He has lodged himself in my heart and I do not know what to do with him. But I do not want to become a bad memory. I feel a richness pervading me. This love for you and for him. Who knows? It may rot with time… or flourish like a hibiscus in full bloom.

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Here there are no griots, only poets. You think that you are leading an extraordinary life and that people see you as you would like them to. You adorn yourself with your writing. It becomes your identity, your bread and butter, and your reason for living. You begin to believe in what people say. You become locked up in your creation, become submerged in words, and sentences suffocate you in the solitude of your retreat. They make you forget the blood and the dust.

You should listen to those whose voices remain unheard although the wisdom they carry is shaped by their closeness to the earth. No refined language but the pace of life at a gallop refashioned outmoded images, well-worn phrases, and ways of thinking that are out of date.