The last words

"Oh Allah, if you grant me the chance to make it through with writing, because I know nothing else... I swear I’ll work hard. Really hard."

Those were the first words Ali ever wrote, scribbled on the back of a letter to his parents when he was eight. He had just read a folk tale from an old schoolbook, and that day, he discovered something magical: words could heal and will set him free.

From that day on, he never stopped writing — in his head, on scrap paper, in worn-out notebooks, even on walls if needed. Everything was a story waiting to be told. An empty sardine can? A shipwreck. A shouting match on the bus? A Greek tragedy. Even his nightmares deserved space in his notebooks.

But dreams don’t pay bills. Twenty years later, Ali was a father of two, a loving but tired husband, a street vendor by necessity, and a writer by night. He had only managed to publish a few scattered texts online — fragments of unfinished novels, poems read by maybe three people and one loyal cousin. His wife, Amira, supported him with the quiet patience of someone waiting for a dream to collapse.

"Honey, what’s next?" she asked one night, watching him stare blankly at the black screen of his phone.

Every night, when the city of Dakar finally hushed and darkness softened the bruised lights, Ali turned on his old halogen lamp. He never wrote during the day. Too much noise, too many stares, too much heat. But at night, he could be himself — not just a father, husband, or debtor. At night, the voices came back.

He opened one of his worn notebooks, the kind he had used since high school. On the first page was a prayer, scribbled in haste, a promise to God.

Then one day, everything changed. A friend sent him a link: "Nocturnal Residencies – A Writing Retreat in Saint-Louis for African Writers." Ten nights in a former colonial boarding school turned artist haven. Ten writers. Ten nights. A professional editor as mentor. One rule: finish a 2,000-word short story by the end. The final works would be read by Aïda Touati, a fierce Parisian editor known for her brutal honesty and brilliant eye.

Ali applied on a whim with a clumsy but heartfelt cover letter. He expected nothing. When the acceptance email came, he didn’t tell Amira right away.

She smiled when he finally did. "Go," she said. "Maybe God really listens at night."

He had never been selected for anything before. But a month later, he stood in front of a colonial-era building by the Senegal River, notebook in hand, one small bag over his shoulder.

Writers came from all over — Côte d’Ivoire, Guinea, Burkina Faso. They talked about "literary strategy," "transversal narratives," and "postcolonial meta-discourse." Ali kept quiet. He listened. Observed. And wrote at night, as always. Only then did his memory open.

He had always been a silent writer. The world’s noise suffocated him. He only wrote when everything else slept — when his kids snored softly, when Amira sighed in her sleep. The night was his. That’s when the characters came to life.

He opened an old notebook, one he had brought from Dakar. On the first page, the prayer again:

"Oh Allah, if you grant me the chance to make it through with writing…"

His hands shook. He thought of his father, who often said:

"Words are beautiful, son, but they don’t build houses."

And of his daughter, who once looked up at him and asked:

"Daddy, when you’re famous, will you buy me a yogurt?"

On the third day of the residency, Aïda gave them an exercise: write a scene where a character reveals a secret. Ali had a flashback — sitting in a classroom as a teenager, humiliated by a teacher, discovering that poetry could be shelter.

He began to write feverishly. A character was born: Kemo, a failed writer haunted by the voices of his griot ancestors. Kemo bore the memory of a people no one cared to hear. Ali fed him from his own life — rejection letters, empty readings, the shame of selling his self-published book to his own brothers.

Aïda read the first pages of his story and nodded slowly.

"You have a voice. But you need to dig deeper. Let us hear your guts, not just shadows."

Ali kept to himself. He wrote alone, late into the night, the shutters half open. He barely spoke to the other participants, younger and more tech-savvy. They talked about pitch, plot twists, immersive narratives. Ali just wrote. From the gut.

But he listened. He watched their doubts, felt their fears. One evening, Aïda asked the group:

"Has anyone here ever thought of quitting writing altogether?"

Ali raised his hand. He was the only one.

She stared at him. Then said:

"I knew it."

Ali wrote like a man possessed. He barely slept. He’d pass out on his desk in the morning, only to rise and write again at night.

Aïda noticed. "You only write at night?"

"It’s the only time I feel real."

"Can you make it to the end like this?"

He shrugged. "If I die, let it be while writing."

She didn’t smile. But she stayed with him that night, reading through his paragraphs. She said nothing, but her eyes gleamed.

With seven days left, Ali had only 1,000 words. He crossed out more than he kept. The others were progressing. He was stuck. He never had a method — just heart. But here, heart wasn’t enough. He needed structure.

One night, he broke down. He called Amira.

"I’m a mess. The others are brilliant. I have nothing."

"Writing’s all you’ve ever had. Don’t come back without a finished piece."

She hung up.

Two days before the deadline, he still didn’t have a complete story. 1,400 words. No ending. He rewrote it over and over. Fear paralyzed him. He remembered his promise to God. To himself. To his family.

His wife called again: "The kids are okay. We miss you."

Then: "If you can’t finish, come home. We’ll manage."

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

On the final night, with special permission for insomnia, he stayed alone in the common room. Aïda left him with a thermos of coffee.

"If you want it read, finish it. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s broken. Finish."

He wrote until 5 a.m. and finally dropped his pen. 2,046 words. He fell asleep on the table.

That evening, Aïda made her announcement:

"The piece that moved me most is about a man for whom writing became faith, a curse, and salvation. It’s imperfect, but true. It deserves to be heard."

Everyone held their breath.

"The writer is Ali Diallo. But the piece I chose for the magazine is by Youssoupha Fofana. His story better met the competition’s goals."

Ali didn’t react. He couldn’t hear. Only feel the tears. He thought of his children. His prayer.

The others applauded.

Months later, a Senegalese editor called. Then an Ivorian publishing house. They offered him a book deal. An advance.

He later learned it was Aïda who had secretly sent his story to the publishers. For the first time in fifteen years, she had broken the rules.

He bought notebooks for his children. A yogurt for his daughter. Paid the electric bill. Gave Amira a bound copy of his story: "To the woman who let me go without holding me back."

And one day, at a school, he was invited to teach a writing workshop. He stood in front of the students. He saw himself in them.

He opened his old notebook. On the first page, he read aloud:

"Oh Allah, if you grant me the chance to make it through with writing, because I know nothing else… I swear I’ll work hard. Really hard."