Sundiata on the Brain

Among the Mande peoples of modern Mali, Gambia, Guinea and elsewhere in the west of Africa, history is alive. By “alive” I do not mean to use the term in an abstract sense, but to indicate a vital, dynamic presence that suffuses all aspects of Mande existence. The stories of their ancient empires and kings are reimagined, re-lived and felt in both the mind and body of each succeeding generation. This is largely due to the traditional story-tellers and musicians of the Mande people, the jali or griots, who through the force of their voices and narrative power interlace the major events of political and social life (naming ceremonies, weddings, initiation rites, political addresses) with the presence of the past (Newton). Of all the dead west African kings who are not yet dead, perhaps the most important to Mande cultural heritage is Sundiata.

Sundiata, who lived in the first half of the thirteenth century c.e., was the quasi-historical progenitor of the medieval empire known as Mali (not to be confused with the modern nation- state which has borrowed the name), from which modern Mande people trace their emergence on the historical scene as a political power. Archeology, written accounts by Arab travellers and consistent oral traditions all cohere to paint a picture of an empire which controlled a huge stretch of land from the Atlantic coast in modern Guinea to the western edges of the modern day nation state with which it shares a name. Mali was a beacon of trade, wealth and political and military power as well as of learning and literacy; its reputation was known far beyond the confines of Africa (Shillington). The name and memory of Mali’s founder survives in a number of related, orally transmitted epic poems detailing his various exploits, denoted here collectively as “The Epic of Sundiata”. This tradition, with its links to such a rich period in west African history, is of course of interest to the historian. Indeed, it was in an effort to reclaim his national history that the author D.T. Niane inscribed his famous prose version of the story in 1960. Yet to the anthropologist or to the literary critic, the study of these ancient “texts” in the modern world invariably raises the question of how any story, composed over seven centuries ago and in an entirely different cultural space, could have such a lasting and vital presence among so many people today. 

Typically, studies of the Sundiata epic and of oral literature take a largely literary approach to solving this dilemma, seeking to illuminate the narrative complexities of the tradition and in this way foster its appreciation. Certainly,  the tales of the past which the jalis spin are not really historical documents- even oral ones. Invariably the traditional story-tellers have utilized poetic license in their retellings, adapting the narrative to fit the needs of diverse audiences and occasions. (Duran, Furniss). I would certainly argue that it is as literature that the various renditions of the epic tradition find their real relevance. Yet the story of Sundiata has had such an enduring lifespan because it is a representation of truth that moves and then transforms its listeners in felt, concrete and embodied ways. Therefore, to study the epic in a manner in which we can fully grasp its significance we must seek to understand not just the many layers of meaning behind its symbols and metaphors but its impact on the human mind as well. Or, in other words, we must inform our readings of the extant Sundiata texts with not just literary and artistic theory but with the science of the brain and its mechanisms for aesthetic appreciation. Only when this is accomplished can we really comprehend the place of the Sundiata tradition and other, similar, epics in the lives of the people for whom they matter. A neuroaesthetic approach will allow us to see that the various Sundiata stories may have had lasting significance at least in part because they have the potential to trigger the “default mode”, thus dissolving the barriers between performance and audience, permanently changing their perspective in a way that links their life to the epic. In this way, the Sundiata epic activates a physiological response that is then integrated into a psychological response, transforming the audience's understanding of their world and forming a framework for cultural meaning. 

The nature of the epic tradition of Africa poses challenges to those who would seek to, in an academic manner, probe its secrets. Foremost of these challenges is the lack of any single, “definitive” telling or text for any specific story. The various manifestations of a tale are like the diverse branches of a single tree; they share the same root and foundation but diverge at the stem, sharing similarities that mark them as family while at the same time being unique outgrowths of the source. (Niane) This challenge, however, is also what makes their study fascinating. We must not look at these deviations as somehow a tragedy, representing the deterioration of a once “pristine” tradition. The plurality of traditions for any single story represent the wondrous diversity of people and communities for whom it finds its relevance and for the endless occasions that merit its telling. Differences in the plot of the tale mark not some forgetfulness or laziness on the part of the teller but conscious decisions enacted to enhance the relevance of the tale to a specific audience, or to alter it to further comform the story to the aesthetic preferences of the narrator. (Duran, Furniss) Therefore, the study of a single epic tradition in Africa may provide us with multiple points of entries into understanding and appreciating the common themes which provide its unity. Furthermore, the diversity of the epic tradition makes points of common agreement more salient; their uniformity across vast distances of time and space are testament to their moving power and significance to broad swathes of humanity. 

All of these features are essential for understanding the enduring power of the epic tradition. The lifeblood of any oral tradition is continued retellings, and continued retellings require the continuous ability to facilitate an emotional impact over vast distances in space and time. For the jali, both consistency and variation are the tools of his or her trade. By tailoring their narratives to the needs of the audience, the jali ensures its relevance to a specific time and place. However, the emotional power of the narratives derive largely from the themes which unify them, themes which touch on some of the most fundamental aspects of human existence: family, isolation, intimacy and so on. In dealing with these shared points of salience within the tradition, the jalis build up narrative tension by playing on our capacities for empathy and resolving them in scenes of intense motor imagery and complex symbolism. It is in these moments, where our capacities for feeling and understanding emotion and for the cognition of artistic meaning are pushed to their limit, that aesthetic appreciation reaches a crescendo and an intense experience of personal transformation is made possible. 

