SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE

The supple leather of his moccasins followed his steps with an almost arrogant precision. The Swiss watch on his wrist blinked softly, a discreet reflection of his obsession with time. Not to waste it - to dominate it. Abdoul Kabir Fall's day had already begun at five o'clock in the morning. Black coffee. No sugar. Two screens lit up in front of him, one displaying stock figures, the other coded messages from his associates. The city was still asleep. He was signing contracts. He'd learned at an early age that life offered nothing. That it had to be forced to bend. So he bent the world to his will. At the age of thirty-five, he was running one of the country's biggest import-export networks. Everything passed through his warehouses. Nothing entered without his knowledge. And if anyone tried to double-cross him, they quickly learned why Abdoul Kabir Fall was feared as much as admired. - Let's get on with it, Barkhane," he said, glancing at his logistics manager. Call that guy in France. Tell him to release the container. Today. Not tomorrow. He never raised his voice. He didn't need to. Tone was enough. Clean. Icy. Precise. At lunchtime, he would sometimes leave his office. A business lunch, a well-placed smile, the right word that opened all doors. The others would bow. Even those who envied him. But once night fell... he changed his skin. Fallen suit. Open shirt. Glass in hand. Music in your ears. No rules. No chains. Noisy friends, perfumed girls, laughter muffled in the leather of the benches. It wasn't a double life. It was his life. Because he owed no one. Because he could afford it. - Brother, you'll end up settling down," said his friend Sylvain, between sips of wine. Aren't you getting tired? - The only thing that tires me is routine," replied Abdoul Kabir, staring into the blue light of the club. And marriage is routine disguised as duty. He smiled. But an unattached smile. Like everything around him. Meanwhile, on the other side of town... There was always something sacred about the sound of the water she poured for her ablutions. A gentle peace that permeated the morning air. Sarata rose from the prayer mat, her eyes still moist with invocations. Fajr was her departure. Her anchoring. She didn't talk much. She didn't like idle chatter. For her, every word carried weight. And every silence, a virtue. She tied her veil, readjusted her boubou, ironed the day before, and stepped out into the small courtyard. The birds were beginning to sing. She smiled as she listened, as she did every dawn. She had learned to thank God for simple things. A warm bowl of porridge. A diligent student. A smile offered for no reason. Around seven o'clock, she would leave the house to go to the local Franco-Arab school. There, she taught Arabic, with her characteristic gentle rigor. In her classroom, there was no shouting: just Sarata's calm voice, the turning of pages, and the discreet efforts of her pupils.  Miss Sarata, can we copy on the board?  Yes, of course," she often replied with a mysterious smile. She sought neither praise nor looks. But in the schoolyard, the children followed her with their eyes, as one followed a star. During breaks, she read, sitting in the shade of a mango tree. The Koran, hadiths, books of exegesis, and sometimes a poem in classical Arabic, which she would engrave in her notebook. She would also jot down her reflections, brief, illuminating thoughts, like flashes of the soul. When evening came, she went home. She prayed. She sewed a little in her tidy workshop room. She prayed some more. Her parents, proud of her, didn't say too much. But in their eyes, she read a discreet hope: that one day, a pious man would notice her. That he would know how to read the light behind the modesty. She said nothing. She trusted in God. Little did she know that one day her destiny would cross that of a man who lived by night as she lived by light... .