A title on a book jacket, suddenly, a face takes shape and carries us in its wake. Memory is a falcon that grips us in its claws, flying over faraway lands. Nothing that has been is lost, so long as there are books to record life. Reminiscence or anamnesis? No matter, sometimes we remember like we give into the caress of a sweet kiss. I remember!

I was six years old and, crossing the millet fields, I held his hand as one clings to a wrought iron railing. I was six and I didn't care about fairytale princesses, since he had made his heart my throne and was always telling me the marvellous story of the Guelowar. I was six and I didn't know that he could suffer, since he was my Hercules, lifting me up with one hand and finding an answer to everything that seemed impossible to me. At his side, the world could have crumbled, to me it would have been a mere bump in a wonderful game of trampoline. Naturally placid, his eyes wrapped me in a cocoon of serenity, calming all my fears. A Guelowar must never be afraid, he would say, teasingly. And to make him happy, I would promise him that I wouldn't be scared even of a lion, though I would always call for his help at the sight of a mouse. He downplayed everything. And whenever something from outside disturbed the bath of tranquillity in which he sought to keep the ones he loved, he would say, in an even tone: that's life.

I was six and two thick braids drew an alley on my head where shea butter and question marks ran. So one day I retorted impishly, without understanding my own words: That's life, that's life, but what is life? He laughed so hard he cried. Then, running a hand over my head, he whispered, as though telling a secret: Life is getting your sea legs. I was six, I would go fishing with my grandfather, I didn't get seasick, so I figured I understood what he was saying. That was far from the case.