Each day, countless fleets of camel caravans sailed across the desert sea to reach Timbuktu.
Here, in this port city on the southern edge of the Sahara, waves of men, women, and children flooded the market, searching for supplies. Farmers and craftsmen proudly showcased their wares from behind wooden stands or in front of tents. Threads of dancers wove through cheerful crowds; juggling entertainers could be found on every corner. Travelers’ stories of far-off lands rose and fell with the playful chords of musicians. Vibrant colts and savory scents swirled in the air as Timbuktu teemed with the trading, buying, and selling of everything from exotic spies to brilliant fabrics to precious salt and gold.
But today, Timbuktu was still.
I stood in front of a wooden platform, along with what felt like half the market goers. Rain poured from the skies, soaking through my brown wrapper. Thunder rumbled as a Songhai general was dragged onto the platform by soldiers who were not his own.
They forced the general to his knees, the wood beneath him groaning over the incessant patter of rain. His wet robes were stained with blood and grime. Water trickled from his turban down his bruised face.
A third, smaller man drifted onto the platform. Lines were etched into his face, likes ripples in a shadow. Each line marked a history - a birth, a marriage, a death. He frowned as his gaze swept over the crowed, chronicling yet another wrinkle, another event.