The morning heat of Timbuktu pressed against the clay walls of Sankore's library, but Fatima welcomed the stillness it brought. Before the first scholars arrived, before the ink pots were uncorked and the voices of men filled the air with debates of trade routes and astronomy, she worked alone.
Her fingers moved swiftly across parchment, copying verses from an ancient Arabic text. But today, her eyes caught on something unusual: in the margins of a weathered manuscript imported from Ife, she noticed delicate scratches, almost invisible unless the sunlight struck at the right angle.
At first, they seemed accidental. Then, a pattern revealed itself—lines of poetry hidden in plain sight. She leaned closer, tracing the words with her lips as though afraid the air itself might overhear.
"The queen who ruled without a crown,
whose wisdom was carried in whispers,
who led her people by the riverside,
but whose name they buried under kings."
Fatima's heart raced. This was not part of the main text. It was a woman's voice—or at least, words written for her. Someone had hidden this testimony centuries ago, weaving it into a manuscript men believed was only about trade laws.
Her pulse quickened with both fear and excitement. Could this be proof of what she had always suspected? That women had ruled, had spoken, had shaped history—but their names were deliberately concealed?
She folded the parchment shut, sliding it beneath her robe. A dangerous act. The punishment for stealing or altering manuscripts was severe. Yet she could not leave it here, where curious eyes would dismiss those secret verses as meaningless scratches.
Outside, the chants of the morning call to prayer rose, echoing across the city's rooftops. Fatima pressed the manuscript close to her chest, whispering into the silence:
"They thought they buried you. But I will make you eternal."
Little did she know, a pair of eyes had been watching her from the shadows of the archway.