**Paris, November 11, 2020**
My first day at the Élysée began with a biting cold that stung my face as I passed through the palace gates. Yet inside, a hushed, solemn warmth enveloped me. The air was still, scented with polished wood, aged paper, and a near-sacred silence—a stark contrast to the clamor of the metro I had just left behind.
I was led to a narrow locker room where I received a uniform: a straight, sober tunic dress in deep navy, its finish impeccable. Slipping it on, I gazed into the mirror. No longer was I Maya the cleaner, nor even Maya the Senegalese. I was an anonymous, interchangeable cog in the grand presidential machine. The thought brought a strange sense of security.
My task, explained by a protocol officer with angular features and precise gestures, seemed simple at first: verify each seat in the Salle des Fêtes by cross-checking the seating plan with a guest list. A meticulous, demanding duty where every centimeter mattered.
I stepped into the room for the first time. My breath caught. Monumental chandeliers cast a golden glow over carved woodwork, gilding, and heavy crimson velvet curtains. The space was vast, silent, almost overwhelming in its majesty. For a moment, I stood frozen at the threshold, clutching the seating plan to my chest like a lifeline. I thought of Ma'a Ada, wondering what she'd say if she saw me here, at the heart of France's power. A wave of pride mingled with a sacred awe washed over me.
I set to work, tiptoeing across the thick carpet, following the discreet numbers stitched along each chair's edge. I murmured the names, titles, and countries to myself. His Excellency, the President of the Republic of Senegal. Place of honor, right side. My country. A fresh emotion gripped me.
Then I looked up.
At the far end, a door I'd assumed was closed stood ajar. A man emerged, dressed in a flawless dark suit, speaking softly with an aide. He was slimmer and taller than I'd imagined from television. An intense, almost electric energy radiated from him.
The President of the Republic. Emmanuel Macron.
His gaze swept the room, assessing the preparations with a practiced eye. For a fleeting second, it brushed mine—not a look of recognition, of course, but the quick, efficient scan of a leader ensuring all was in order. Yet in that brief moment, his piercing blue eyes seemed to absorb every detail of the room, including me.
I dropped my gaze at once, heart pounding, feigning deep focus on my list. I felt his attention glide over me before moving on, unlingering. He continued his conversation and vanished through another door, as silently as he'd appeared.
I stood rooted, the paper trembling slightly in my hand. The encounter was brief, impersonal, and yet… it was real. I had crossed paths with the President. Here, in his domain.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of focused fervor. I checked and rechecked each seat, each name, each water glass, terrified of an error that might lead to dismissal—or worse, tarnish the image of this place already seeping into my soul.
When I left the palace that afternoon, the cold felt less sharp. I walked to the metro station, body weary but mind alive, still humming with the energy of that place.
In the deafening roar of the train, I closed my eyes. I saw the vast room, the chandeliers, the silence. And that gaze. That piercing glance that had briefly met mine.
I was but a shadow among others in his palace. Yet for the first time since arriving in Paris, I no longer felt invisible. I had walked the same ground as he. I had breathed the same air.
And that thought, however wild, warmed me more deeply than the thin quilt of the Vincennes apartment ever could.