In the northern landscapes of Benin, silence often carries more weight than words. Here, among the roots of an ancient tree, a young man becomes both witness and messenger. His skin bears white marks, fragile and bold, echoing rituals older than memory itself. The tree, scarred and resilient, leans into the sky as if to say nothing is ever truly lost, only transformed
The Tree Remembers
At the age of eleven, Fiacre lost his father. In the silence that followed, responsibility descended like weight upon his narrow shoulders. Twelve mouths, one boy.
Childhood did not linger. He became head of a household overnight. His hands carried water, repaired walls, sought food, and yet they also turned pages in a schoolbook. His effort was not only survival but a quiet defiance against circumstance.
When the burden became unbearable, Fiacre sought refuge in a tree on the outskirts of Boukoumbé. Its branches spread wide as if to hold him. The wind caught in its leaves, and in their trembling, he sometimes heard his father’s voice. Continue, it said. Carry them forward.
Education was his anchor. I supported part of his schooling, believing in the rope he was climbing rung by rung. He dreamed of becoming more than the weight he carried.
But fate has its own final word. One Friday, after school, Fiacre returned home to repair a wall in his Tata Somba house. As he worked, the wall collapsed. The clay that once sheltered became the clay that closed his story. He was fifteen.
Today, the tree remembers. Its roots hold fragments of his presence, its bark the echo of a boy who carried a family too soon. Through memory, Fiacre does not vanish. His story remains, pressed into the earth, carried forward by those who pause long enough to listen.
Beneath the tree, he heard his father’s voice
A milestone marks the road: Tagaye 5 / Boukoumbé 39. Time measured in dust and stone.
The path into Boukoumbé: earth the color of rust, horizon softened by dry wind.
Walls of laterite, straw bound for repair. Tata Somba homes, guardians of tradition.
Barefoot on roots, his frame upright against a tree older than memory.
Fiacre. sixteen years old, already carrying the gravity of twelve lives.
Scarification across his face. Marks of identity. Marks of memory.
(His school notebook: words in French and English, his ambition taking shape in ink.
A body pressed against bark, suspended between childhood and duty.
He sometimes heard his father’s voice. Continue, it said. Carry them forward.
Ton départ a laissé un vide immense, mais aussi une lumière qui ne s’éteint pas. RIP