Part II
Chapter 7 Bamako, Mali
River of Music
The city is chaos—market cries, motorbike horns, spices sharp as jealousy. We duck into a courtyard where three men with koras pluck the dusk like strings of silk. One pauses mid-note, eyes twinkling.
“You look lost, sister. Or maybe just looking for the right story to borrow?”
Karim, shameless as always: “We’re collecting legends. Know any worth carrying to South Africa?”
The eldest griot slides his thumb across his kora, gaze faraway.
“In Fundudzi, the water never lies. But she does keep secrets. Find the oldest woman by the shore—if she sings while you listen, the lake will open.”
He grins. “But don’t wake the python. Or do. Sometimes it’s the only way forward.”
Bamako Night
I can’t pretend anymore. The dust, the rusted showers, the endless jolts—my bones ache for stillness and my skin aches for cleanliness that doesn’t taste of iron or smoke. The growing weight within me makes every discomfort sharper.
That evening I look at Karim and say, “Please. A real hôtel tonight. Not another campfire, not another mouldy pillow.”
He doesn’t question it. He squeezes my hand and goes. I sit on the curb, palm resting over the secret lives beneath my ribs.
He returns as dusk bleeds purple across the city and leads me to the Azalaï—polished stone, cold clean sheets, everything the road has denied us.
I stand under the shower until the water runs clear instead of brown. Then I lie across the white bed and let the exhaustion roll in, the city humming somewhere below, my confusion rolling in with it.
Hours later, the soft click of the door pulls me from half-sleep.
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