Decisive, David Hickson [read this if txt] 📗

the gun and released the eight-round magazine. It came away smoothly and emitted a strong smell of gun oil. The weapon was well cared for, and would serve its purpose. I removed the holster from its belt, tucked the Makarov back into it, and placed them both in the inside pocket of my jacket.

Alassane watched me doing this silently, while Bibata concentrated on the driving. There was a tension in the car that I found worrying. This was no joyride, of course, but the only one of us who had anything unpleasant to do was me. And yet the tension was almost stifling. Or was I not the only one that would be doing unpleasant things? The Makarov was not the only weapon in the car. I had noticed the bulge of an underarm holster beneath the tightly closed black jacket that Alassane was wearing.

We drove in silence for several minutes, working our way through the outskirts of the city. Alassane’s head swivelled constantly as he turned to see who was behind us. Bibata started pointing at various unremarkable buildings as we passed them, as if playing tour guide would ease the tension.

“Library … museum … that is the cinema.” She turned to me. Bright, friendly eyes. “Burkina Faso is known for its cinema. Did you know that Mr Johnson?”

I said I had not known that.

“Oh yes. Ouagadougou is famous for the film festival that is held here every other year. The opening ceremony is held at the football stadium and is the biggest film festival ceremony in the world. Tens of thousands of fans attend the opening.”

She glanced anxiously in the rear-view mirror. Her glance was directed at Alassane. Alassane was silent.

“There was an incident there about fifteen years ago,” she said. “An embarrassment to our country. People were killed in the crush to get into the stadium.”

“Mr Johnson is not interested in the deaths of our people,” said Alassane dismissively. “He needs to focus.”

Bibata fell silent.

Our first stop was an army depot on the outskirts of Ouagadougou. It was a vast dust bowl the size of several football fields with a chain-link fence and a broken gate beside which a soldier slouched under the weight of his Kalashnikov AKM.

A large umbrella provided a patch of shade outside the quartermaster’s office. He was sheltering from the heat in that patch of shade and did not remove his dark glasses when I was introduced to him.

“Take a look,” he said with a smile full of teeth and a generous gesture towards the rows of armoured vehicles. His face had a sheen of sweat so that he seemed to glow.

“We will take the car,” said Alassane.

“Of course,” said the quartermaster. “You need the air conditioning.”

“The air conditioner is broken,” said Alassane.

“The wind on your face then,” said the quartermaster. He smiled again and saluted. I didn’t salute back. Arms dealers do not salute.

Alassane and I climbed back into our car, and Bibata took us on a slow tour of the ranks of armoured vehicles. Alassane wanted to test my knowledge of weapons and asked me to identify the different vehicles, in a way that made it seem as if he was making conversation.

There were a few Eland-90s from South Africa, and a row of Ferrets from the United Kingdom, but most of the vehicles were Panhards and ACMAT Bastions from France.

“Of course, from France,” said Alassane bitterly. “Everything here is because of France and the French people.”

“You were a French colony,” I pointed out.

“Because they invaded us. Captured our land and planted their flag. They have no right to be here.”

“But now they provide support, don’t they? These armoured cars are a small part of their support in your fight against terrorists coming over your borders.”

“That is only because the French are frightened we won’t stop the jihadists.”

“Not only the French. Most of Europe, and a good portion of the African continent share their concern. That is why I am here, after all.”

“You South Africans help because you are terrified the whole of West Africa will be lost to Islamic extremists, and you will be squeezed off the bottom of the continent, left to drown, or sent home to the cold, rainy lands you came from. Isn’t that the truth? How would you feel about that?”

“I’d rather stay here in sunny Africa. If it’s all the same to you.”

Alassane didn’t think that was funny. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“We do have the French to thank for the language,” said Bibata, as if that was a consolation. “If it weren’t for them, you would have to learn one of the other fifty-eight languages we speak in this country so that we could communicate.”

“They forced the language on us,” said Alassane. “The language, and many of their stupid customs. The French have changed us. Modelled us after themselves, taken away what made us unique. We used to be warriors, but look at us now.”

“Perhaps the French influence is not entirely a bad thing,” I said, “considering the long memories of some of your fellow countrymen.”

Alassane looked at me with displeasure and wiped his brow again.

“And don’t you have the French to thank for introducing democracy to your country? I was reading about that on the plane on the way over.”

“Yes, we are now a democracy, Mr Johnson,” said Alassane with disdain. “But probably not the democracy you know. We have enjoyed elections for almost forty years, but when an election does not go the way someone hoped, the process of democracy is shelved in favour of a more straightforward, military approach.” He paused a moment to consider me with distaste. “The real Mr Johnson would have understood that. He appreciated the military approach.”

“I have a fairly thorough appreciation of the military approach myself,” I said, “when it comes to that.”

“There have been as many coup d’états in this country as there have been elections,” said Alassane. “It took us twenty-seven years to get rid of the last