Indeed, the concept of transformation is central to our discussion of the tradition. As the audience is transfigured, so is the hero. In his paper “Journey in the African Epic”, Daniel P. Kunene links the Sundiata tradition to other, similar African poetic traditions through a shared narrative structure that emphasizes maturation through both an internal and an external journey. As in the epics of Mwindo and Shaka Zulu, two analogous figures in African folklore and/or history, Sundiata’s story is retold as one of departure and eventual return, necessitated by a need for self-purification. The heroes of Kunene’s study are all marked for greatness from birth, possessing unusual strengths and abilities that surpass those of their peers. Yet their characters are imbalanced. Strength and power are not yet tempered by wisdom, or patience. Thus, their thrones are usurped and their identities overtaken by an adversary; in Sundiata’s case the sorcerer-tyrant Sumanguru, who kills his brothers and then conquers and oppresses the Mande people. This initial conflict sets them on a journey through exile, in which the hero must go through ordeals that test and purify them of their personal imperfections. In the meantime, a form of tension is created as the hero’s initial point of departure is continuously pulling him back as he simultaneously journeys farther and farther away in space. At his most distant point, the hero’s character is most developed, and the return journey with all of its tension-resolving battles and confrontations with the antagonist may begin. (Kunene) 

Keeping this framework in mind, Sundiata’s “There and Back Again” journey can be consistently divided into the following plot points throughout its various tellings:

1. Sundiata is born to the sorcerer-queen Sogolon and a Mande king. He spends his first few years as a lazy, gluttonous cripple, ridiculed by his peers and bringing shame to his mother.

2. After a set amount of time, Sundiata makes his first steps on behalf of his mother and is initiated into manhood. However, his father soon dies and conflict with either his half-brothers or the sorcerer king Sumanguru drives him and his mother from home.

3. Sundiata then begins his exile, during which he undergoes a series of trials and ordeals, makes important alliances and develops the skills and character which will allow him to become successful as king. 

4. Messengers from home visit Sundiata at his farthest point in exile, petitioning for him to return home and free them from the tyranny of Sumanguru, who has usurped the throne from his family.

5. Sundiata makes a return journey home with an army, in which he engages in a series of indecisive military battles with Sumanguru. His sister, through a combination of wit and cunning, seduces Sumanguru and gets him to reveal the secret of his mystical power and, thus, his achilles heel.

6. With this new information, Sundiata engages in a final decisive battle with Sumanguru and bests him. He then consolidates his allied kingdoms into a single political force and initiates the beginnings of the Mande empire known as Mali.

Generally, in academia certain phases are combined and the epic is given a threefold division in which the hero’s birth, exile and return are the major demarcations. (Duran, Furniss) Kunene makes the claim that, since the narrative forms a logical and cohesive whole it has the most impact when it is presented as such. However, as Lucy Duran and Graham Furniss point out in the introduction of Gordon Innes's translation of the Sundiata story, rarely (though not never) is the epic told in its entirety. Generally, one of the divisions is emphasized and the others either briefly mentioned or entirely omitted as jalis are often under constraints of time and energy.

This does not necessarily hinder the performance on two counts. For one, the audience is generally familiar with the whole of the tale and all of the impact of previous renditions are brought to mind in any specific performance. Secondly, each of the three major phases of the story offer their own periods of  tension, resolution and catharsis even when isolated from the narrative as a whole. It is therefore possible for the audience to be moved and transformed emotionally by any segment, provided the jali is endowed with enough skill. 

Purely literary or artistic readings of the Sundiata story can uncover much about the hidden layers of meaning in the story. Analysis have focused on Mande theories of power and authority, the relation of the individual to mystical and spiritual forces, the essential role of the narrative’s powerful female characters and so on. What they are almost all missing, however, is an approach that bridges the performance and the actual, felt experience of the audience. They neither ask nor answer the question: what exactly is taking place in the minds/brains of those who experience the story firsthand, as it is performed by a traditional teller? What is the nature of the experience and how is it induced by the narrative? To resolve these issues we must look beyond the “script” of the performance into the nature of the human brain and the physical underpinnings of aesthetic appreciation.

The brain, and in a sense the entire body, is the material basis of a purposive conscious whose main adaptive function is to preserve the body’s own homeostasis within a fluctuating environment. In order to do this, the brain must orient itself in respect to both the body and the environment, a task which relies on the coordination of various distinct neural networks to create coherent images of reality in which elements of perception are apprehended, linked to distinct emotional programs and cognized. (Damasio) The activation of one neural network by a stimuli sets off another, and so on, in patterned, back and forth interactions as immediate perceptions lead to the activation of memories, emotions and cognitive processes. In short, the functioning of the brain relies on the harmonious cooperation of distinct neural assemblies, related to different aspects of consciousness, through reciprocal relationships of interaction. An essential point is that these neural networks are plastic, and subject to either significant alteration or reinforcement throughout an individual’s lifetime.

