this at least once in my life and now I get the opportunity to do it in assistance to a scholar. Hopefully, I will be able to follow in her footsteps as she has been immensely helpful to me. Allowing me to learn more about how to become a scholar. This afternoon, when we arrived here, I noticed the slaves cutting up the gold and silver. I assume they are most likely using it for transactions.
The little house made of rock and camel skin offers a nice resting spot. I can’t help but focus my glance on a light that is slowly appearing to be closer and closer. My face starts to sweat and my body is shaking. The light is coming closer and I hear soft and gentle footsteps. A warm tear trickles down my face like a snake. Suddenly the door swings open and I turn, my whole body alerted.
I then hear Sologon’s sweet and gentle voice, “Kankou,” she says, her voice drifting off.
I slowly turn my head and respond, “Sorry Sologon, I don’t know why I got so frightened just now.”
She looks at me and smiles. “It’s fine.” She says She looks at the stone wall and continues, “On my first time participating in the Hajj, I was your age and every time any type of noise came near me I was startled.”
I look at her and smile.
She looks back at me and says, “So, I get it. Now it’s time to get some sleep. We have lots of work to do tomorrow.”
She turns and exits the room. I feel so lucky to have someone that is actually looking out for me and caring about me. Now, it is best I do what Sologon says and fall asleep. Goodnight.
Cairo, 1324, Afternoon.
The afternoon heat, exhaustion, and dehydration began to sink inside of me. Mansa Musa has begun to pass out the immense amount of gold. I can feel the excitement in the air as the local Cairo villagers hold out their dirty, tired, rough hands to accept the wonderful glistening gold. I feel happy for the people but it worries me that the gold’s value will go down due to the fact that all these people are getting the gift of lots of gold from Mansa Musa. Although, I am trying to put these feelings behind me, because I think it is so great to see all these smiling faces in this town of Cairo.
Outside of the tent I pitched as we arrived with Sologon, I hear some soft voices.
“Did you know emir Abu was talking with Mansa Musa and apparently was not able to persuade him to see the Citadel and meet the Sultan?” said the girl with long black hair twisted neatly into one long braid. She looks as if she is fifteen or sixteen. Her hands and feet are extremely small and she wears a small loose gold chain around her neck.
The other girl is standing tall with curly brown hair that reaches her shoulder. Her light blue dress falls just short of her ankles and she drops her jaw open. She closes her mouth and takes a deep breath. She looks up at the fluffy clouds and turns her focus back to the other girl. She begins speaking again and says, “That’s absurd,” she continues, calming her voice, “I wonder why?”
The small girl faces her and says, “I heard he said something about wanting to keep his pilgrimage the same, but–”
The tall girl cut off her sentence with her extreme laughter.
The short girl continues, “But I believe he just doesn’t want to pay respect to another sultan.”
As she grimaces, she turns and makes eye contact with me. I move my startled face away from the fold in our tent and hope she didn’t notice me.
Five minutes have passed by and nothing has happened so far. I think I am okay now and I must go assist Sologon as she is writing down stories a griot is telling her.
Niani, 1375, Evening.
I look at my old and wrinkled face as I pull out the golden necklace. This will look wonderful on my granddaughter, I think, and place it on the near toppling tower of belongings I will be passing on to her.
Lying beneath a layer of dust, I see the torn and ratty cover of my journal. I flip through the pages. I follow the sharp ink lines and remember about my journey on the Hajj. Tucked inside one of my journal entries, I find an ink portrait of Sologon.
I look up to the old cracking roof of my shed and shed a tear as I whisper, “I hope you are doing well Sologon, I thank you.”
It has been twenty three years since her death. She was nearly a mother to me and when her soul left her body as she let out a heart wrenching scream, a part of me left, too. Now here I am writing what will be my final entry of my journal during the Hajj. The journey turned out to be way more difficult than I expected.
During the Hajj, there were many stories about Mansa Musa. One of the most commonly heard story was of how he was the most rich and noble king of all. I, however, encountered Mansa Musa and do not agree with that. He was extremely rude and treated most people horribly. He drowned himself in riches and caused the gold to lose its value.
However, I do feel that this journey was worth the cost and time. It was an incredible experience and allowed me to do the duty that I had felt I needed to do for so long. I love who I am and I was able to appreciate it more after completing the Hajj. I am a Muslim. I wear long veils that cover all my facial features but my eyes. I slept in tents and have caravans of camels. And, yes, I completed the Hajj. The lasting significance of Mansa Musa’s journey was that I truly became a Muslim and was able to connect with my family.
As I end this journal entry, I would like my final words to be: Never give up. Life can always turn around.
