Chapter 2 Separate hearts

A novel by Atecossi M

Chapter 2: Far from the throne, near the heart

the sun was loudly tapping on the dusty trail that was tangled through the savannah. Adama walked since dawn, without stopping. He had left the palace with only a small bag of provisions, a water gourd, and the blue scarf that his mother had knotted him around his neck. Nothing more. Nothing other than his name and anger. He had not cried. Not yet. But something had broken himself in him when he had crossed the big gate of the palace. It was more than a departure. It was an exile. A refusal to be locked in a life that had been drawn without his consent. The hot wind caressed his face, lifting sand grains on his way. He did not know where he was going, but he walked with the hope of finding a place where he could exist otherwise. Where he could love freely. Living without having to play a role. Around noon, he stopped in the shade of an old nére. He sat down, goal a sip of water, then closed his eyes. The silence of nature did good. Here, no one called him "Prince Adama". Nobody told him what he had to do. He was only one man among others. Suddenly, he heard a noise. A song. Sweet, distant. A woman's voice, clear and laid, who rose and went down like a quiet river. He got up slowly, intrigued, and followed the sound. Just a few steps away, hidden behind a bush, he saw a girl kneeling at the edge of a source. She washed vegetables in a basin while singing. She wore a simple loincloth, her hair attached to short braids, her fine arms decorated with pearls. She had not noticed her yet. Adama, fascinated, advanced cautiously. "Your song is beautiful," he said softly. She turned abruptly, surprised. She stared at him for a moment, the suspicious eyes. - Who are you? asked does. - I am ... a traveler. He did not mean he was prince. Not yet. He wanted us to see it differently. For once. She looked at him from top to bottom. - You do not look like an ordinary traveler. "Maybe because I'm not ordinary," he replied with a small smile. She does not smile. Not yet. - Are you hungry? Adama nodded. She took out a piece of cassava from her calabash and handed her. He took it, surprised himself with his sudden kindness. - Thank you ... - Awa. - Sorry? - My name. It's AWA. He thanked her for a nod. - Me it's ... Ibrahim, he said, improvising a name. She raised an eyebrow. - Ibrahim, huh? Okay, Ibrahim. Where do you come from? - by far. From a place where people sometimes forget what it means to be free. Awa looked at him again for a moment, then resumed his work without answering. The silence settled, but it was not a weighing silence. Rather a curious silence. Two souls who are observed without being unfolding too much. After a while, she got up and wiped her hands on her loincloth. - If you have no place to sleep, my mother holds a box for travelers. It's modest, but you'll be fine. "Thank you," he said sincerely. She guided him through the trails of the village. Kéran. A small hamlet on hillside, surrounded by fields and rice fields. The children played barefoot, the women piled milie, men worked under the sun. It was simple. But alive. The house of Mariam, the mother of Awa, was made of dried clay, with a well maintained straw roof. Upon arrival, Mariam welcomed Adama with a benevolent smile. - Ibrahim, huh? You have a frank face. Between, son. That night, Adama ate around the fire with them. Rice, okra sauce, dried fish. He had never tasted a dish as simple and so good. In Mariam's gaze, he felt a heat he had never had at the palace. After the meal, they talked for a long time. Everything. Nothing. Rain, seasons, ancestors, dreams. And Awa ... Awa listened, speaking sometimes, asked questions. She did not laugh easily, but when she did it, it was frank. True. Pure. The closer the night, the more Adama smelled his heart to calm down. For the first time in a long time, he felt in his place. Here, in this box of land, far from the gilding of the palace. When you came the time to sleep, Mariam settled a ramining fiber mattress in a small corner of the house. - You are here at home, Ibrahim. He thanked it. But in the silence of the night, lying on his mat, Adama opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He thought of his father. To his mother. In Sory. And to all he had just left. Then he thought of Awa. In his eyes. To his voice. To his tranquil force. And he smiles. He did not know what the future reserved for him. But he knew something: his flight was not an end. It was a beginning.