The High Counselor

The High Counselor entered the way one enters one's own house: slowly, certain of being expected.

His great gold-embroidered boubou crossed the hall, followed by a procession of notables, dignitaries and guards. He smiled, greeted, blessed with a broad gesture. The crowd, which an hour earlier had been screaming for the show, now stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of him.

— There he is! It's him!

— Look at his embroidery!

— And those behind him, who are they?

For behind him came something even better: the delegation from the other great city. The herald announced the visitors one by one — district chiefs, guild masters, learned men — and their titles were so long that the crowd laughed at every announcement.

Among them walked a man whom the herald announced in a single phrase:

— Bako Semba.

No title. No function.

The man was thin, plainly dressed, and he barely smiled. But his eyes never stopped working. They settled on everything: the pillars, the guards, the faces, the doors. While the crowd watched the powerful, Bako Semba watched the crowd.

On the stage, Madi's poor actors were still playing.

They could have recited backwards: nobody was listening anymore.

Madi made one last effort. He leaned toward his neighbours:

— Don't you want to know how the story ends?

— What story? one of them answered without even looking at him.

That word hurt more than all the others.

Madi then understood what storytellers sometimes take a lifetime to admit: reality is the strongest show of all.

A High Counselor in flesh and blood, powerful men you could see, touch, envy — that was what the people had come for.

His theatre was only words.

Reality had defeated his theatre.