The sun rose slowly above the plains, wide and golden like a drum hammered by warm wind. On the road leading to the Kingdom of Do, Niani's escort moved in silence. The hooves of the horses struck the pale stones, lifting a soft veil of golden dust.
With every step, Djata felt the ground tremble, as if the earth itself recognized him. A deep murmur passed beneath the skin of the world — the Nyama.
Around them, nature began to stir in a way that was nothing like Niani.A flock of turquoise winged birds crossed the sky in a wide spiral, their feathers catching the sunlight like pieces of river light.From the tall grass, a small sabali kun, a tiny bush spirit shaped like a fox, peeked out for a heartbeat, watching the procession with curious eyes before slipping back into the earth.Even the trees seemed to shiver with a steady rhythm, as if they were breathing.
Balla walked at his side, his ngoni hanging on his back.
"Do you hear it?" he asked.
Djata turned his head. "Hear what?"
"The earth. It speaks louder here. In Niani, the Nyama sleeps under the stone. Here, it breathes."
Djata closed his eyes. Yes, something vibrated. Not a sound. A rhythm. A flow beating under the ground and in his veins at the same time.
"It's… alive," he whispered.
Balla nodded. "The Mandé is alive, Djata. We just breathe with it."
Far ahead, the hills of Do appeared. Fires burned softly on their slopes, sending spirals of silver smoke into the air. It wasn't war. It was the kingdom's breath.
The Kingdom of Do, cradle of the Donso — the mystical hunters of the Mandé.
People said: "The Donso do not kill the forest; they ask it for permission to live."These men did not only track beasts. They tracked imbalance.
The escort stopped before large gates of white stone. Two statues guarded them, half-man, half-beast, with quartz eyes that seemed alive.
Hunters stepped forward, dressed in leather and talismans. Their posture was neither hostile nor submissive. Just rooted, like the base of a tree.
One man separated from the group. Tall. Broad shoulders. A tunic burned by fire and time. And his eyes… gray. Not dull. Not dead. A shifting gray, full of life. When he spoke, the air itself tightened.
Balla bowed deeply.
"Famory of the Kingdom of Do."
The name echoed like a prayer. Even the wind paused.
Famory studied Djata for a long moment.
"The son of Niani… come to seek the path of the Nyama."
His voice was deep and steady, each word beating like a drum in the chest.
"The wind warned us of your arrival. The birds sang your name before you crossed the river."
Djata blinked. "The wind… speaks here?"
Famory gave a calm, faint smile.
"Here, everything speaks. But only those who silence themselves can listen."
His gray eyes glimmered for an instant with silver reflections.
"My eyes do not see light. They see Nyama — its traces, its wounds, its lies."
He stepped toward Djata.
"You… your Nyama still trembles. It is young, but it wants to speak."
Balla whispered, mostly to himself, "Famory's Gray Eyes… they say he can read the memories of a place."
Famory replied without turning. "The dead speak only to those who listen to silence."
They walked toward the city. Houses were low, built of stone and polished wood. Totems guarded the streets. Drums beat a slow rhythm, like the heartbeat of the world.
At the center stood the Great Tree of Do, an immense kapok tree whose roots formed natural arches. Amulets hung from its branches, woven from hair, feathers, and bone.
Famory placed his hand on the trunk.
"Here is where Donso oaths are born. Under this tree, every hunter learns to hear the Nyama of the earth before that of men."
He turned to Djata.
"The Faama sends you to learn the arts of the hunt. But hunting is just a word. Here, you will learn patience. The Nyama runs from the impatient."
Balla plucked a single note from his ngoni. It vibrated low and long.
"They say a Donso who kills without reason loses his voice in the dream."
Famory nodded. "Because he breaks the rhythm of the world."
They crossed a wooden bridge into a large training clearing. Hunters practiced the Fanga-Tiri, projectiles of Nyama. They threw short spears infused with vital flow. Each throw left a glowing line in the air, and the ground trembled with each impact.
Djata watched, amazed.
Famory explained calmly, "The Fanga-Tiri strikes where your gaze rests. No further, no closer. It is not the arm that throws. It is the Nyama that releases."
A young Donso missed his target; the weapon crashed into the dirt.Famory sighed.
"He wants to shine. The Nyama dislikes being shown off."
He placed a hand on Djata's shoulder.
"Tomorrow, you will try. Today, observe. Breathe."
They raised their eyes toward the forests at the horizon.
"There lies the wild Nyama," Famory said. "The Donso do not chase it to own it, but to understand it."
That evening, the sky of Do glowed with amber light. Hunters lit their fires. Griots sang ancient words. Children fell asleep to the sound of drums.
Djata sat near a fire pit, watching the flames dance in Famory's gray eyes. Every reflection seemed to hold a forgotten battle.
"Master Famory… how does one become a true Donso?"
Famory stayed silent for a moment before answering.
"By stopping the desire to become one. A Donso is not a title. It is a state of soul."
He threw a pinch of powder into the fire. Blue smoke curled around them.
"The Nyama will lend you its flow when it knows you can carry its weight. Not before."
Balla, seated a little further away, murmured, "Nyama is like the Word. You earn it."
Famory nodded. "Exactly."
The wind rose. Sparks lifted into the night.Djata felt the world breathe with him.
A sentence returned to him — Sogolon's voice, distant but warm:
"When the earth recognizes you, you no longer need to prove you exist."
He closed his eyes. Everything vibrated: the drums, the chants, the fire, his breath.The Mandé seemed to beat through him.
Famory rested a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Rest. Tomorrow, the Nyama will call you. And you must answer."
Night closed over Do. In the dying flames, for just a heartbeat, one could swear a lion walked between the embers.