The brain, then, has an innate drive to integrate distinct entities of perception into comprehensible and coherent patterns, and this ceaseless quest is not limited to making sense of the sensory jungle that is our natural environment; it extends to art. (Armstrong) When we engage with an artistic object, we involve the brain in various, often new, relations between neural assemblies. The creation or destruction of these arrangements are not a neutral experience for the individual, they are linked to neural reward mechanisms involved with a sensation of pleasure that may be distinctly aesthetic. In his book, How Literature Plays with the Brain, theorist Paul B. Armstrong gives a definition of the type of harmony which the brain might value in literature and art: “Harmony is not uniformity or homogeneity but, rather, a system of interrelated differences, and harmonies that develop and change over time achieve their effects by performing transformations in these relations through adjustments and alterations that facilitate integration.” (Armstrong, 43) These sorts of harmony, are Armstrong describes them, characterize not only the functioning of the brain but the artistic objects we label as “beautiful”.

In African Rhythm and African Sensibility, John Miller Chernoff gives a description of the type of musical performance that typifies much of Africa: 

“At an African musical event, we are concerned with sound and movement, space and time, the deepest modalities of perception. Foremost is the dynamic tension of the multiple rhythms and the cohesive power of their relationship...The act of creation is above all purposeful, never random, and the goal is a balance and a fulfilling interdependence...We are even quite close to a metaphysics of rhythm if we remember that sensing the whole in a system of multiple rhythms depends on comprehending, or “hearing”, the beat that is never sounded. At the convergence of essence and form stands the master drummer, not creating new rhythms but giving order to those already there. Every place, a drummer once told me, has its own rhythms which give it character; going there, one must find a rhythm that fits and improvise on it.” (Chernoff, 15)

In this account we can clearly see a parallel between the operations of the physical brain and the sensory organization of african musical performance. In both situations, what is fully distinct and unique is woven together through a dynamic pattern of interactions to form a cohesive, pleasing whole. Chernoff’s description of harmony in African music is therefore not very different from Armstrong’s; both emphasize a system of distinct entities playing off each other to form a holistic pattern. Armstrong’s definition is special because it consciously connects the harmonies of neural networks with those found in art and literature. Chernoff brings us to the next step of our analysis, connecting the harmonies of African art to the African ideal of harmonious communities, in which different, unique individuals are brought together to form a smoothly functioning society. 

Musical accompaniment is an integral aspect of the Sundiata performance as it is performed by the traditional jalis or storytellers. The brain’s integration of the many distinct rhythms is in itself a source of pleasure, even without the overlay of voice and story. Music is significant as well because listening to intensely pleasurable compositions has the capacity to induce what is known as the “default mode” in the listener. (Starr)

The default mode is central to any understanding of the relationship between powerful art and human consciousness. One of the best analyses of the default mode and its relationship to literature can be found in literary theorist and neuroaesthetic researcher G. Gabrielle Starr’s book Feeling Beauty. As Starr relates to us, there is a threshold that, when reached, causes simple aesthetic pleasure to transition into something else. Our apprehension of any specific literary image may invoke neural pathways of empathy, memory and cognition in increasingly complex ways, forming new, unexpected patterns of connection between them in experiences that reconfigure how we cognitively and emotionally register the elements of our perception. This process is intrinsically linked to neural mechanisms of emotion and “reward”. Reward in this sense is the deep desire and profound aesthetic satisfaction or pleasure felt when the various distinct objects, memories and emotional associations (and their associated neural networks) come together in the brain-mind to form a new dynamic unity, or “configuration of knowledge”.  In the most pleasurable, or moving, of these aesthetic experiences, a set of neural pathways termed the “default mode” comes into play. (Starr)  

The “default mode” has its title because it represents the basic background functioning of the brain when we are not being called to any specific task. Despite this seemingly mundane nature, it is anything but insignificant. The brain regions with which it is composed are involved in such tasks as “self-assessment, forward planning, autobiographical memory, and ideas of self..” In other words, the “default mode” connotes the processes by which we come to be aware of the internal, as opposed to the external, world. (Starr) Generally speaking, engagement with the external world, even in the form of art, causes the brain to divert energy from the “default mode” and expend it instead on outward modes of perception. However, profound aesthetic experience reverses this process, stimulating the “default mode” which underpins our awareness of self along with our perception of the artistic object. Within our minds the external and internal worlds lose their distinction. As Starr puts it:

“The activity of the default mode network can be aesthetic, and it enables us to say, perhaps surprisingly, that works of art are ‘transporting’- to use the term commonly employed to describe to describe the particular feeling of intense aesthetic involvement. We can become so absorbed, so enrapt in the experience of reading, listening, or looking, that the world of perception seems far away; but this happens only because we were so intensely drawn by part of that world of perception to begin with.” (Starr, 63)

Imagery, particularly imagery we come to “inhabit” with the whole of our being, is the trigger for the default mode. Yet imagery is intimately tied to memory. Our imagination of a beautiful flower, for example, is only possible because of our memories of the beautiful flowers we have seen in the past. The default mode, as was mentioned before, is also intimately tied to memory through the involvement of such areas of the brain as the hippocampus and medial prefrontal cortex. As Starr writes it may be “impossible to dissociate aesthetic experience from memory circuitry.” Thus, research in aesthetic experience may have profound implications for the practice of education. To quote Starr one more time:

