Chapter 3 Separate hearts

A novel of ATECOSSI M.

Chapter 3: Seeds in the dust

The days passed, simple and silent, like a river flowing without making any noise. Adama gradually adaptive to his new life in the village of Kéran. Every morning he woke up with the first songs of birds, helped Mariam tap water or pick up wood, then joined Awa in the fields. There, between the furrows and the feet of peanuts, the fallen prince was slowly transformed into a man of the people. He learned to handle the hoe, to plant the millet, to dinner under the sun, his hands full of dust and the curved back. Awa sometimes looked at him from the corner of the eye, mucinous, amused by his beginner's clipace. But she never mocked meantly. Rather with hidden tenderness, that Adama began to understand. - You never worked the land of your life, huh? she said one morning. "You unmasked me," he replied with a smile, wiping his forehead. - And yet, you're clinging. - It may be because I finally discover what it is ... to really live. Awa did not answer right away. She planted a new seed, then looked up at him. - You are not like the other men from here. - It's a compliment? "I do not know yet," she replied with a half-smile. In the evening, at the corner of the fire, Mariam told ancient tales. Stories of love, war, gods and spirits. Adama listened, fascinated. At home, at the palace, the griots also spoke, but everything was coded, measured, linked to the glory of the ancestors. Here, the stories had the taste of the real. They spoke of choices, pain, struggles. And Adama better understood the world by listening to them. One evening, after the meal, while Mariam was part of a sick neighbor, Awa and Adama found himself alone in front of the fire. The silence was sweet, charged with this strange energy that we feel when two hearts approach without daring to touch each other. "You never really tell me where you come from," Awa said, throwing a piece of wood into the fire. - Because I'm afraid if I told you ... You do not look at me anymore as you do now. - And how do I look at you? - like a man. Awa remained silent, the eyes lost in the flames. - And if I told you that I already know? Adama turned his head, surprised. - What do you mean? - I'm not stupid, Ibrahim. Your ways, your way of speaking, your silences ... you come from another world. Perhaps even a palace. Adama felt his heart stop a second. - And you did not say anything? - I wanted to see how far you would go. If you were sincere. And you are. He fixed it, touched. - My real name is adama konaté. Son of King Demba de Sogoya. She nodded without astonishment. - And you fled the palace to come here ... Cultivate millet? - I fled to live, not just to survive. There, everything was decided for me. Even the woman I had to marry. Awa turned his eyes away. - And here? Do you think life is simpler? We do not have kings, it's true, but traditions, looks, expectations ... everything is there too. - I know. But here at least, I have the choice to fight against that. There is forbidden. A silence settled. Then Awa murmured: "You know, I also have my chains. - What channels? - My father was a big hunter. He died when I was little. My mother fought to leave me alone. And since then, everyone thinks I have to get married quickly, make children, follow the road that has been traced for me. As if it were the only way to exist. - And you want that, you? - I want to love. Not just obey. Their looks crossed. Something passed between them, fragile and burning. "Then we look like," said Adama. - Maybe more than you think. That night, they no longer say a word. The fire goes out slowly, and everyone left to sleep with a heart a little heavier ... but also a little more alive. --- The next day, the rain fell for the first time for weeks. A soft, hot rain, which cleaned the dust and refreshes the air. Adama and Awa danced under the drops like two children, laughing, slippery, squashing. In this shared laugh, there was no prince. More village girl. Just two souls, wet truth. And perhaps, deep down the idea that something was born. Something rare. Something true.