by Gavin Chait
He scoffed. ‘We have those Chinese –’ he searched for the English word, shook his head ‘– you pump seawater in one side and fresh water comes out the other. They are small and you only need one for six domes.’
‘Wait, wait, wait,’ she said. ‘Those are really expensive, and where do you even get electricity from?’
He shrugged. ‘Sablière.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The solar farm in the desert. Their cable was cut, and now they sell their electricity to us. They put a substation right there on the water for us.’
Shakiso was nodding manically as she remembered. Hollis had told her they tried running a transmission line up the coast. That was before they had discovered Rosneft had a fleet of submersibles waiting for them. Their line would have gone out right next to Saint-Louis. Hollis had not said anything about selling power locally, but it made sense. It was not as if they had much storage capacity, and some income must be better than nothing.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked the Leaner. ‘Are you visiting family?’
He shook his head. ‘I am going to Aroundu to set up business. Too much competition in Saint-Louis now, and I get seasick,’ he said. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m heading to the seeker camp near Ballou,’ she said.
He shrugged, had not heard of it.
‘What’s in Aroundu?’ she asked.
He looked at her as a patronizing teacher to an ignorant child. He gestured at the bus, at the congestion on the highway. ‘We are all going to Aroundu,’ he said simply. ‘You will see.’
He stretched again, exhausted by the conversation, and was soon asleep, leaning on her shoulder. The Nodder had, similarly, returned to his typing exercises.
She rubbed the control nub in her ear to restart her French lessons, muttering – not for the first time – that she wished the sods would finish their words so she could have any chance of figuring out what they were saying.
The lack of context was also deeply concerning. Why exactly is the man’s wife alone? Why are the children giving a butterfly? And under what circumstances will it ever be appropriate to say, ‘I am amongst you’?
She was lapsing into a heat-fuddled haze, thinking about boulangeries and gateaux, when the landscape changed as the houses got closer together. She swiped on her rims to bring up a map overlay and could see they were arriving in Tambacounda. She would have thirty minutes at the bus station as they changed batteries and everyone had a chance to get something to eat.
Already there was shouting and movement as people collected their belongings and attempted to shove them back into various bags. Tuft mewled.
‘I’ll let you out in few minutes, youngster,’ she said.
As the bus found an open berth, the girl emerged from beneath her blanket and turned the key. The bus settled, and the doors opened.
The Nodder and Leaner helped her carry Tuft’s cage outside and stood stoically as the cat stretched and leaped up on to Shakiso for a hug. The two men decided that the foreign woman was clearly a naïf and needed care.
‘Come,’ said the Leaner. ‘We go there. They have good thiébo.’
Shakiso fiddled through the language app. Somewhere there was a toggle that would get it to do simultaneous translation. She was soon sitting in a loud restaurant stuffed with plastic furniture. The two men washed their hands, and she guiltily followed.
Thiébo turned out to be grilled fish on a bed of broken rice cooked in tomato and tamarind. Shakiso lost herself in the pungent flavours with a happy sigh, wiped the last few grains off the bowl with a finger. Tuft was licking the floor around her bowl.
They heard the klaxons sound and raced back to the bus. Tuft turned into a spitting, furious ball of teeth when they tried to get her back in her cage. Eventually, all crammed in, the bus left.
Shakiso tried staying awake, but the heat and confinement settled on her, and soon she joined the Nodder and Leaner in slumber.
She was woken in Goudiry, where they changed batteries again and grabbed an early dinner. More thiébo, this time with lamb. Tuft sulked.
As they left Goudiry, she noticed large groups of people camped around cooking fires under trees along the highway. There were young children playing football or wrestling, goats weaving their way through the people, and men and women packing goods into wagons or on to donkeys and cows. There was well-ordered chaos and an underlying tension.
‘They are the seekers,’ said the Nodder, Shakiso’s embeds simultaneously translating and surprising her. His voice was treacle-dark, rich and deep. Like a continent.
