Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 3
17th June 2024
'Operação Nó Górdio! (Operation Gordian Knot!)' screamed the headline.
This was his third time reading the story, and each word stung like salt on an open wound. His eyes danced at the sentences in disbelief. Portuguese East Africa was aflame, much like Biafra, and the grim certainty of death loomed large. The raucous laughter from the workshop barely reached his ears over the cacophony of clanging tools and the noisy transistor radio blaring some inane chatter before launching into a random African tune that he had no interest in whatsoever.
“A tolice (Absurd),” he muttered.
Gwafa had been right. The empire builders were the real troublemakers in Africa. As his eyes drifted over the words, the heavy wooden and glass door creaked and slowly swung inward, revealing a familiar face. She let herself in, and he watched her keenly, slightly dumbfounded. Her voluminous afro bounced against her radiant skin, and her fashion sense had evolved from wild outfits to a more relaxed, yet striking, ensemble. They had not seen each other in a while, and she seemed at ease. Inwardly, he felt a twinge of happiness as she walked toward him. He dropped the newspaper and stood to greet her.
“Ola Banou.”
She smiled back at him. Except for marginally better clothes, he had not changed much.
“Hi Mapacha. It has been a long time. How are you?”
He coughed slightly.
“I have been good. How is your business going?”
Her smile flashed again. Mapacha making small talk? Wonders would never cease.
“Oh, you know Mapacha, everything is good. How's Abril?”
That caught him off guard, and he stared at her blankly.
“Errr, Abril is fine.”
He sealed his lips, and she knew his effort at small talk had just ended.
“Anyway Mapacha, I am looking for the old man. Is he around?”
He had not quite imagined her looking for Mzee Tembo. Their frosty relationship was not likely to improve with time.
“You are looking for him?”
“Yes, well, I was looking for both of you. We need to talk.”
His eyes squinted with suspicion.
“You want us to go beat up someone else?” he asked innocently.
Her tiny smile dropped as she recalled the prelude to their story.
“No Mapacha, it is not always violence I am after.”
She lied. This potential job was sure to draw violence.
“Well, the boss is not here. He took Una to Dakar for a holiday and asked me to mind the shop.”
Mzee Tembo had asked Mapacha to mind the shop, not because of the holiday, but because he knew Mapacha needed to be somewhere. If it wasn't logistics with Gwafa, then it was at the shop. The shop now had three employees quite capable of running it. Her eyes twitched with disappointment.
“Can we meet up later to talk? I need to discuss something with you.”
“Is it serious?”
“I am not sure, but it will mostly depend on how you feel about it.”
He eyed her with suspicion. She was definitely up to something.
“OK. Nsia’s after work.”
“That will be fine. See you later.”
She gave a quick smile, turned, and flowed out of the shop with a half-wave. For a moment, he was stunned; then he realized Banou was a tremendously beautiful woman.
**
The loud reggae reverberated through the floor, up into the furniture, through her bottom, and into the roof. The entire structure was one large loudspeaker, so loud that it drowned out high tide. Though she hated to admit it, she had missed Nsia’s. Beneath them, in the main club, they could hear the loud shouts of drunkards, raucous laughter, jeers, taunts, and more, with Nsia shrilling desperately to maintain control. Banou pulled out her pack of cigarettes, drew one, and watched as a sinewy waitress crept up, smiled, and rooted herself, waiting for instructions. This was a new face that Banou did not recognise. It had been that long. When the waitress realised she had to initiate, she mildly coughed out a few words.
“Excuse me, what would you like to drink, Madam?”
Banou instantly hated her voice. It was a yappy voice. The one that filled the room as she gossiped with her friends.
“Just a glass of tropical juice. Nothing else. Thank you.”
The waitress quickly bounded away, as if carried by the stifling breeze that tried to tease away the heat. Banou leaned back, looked at the darkened sky, and wished the stars were out. In the distance, she could see the lighthouse's beacon beckoning to sailors beyond the horizon. As she let the evening draft slowly seduce her, she heard the heavy footsteps she had grown accustomed to.
“Hi Banou,” she heard Mapacha’s voice call out.
For a moment, Banou was amused but still surprised yet again that Mapacha was constant, despite being wealthy. Money had not changed him one bit. There was a hint of jealousy in that respect. She constantly wanted better. Brighter. Shinier. Material things. He was different.
“Hi Mapacha.”
He dropped into the aged but extremely comfortable leather lounge seat opposite her, exactly where he always sat whenever they met. The waitress's plastic Sandaks clomped up the stairs and straight into Mapacha's line of sight. For a moment, she hesitated, then carefully set the glass of juice before Banou, before retreating to the edge of the staircase and turning to Mapacha.
“Errr... what about you, sir?”
