Storytellers
A Senegalese femme de griot
In Ancient West Africa, the griot wore many hats: orator, poet, musician, praise singer, historian, diplomat, entertainer. Traditionally in the service of a king, they also acted in the role of royal advisor, and when there was conflict between individuals or villages, they stepped in to mediate.
Griots are a respected social class, with the title itself being hereditary. Called jeli in Mande and gewel in Wolof, griots are the keepers of culture, heritage, lore, and genealogies, all while preserving the pan-African oral tradition of storytelling.
Historically, most villages had their own griot, though they often traveled from place to place to announce births, deaths, marriages, and report on current events. Many were also accomplished musicians and their stories were often accompanied by music from the kora, a 21-string instrument made from half a gourd covered in animal skin. Other instruments include the xalam, the ngoni, the kontigi, the goje, the balafon and the jungjung. Today, the griot tradition lives on in West Africa, from The Gambia to Nigeria.
Most griots are male, but the profession has never been exclusive.
It recently dawned on me that I come from a long line of such storytellers, modern-day griots whose words carried the rhythms of the Motherland.
My Grandma, the quick-witted shade queen Margaret Lee, transitioned from Elder to Ancestor last year. She had a gentle voice, even melodious at times, but it was one that commanded attention. I would happily abandon any task at hand to listen to her speak of South Alabama, the place where our deep roots first took hold. She was a repository for family history and her narratives breathed life into people and places I only know through pictures.
My Granddaddy, Clencie, was roguish, like Grandma would say. He was a Mississippi sweet-talker with a silver tongue and a golden voice.
My Uncle Junior was a gentle giant with an easy smile, a trickster who called to mind the mischievous Anansi. Like the spider god, he was notorious for the lively tall tales he could weave at the drop of a hat.
My Auntie Betty was a pint-sized raconteur who often held court at family gatherings. She’s been gone almost 14 years now, and there is an unfillable void where her anecdotes and running commentary used to be.
And then there’s me: full of one-liners, hyperbole and finely-tuned sarcasm. If they were the orators, I am the scribe. I will keep our stories, I will tell our stories, and I will put pen to paper so they are not lost to the capricious ways of memory and time.
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