Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 6

12 Aug 2024

Gwafa eyed Banou sceptically, his gaze flitting between her and Bina, who was conspicuously brewing coffee in an even less flattering outfit, her scowl as persistent as the long cigarette dangling from her lips. In the background, a melodramatic French chanson hummed softly, adding a layer of emotional tension to the room.

"Excuse me, Banou, but you want me to do what exactly?"

Gwafa's incredulity was palpable.

"That is what he said. There will be fuel, and he has got it covered," Banou reiterated, her tone mixing desperation with a sliver of hope.

"Banou, a 'private airstrip' could mean landing on a makeshift strip on a highway or a dusty path in the depths of the Rif mountains—without any lights. It is a harebrained scheme either way."

"So you are saying it is impossible?"

"Not impossible, just... absurd. First off, you are assuming I would even consider taking you. And if I did, to an airstrip I have never seen? One wrong move and we are crash landing."

Outside, a commotion pierced the air—shouts and screams that they all but ignored. Such was the daily soundtrack of Sombra.

"If it is a decent airstrip, we are good, right?"

"We will not know it is decent until we are actually there, Banou."

Her gaze fell. The hurdles to her plan were mounting.

"But," Gwafa conceded, "if everything checks out, and it actually is a decent airstrip, then maybe, just maybe, I’d consider it."

Bina returned, serving Gwafa his coffee with a side of icy disregard for Banou, then disappeared back into the bedroom.

Gwafa, slightly embarrassed, rose to make Banou a cup of coffee, but she stopped him with a gesture.

"I told you she was jealous," Banou whispered, a smirk playing on her lips. "Not your girlfriend, huh?"

Gwafa’s chuckle was strained as he covered his embarrassment.

"Just a friend, Banou. Are you sure it is not you who is jealous?"

Banou lit a cigarette and leaned back, blowing a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

"Not at all. So, if Makhlouf actually secures a decent airstrip, you will give it a shot?"

"I’ll bet it's just a dirt track in the Rif. But fine, we will do it."

Relief washed over her. She jumped up and embraced him in a grateful, very French kiss on both cheeks.

"Thank you, Gwafa. You are a lifesaver."

He looked at her, seeing the resolve in her eyes. He mused internally—if his plane was destroyed, he would either die, get arrested, or just buy a new one with the money he already had. It was worth the gamble.

"Now, go handle that," she nodded towards the door Bina had retreated through.

Gwafa rolled his eyes as Banou swiftly exited the cottage, her steps light with newfound resolve. Once settled in the back of the taxi, she commanded, "Head back to town!"

Shortly after, the taxi halted outside the bicycle shop. She entered, scouting for Mapacha, but his chair was empty. Without engaging the attendant, she swiftly retreated and jumped back into the taxi.

"Take the coastal highway," she directed.

As they drove, she thought about her next steps. Soon, they stopped near Mapacha’s house. Banou’s sandals crunched on the sand as she approached his door. Neve barked joyfully from the back. Mapacha’s motorbike, parked close to the front, hinted he was home. She knocked gently, the door swinging open to reveal Mapacha’s tired eyes.

"Ola, Mapacha."

"Ola, Banou. Come in."

Inside, the sparse décor reflected Mapacha’s simple tastes, unchanged by Abril’s presence.

"Tea or juice?" he offered.

"Neither," she declined, appreciating his attempt at hospitality.

He returned with his tea, and as Banou finally lit a cigarette, she laid out everything.

"The job is in Munich. Gwafa will fly us to Morocco, and from there, it’s just us two."

Mapacha absorbed her words, considering them deeply.

"Fine, but on one condition. If it feels wrong, and I say we bail, we bail. No questions asked, okay?"

"Absolutely," Banou agreed, relieved.

They sat in silence, the distant surf's crash and the birds' calls filling the quiet space. Mapacha’s place was a sanctuary of tranquillity.

"Who will look after the old man's shop while we are gone?" she inquired.

Mapacha looked puzzled.

"Mzee Tembo and Una will handle it."

Confusion flickered across Banou’s face.

"But you said he took Una to Dakar."

"He did, but they should be back soon, which means we can go ahead."

A spark of realisation dawned on Banou.

"Should we include him in the plan?"