“A sight, a sound, a line of poetry can be a gateway not just to an inner landscape of thoughts and ideas, but can turn on a densely interconnected network of neurons, a network which underpins a broad range of cognitive functions. Aesthetic experience is human experience, and it draws on extraordinary resources within us. Art can change how we feel in the now, and in engaging systems for emotion and reward as well as for imagery and even memory in the core network it can change how we think and feel in the future.” (Starr, 147)

To put it in another way, the modified perceptions that art induces in the human mind need not be temporary but can alter our experience of the world in ways that last a lifetime. To read the story of Pan and the nymph Syrinx is to forever associate the music of the pan-pipe with her sad legacy and the wistful desire of a lustful god. A childhood reading of the Jungle Book may forever imprint upon the mind feelings of freedom and unbridled joy when one looks at an untamed landscape. An early introduction to White Fang may do the same for the sight of a wolf running through the wilderness, associating for us with its feelings of awe, respect and savage beauty. We may not hesitate to say that our emotional relationship with the natural world has been facilitated by the books we encountered as a child. These sorts of perceptual changes are felt in lived experience and manifested by physical rewiring of neural networks, bridging gaps between art and self and between mind and body. 

Thus, the process of artistic induced transformation takes place in certain steps:

1. Apprehension of an aesthetic object brings into new, complex relation neural pathways for perceptions, cognition, various emotions and our memories.

2. With an intense experience of pleasure, the default mode is triggered and we become “transported” into the artistic object. External and internal perception combine and we become newly aware of ourselves in the midst of aesthetic experience.

3. The default mode’s association with neural regions of memory, particularly autobiographical memory, ensures that the aesthetic experience is remembered and impacts the self in ways that outlive the temporary nature of the initial experience.

To make the claim that the Sundiata epic is capable of triggering this mode and its transformative effects on the listener, then, we must prove that there is sufficient material here to engage it, or that it is capable of integrating distinct neural pathways relating to different perceptions, elements of cognition, emotional programs and memories in complex and unexpected harmonies.

In order to do this, we should start at the beginning. However, before I begin to quote from the extant translations of the “text” in English, I should make a note as to their actual identity: I draw primarily from three extant versions: two poetic translations recited by Bamba Suso and Banna Kanute respectively, a pair of modern day Gambian jali’s whose recitations of the Sundiata epic were recorded line by line by the translator Gordon Innes. The historian D.T. Niane recorded multiple recitations of the epic by a single Malinke jali, Mamadou Kouyate, and then combined them into a single prose narrative. This translation thus loses some of the elements of the oral performance that the other two versions retain, but it provides us with the most detail and elaboration.

At the very start of his version, Bambo Suso presents a complex harmony between vastly distinct, and even opposing entities of human perception, though the uncritical reader may miss it:

“Sunjata’s father’s name was Fata Kung Makhang.

He went to [the kingdom of] Sankarang Madiba Konte.

The soothsayers had said, ‘If you go to Sankarang Madiba Konte

And find a wife there,

She will give birth to a child

Who will become king of the black people.”

(Suso, 3-4)

To one reading, this may indicate nothing more than the infiltration of superstition into the Sundiata narrative. Yet it would be more accurate to say that these lines are an encapsulation of the fundamental worldview of the Mande people. The Mande universe is permeated by divinity, both in the form of a creator God and his supernatural subordinates, whether they be the traditional deities of Mande religion or the semi-divine jinn (or genies) of Islamic theology. (Niane) The will of God and of the spirits is not confined to the heavens but acts on the material earth and the societies which inhabit it, setting in motion the fate of individuals and the political bodies which they come together to constitute. Yet, the divine merely lays in the groundwork for our destinies. Our fate must be brought to fulfilment through an active participation with the spiritual, in which soothsayers must determine not only divine will but the steps that must be taken in order to remain in the favor of the spirits, beings who may help or hinder the fulfilment of our destiny and even lend their power to the human sphere. (Deme) “As above, so below.” In this way, through the connecting power of the spiritual intermediary, God is made manifest in the kingdom and the kingdom is brought into the bosom of God. 

The concepts of God, fate, spiritual power, personal action and political processes are all distinct elements of cognition. Each manifests in the brain as a unique pattern of neural activation. Each is connected within the brain with different emotional programs and separate sets of memories. Individually, contemplation of any one of these concepts would likely lead to drastically different maps of neural activation in the brain as well as embodied experiences. Yet, in these first six lines, these concepts are brought together and integrated with all their emotional and cognitive associations in a single moment of narrative meaning. This newfound unity is precisely what makes these opening lines ripe with potential aesthetic pleasure. That this manner of comprehending their universe “feels right” to the Mande people is confirmed when we take into account their traditional religious worldview, a worldview which mirrors that which is was evoked by the jali:  “the Mande make of man a universe, and of the universe a system in which there is a place and a role for everything, from the stars to the the objects of daily use, from the soul to the detritus…” (Niane, x). 

Sundiata’s father does indeed follow the advice of the soothsayers and marries the daughter of the neighboring King, Sogolon. The role of Sundiata’s father is not nearly as essential as the role of his mother. Physically, we know that the Jalis consistently describe her as ugly; she, however, transcends appearances. A recurring theme in the epic of Sundiata is the protagonist’s reliance on the women in his life, specifically his sister and his mother, to find success and complete his heroic journey. Sundiata’s mother is his mentor and guide and is loved by him deeply until her death well into his adulthood. Her success in filling these roles is largely due to her wisdom and intelligence. She is a sorcerer, skilled in the knowledge of charms of medicinal herbs, her wisdom guides him at critical junctures in his life and she is a diplomat who facilitates Sundiata accessing safe haven during his long exile. (Niane) Like his sister, Sundiata’s mother fulfills the common archetype in African folklore of the wise and resourceful woman, without whose aid the hero would be doomed to failure (Mbele).

