The baby plays on the paspalum lawn, his knees and elbows reddened by friction. His mother reads a book and watches him from time to time with an affectionate gaze tinged with a little concern. She feels uncomfortable seeing her child crawling on all fours on this deep green, thick, and sharp grass. A cloth hat protects the toddler's still fragile skull. It is held in place by a string that disappears into the folds of his chin, so that from a distance, the hat looks like a large mushroom. It gives the impression of standing on its own and accompanying the child rather than covering him!
A gardener goes about his weeding in a sluggish manner typical of Africa. Sweat forms winding streams in the yellowish dust that sprinkles his back. He works barefoot, which intrigues the child. Mommy only walks barefoot in the bathroom or at the pool! Suddenly, insects fly away in front of the tiny explorer, who, surprised, exclaims, “Ah!” His high-pitched cry comes back to him, muffled. Amazement competes with curiosity. Who is this other child who answers him? He observes the august colonial house, silent and reassuring, all white, with its barza extending in front of the living room. There is no one there.
Mom? He flashes her a charming smile, which elicits a slight, haughty movement from the lady, who buries her nose back in the pages. Sitting in the middle of the garden, knees together to better position the book, she is dressed in a light, airy dress, revealing her bare arms and legs, which are very pale despite the ever-present sun. Her dark brown hair is curly and held back by a silk scarf folded into a headband. No! Mom seems as good as gold.
The tall black man? He is sweating along the hedge, paying attention only to his work. You can hear him panting as he pulls out a stubborn stolon that is trying to invade the lawn. These sighs caused by physical effort do not resemble a baby's cry. The huge and somewhat disturbing trees that surround the house like a jewel in a case sway majestically in the light, warm breeze of this late afternoon. They filter the blinding rays of sunlight, and their distant foliage casts patterns of light and shadow on the chubby face.
The child cries out “Aa,” and the giant treetops echo “Aa” back. The little boy wobbles on his bottom and chirps his surprise. He sees a sparrow fluttering on the roof, chirping at the top of its voice, but it doesn't say “Aa”! He glances sideways at the reader, who doesn't look up, overcome by a gentle urge to laugh. The gardener rests on his spade and looks at the child, amused. He tries again, shouting louder: “Aa!” “Aa,” replies the forest in unison.
The toddler laughs and his laughter spreads through the foliage, multiplying, seeming to amplify, never stopping: suddenly, his mother's laughter mingles with his and dozens of invisible women giggle in unison. Then the man joins in the fun, adding his deeper octaves to the crystalline concert. The whole forest now seems to be laughing in a joyful storm, as if entertained by the little one's joy, and the bird flies away, disturbed by the noise. Could elves be involved? A forest never responds like that: it is even very rare for it to produce a simple echo!
Mum gets up and hugs her precious little boy. How tender and comforting her arms are! A wave of light kisses calms the child and the forest: she takes him back inside. It's time for a nap...
The trees sway as if reluctantly, and the worker resumes his work: everything returns to the routine of an plantation of eleis, tall palm trees combed by the wind, bordered by eucalyptus trees imported from faraway Australia. Only the buzzing of insects and the rustling of leaves fill the stifling air once again.
Over time, the echoing forest has reflected other African stories, which have allowed the baby to grow. Stories that reach us through the meanders of the river and the traps of memory. Stories that invite themselves in at every hour.