The Breath of the Ancients

The fist never reached the end of its course.

Malik’s hand had closed around it, effortlessly, the way you catch a falling fruit.

The Bald One felt his bones creak. He saw Malik’s eyes from very close — and what he read there made him back away, him and his men, all the way to the street. They left without a word, without the money, looking over their shoulders twice.

Malik looked at his own hand, open, still warm.

Three years earlier, he had needed a brick.

Today, one fist stopped in mid-air had been enough to empty the yard.

What exactly had Old Balla planted in him, through all those years of movements repeated in the silence of a cell?

He had no time to think about it.

— Mama, are you all right? They are gone.

— Aïe… you just got out, why do you provoke them?

His mother was already groping toward the floor.

— The money, Malik. Pick up the money, quickly. It is everything we saved, coin by coin.

Malik crouched down. He picked up the tired banknotes one by one, smoothed them against his knee, put everything back into the cloth bag and placed it in his mother’s hands.

— Mama. From today, I am the one who earns this family’s living. Rest now. And your eyes… I will find a way. I swear it to you.

It was not an empty promise.

One night, in the cell, Old Balla had spoken about eyes. About lights that go out too soon. He had said that some nights were not final — that the breath, guided by the right hands and the right plants, sometimes knew how to rekindle what life had blown out.

Back then, Malik had understood nothing.

Now, every word of that old man carried the weight of a hope.

— That you carry that thought in your heart is enough for me, my son.

Then she burst into tears.

— Now that you are home, I can go in peace. If I had not been so afraid for you all these years, I would have died long ago.

Malik looked at his mother’s face. The white hair. The open eyes that saw nothing.

Something rose in him, burning.

His fist came down on the only table still standing.

The table flew apart.

Kevin’s family.

Aïcha’s family.

— You will pay, he breathed. Every one of you will settle the bill.

His mother felt his anger the way one feels a storm coming.

— Malik, I beg you. No more trouble. Find good work, and everything will be fine.

— Don’t worry, Mama. I know what I am doing. I am going out for a while.

He kissed her forehead and stepped out.

He wanted answers. And only one person could give them to him: Aïcha.

N'Kora City had changed in three years.

Glass towers had risen above the old tin roofs. Gleaming cars overtook tired handcarts. The city shone brighter than ever — and the poor seemed poorer still, as if crushed by all that light.

Malik walked without looking at any of it.

He was crossing the avenue, his head full of anger, when an engine screamed on his left.

A red Porsche.

The impact caught him full on and threw him several metres.

His body hit the asphalt.

Anyone else would have died on the spot. But for three years, every morning, Old Balla had taught him how to breathe, how to place his body, how to take a blow. The breath had absorbed what the steel had not forgiven.

— Who is this madman driving with his eyes closed?!

Malik had already been angry leaving his house. Being mowed down at the first crossing set him ablaze.

A car door slammed.

A young woman stepped out of the Porsche. White dress, high heels, very beautiful — and furious.

— Are you blind? You threw yourself under my wheels! Can’t you watch where you walk?

Malik, on the ground, narrowed his eyes.

— I am the blind one? You are pretty, but why does it smell so bad when you open your mouth?

— You… you dare insult me?

She raised her heel. A point as fine as a blade, ready to come down on him.

— Binta, stop.

The voice came from the back seat.

A middle-aged man pulled himself out of the car. Everything about him commanded respect: the clothes, the bearing, the habit of being obeyed. But his face was grey, and his breathing whistled like an old punctured bellows.

He leaned against the car door to keep from falling.

— Papa! Why are you getting out?

The young woman rushed to hold him up.

— The hospital, quickly… we have no more time…

She nodded, came back toward Malik, pulled a wad of banknotes from her bag and threw it in his face.

— Here. Take this and disappear. We have more urgent business than you.

Malik did not touch the notes.

He got up slowly, dusted off his trousers, and looked at the man leaning against the car.

He truly looked.

The shade of the skin. The rhythm of the breath. The lips turning blue.

Everything Old Balla had taught him to read in a body.

— The hospital is useless now, he said calmly. It is too late.

Then he turned his back and walked away.

— Stop!

The young woman blocked his path, eyes blazing.

— What did you just say? Explain yourself, or you are not leaving!

Behind her, the grey-faced man frowned — and took a step toward Malik.