There is a way in which her role as a sorcerer and a woman of words combine which is relevant to scholars of both literature and of conscious experience. This is the concept of Nyama (Newton), as described in the foreword of the Sundiata epic translated by D.T. Niane: “All objects are invested with an inherent spiritual force called nyama. Nyama animates all living beings, including plants and animals, and controls the powers of nature itself, governing crop production and rainfall. It’s function provides a “rationale for their most fundamental behavior behavior patterns and as an explanation for the organization of their world.” (Netwon) As described in Robert C. Newton’s paper, “Of Dangerous Energy and Transformations: ‘Nyamakalaya’ and the Sunjata Phenomenon”, Nyama can be variously described as dangerous, evil (by those who are more strongly Islamic), morally ambiguous (a more traditional view), energizing, animating and necessary for action as well as possibly negating our ability for self-control (due to the intense power of this force). I would argue that the best possible analogue for the western mind to understand Nyama is as “energy”. Of course, the disclaimer must be made that our secular definition of energy should never be superimposed on traditional Mande religious concepts as if they were identical. I merely suggest that it is through our concrete, personal experiences of powerful energies that we may be able to comprehend something like what “nyama” means to the Mande. Like Nyama, our modern notion of “energy” is synonymous with the animating principle of the is necessary for action and yet potentially dangerous and it is released through “transformations”. It is indeed an interesting correlation that the Mande conceive Nyame as being released through the transformation of one material to another, not unlike how the energy we know is released during the breaking of molecular bonds, or in the transformation of a liquid into a solid. In fact, blacksmiths, who oversee such changes in the state of matter, are believed to be able to double as something like a sorcerer due to their habitual proximity to this energy. (Newton) Sundiata’s arch-rival was the blacksmith, sorcerer and usurper to the throne, Sumanguru. Sundiata, as a hunter-king and thus master of the nyame of the animal and natural world, was similarly believed to have intense spiritual power. 

Yet perhaps the most essential form of nyama for our analysis is in the form of energy manipulated by the jali, the storytellers of Mande culture. The organs of the mouth and tongue, the vehicle of words, are seen as particularly Nyama laden. Jalis are thus considered experts in this energy, and wield it through their arsenal of praise-names, poetry and song. In their creation of tension through narrative, and in its release through resolution, jali are the prime manipulators of a force that is felt in a bodily form in their audience, whether it be in the form of anticipation or in the powerful pleasure of its release in fulfilment. I would like to call to attention, then, to one way that storytellers and blacksmiths are similar. Blacksmiths release the energy trapped in the earth through the transformation of metal, storytellers release the energy of the human being through the radical transformation of the consciousness. What we may add to this traditional understanding is that this radical transformation of the consciousness is brought about through the rewiring of connections between different neural assemblies, forming new configurations of value during the activation of the default mode. What an understanding of the place of Nyama in Mande culture brings to the scientific discourse of the default mode and aesthetic appreciation is the knowledge that the traditional story-tellers of west Africa have been consciously transfiguring these configurations of meaning and bringing about the default mode in their audience for hundreds of years.

We can see a full cycle of tension, release and reconfiguration in just the very first phases of the Sundiata tradition, those that deal with his childhood as a gluttonous cripple and his eventual triumph over his disability. 

Sundiata, in the beginning of his story, is deeply flawed. For the first period of his life he is a lazy and crippled glutton who brings shame to his mother by being too unwilling or unable to fulfil the normal duties of a son. Generally, no explanation is given overtly for Sundiata’s inability to walk or for his lazy disposition. There are, however, clues. In Niane’s translation, the storyteller frequently admonishes the cast of characters surrounding Sundiata for so easily discounting him. “God has mysteries which none can fathom”, he reminds us, and “the silk cotton tree emerges from a tiny seed.” For those with limited perception, the tree and the seed appear irrevocably distinct, even opposing entities. Yet one can be seen in the other and the potential witnessed. Thus, Sundiata is not like other children:

“..Sogolon Djata, then, was very different from others of his own age. He spoke little and his severe face never relaxed into a smile. You would have thought he was already thinking, and what amused children of his age bored him.” (Niane, 15)

In Sundiata’s image, precocious maturity is superimposed on the face of childhood. There is a sense of ambiguity, he is neither man nor child, but embodies a tension between both. One may get a feel for the greatness of his destiny even in the image of his deformity, of a mighty silk cotton tree within a small seed. The pairing of weakness and strength, destituteness and greatness in a single body, a single vision, triggers our aesthetic feeling by putting opposing neural pathways into dynamic unity. Awe of greatness and pity for isolation commingle, while the desire for resolution is simultaneously heightened by the ongoing suffering of his mother, who is humiliated by the community at large.

Bamba Suso reveals another hint as to the nature of Sundiata. In Suso’s version, a mix up by an unworthy messenger causes a failure on the part of the king to recognize Sundiata as his firstborn and thus rightful heir to the throne. Suso tells us:

“The one I heard [of] first, 

He it is who is my son, my firstborn.

