The sun rose slowly above Niani, brushing the ochre rooftops with a soft, golden light.In the palace galleries, the air carried the quiet calm of a morning after a storm.Djata walked alone.His leg, faithful to its slowness, hardly hurt anymore. Yet with every step, he felt something stirring deep inside him — a warmth, a quiet flow waiting to speak.
The Nyama.
Since yesterday, that word kept dancing in his mind like a riddle.He remembered the shock, the invisible wave, that instant when the whole world seemed to breathe with him.And now… nothing.Silence. Only the sound of his footsteps on the stone floor.
Down in the training courtyard, the young nobles were already practicing.Lances sliced the air, sandals struck the ground.Among them, Fassou barked orders — trying a little too hard to hide yesterday's humiliation.
Djata watched him for a moment without anger, then moved on.He wasn't fighting against others anymore.He was fighting to understand.
A little farther, sitting in the shade of a column, Balla tuned his ngoni. His fingers brushed the strings as if speaking to a familiar spirit. When he noticed Djata approaching, he smiled.
"Silence followed you this morning. That's a good sign."
Djata answered plainly:"I want to understand what I felt yesterday."
Balla nodded and pointed toward the steps leading down to the hanging gardens."Then come. The palace is too loud to hear the world."
The boys descended into a quieter space.Water spilled from stone jars onto green leaves, creating a gentle rhythm.The wind carried scents of clay and flowers, breathing for them.
"Close your eyes," Balla said. "Forget the pain, the shame, the laughter. Just let your heart listen. The Nyama doesn't appear to those who chase it. It comes to those who stay still."
Djata obeyed.He felt the cool ground first, then the warmth of the sun… then something deeper — something alive in the stone, in the air, in him.He inhaled.The flow rose, soft as a breeze.
But the moment he tried to hold onto it, everything vanished.
Emptiness.
He opened his eyes, frustration burning in his chest."It slipped away."
Balla smiled gently."It didn't slip away. You squeezed too hard. The Nyama hates cages."
He lifted his ngoni and plucked three strings.A soft vibration rippled through the air, lifting a bit of dust from the ground.
"Look. The Word — the Verbe — is that. Not a shout. A harmony. When your voice and your Nyama breathe together, the world listens."
Djata watched, fascinated.The air still trembled around the young jeli, as if the music had left an invisible mark.
"How did you do that?""I speak to the world the way you speak to a brother, not an enemy. Try."
Djata closed his eyes again, placed his palm on the ground, and whispered a few words he didn't yet understand.The flow moved — hesitant, fragile.A small stone vibrated under his fingers… then fell silent.
Balla raised an eyebrow."Not bad. The Nyama heard you — it just laughed a little. Keep going."
They repeated the exercise again and again.Sometimes the warmth came.Sometimes it didn't.But each attempt carried less fear, less anger.The flow was starting to recognize him.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Sogolon appeared.
She paused near the basin, her eyes searching her son's first, then Balla's, then the sky's.
"You are listening," she said.
"We're trying," Balla answered.
She smiled faintly."Then come. To understand, you must listen where the wind no longer speaks."
She stepped closer and placed her hand on Djata's chest.
"Here, the Nyama is a river," she said softly. "When you panic, it floods. When you doubt, it dries. Don't try to control it. Just follow it."
Djata swallowed."And if it carries me away?"
Sogolon's smile deepened."Then learn to swim. No current has ever defeated a patient heart."
She stepped back, letting him continue.
Balla strummed a new sequence, slow and steady — like a heartbeat.Djata closed his eyes, focusing on the water, the music, the wind.
This time, the flow rose gently — without force, without fear.He felt it warm his injured leg, then spread through his entire body.A strange peace settled over him.
Balla placed a hand on his shoulder."That's it. Don't hold it. Let it pass. The Nyama came back because you didn't beg for it."
Sogolon watched silently.In her eyes, a quiet pride flickered.
The river had finally begun to move.
The day passed slowly.The palace grew louder — griots singing ancient tales, forges ringing under the hammer.But in the middle of all that noise, another sound rose:
A drum.
Then a second.Then a third.
Deep, heavy beats rolled over the city like a controlled storm.Voices stopped.Guards raised their heads.
Balla and Djata both turned toward the north.
The jeli listened carefully to the rhythm, then opened his eyes.
"They're calling the name of Do."
Djata felt a chill climb up his spine.
The land of the Donso hunters.The kingdom where Nyama wasn't a whisper — but a weapon.
He looked toward the horizon.The wind carried the echo of the drums all the way to the hills.
Balla stood beside him, solemn but proud.
"The Mandé is listening to you, Djata. And this time, it's waiting for your answer."
Djata remained silent for a long moment.Then he tightened his grip around the talisman Sogolon had given him.
"I will walk," he whispered. "Even if the river turns into a torrent."
One last beat thundered through the palace — then disappeared.
But the wind kept blowing softly over Niani.And inside Djata, the river did not stop.
It had simply found its direction.