Dawn settled over Niani like a pale veil.Sunlight brushed the towers, the rooftops, and the carved stone guardians of the palace courtyard.The air smelled of morning dew and warm iron from the forges.In the distance, the morning drums still vibrated—as if the entire Mandé was beating with a single heart.
On the training grounds, the young nobles resumed their drills.Spears hissed. Feet hammered the earth in rhythm with shouted commands.A little farther away, Djata watched quietly.
His right leg still trembled from yesterday's fight,but he refused to lie down.Pain—he knew it well.Doubt—he knew it even better.But this morning, he wanted to listen to something else:that thing he had felt just before the dust had settled the day before.
"Nyama…" he murmured.The word tasted strange on his tongue—neither sweet nor bitter.Just a word, yet echoing like a drum he didn't know how to strike.
"You're already talking to yourself, limping lion?"A playful voice called from behind.
Balla, the young jeli, approached with a smile.He carried his ngoni under his arm, its strings still damp with morning mist.His light steps contrasted sharply with the noise of training.
"Nyama doesn't wake up in chaos," he said, sitting beside Djata."It prefers silence—and breath."
"How do you listen to something you don't understand?"Djata asked.
Balla plucked a single string;the note drifted through the air like a calm wave.
"By staying silent long enough for it to speak first."
Djata sighed and looked at his hands.Dust still clung to his fingers, yet he felt a faint warmth inside them—a lingering trace of the current he had touched yesterday.
"Yesterday… I thought it was an accident."
"In the Mandé, accidents don't exist," Balla replied."Only hearts that open too late."
The wind brushed their clothes.The courtyard buzzed in the distance.Everything felt simple and alive—yet beneath that calm,Djata sensed something else:a presence, a thread, a pulse.
As if the earth itself were holding its breath,waiting for him to take the first step.
A figure approached behind them—draped in white, her steps straight and silent.
Sogolon.
She didn't speak immediately.She observed her son, then the jeli, then the sky.
"Are you listening?" she asked.
"We're trying," Balla replied.
She gave a faint smile."Then come. You must learn to listen where the wind no longer speaks."
They followed her through the palace galleries.The carved walls showed ancient Faama taking oaths,forgers lifting their hammers,hunters swearing under the stars.Every step echoed,as if the stone remembered the footsteps of the ancients.
They reached a small inner courtyard.Water trickled softly from a stone basin.Sogolon knelt, dipped her fingers in the water,and placed them on her son's forehead.
"Close your eyes, Djata.Breathe.Let the world enter through your heels and leave through your heart."
He obeyed, unsure but willing.
"Nyama is not a force you summon," she said."It is a language.If you want to speak it, you must first learn to listen."
Balla plucked three notes.Not a melody—just sounds suspended in the air.
Sogolon continued, her voice low:
"The world's flow is everywhere.In the forge.In the river.In the bush.Some strike it.Others pray to it.You… you will learn to walk with it."
Heat rose through Djata's legs.Not the burn of pain—but the warmth of something alive.
He inhaled deeply.Water, stone, wind—everything seemed to breathe with him.
He remembered his mother's words:"The earth never refuses a patient son."
So he waited.
A long moment.
The wind passed, brushing his face, lifting a curl of dust.
Then, without meaning to, he moved.He took a step—not a step of effort,but a step that simply was.
His foot met the ground,and the world answered—a faint beat,there, beneath the skin of the earth.
Sogolon opened her eyes.Balla stopped playing.
Djata stood still, breathing slow.
"You felt it?" Sogolon asked.
"Yes…" he whispered."As if the ground was breathing."
She nodded."Then that was it.But do not cling to it.Nyama comes when the heart is empty—not when it is hungry."
Balla stood up."Mother Sogolon, what you say… that's also the secret of the Word."
She fixed him with a sharp stare.
"Don't say that word lightly, Balla.Some secrets should only be named after they choose you."
The young jeli lowered his eyes, humbled.But Djata kept the word in mind:
The Word.
He didn't know what it meant—but he knew he wanted to understand it.
They stayed in the courtyard the rest of the day.Sogolon spoke little.Sometimes Balla played a note,just to accompany the wind.
Djata repeated his steps,learning to listen to the world's heartbeat,letting the flow move without forcing it.
Every time he tensed, the warmth faded.Every time he relaxed, the world answered.
When the sun sank, they climbed back to the palace terrace.Below them, Niani stretched endlessly—rooftops of clay, terraces, markets,forges still spitting flame.
The wind carried laughter, hammer strikes—and far beyond, a deeper drumbeat.
"That sound…" Djata said.
"That's not a drum," Balla answered."That's the world greeting you."
Sogolon placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Do not seek to become strong, Djata.Seek to become right.Nyama only lends its voice to those who know how to be silent."
He lowered his head.Silent.But in his eyes, something had awakened—not a flame,but a promise.
Night fell over Niani.The torches formed human constellations in the palace galleries.
Under the great baobab, Balla tuned his ngoni.Djata stood beside him, watching the city.The lights danced on the walls like nearby stars.
The world felt immense—and he felt small,but not powerless.
He closed his eyes.And in the silence,he heard the whisper of Nyama again.
This time, he did not reach for it.He simply listened.
And somewhere, the Mandé listened back.