That made Sundiata angry.

For seven years he crawled on all fours,

And refused to get up.”

(Suso, 5)

Here we receive the first instance of Sundiata’s anger, or his indomitable will, either of which is legendary. In everyday relations between society, anger and extreme willfulness are negatives that threaten social cohesion. As Lilyan Kesteloot pointed out in her paper “Power and its Portrayals in Royal Mande Narratives”, however, what is seen as destructive in the regular individual is potentially a positive in a king who needs to wield strength and ferocity in order to defend his people and enforce law. This strength needs to be harnessed, refined and tempered- but is not a negative in itself. Sundiata’s anger then, is the wild anger of a future king, and his greed is possibly the same indomitable willfulness when it comes to getting what he wants that will make him a conqueror who brings fame to Mali. For now, though, he is a petulant child. 

Tension between potential reality and realized situation, between the refusal of duty and familial suffering, is intensified when it comes time for the boys of Sundiata’s age range to be circumcised. Circumcision in Africa is a common ritual to facilitate the initiation of the child into adulthood. Though controversial, its significance for African societies can not easily be overstated. (Victor) In the west we often think of our journey through life as of a single individual who comes to occupy different roles: student, employee, CEO, boyfriend, husband, father, etc. The various roles we take on and our sense of self, though, are independent. “Manhood” or “womanhood” are vague concepts, and on our eighteenth birthdays we often do not feel very different from the day before. The same is not true in Africa. Prior to their initiation into adulthood, children are brought into the bush and taught the secrets of adult life by their elders. They undergo trials of will and physical ordeal, and are inculcated with the collective wisdom of the tribe. Circumcision lies at the end of this, a physical mark that belies the internal transformation that has taken place within the initiate. It is a ritual of utmost importance (Victor).

Sundiata’s crippled nature, physically and emotionally, marks him as potentially ineligible for office of manhood and thus the ritual for circumcision (though his mother still has hope). Still, without a resolution of his condition he is fated to forever be a boy, unable to marry, father children or participate in the town social or political life. He would never grow up, and his mother would face infinite disgrace. As it is, she faces relentless abuse on account of her son. One day, coming home with the weight of insults brought on her throughout her time in the town, her sobbing is witnessed by Sundiata. In both Kanute’s and Niane’s version, it is explicitly related that it was his mother’s tears which stir him into action, while it is implied in Suso’s.   

“Sunjata called his mother,

And his sister Nene Faamaga,

And he said, ‘Mother.’

And she replied, ‘Yes.’

He said to her, ‘My brothers will never go to circumcision 

And leave me here.’

His mother wept,

And she said to him, ‘Sunjata,

I give thanks to God this day.”

(Kanute, 60)

The plot is at a breaking point; its energy is about to boil over. Suffering is about to be transfigured into joy, potential strength actualized into reality. I will refer back to Suso’s version for the actual moment of transformation:

“The smiths put bellows to the ore,

And when they had smelted the ore they made it into iron,

And they forged the iron and made it into rods-

Two rods.

They put one into one of his hands,

And  they put the other into his other hand,

And said that he must get up.

When he had grasped the rods, they both broke.

(Suso, 6)

Sundiata’s weight is enough to bend or break both iron rods, a detail repeated in Niane’s version of the epic. The bending of the iron bars underscores the immense strength of Sundiata, strength that is so potent that it paradoxically weighs him down, as he has not yet up to this point learned to wield it successfully. Yet just at this moment of failure, the wisdom of the young child comes to fore and the way is paved for the final moment of transfiguration.

They said, ‘How will Sundiata get up?’

He himself said to them, ‘Call my mother,

When a child has fallen down, it is his mother who picks him up.’

When his mother came,

He laid his hand upon his mother’s shoulder,

And he arose and stood up.

It is from this incident that the griots [or jalis] say,

‘The Lion has arisen,’ they say, ‘The Lion of Manding has arisen,

The mighty one has arisen.”

(Suso, 6)

Bamba Suso and Banna Kanute must choose every word carefully. In the absence of space for any extended elaboration, they must rely on the symbolic force of the visuals that they convey through their poetry. Sundiata’s words “call my mother”  invokes all the tension and suffering of the previous 97 lines of the poem and initiate their resolution in a moment of profound emotional significance. In dramatic form, the love between a mother and her child is immediately then shown to be stronger than any material force, stronger even than the superhuman “weight” of Sundiata, through the vehicle of intense motor imagery that builds on the narrative power of what came before it. The rising tide of emotion is brought to its pinnacle with the phrase “The Lion has arisen”, “lion” referring both to the totem-animal of his father’s clan and to his rightful place as the Malian ruler prophesied in the poem’s very beginning by the soothsayers. 

