Master Kofi

Then a man entered who resembled none of the others.

Broad-shouldered, with a round, frank face and a lively eye. His outfit of leather and thick cotton cut through the rich fabrics. He came from Sanga with the delegation, and a guard barred his way to ask his rank.

— Kofi Damba.

— Your title, master?

— Craftsman.

The guard hesitated. Announce a craftsman between a district chief and a learned man? It was not done. He tried to fix things:

— I could say… counsellor to the masters?

— No, Kofi replied, in a voice that carried to the back of the hall. Craftsman. It is my trade. It is what I am.

He raised his broad hands, marked by the fire of the forge and the wood of tool handles.

— They have never been ashamed of work.

There was a second of silence.

Then the hall exploded.

Applause, shouts, ululations. The people of Kandara had just recognised one of their own — a man who lived by his hands and said so proudly, under the noses of the powerful.

— Bravo, craftsman!

— There stands a man!

Kofi Damba saluted the crowd like an old friend, and the crowd gave it back a hundredfold. Even the High Counselor had to smile, thinly.

One man in the whole hall was not smiling.

Madi.

On the stage, his actors had stopped on their own. Nobody remembered there was a story. His great tale, his months of work, his hopes — all of it had just disappeared for good behind the calloused hands of a craftsman from Sanga.

Kofi, meanwhile, was looking over the joyful crowd. And an idea lit up in his eyes.

— Say, he called out, I hear you hold a ceremony of the Great Face. We have that kind of game at home too. Shall we show you how it is played in Sanga?

The crowd roared with delight.

Madi closed his eyes.

His day of glory was only beginning — but it already belonged to others.