Madi the Storyteller

Madi's actors stepped onto the stage, and a miracle happened: the hall fell silent.

Almost.

The story began. It spoke of the kingdom and of those who keep it standing: the elders who guard its memory, the warriors who protect it, the merchants who feed its roads, the workers who build everything else.

It was solemn. It was careful.

For that overheated crowd, it was terribly long.

Madi drank in every sentence. Standing against a pillar, he moved his lips along with his actors. Every word was his child.

— Listen, he whispered. Listen…

Around him, people listened less and less.

One neighbour yawned. Another mocked an actress's wrapper. Two young men bet on what time the High Counselor would arrive. The hubbub rose again, wave after wave, like a tide no dam can hold.

Madi clenched his fists.

— It is my story, he kept telling himself. They will understand. They will love it.

He even tried to launch the applause at the end of a fine speech. A few hands followed, out of politeness. Then the noise took back its rights.

And suddenly a herald appeared at the great doors, and his voice burst like a clap of thunder:

— The High Counselor of Kandara!

In one instant, the story died.

A thousand heads turned toward the entrance. The actors went on playing, but their words fell into the void. The crowd had eyes only for the procession advancing in a rustle of rich cloth.

— Go on! Madi begged. Keep playing!

Nobody heard him.

He had dreamed of this day as the day of his glory. He was learning a bitter lesson instead: you can write the story, choose every word, direct every scene — and lose the world in a second, to a great embroidered boubou passing through a door.

Madi watched his tale die slowly on the stage.

He had written the story.

But even a great story is not always enough to hold the world's attention.