Separate hearts

The hearts separated

a novel of Atecossi M.

Chapter 1: The Prince and the silence of the throne The sun was slowly rising on the royal village of Sogoya. The golden rays pierced the foliage of the palm trees, stroking the thatched roofs and awakening the roosters still asleep. It was a morning like so many others. At least, in appearance. In the large courtyard of the palace, the servants were already stirring, sweeping the dust, preparing the jars of water and the meals of the day. The uniformed guards took their posts, rights and silencers. And all at the top of this quiet hierarchy, there was the king: Demba Konaté, Supreme Chief of Sogoya, a respected man, sometimes fears, and a father of a single son. This son was Adama. The young prince was not twenty, but his name was already circulating in all the mouths of the village. It was said he was brave, whom he had a frank look and tender heart. But we also said that he dreamed too much. That it spent too much time walking in the fields or to observe the stars from the sacred hill. That he asked too many questions, especially the bad ones. And in a kingdom like Sogoya, ask questions was sometimes more dangerous than brandishing a sword. That morning, Adama was standing in front of the mirror of his room. He wore a Boubou blue king embroidered of gold, his hair carefully capped, his sandals well adjusted. Everything would breathe the nobility, but in his eyes shone a discreet melancholy. He looked elsewhere. A foot noise behind the door came out of his thoughts. It was Sory, his servant of always and his most faithful friend. - My prince, the king awaits you in the throne room. Adama nodded. - Is it already in a bad mood? - I would say ... impatient. "So let's go," said Adama with a corner smile. They crossed the long corridors of the palace. At each step, Adama felt the weight of his position. The eyes who were grouped in his passage, muttered murmur, gestures of respect ... All this did not please him. He did not want to be venerated. He wanted to be understood. The throne room was huge, built in red stone and decorated with sculptures representing the former kings. In the center, on a platform, sat down his father, right like a spear, wearing a black and gold fabric. At his side, Queen Kadidiatou, Mother of Adama, kept his usual calm. Beautiful and sweet, she was often the only one to calm the cools of the king. Adama walked and bowed slightly. - Father. Mother. "Sit down," said the king, without even lifting his eyes. Adama obeys. - I thought, continued the king. It's time for you to take wife. The silence that followed was heavy. Adama slowly raised his eyes. He expected everything except that. - A wife? Why now? - Because it's the moment. You are the heir. The people must see in you a responsible man, ready to govern. And for that, you must have a woman at your side. - And ... it's me who will choose? The king looked at him finally. His gaze was hard, without appeal. - No. You will be marrying Aïssata, the daughter of the chief of Dambala. It's a strategic alliance. Their land will be useful to us. Adama felt his heart squeezing. He knew Aïssata. She was beautiful, educated, respectful. But he did not like it. And even worse: he almost did not know her. - Father ... I do not want a strategy marriage. I want to marry the one I would like. Someone who shares my dreams, my values ... the king got up abruptly. - Your dreams! This is your problem! You dream too, Adama. The crown has only to make your poems and your walks. It requires acts, not feelings. The queen gently put her hand on the king's arm. - Left at least the time to think about it ... but the king shook his head. - There is nothing to think. The marriage will take place in a month. And it's a royal decision. Unchangeable. Adama got up in his turn. - So I refuse. The sentence resonated in the room as a thunderclap. SORY, remained withdrawn, widened his eyes. Kadidiatou froze. The king, him, pale. - You refuse? he repeated, incredulously. - Yes. I am not a pawn that we move on a chessboard. I am your son. And I am a free man. The king advanced towards him, slowly. - As long as you live under this roof, that you wear my name and that you breathe thanks to my kingdom ... you are not free. You are the Prince of Sogoya, and you will obey. Adama felt fire climbing in him. He knew he was going too far. But he could no longer back. - So I will leave. A glazing silence fell on the room. Even the drums outside seemed to have stopped. - If it's the price to pay to stay myself ... so I leave the palace. The king stared at him, open mouth, unable to believe what he had just heard. Kadidiatou, tears in the eyes, murmured: - Adama, please ... But the young prince had already turned the heels. He came out of the room, the heart beating at full speed. He did not know where he would go. But he knew he was leaving to save what he had more precious: his freedom.

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.

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.