‘So many?’ she asked. She said the words softly, and the translation was spoken via small speakers embedded in her rims.
‘Yes. They seek freedom. They will make their crossing into the Maghreb soon.’
Seekers. People of no nation: the millions fleeing violence and persecution and famine in the vast conflict zones of central and eastern Africa. The millions she had been tasked with stopping before their journey took them across the Mediterranean to the fearful lands beyond.
Shakiso could see that they were preparing to move and assumed they travelled at night when it was cooler.
‘Where do these seekers go now?’
‘Some will settle along the river. Some to Nouadhibou in Mauritania. They will wait until after the flooding recedes, and cross the Senegal River at Rosso, there to walk along the waters.’
‘How do they cross the desert?’
He smiled knowingly. ‘They must buy safe passage from Ansar Dine, and hope that they are not betrayed. If they are blessed, perhaps the shayāṭīn will even provide water for their journey.’
‘Ansar Dine controls the desert?’
‘And all who cross.’
He rubbed a small leather pouch strapped to his wrist. Its surface was shiny and the stitching tight around the edges.
‘What is that?’ she asked.
‘It is my gris-gris. To ask the genii to keep me safe as I travel.’ He untied the string holding it in place and took her wrist.
She pulled away. ‘No, no. That is yours. I don’t—’
He grinned and lifted his T-shirt, revealing a wrestler’s muscular stomach and five different long and whip-like gris-gris knotted around his waist. ‘I have many. Please. It is my gift.’
Grinning, she held out her left wrist and he deftly knotted it.
‘Merci beaucoup,’ she said, experimenting with the French words.
‘It is my privilege,’ he said, touching his heart with his hand.
-
The baboon lowers his hand, releasing the naked man who collapses to the floor, weeping. The past is revealed, and all the journeys of interconnecting lives have converged on this point. His curiosity is not yet sated, but this man can reveal no more.
-
Oktar Samboa cringes.
Light and the scrape of boot on stone.
The guards are coming.
12
Samboa is dragged screaming and fighting along the corridor. The walls and floor are smooth underfoot, almost as if polished, and the ceiling is jagged with spikes.
One of the men doing the dragging tires of the struggle and smashes down with the blunt end of his steel flashlight. The corridor is momentarily a criss-crossing light-show of yellow beams through the speleothems hanging above them.
Samboa thinks he sees the baboon following behind, his eyes offering no solace for his torment.
A cell door rattles open, the clang of metal on stone crashing and rebounding down the corridor.
Samboa is flung inside and the door smashed shut.
He groans as he lies on the floor in the corrosive darkness.
‘You’re wasting energy,’ says a voice. ‘We may get a chance to fight. Save it till then.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘And be careful when you stand. Some of these stalactites are uncomfortable.’
‘Who is that?’ he spits again.
; ‘You could try asking nicely, Oktar.’
‘Adaro? You bastard! This is your fault.’
Samboa scrambles to his feet, charging at the voice, and clouts his forehead on a thick corded stalactite. He collapses to the floor, panting.
‘Rest. They don’t feed us enough to waste energy on anger.’
‘Where are we? What’s going on? No one will talk to me.’
‘They’re not interested in you. You have nothing they want.’
‘The planes?’
‘Yes.’
Samboa slows his breathing.
‘Is there water here?’
‘Head back to the cage door. On the left is the soil bucket, on the right is the water. Don’t get those confused.’
Samboa feels his way back towards the metal bars on the door. The baboon is sitting before it, holding his two-headed metal stave in his lap. Samboa whimpers.
‘It’s to the right,’ says Simon.
‘Can’t you see it?’ Samboa’s voice in agony.
‘What?’ asks Simon.
‘The beast,’ the word ending in a shuddering hiss.
Curiosity from the man at the back of the cave. ‘What beast?’
‘Like a baboon. Can’t you see it?’
