Chapter 1: Journey to Africa
(or: “Where the Sky Burns Above the Savannah”)
Cindy had always been an unusual woman. She had no fear of the unfamiliar, no envy, no desire to possess. She loved the way only few do – deeply, freely, with trust. “Let’s go to Africa,” she said one evening, unrolling a map across the wooden table. “Through the south. Through dust and stars. I want you to see real land.” And, so they arrived there – where roads are not asphalt, but red clay. Where the air carries the scent of roasted corn, and the sky shimmers with heat and song. Where the wind smells of smoke and honey. They traveled through the savannah, listened to drums in distant villages, slept in a tent beneath the hum of night insects. Children laughed without fear. The elders smiled toothlessly. And the women sang – even when they weren’t cooking or working. Life itself was a song – and for that alone, it deserved to be sung. They stopped in a village where tourists weren’t treated as spectators – but as kin. Fruits were brought to them in open palms. They were shown how to weave bracelets from palm threads. And in the evenings, the stars hung so low it seemed you could reach out and touch them. One such evening, when the sky had turned a deep violet, and fireflies lit up the grass like the breath of the planet, a girl approached them.
Her name was Ayla. She had dark, deep eyes – the kind of eyes you only see in those who look at the world from within.
She came up to Cindy, lowered her gaze, and stood in silence. Then – quietly, almost in a whisper: “I don’t want to marry the man they chose for me. He’s old. He drinks. He hits. But I saw you. You are kind. If your husband… takes me as his wife – I will be saved. Say nothing – and I’ll leave. Say yes – and I’ll become your sister. Loyal. Grateful.” Cindy didn’t answer right away.
She looked at her for a long time. Then – at the sunset, at the fire, at the sleeping child beside her.
Something ancient stirred inside her. Not reason – something feminine. A feeling. Intuition.
Ayla wasn’t an accident. She was a calling. Later, in the quiet of the tent, Cindy leaned into Efendi.
His chest was warm and steady. His shoulder – solid as stone. She listened to him breathe.
Then – in a whisper, but firmly: “You’re kind. And you’re strong. Save her. Maybe she’ll become your sister. Maybe your wife. But before anything else… give her a chance. A chance for freedom. For life. For light. Do what you feel is right. But don’t walk past if you can be her shore.”
That night, they didn’t sleep. Outside, the drums still played. But inside – a different music played.
The music of choice. Of compassion. The music of real love – the kind that doesn’t ask, but gives.
The Bidding for a Life
The morning was still sleepy, with mist draped over the hills like a light blanket. A fire crackled at the center of the circle. The air was filled with smoke, spices, and that particular tension that precedes a decision that will change someone’s life.
Ayla sat a little apart. A cup of herbal brew in her hands. Silence in her eyes. Three suitors had already arrived.
The first – broad, arrogant, with a heavy gold ring and heavier gaze. The second – older, his face as dry as his jokes. The third – wealthy, but rumors whispered he beat his servants. And women. They spoke loudly, smiled falsely, threw around numbers and bragged about their herds.
Efendi said nothing. He sat by the fire, back straight.
Cindy beside him – holding his hand. Her gaze soft, but steady. Like clay used to shape destinies.
One of the elders said: “Well then. Since all are here, let’s begin.