Her voice was meek, and shakier, a hint of fear heavily present. No doubt, she recognised Mapacha and knew his exploits, as did everyone else on the island. She imagined she was at the jaws of a ravenous crocodile.
“Juice, just like this one.”
“OK.”
She turned and clomped back down quickly. Even before Mapacha could gather his thoughts, he heard the Sandaks making their way back. The waitress approached, and they could hear the glass slightly rattle before she set it before him.
“Hey, tell Nsia I am here.”
“Whom do I tell her is here?” she mustered with the little bravery she had left.
“Mapacha.”
He was as casual as he could be, but the dread filled her eyes. Whatever doubt she had about meeting the devil, she was certain she had just served his juice.
“Yes sir!”
She turned and half-fled down the stairs, glad to be away from that spectre of evil. Banou watched with a slightly entertained smile.
“Mapacha, still terrorising people on the island,” she mocked him, as she dragged on her cigarette.
He ignored her, oblivious to the waitress's fear.
“So, Banou, what is the job?”
Banou feigned shock and slightly gasped, drawing smoke down the wrong passage in her throat, forcing a slight cough.
“Who said it is a job? It is not a job.”
Mapacha watched her. Though this was a skillset he lacked, he should have been amused by her mendacity.
“Yes, it is.”
“Oh Mapacha,” she expressed wearily, “why do you have to be so...?”
Her words trailed off into the blue smoke. Though she played it cool, she lacked the right words to fling at him.
“So? So what?”
Her defences caved, lips pursed, and defeat manifested.
“OK. So, hear me out. There was this telegram I received today, and the instructions were to call Tangier.”
She hesitated, watching him take that first bit in. Tangier was not a topic he liked to discuss. It was parked right next to Biafra, his dead mother, the beatings from the nuns, and the rumour that may not have been a rumour about how he allegedly strangled his twin brother in the womb with the umbilical cord. He was tense.
“Then what?”
“It was Makhlouf, the guy we did the diamond deal with.”
“So what is the deal with him? Does he want a refund? Or more diamonds?”
“Neither. He wants to offer us work.”
“A job? We do not need to ever work again for the rest of our lives. And assuming we do, why would we want to work for the Moroccans?”
This was the uphill battle she had been anticipating.
“Well, the bounty on the job is a million dollars.” She paused, reasoned it out, and then added a bit of salt. “It is just a few days' work, he said.”
For a moment, his face flushed with surprise that he quickly drenched away with a sip of juice. That was ridiculous money.
“What sort of job is this, and where are we supposed to do it?”
“Well, Mapacha, that is the thing. He did not give me the particulars about the actual job, but he said it is in Europe.”
His eyes drilled through her head as he stared at her in disbelief, then he snapped his mind into a decision and defiantly responded.
“No Banou, I will not do it.”
She had barely sipped on her juice, and the conversation was over.
“But Mapacha, you do not understand...” she pitifully responded.
“No Banou. This does not sound right. What sort of job pays that kind of money? Drugs? Murder? A heist?”
He had her, and she knew it. But as she sat there, she began to question her motives. Why was she so interested in this job? Was it because Makhlouf had reached out to her? Did she need an excuse to see him?
“I do not know, Mapacha, but I spoke to him and thought of you. I figured you might be interested.”
“Who else knows? The Boss? Gwafa?”
She was caught off guard.
“You know better where the old man is, and I was not going to talk to him without you. Gwafa is with some tart somewhere if he isn't flying. And besides, are you not always flying with him ?”
“Banou, I do not understand how you trust those guys. One of them, if not all of them, betrayed us, and we had to shoot it out with them. Now you want us to go for more? Our crime days are over, and you need to consider yourself. You have a lot to lose—a business, respect. Do you really want to gamble all that?”
His words struck a nerve, and her temper flared.
“Seriously, Mapacha, why would you say that? All I wanted to ask was if you were interested, and you could have simply said no. But do not drag my business or my worth into this.”
She felt slighted, even though she knew he was right. It was better if he did not realise that.
“Look, Mapacha, before you write this off, take some time to think it over. If you still feel the same, let me know. I do not need your answer today.”
Desperation. It poured out of her like a waterfall, filling the chasm of the table between them. For a moment, he pitied her, but he knew he had to stand firm.
“OK. But my answer will not change, Banou. And for your sake, rethink this whole thing.”
He drained his glass, stood up, and headed toward the staircase. Banou was miffed. He had left her hanging, his last words a dismissive, “See you around, Banou.”
For a moment, the bar's heated chatter dimmed, leaving only the loud reggae. A minute later, the voices rose again. She watched over the edge of the wall as Mapacha and Abril walked up the hill toward his motorbike. Below, the club roared back to life, and in the distance, Mapacha's motorbike rumbled away, the red rear light fading into the night as Abril clung to him.
