#maybe some clearer or deeper boxes and some nice moss

[littlewigglers]

Everyone has been out into their temp smaller homes while I work in getting some nicer set ups.

[majestrosgh]

Flow Red, River Gambia

"O Conspiracy, shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, when evils are most free? O, then by day where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough to mask thy monstrous visage?"

- Brutus, in Julius Caesar.

7:30 pm. January 20, 2017. Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Momodou had been a bus driver in Boston for close to twenty years, and had recently started driving for Uber in the late nights. The bus company paid him quite well, so he didn't really need the Uber gig. But the truth was, he liked the late-night drives because they gave him time and space to clear his head. His quiet nights were often punctuated by drunken college students who needed a ride home after partying, which made Friday nights as lucrative as they were loud. But every once in a while, he'd pick up a writer or a tourist or a nurse; someone who could hold a meaningful, sober conversation. He liked those passengers because they saw him as a human being rather than a faceless chauffeur. It's not that he had no one to talk to at home; his wife and four children would be happy to hear him ramble about his military escapades from his days in Bakau. But for some reason, he never felt comfortable talking about the Gambia with them. When he did feel the urge to reminisce out loud, he preferred to talk with his passenger-friends for the thirty-odd minutes that their Uber ride lasted. He found it easier to trust people he knew he wouldn't see again. That's how it had been since 1994.

The phone beeped and he saw a young man peering at him through the window. "Hi, I’m the one who called an Uber. Are you Momodou?"

"That's me. You mentioned my name very well — are you also from Africa?"

"Ghana! I'm just in town for a conference though. I'll be spending the night at 44 Dunross Street. Wish I could give you better directions, but it's my first time here."

Momodou smiled, feeling that he had found a fleeting friend for the night.

"I have been to Ghana once, Accra is a very nice city. But not nearly as nice as Bakau or Banjul! And don't worry, I know these roads like the back of my hand."

7:44 pm. January 20, 2017. Cambridge, Massachusetts.

" -- l'ancien président du pays --- El Hadj Yahya Jammeh, s'est récemment rendu en exil --après avoir regné la Gambie pour 22 ans ---- cela met fin aux tensions politiques entre lui et --- Adama Barrow après les élections du mois dernier --- on raconte que Jammeh a volé au moins 11,4 millions dollars et plusieurs voitures de luxe en sortant--- "

Momodou changed the channel in frustration. Only then did he notice that he had been clenching the steering wheel, with deep furrows in his brow and tears of anger welling up in the corner of his eyes.

"I’m not used to the Gambian French accent, but I think the radio presenter said that Yahya Jammeh has finally stepped down. Your country is finally free," the young Ghanaian in the backseat said, breaking the awkward silence that the radio had left.

"Stepped down? No. Escaped. After everything he has taken from us, Captain Jammeh should be escorted into a prison cell, not a private jet. You are Ghanaian; your people always talk about ‘freedom and justice’. What is freedom without justice?”

“It’s half a loaf," the Ghanaian replied. "A glass half full. Enough to save a person from starvation and thirst. Maybe this new administration can bring justice to everyone who suffered under Yahya Jammeh. Maybe they can change everything.”

Momodou smiled, “You are an idealist, I see. You remind me of an old friend of mine.”

10:01 pm. August 19, 1994. Bakau, the Gambia

Momodou opened a second bottle of beer and joined Boubacar and Faal at the open-air bar near the beach. Drinking was frowned upon in that part of town, but they were young soldiers and nobody dared cross them. The trio leaned in closer to the staticky radio on the table, tweaking the antenna and slapping the side repeatedly as if that would somehow make it sound clearer. The low roar of crashing waves made hearing even harder; but at least the breeze was cool and it carried a pleasant whiff of brine.

Everybody at the bar was talking about the 'bloodless coup' from a month ago, and those who had radios strained to hear the news. To the children playing in the sand, the coup d'état was just a foggy memory of their parents not going to work for a few days. To the adult civilians in the bar, the coup was much needed jolt of electricity to a country that had languished for thirty years under the bookish coward, Dawda Jawara, and his cronies. To Momodou and his brothers-in-arms, the coup was the most dangerous decision they had ever made. And they were starting to believe that it was also the worst.

The three musketeers, as Momodou, Boubacar and Faal were called in the army, had been enthralled by Yahya Jammeh's bravura and his talk of “setting the country straight”. They had joined him in the revolt against Dawda Jawara with little hesitation. Luckily, they hadn't needed to fire a single bullet in the process, because Jawara had caved in and fled like a frightened dog. But the musketeers knew that had Jawara put up any resistance, Jammeh and his mutineers would have been ready for a bloodbath. Now styling themselves as the 'AFPRC', Jammeh and his faction were working on solidifying their control over the nation.  In the beginning, the musketeers had tagged along, gleefully forcing all of Jawara's corrupt ministers into house arrest. But soon, the AFPRC's blacklist started to include innocent people — journalists, professors and even fellow soldiers — that Jammeh suspected were trying to undermine his government. Momodou had heard the horror stories of Uganda and Zaïre, and he was dismayed to think that he had helped to create another dictator right here at home.

