Niani, January, 1324, Morning

We are starting the journey today. The valuables I have seen just today have blinded my eyes. Many men have fallen to these temptations and supplemented their income with gold from the journey, and been banished from the Hajj. These temptations are fabricated due to the 12 tons of gold travelling with us. Other slaves are thinking of keeping some for themselves, and the best time would be now. The area itself smells of gold to our money-laden eyes. Our masters have told us of the treacherous journey ahead, walking 20 miles every day for months.

Night

We must  travel 4000 miles through the desert. I wonder how 60,000 people will make it. The servants, 12,000 in number, have more personal importance to the king, Mansa Musa. I am one of 500 slaves, carrying scepters and gold items through the desert. This wretched work will break our back before we finish. I wish I could load it on to the thousand camels in the journey, but alas, they are already burdened enough. The camels on this trip are hardy animals, going multiple days without water. Now it is time to walk again, and my rest is over.

Watala, February 1324, morning

The members of our caravan are now spread out over the course of many days. My masters thank Allah for the lucky wells we have found in Walata. They order me to fill their chalices with water to drink for the next days to come. While I walk to the well to continue my task, I notice excited chatter between a Berber and a West African. I sit down, under the shade of a palm tree, and quietly listen to their conversation. The African wants equal value for gold and salt, but the Berber wants extra salt for his gold. 

To the right of him is another slave like me, being sold for small parts of gold. These traders, like us, have traveled for a long time to get to Walata, which is the midpoint between the two regions. Some traders have set prices too high and do not get any sales, so they must spend the night with their valuables, attracting many robbers and thieves. Many a poor trader has had his throat cut, and his valuables looted. Thereby, most traders sell at lower prices, still making a profit after taxes.

Taghaza, March, 1324, Dusk

I'm trying to sleep, though I'm kept awake with all the mumbling by the other slaves. It sounds as if they are talking about the route. They claim that avoiding the Sahara entirely would have been much easier on their weary backs. I thought that there would've been a different and better route taken, but I guess not. I have a bad feeling about this village. It just seems as if there is nothing good about it. It is just the slaves' quarters with a salt mine filled with the salt to last millenia.