Banou finished her drink and headed downstairs to the bar. The place was in full swing with the night's festivities. She shuddered, questioning why she missed this place. Memories of drunken antics and unwanted touches from patrons made her skin crawl. Her love for the bar hit a brick wall. She saw Nsia holding court with a few friends and approached the table. They greeted her warmly, and before she could speak, the waitress who had served her earlier appeared.
“Excuse me, madam, but...” she said softly.
Banou reached into her handbag and handed the waitress a ten-pound note.
“Keep the change.”
The waitress was stunned, then realized Banou was serious. The juice had barely cost a pound, and the change was equivalent to a day's wages.
“Oh, thank you, Madam Banou,” she stammered, bowing slightly before she faded into the crowd.
Banou faced Nsia, who was eyeing her.
“Banou, how did your meeting go?”
Banou shrugged. Nsia understood. With Mapacha, you never knew where you stood. She gave Banou a disapproving smile.
“Sis, you need to stop tipping my waitresses like that. Now that one will get a big head and start dreaming about her future, eh, Banou?”
Banou smiled back.
“I have to go. There are things I need to take care of. Thanks for letting me use upstairs. If you can, come by my place tomorrow, and we can talk.”
Nsia tried to hide her disappointment.
“OK, sis, I'll see you tomorrow.”
Banou turned and walked up the hill to the taxi rank. The only taxi there was an old, weary Renault. The driver, a man as old and haggard as the car, stood up straight in his brown collar shirt that looked like it had once been white.
“Ola, madam, where to?”
“Sombra.”
He nodded and opened the rear door. She slipped in, and he walked around, entered, and fired up the car. With crunching gears, the taxi headed toward 'Sombra do Mar', surrounded by the heavy stench of half-smoked cigarettes.
The dark, alluring, mystical suburb of Sombra do Mar, or 'Sombra' as it was colloquially known, was the most discreet corner of Josephine, especially if you were after an intimate encounter. It was intended as an 'adult' tourist section, and for the most part, it was. However, as with all well-intended projects on the island, it had given elements of a seedy nature, and even downright criminal, a green light to encroach. The majority of Sombra was a network of charming cottages, all isolated. Banou directed the taxi driver, and after a few turns, they arrived at the front door of one. She fished out a twenty-pound note and handed it over to the driver. The fare was only ten.
“Wait here,” she instructed.
Double the fare was sufficient for him to wait. He extinguished the engine, slid out, and leaned on his taxi. He watched her ample derriere sway as she walked to a door, then reached into his scruffy shirt pocket, pulled out a tattered pack of Português Suaves, and fumbled with a half-smoked one that he carefully lit. With growing curiosity, he watched her walk down the flagstones toward the small cottage and waited for the ensuing drama. This, after all, was Sombra.
Banou noticed the lights were on, and she could hear the seductive voice of Édith Piaf singing La Vie en Rose. She rapped on the door and waited. There was no break in the music, so she lingered for a moment and knocked again. She heard a chair creak, relieved of its weight, and the heavy shuffle of feet approaching the door. It swung open. Two big, bold eyes glared at her. The owner, a woman about her height, had an exotic Euro-Arab look. Her hair was tied in a fierce bun facing upwards. She wore nothing but white silk high-waist loose French knickers with a ruffle hem and a petite flowery loose bralette. Her skin was a pale red, revealing her struggle with the island's current season. On her long, carefully manicured fingers was an elongated cigarette holder with a smoking cigarette affixed to it. Her diastema revealed itself as she opened her mouth to speak.
“Ola,” she greeted.
“Ola! Is Gwafa around?”
“Et toi, c'est qui? (And who might you be?)” she asked in her heavily accented Maghreb French.
“Eh, sorry, I do not speak French. I said I was looking for Gwafa.”
“Eh, sister, I understood the question. I just asked who you are,” she responded, thumbing up her long nose with impudence.
“My name is Banou. I am Gwafa's friend.”
Banou struggled to remember the last time she had been extremely polite.
“Une de ses salopes, hein? (One of his whores, huh?)”
“I am sorry, I did not understand. What did you say?”
The woman's patience finally broke.
“Gwafa, he is not here. He went to flying business, OK!”
“OK. When will he be back?”
“A few hours, a few days, I do not know.”
“Could you tell him I was here?”
“OK!”
And with that, the door firmly slammed in Banou's face. For a moment, she was staggered by the stranger she had just spoken to, but she quickly shrugged it off. If this was one of Gwafa's girlfriends, that was perfectly fine with her. She strolled back to the taxi and found the driver crushing out his cigarette. His face was clad with dismay at the lack of drama he had hoped to witness. She opened the door and let herself in. He quickly jumped into the driver's seat.
“Barra!”