‘No, I see nothing.’
Samboa sobs.
‘Have some water and rest,’ says Simon gently.
Samboa crawls past the baboon, feeling above his head for any further obstacles. The bucket is half full, and he drinks greedily.
‘What’s the baboon doing?’ asks Simon.
‘Nothing. He’s watching me. Messing inside my head. I saw fragments of things. You. The plane crash. And . . .’ his voice trailing as he deliberately refuses to mention her. ‘What is it?’
‘You hope to save this country and you know so little about it?’
‘Tell me,’ urgency and despair.
‘You know about the genii?’
‘That superstitious nonsense?’
‘I wouldn’t mock them. You’re the one seeing one of their emissaries.’
‘What?’
‘The baboon. I think it’s Gaw Goŋ. He’s supposed to be the greatest of genii storytellers.’
‘What does he want with me?’
‘Stories. He collects stories for the genii.’
‘Why me? Why doesn’t he help?’
‘It’s a possession cult. He needs a pliable mind. You probably caught his attention with all your screaming. And he won’t help. He’ll be interested in seeing what we do, not in arranging a particular end. His stories need endings. They don’t have to be happy ones.’
Samboa regards the baboon sitting quietly. He closes his eyes, his mind grappling with the strangeness, and decides that what cannot be explained must be ignored.
Ragged breathing. Eventually, ‘Where are we?’
‘We’re in a karst cave, probably about two or three hundred metres below ground. There’ll be a larger underground city down here somewhere too.’
‘For what?’
‘Ansar Dine. We’re in one of their fortresses.’
Samboa starts sobbing, all his fight draining away. ‘We’re going to die then,’ he says.
‘That isn’t the plan,’ says Simon. ‘Cheer up, son. We’re not dead yet. At the very least, Gaw Goŋ expects us to have an interesting future or he wouldn’t be here.’
‘Why did they take us? What did you do to those seekers?’
Troubled silence. ‘You shouldn’t have followed me.’
‘You had them killed,’ his voice an accusation.
‘Yes,’ he pauses, his voice soft. ‘I spent months setting this up. What price the life of a single child against destroying Ansar Dine?’
‘You’re not trying to destroy them; you’re trying to bribe them,’ says Samboa.
Silence once more, as if a response is being weighed and set aside.
‘Why don’t you tell them where the planes are? Then we can get out of here.’
‘You think it will be that simple?’ A sigh. ‘They haven’t asked yet. Which is why there is no point in wasting energy.’
‘Why not? What’re they waiting for?’
‘Abdallah Ag Ghaly.’
Samboa retches, his flesh clammy and cold.
Simon continues, pushing at Samboa’s rising fear. It is possible his plan can still be salvaged. ‘He’s a bit paranoid and doesn’t want anyone else to speak to me before he is in control. Our splendid accommodation is thanks to that one fact, otherwise we’d probably be with his other prisoners.’
Samboa’s voice trembling and weak, ‘Does that give us time? Your people will be trying to find you?’
‘If Ansar Dine were that easy to find, you don’t think it would have happened already? There are satellites permanently pointed at the Sahara and Maghreb. A surface gathering as large as this fortress would be obvious.’
‘So they hide out in these karsts?’
‘I wouldn’t call it hiding. This is where they live. There are ancient aquifers all across the desert. There must be thousands of dry cave systems they can use.’
‘And Ag Ghaly is coming here?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think the karsts are linked, otherwise he’d have been here two weeks ago. It could be days, it could be weeks. I don’t know.’
‘You’ve got implants, though? They can find us?’ Samboa still hoping there is some way out, some way he can survive.
‘There’s no connection underground. Anyway, they let you keep yours?’
A sob from across the cave.
‘Tore them out of your ears?’
‘Yes. So why put us together now?’
‘No idea. They’re not speaking to me either.’
‘How do you know all this, then?’
Silence from the other end.
‘Adaro?’
