Gassire took his last remaining son and called his wives, their maids and servants, the groomsmen of his horses, the herdsmen of his cattle, his faithful retainers, and the Boroma, vassals of his clan.  Together they left the city in a long procession and went away from the sown land and into the Sahel, the scrubland near the endless desert.  They traveled to the border of the Sahara, and at nightfall they rested.

The camels rested, the remaining servants slept, the Ganna rested, and the wives and their maidservants all slept.  Many of the Boroma had gone back to Jerra.  Gassire’s youngest son was asleep.  But Gassire watched the flames of his fire.  He could not sleep.  He looked up and saw the stars in the lonely night sky.  Softly, while all was silence above the distant hills, Gassire heard a voice singing.   Was it in his heart?  Gassire listened to the singing. Then he began to tremble: It was his lute singing. For the first time the lute had a voice, and it sang the Epic of Dausi. Gassire’s wrath vanished.   He felt quiet and peaceful.  His heart flowed over and tears welled in his eyes.  Gassire wept for the first time since he was a child.  In that same night his father, King Nganamba, died.  His son would never be king.

Oh, Jerra! Agada, Ganna, Silla! Oh Fasa!

Thus Gassire wandered through the endless hills and plains of the Sahel.  At night, near the fire, his lute sang the great deeds of the heroes, and all his men enjoyed the beauty of the epic song, the Dausi.

Meanwhile, the Burdama had again arrayed themselves in battle order, ready to renew their war with the gallant men of Jerra.  How many Burdama were there?  Who counts the rats that devour the grain?  But where were the brave warriors of Jerra?  Could it be that they were still in their beds?  Could it be true that they were still with their women?  The Burdama heard rumors that the true warriors, the men of Fasa, had left the city, that Jerra was without real men to defend it.  The Burdama moved forward, they marched, they ran forward, the men in front being pushed by those behind.  No one wanted to miss the lootings.  No defenders appeared, no warriors rode out with leveled lances to face the attackers.

Was Jerra sick?  Was the city dying?  No! Its men only wanted peace.  Who counts the locusts when they descend on the fields? Who counts   Who counts the white ants in the doorpost?  The Burdama scaled the walls of Jerra and descended like sparrows onto millet.  For weeks they plundered and killed, raped and looted.  They broke down doors and devoured what they found.  When they had done, there was nothing left.  No one alive, no food for a mouse, no wall that still stood.