To bring our analysis to logical conclusion, however, we must relate it back to the nature of the brain. The question we must put to the test is whether or not the ingredients presented provide enough fuel to potentially initiate the default mode in the story’s audience. Are complex, new and unexpected relationships between different different neural domains being formed? Is value and knowledge reconfigured? Various, distinctive neural networks are invoked here, including those connected to the concepts of intimacy, family, the political order, God and fate. Each of these, besides being present as concepts, are also related to a host of memories and emotional associations based on the firing of their own distinctive clusters of neurons. What brings this passage power, however, is the fact that all these multiple factors cohere in an intelligible manner; that they come together and make sense in a single instant of cognition. An apprehension of this scene ends the possibility of seeing these domains as separate; they are all in a relationship of meaning which has just now come into existence. Sundiata’s love for his mother is the basis for the mastery of his strength, the mastery of his strength is the basis for his ascent into the political world, his ascent in the political world is the playing out fate, or the will of the Almighty, the material manifestation of which, to bring the formula full circle, necessitated the love between mother and son. What makes this scene ‘beautiful’, from a Neuroaesthetic perspective, is that by the last few lines of poetry the whole web of relation can be felt at once, in a single instance of poetry, perhaps even in the single line: “the lion of Manding has risen.” This felt beauty is, of course, entirely based on the brain’s ability to link a distinct and apparently unrelated networks of neurons into a cohesive whole which fires in synchronicity.   

The bridging of these neural divides of course sets off mechanisms of pleasure and reward. But is the default state triggered? Is the audience “transported” into their own internal realities? Is autobiographical memory being triggered? How could we possibly answer these questions without recourse to brain imaging scans of those experiencing the epic in real time? Such experiments on the appreciation of oral folk literature would be invaluable and should of course be engaged in, however in their absence there are clues we can use to make such an inference. Newton, for example, writes:

“ [the] elements of the story, those that have been attracted to the Sunjata magnet from the corpus and stuck, have persisted for the same reasons that they were sustained within the tradition for centuries- they speak to the greater community, telling stories to the members about themselves as a group, both past and present, and they also speak to personal experience, the conflicts and obstacles encountered on life's journey. This direct appeal to individual experience generates a powerful emotional reaction in those whose memories are given meaning and a sense of purpose through the stories being told, but they also serve to prepare others who have yet to encounter them directly by giving them practice runs through the fantastic accounts of others who have gone before them.” (Newton, 30)

The element of “preparation” here implies a certain educational utility to the Sundiata story that ensures its continued retelling. The configurations of knowledge, the felt relationship between self, family, state and God with all their emotional implications, must be long-lasting enough for them to be relevant when a need for such knowledges actually manifests in individual life. The implication is that the experiences that one “lives through” as they partake in the epic performance leave a lasting impression on the minds of the audience, one that would seem to indicate the triggering of a default state. It is thus possible that for a member of a jali’s audience, forever after hearing the story of Sundiata’s first steps will strength come to be perceived in love, the foundation of the social to be perceived in strength, divine will we to be perceived in the maintenance of traditional order and love to be perceived in the divine will.

Further, Newton, in conducting his research of the jali of Mali, witnessed a performance of two story-tellers and the response of the audience:

 “...two renowned jeliw [or jali] brought together some of the most famous and powerful [jali] in all of Mali to celebrate the naming of their new-born child in a ceremony filled with songs and praises that brought dramatic responses from the dancers and other participants. It crackled with energy, so much so that the performances were interrupted a couple of times for extended exhortations to get many of the overheated participants to cool down. Here was dramatic evidence of the nyama of performance: how it can transform those in attendance; how it must be handled by those performing; and why [jali] are considered as a branch of nyamakalaya [those authorized by tradition to deal with Nyama].”  (Newton, 27)

Given the evidence presented, I do not think it especially reasonable to doubt the moving power of African performance, song and poetry any more than one would the moving power of the typical canon of classical and renaissance art in the western world. If anything, as living artistic objects the renditions of the Sundiata story are more relevant to the formative experiences of young people of Mali than the works of Michelangelo or Da Vinci or to those in western Europe. 

Still, even though the tradition is vibrant throughout the Mande speaking regions of west Africa, it is somewhat regrettable that it is largely unnoticed outside in the West outside of some academic circles. Some might argue that the group solidarity that is felt by the Malians is felt at the expense of out-groups (Jansen), as all in-groups require outsiders to some extent. It is possible to have multiple levels of identity, however. One can be a Malian and still hold to ideals of pan-Africanism and universal humanity. In fact, I would argue that a spirit of universality has already found its way into the epic. After all, Suso’s opening lines labels Sundiata as king of the ‘black people’- even though at the time of the epic’s original recitations ‘blackness’ as a concept had yet to exist. There were Mande, Malinke, Soninke, Fulbe and other ethnic groups, but no racial identity connected them.

“Blackness” as an identity is a product, for better or worse, of slavery and colonization. In one way it arose out of the need for the colonizer and the slave-holder to erase the individuality of African cultures and to universally label them as inferior, or less than human. On the other hand, this idea of blackness has developed side by side with another conception of what it means to be ‘black’, built on a common experience of oppression, resistance and struggle. In this second sense, ‘blackness’ is both inherently narrational and heroic. Elements of both formulations are alive and well today. (Blake)

African Americans are not immune to the pervasive nature of negative stereotypes about themselves and their cultures. Harmful stereotypes are enforced by a news media obsessed with negativity and sensationalism, as well as in the discourse passed down from generation to generation and which comes out in hushed conversation or in the anonymity of such mediums of radio shows or the web. Parents and educators alike may wonder what the implications are of these stereotypes on the psychological development of both African-American and White youth. 