‘Yes. I’m thinking.’
A sigh.
‘Why did you follow me?’
‘I want you out of Senegal and into a jail cell.’ Samboa’s voice is acid. ‘I heard a rumour something had been found in the desert, something that Ansar Dine wanted, and I met these seekers who said they had seen the planes. They turned back when they ran out of water. I heard from one of the Rosneft guys that you were trying to meet Ansar Dine to bribe them with the details, so I followed you. If the jihadis didn’t want my information, I was hoping I could get proof of your dealing with terrorists. A picture of you meeting jihadis is all I need.’
‘Well, looks like you got your wish.’
Samboa whimpers. ‘Not like this.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
Samboa does not notice the hint of malice in the query, or the other drawing nearer in the darkness.
‘A few other seekers. No one knows what’s in the planes.’
‘And you? Do you know where they are?’
‘No, I didn’t need to. Those seekers would have had to show them on a map. What are you doing here, Adaro?’
The other man relaxing, leaning back against the wall. His plan is safe. ‘You and Rosneft have been very successful at keeping me out of Morocco and Tunisia. I can no longer go by sea. What’s left?’
‘Libya.’
‘So you see, I have no choice but to negotiate with them. Give them what they want in exchange for getting my line through the desert,’ the lie coming easily now that Samboa cannot betray him.
‘That’s why I have to stop you,’ says Samboa.
Laughter from the hidden man. Rich, bright, filling the gloom with light and hope.
‘Rosneft I understand. It’s their death struggle,’ he says. ‘What’s your deal?’
Samboa is panting, his rage overwhelming him. ‘I’ve seen your type. You come to these countries. You take what you want and you leave. We have to stay. We have to deal with the fallout.’
‘No,’ says Simon. ‘You’ve seen a type, and your own bigotry prevents you from seeing how I’m different. And I didn’t make the problem.’
‘I know
that; I’m not a fool,’ he says through grinding teeth. ‘But the sooner Rosneft get what they want, both of you will leave and we can do what we always do.’
‘Sure, trap people in camps so you can feel like a benevolent hero and continue living like local royalty. That’s a lovely estate you have up there on the ridge in Dakar.’
‘What! You—’ standing and smashing his head into a pillar right above his head.
‘Ouch. That one’s a killer. Sit down, Oktar, please. You’re not the only one who wishes you hadn’t involved yourself in this.’
Silence.
Breathing, and then a sad sigh.
‘I’m sorry, Oktar,’ says the hidden man.
‘You’re not sorry.’
‘They won’t have put us together for no reason. Ag Ghaly must have arrived.’
‘So? You’ll talk to him. Come to some arrangement, and they’ll let us go.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘They’re terrorists, Adaro. I’m sure you two will get on just fine. Kindred spirits.’
‘Terror is simply how they keep control.’
‘They’re genocidal maniacs.’
‘Only to keep control. They smuggle drugs and people, and they dominate the whole of the Sahara. Anything that offers them more money is good. Anything that threatens their control is bad. I do both.’
‘So, you’ll tell them where the planes are and then pay them to cross the desert. They’ll let us go.’
‘It was never about the planes or the solar farms, Oktar. Not for me. They’re a means to . . .’ He hesitates, ‘I’m sorry, Oktar. Ag Ghaly will want to scare me. I claimed you were a colleague when they captured us. He’s going to assume he can control me through hurting you.’
‘What?’ Samboa panicked and breathing hard.
‘If I can, do you want me to pass on any message to anyone? And, please, hurry. I think they will be here soon.’
‘What?’ confused, his mind a frozen blank.
‘Oktar?’
Light beams deep along the corridor leading to the cell.
‘I can’t . . .’ stumbling, his thoughts cascading.
A hand, holding his, pulling him close. He clings tightly, his body numb and cold.
He weeps, holding on to warmth.
‘I’m sorry, Oktar,’ holding his head, feeling his terror.