"My brothers," Boubacar whispered, "How can we let that foolish 30-year-old soldier become a god in this land? We who used to eat the same food with him in the mess hall? We have to do something about Jammeh and his goons before they win over the whole country!"

Faal laughed nervously. “Boubacar the ever-passionate! You talk as if you weren’t the first one to follow Captain Jammeh! Anyway, what can we do? Only Jammeh’s inner circle knows what he is up to. No one can trace him, and it's impossible to stage two coups d’état in a row!”

“The Nigerian did that. I think Sani Abacha is his name,” Momodou said, opening his third beer, “The same thing happened in Ghana, with Flight Lt. J.J. Ronson. I hear Ghana even wants to do an election now.”

“Well we won't have such luxuries if Jammeh has his way,” Boubacar said, suddenly very serious. “Look, this thing I am about to tell you…I am trusting with my life. Sadibou Hydara, one of Captain Jammeh’s advisers, has started gathering a few boys to take down the fool. Even the Captain's own inner circle can see that he has been stricken by madness! If we succeed…if we can kill this snake before he turns into Idi Amin or Samuel Doe or that madman in Zaïre…we can change everything. We can finally fix this country up."

Momodou paused before adding, “That’s what all military regimes say.”

“Momodou, you are deeper than a griot!” Faal quipped, trying to lighten the mood “It seems this beer is giving all of us fanciful ideas, but I like it! This calls for a toast. Any enemies?" He raised his bottle for the special army greeting that the three of them had made up during the last war.

“The coast is clear!” they cheered, clinking bottles one last time. Momodou noticed Faal’s bottle was still full.

5:11 am. November 2, 1994. Abuko, the Gambia.

“Brother Momodou, where are the guns? How can you be called a musketeer without a gun?”

Momodou ignored the over-eager teenager and continued peering through one of the storehouse windows. He was stationed on a ledge near the highest window in the building, and had been monitoring the town for any suspicious movement.

The teenager, nicknamed P.T. or ‘petit tirailleur’, was the latest member of Sadibou Hydara’s small rebel faction. They were a motley crew of about twenty who were now cooped up in the Old Abuko Grenier, an abandoned grain mill in the outskirts of Serrekunda. The millhouse smelled of dank moss and fermenting grain. Except for the few rays of eoan light filtering through the high window where Momodou was stationed, the place was completely dark. It was the perfect hiding place.  Today, the rebels were disguised as farm hands and trying to avoid the attention of the Abuko townsfolk while they focused on the day's mission. Since Sadibou Hydara himself could not risk being seen with them, he had been providing them with with intel, funding and matériel from afar. Today, he was sending them a special present.

According to the plan, a truck was supposed to arrive at the mill at 5:45 am and the rebels would then offload the shipment of grain that Sadibou Hydara had imported from Mali. Of course, there was already enough grain in Abuko to feed the town;  the incoming boxes were actually filled with assault rifles, hand grenades, ammunition and other military gear. Once the rebels had everything they needed, they would wait for an official government vehicle (commandeered by one of Sadibou Hydara's allies), drive straight down the highway into Banjul and storm the AFPRC headquarters. After they got rid of Captain Jammeh and his henchmen, Sadibou Hydara would immediately lay the groundwork for a transition to democracy. This was a noble coup, Momodou convinced himself. The good kind of coup…

“Hey P.T.! Foolish boy! Remember, we are using the guns to scare the AFPRC swine, not to kill them!” Boubacar chided in his abrasive but cheery tone. He was the de facto leader of the rebellion, since Sadibou Hydara was only guiding them from the shadows. Boubacar's deep sense of conviction had kept all of them motivated over the course of the harrowing coup planning process. P.T. and young boys had joined the movement for the thrill; they really couldn't care less about politics. Momodou was doing it because he didn't want the Gambia to end up in the ash heap of history. But for Boubacar, this rebellion was what he was born to do.

"The trucks are here!"

Over the horizon, two elongated dust clouds were making their way towards the millhouse. Momodou calculated how many guns that the two trucks would be bringing them. He had sat in on the logistics meeting and he remembered that all the guns were supposed to fit on one truck. Perhaps Faal, who was in charge of smuggling the boxes in from Mali, had gotten a good deal on the weapons. Sincerely, Momodou hoped they wouldn’t have to use them — this was a coup, not a war. But he knew in his heart of hearts that Jammeh wouldn’t go down without a bitter fight.