Most of us begin life with an unexamined racial identity that is neither valued nor salient. (Nakkula, Toshalis) In the atmosphere of the modern world, however, this state of being is often fleeting. We come into contact with racial stereotypes, controversies and conversations that insert themselves into our lives and force us to confront them. To resolve this crisis, people of color must began an exploration of both culture and history before they can come to accept their own racial membership while simultaneously integrating their identity as “Black”, “Asian”, “Hispanic” or Indigenous with other forms of selfhood, such as those based on a common national or human identity. (Nakkula, Toshalis)

In the western world, particularly in the Americas, most who identify as ‘Black’ trace their descent from slavery, and their individual African heritages have either been melded together through necessity or erased through oppression. Hence, when many African- Americans look to Africa as a source for understanding their place in history they are not looking at any particular culture but to the continent as a whole and to all cultures who have shared in the historical experience of ‘Blackness’. Of particular interest are the societies of the western coast of the continent, many of those part of the past Mali empire, for it is from west Africa that a great number of the enslaved were captured and shipped across the Atlantic.

The epic of Sundiata is obviously not a purely historical “text”. Though it is believed by historians that he was a real king (Duran, Furniss), the many narrations of it have evolved to become literary, symbolic and magical. However, its very existence as a sophisticated literary creation is itself a proof against the stereotype of the simplicity and savagery of pre-colonial African culture. Further, the world in which the characters of the Sundiata epic find themselves is utterly grounded in historical reality. The cities, armies, governments, mosques, palaces and universities that make up its settings have left their remains in both the records of archeologists and in the accounts of Arab travellers to the region in Medieval times. (Shillington) To teach the Sundiata epic in schools is to celebrate the complex history and culture of a continent, or at least a portion of it, that is still marginalized in junior and high school curriculums, as well as in popular media and culture, across much of the western world. It could potentially be a formative experience for those whose knowledge of sub-Saharan Africa is limited to a few dry weeks of a global history course and the reductive images of loin-cloth wearing savages seen on the television. There have already been efforts to implement the Sundiata mythos in this way, such as the vibrantly illustrated English-language children’s book written by David Wisniewski and published in 1999, Sundiata: Lion King of Mali. Sundiata’s stories, if properly invoked, have a power that the textbook does not. The generation of this nyama, however, requires the educator to do more than assign a reading and some homework. To fully recreate the power of an ancient text from a distant culture requires effort, it requires the power of the human voice, of performance, of visual and of music. If students of any age range are to benefit from the epic, it must be experienced, not simply assigned as reading. History must be given, context explained and the educator must present the story with all the enthusiasm of a Malian jali. 

What about students who do not in any way trace their descent from the shores of Africa? Do they have anything to gain from the study of this epic? I think to answer this question we should turn to the words of James H. Vaughn in his 1977 paper, “Environment, Population and Tribal Society”:

“What tends to strike the observer as indigenously African, however, are those aspects of people’s responses or explanations that make sense when they occur, but which could never have been imagined in advance....it is not so much that life events are different, but that there is a momentary difference in response to those events. With explanation, the difference is resolved as understanding, sympathy, sameness...When we arrive at a new understanding we ourselves have been changed. Not only have we become aware of our own cultural preconditioning, we have also gained a sense of the universality of life’s problems. At this moment, the indigenous disappears altogether, and there are only human beings.” (Vaughn, 5)

Whether we are Black, White, Asian, Latino or belong to any other arbitrary racial categorization, unless we are Mande much of the culture presented in the Sundiata epic will at first seem alien to us. Yet life and its various stages are ubiquitous across all human cultures. We all struggle with the limitations of childhood, the throes of adolescence, the responsibilities of adulthood and the trials of old age. To study the various ways in which cultures besides our own have dealt with these issues is at once to develop an appreciation for the human condition which we all share and the beautiful diversity of methods we have for dealing with it. I do not therefore hesitate to make the claim that exposing students to literary and artistic works from cultures that they at first see as “other”, in a manner that facilitates true understanding, would probably do much to break down the racial and ethnic tensions that currently divide us today.

Sundiata grows on you. The more one studies its many variations, the more one will uncover new secrets and new connections that were not realized before. That its symbols and images, as well as the truths they represent, are capable of moving the consciousness with their beauty should at this point be evident. Indeed, the Sundiata epic is living proof that the most sublime pleasures of literature and art are universal phenomena, existing and taking root in many cases even before the arrival of the written word. Whether we are native of  Mali, an academic or even a high school student, if we are open to the ways in which the epic traditions of Africa may rewrite the programs of our brains they may offer us near unlimited material for inducing self-transformation.

Bibliography:

1. Newton, Robert C. “Of Dangerous Energy and Transformations: ‘Nyamakalaya’ and the Sunjata Phenomenon.” Research in African Literatures, vol. 37, no. 2, 2006, pp. 15–33., www.jstor.org/stable/3821153.

2. Deme, Mariam Konate. “Heroism and the Supernatural in the African Epic: Toward a Critical Analysis.” Journal of Black Studies, vol. 39, no. 3, 2009, pp. 402–419., www.jstor.org/stable/40282569.

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6. Innes, Gordon, et al. Sunjata: Gambian Versions of the Mande Epic by Bamba Suso and Banna Kanute. London, Penguin, 1999.

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