It was too early for customers just yet, a few people had passed through and by her stall. Sedemi felt an uncomfortable tightness in her chest as she watched one of the guards for the marketplace approach. She had seen him before. Knew that he was friendly enough, or at least to Marie he was. But Sedemi could not abate that slight terror that came from men dressed in uniform. Her nails raked against the inside of her palms, her song wavered but she refused to bow to him. Her heart hammered relentlessly in her chest but through the thick of her unease he approached her with the hesitation of a docile doe. Brown eyes wide and face unmistakably soft. Sedemi relaxed, slowly.
“My mother sang it to me.” It was one of the few Eʋeawó songs that Sedemi had not lost through the years. Sung over and over in the fields as she worked. She knew half a dozen in languages she could never hope to understand. Songs, stories, they were all they’d had. Shared them and preserved them along with their gods.
“You know it?” Sedemi chest squeezed, for a second she foolishly fell into the trap of old hopes. So few people would recognise the song much less strike up a conversation over it. “Agyei?” Before she’d even finished his name, Sedemi knew it was not him. They were children when they’d parted ways, he might’ve grown and changed but this man was not her Agyei. The boy she’d known would smile in the face of any adversity. Sedemi fiddled with the edge of her apron. “Sorry, I thought you might be someone I once knew.” It was all just a grand coincidence. She’d seen him before, she reminded herself. One shared lullaby did not mean a thing.
On reflection, Sedemi felt foolish for thinking his sharp dark eyes were those of her beloved brother’s. How different they were. She laughed to herself, nervously ran her hands over her face. “Pardon me Monsieur, I am making a fool of myself. Let me start again.” She steadied herself with one hand on the stacked crates that displayed her goods. “How did a French musketeer,” Sedemi gestured to his uniform, the fleur-de-lis. “Recognise such a lullaby?” It ought to be a fascinating tale.
At first the woman had seemed sheepish when he had approached, nervous to be singled out by a guard. Upon hearing his question she seemed to relax, and then looked at him briefly with blind hope enough to take his breath away. He didn't have the chance to explain his curiousity of the song before she spoke a word, or name he did not recognise. Émile felt his face go hot at having raised her hopes, reflecting her own embarrassment. "Do not apologise..." Émile rubbed the back of his neck. "I... I mistook you for someone else at first as well..." He would not do her the disservice of saying he thought she was his mother. "Please, I am Émile Moreau, mademoiselle..." he waited for her to give her his name, tipping his hat politely.
"Why I know the song... I... My... My mother sang it to me... I think." Émile looked less musketeer and more lost boy then. Searching for answers.