Back in the room, Mariétou held her daughter in her arms, tears flowing endlessly.
“If I could take your pain in your place, I would, my daughter.”
Weakly, Alima whispered, “Forgive me, Mama. I thought everything would be easy.”
Those words broke Mariétou’s heart. She understood that her daughter had finally grasped the cost of her choice—but it was too late for regret.
In the days that followed, the situation became unbearable. Alima could no longer stand. Her cries echoed through the whole village. Her dreams of gold and wealth had become a burning nightmare. And with each passing day, death seemed to circle closer around her.
The villagers began to say she would not survive.
But somewhere, in the shadows of the village, an old priestess was watching from afar. She had heard of Alima’s curse, and soon she would step in.
The nights had become endless.
In the small room, Alima’s screams had given way to weak moans, barely audible. She no longer had the strength to scream or even to cry. Her skin was as dry as earth in the dry season. Her cracked lips bled. Her beautiful eyes, once radiant, were now dull and glassy.
Mariétou kept vigil day and night at her bedside. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with a dry cloth, stroked the broken strands of hair falling from her head, and whispered prayers.
“Spirits of the ancestors, protect my daughter. Do not let her die like this.”
But the more she prayed, the tighter her heart became. She felt her daughter’s life slipping away little by little, like sand through her fingers.
One night, as Mariétou had dozed off for a few moments, she heard a knock at the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
She jolted awake, heart pounding. Who could come at such an hour?
She opened the door, and there before her stood an old woman. Her face was marked by deep wrinkles. Her eyes shone with an almost supernatural intensity. She wore an ancient wrapper woven with red and black patterns and held a staff carved with strange symbols.
“You are Alima’s mother.”
It was not a question, but a statement.
Mariétou stood frozen, unable to answer.
The old woman continued, “I heard your daughter’s cries. They reach even the invisible worlds. If I am here tonight, it is not by chance.”
Mariétou felt her legs tremble. Tears burst forth.
“Help her, I beg you. She is going to die. I will do anything, anything you ask.”
The old woman placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
“It is not to me that you must make promises. It is to the forces that govern life. But know this: saving your daughter will have a price.”
The priestess entered the room. As soon as she saw Alima, she slowly shook her head.
She came closer, set her staff beside the bed, and took out a small calabash containing white powder. She took a pinch and gently blew it over Alima’s body.
At once, a sharp smell filled the room, and Alima began to tremble violently. Guttural sounds escaped her throat, as if another voice were speaking through her.
Mariétou stepped back in terror.
“What is this?”
