by Ate

from the thron

ad 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 fi