PART II

Chapter 15 Listening at the Crossroads

The plan — as I’d promised myself back in Conakry — was to hike the hills above the village.

“What was I thinking,” I mutter, looking up at those long inclines, my belly full and heavy with new life.

Instead I wander through dusty lanes and flowering hedges. Children race past shrieking, bursts of colour around the well. Elder women sit together shelling beans in Fulfulde laughter. Near the central square I hear it first — a low melodic voice, nearly a chant, threading words and music together in a way that feels both ancient and immediate. A circle has formed around a man seated cross-legged with a stringed instrument. A griot — though here, I will learn, they’re called gawlo.

I linger at the edge of the gathering. Even without catching every word I sense the shape of the narrative: ancestors and heroes, clever animals, praise-songs for local families. When the gawlo’s eyes catch mine, for a moment I feel genuinely woven in.

Sometimes you claim a place not by conquering its hills, but by listening at the crossroads where history is sung.

The full chapter — Karim waiting at the gate, the missed calls from Mrs. H, Tarmo, and Hasna, and what the highlands are already demanding — is available unabridged on Ream.

© 2026 CYcrds | I.Ph. de Lange