Boubacar rallied the young rebels, now dressed as farmers, to go out and receive the first truck. Faal had parked further away than they expected, so the boys had to file back and forth with the boxes like worker ants. Momodou stayed on his perch in the storehouse and kept an eye on the waking villagers to make sure no one came near the truck to investigate. It was worrisome enough that the second truck was a few minutes late; it was probably manned by some Bambara mercenaries that Faal had coaxed along the way.

Momodou and Boubacar inspected the crates, and noticed that the two boxes which had been specially marked for bullets were filled with millet, fonio and other grains. Boubacar yanked open the last crate and tallied the weapons. "So we have 20 AK-47s and two boxes of grist! P.T., make sure you bring spoons and forks with us to Banjul; maybe Sadibou Hydara wants us to feed the AFPRC fools until they burst!" The young boys erupted with laughter. Momodou chuckled to himself, noticing how Faal's sense of humor had rubbed off on Boubacar. Wait...where was Faal? He climbed  back up to his vantage point near the high window to see whether Faal had stayed in the truck. That's when he saw the second one rolling in. It didn't look like a cargo truck; it had at least a dozen passengers in the back. Passengers who were wearing AFPRC uniforms, arming their rifles and pointing them towards the millhouse...

“EVERYBODY GET DOWN!!!”

The first spray of bullets burst through the wooden doors of the Old Abuko Grenier, and the boys standing guard collapsed in pools of blood. The AFPRC soldiers stormed the building, shooting down the rebels before they had time to react. Momodou had never shrunk from a battle in his life, but for the first time ever he was completely petrified by fear and disbelief. Outside, the villagers had been thrown into a frenzy by the sound of gunfire. Momodou turned his gaze back down to the floor of the millhouse, realizing that the soldiers hadn't noticed he was up there. He remained frozen as they tied up the remaining rebels and kicked them around on the ground.

A tall, stern-looking soldier swaggered casually into the millhouse, his bandolier jangling menacingly. "So you monkeys are the ones Sadibou chose to betray our great country? Ah ah, I could have finished you off myself!” He knocked P.T. down with the butt of his gun and placed his heavy boot on the terrified boy's throat. "Now tell me where to find Boubacar Cissoko and Momodou Hassoum, or I will break your neck."

"I am here, Commandant. I am the one you want. Leave the boy alone," Boubacar said, emerging from the darkness.

"Boubacar Boubacar Boubacar," the Captain smirked. "To think one of Captain Jammeh's own musketeers would turn against him. Did Sadibou Hydara promise to make you president once your little scheme was over? In that case, let me show you how to kill a president!" He put the barrel of his gun between Boubacar's eyes. "Do you have any final words, President Cissoko?"

With sweat pouring down his face, Boubacar said to P.T. "...Can you see it?"

"Yessir," PT whimpered from underneath the Commandant's foot.

"Is it empty?"

P.T. nodded feebly.

Boubacar smiled and raised his voice slightly "Then the coast is clear, Brother."

Suddenly realizing what was going on, Momodou leapt through the window in a spray of shattering glass. He landed roughly and ran like a maniac towards the second truck, which P.T. had just confirmed was unoccupied. He heard shouting and gunshots as the remaining rebels wrestled with the AFPRC soldiers to prevent them from getting a clear shot at him. With a few bullets whizzing by his ears, he dove into the truck, slammed the accelerator and drove like he had never driven before. Veins bulging, head pounding and lungs aching, Momodou charged down the dust road, with the frightened Abuko townspeople scurrying out of his way. It was worse than any nightmare he had ever had, and even if he managed to escape from Abuko, he would never be able to escape this moment. He knew full well that every single rebel would be killed; and they would have died because of him. He drove faster and faster, trying to get far away from the madness and carnage. He would never go back to military life, he swore. He would leave this godforsaken country and never look back.

Several miles away, he parked to catch his breath, sweat still pouring out of his body, teeth still chattering. Far ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of the first truck disappearing over the horizon.

8:08 pm. January 20, 2017. Cambridge, Massachusetts.

“Look out man!!”

Momodou slammed the brakes, frightening the life out of a gaggle of college students who were crossing the road. He was breathing raspily and tears were streaming down his face. The Ghanaian passenger, realizing he had just prevented a bad accident, was equally shaken. He regained his composure first "Well, the upside is, this is 44 Dunross Street. It's been a quite a wild ride, Momodou, in more ways than one. I'll be sleeping on a couch for the next few nights, but I think you should go to your real home. To the Gambia. Your body may be driving an Uber here in Boston, but it seems your spirit still yearns for Bakau. Which, by the way, is not nicer than Accra."

Momodou sat quietly, staring vacantly into the night.

"Well...have a good night man, and don't stress yourself out!" the Ghanaian called out as he dragged his suitcase away and disappeared from view.

"Sleep well, Boubacar," Momodou whispered. "The coast is finally clear."