"No, let him enjoy his post-holiday peace. Besides, if he is back, I am free to leave," Mapacha explained, subtly steering her away from involving Mzee Tembo.

Banou hesitated, sensing something unspoken, but chose not to probe. Her plan was precarious enough.

"Okay," she conceded, and with a brief farewell, she returned to the waiting taxi.

"Back to town!"

Her voice carried a mix of resolve and urgency as she prepared to finalise arrangements with Makhlouf.

"The plan’s nearly set. Just send me the airstrip coordinates, and ensure it is paved, not just a dust track."

"Okay," came Makhlouf’s gruff reply.

He relayed the coordinates, and as Banou noted them down, her hands trembled slightly with the gravity of what they were undertaking.

"When should we arrive?"

"I will confirm tonight. Call me back."

"Will do."

"Oh, and Banou," Makhlouf’s voice took on a stern tone, "bring your tools. Don’t come empty-handed."

She understood the implication—weapons were expected.

Before he could say anything further, Banou abruptly dropped the headset and marched stiffly towards the taxi, her mind churning with the logistics of their clandestine operation.

"Airport!" she commanded as the car lurched into motion.

Her gaze swept over the landscape—construction equipment sprawled along the new road to the airport, island labourers drenched in sweat as they manoeuvred rocks and bitumen. The cacophony from the construction melded with the taxi's radio, which chattered on with local trivialities. Banou's thoughts wandered, trying to pin down when Gwafa was leaving. Was it today? Or was it tomorrow?

**

The airport buzzed with activity. Weary Europeans shuffled about, their complexions flushed from the relentless island sun. The moment the taxi halted, Banou sprang from the backseat and darted through the entrance, bypassing the guards who half-heartedly attempted to slow her down. They knew better than to genuinely intervene; she was a familiar face, too well-connected to hassle.

At customs, she was greeted by the officer on duty, Ilunga, whose wife was a regular at Banou's shop—thanks to a 'generous' discount that had forged a convenient bond.

"Ola Madam Banou," Ilunga greeted her with an easy smile. "You seem in quite a rush today. Travelling somewhere?"

"Ola Ilunga, hope the family's well. Quick question—have you seen Gwafa today?"

"Ah, yes, he was here about an hour ago. Might still be around, loading up his plane."

"Thanks a bunch," she replied, flashing a grateful smile before making her way briskly to the apron.

There, amidst the roar of engines and the clank of machinery, Banou found Gwafa overseeing the loading of boxes into his plane. The air was thick with the smell of fuel and oil, a stark reminder of the chaos of air travel.

"Hi Gwafa," she called out, slightly out of breath from her rush.

"Hey, Banou." Gwafa paused to greet her, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Mapacha's in," she rushed on, "and Makhlouf sent over the coordinates. We are set for the night after tomorrow."

Gwafa glanced at the paper she handed him, his expression amused by her notation of the coordinates.

"And the runway? What did he say about that?"

"He assured there would be one," Banou replied, though her confidence wavered under Gwafa's scrutinous gaze.

Gwafa studied the coordinates again.

"In the heart of the Rif, huh? Well, if there is a runway like he promises, why not?"

His voice carried a mix of scepticism and intrigue.

Banou could not hide her relief, her face breaking into a wide smile as she impulsively reached out to squeeze his shoulder.

"Thank you, Gwafa. You are a lifesaver. Keep me posted, all right?"

With a nod and a quick wave, she turned and sauntered off, her confident steps belying the nerves she felt. Whistles followed her departure, a testament to her charisma and presence.

Back in the taxi, Banou directed the driver to return to her shop. She walked past her customers and straight into her office where she promptly made another call to Makhlouf.

"Hi Makhlouf," she started as soon as he answered.

"Hey, Island girl, what is. . ." but she cut him off before he could continue.

"We are on," she declared bluntly.

As soon as she hung up, the urgency of her actions caught up with her. She reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette, her hands shaking slightly as she lit it. Stepping out to her 'outside office,' she took a deep drag, the nicotine hit calming her frayed nerves. The smoke swirled around her, a sweet, toxic embrace that momentarily lifted the weight of her endeavours. Somehow, despite the odds, her plan was in motion.