A Long Way from Douala by Max Lobe

Author:Max Lobe [Lobe, Max]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2021-09-28T00:00:00+00:00

13

A waitress with a waxy black complexion sends us over to him. “Hey Omar! There are two dudes here who want to talk to you.”

He’s sitting on the terrace, with two other guys. They’re drinking Castels. I’m surprised: Benghazi Omar looks nothing like the fat pig described by the Gazelle of Melen. On the contrary, he’s a good-looking, sporty type in his thirties. Dreadlocks cascade onto his shoulders. He’s wearing Destroy jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. He doesn’t look like the powerful guru I’d imagined: a pervert surrounded by voluptuous, naked girls lolling in a swimming pool filled with champagne.

“Would you like a drink?”

“A Castel,” replies Simon after a second’s hesitation. “What about you?”

“The same.”

We sit down. Omar asks the waitress to bring us five bottles of Castel. The other two guys stand up. They’ve got to run, they have an appointment. Omar insists. Again, they politely refuse. They were probably there to ask about the boza route.

After us, there will doubtless be others.

“Everything okay?” inquires Omar, smiling. He must have clocked our surprise.

“Yes, yes,” says Simon. He adds: “I’m Enrico. This is my bro Norbert.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your bullshit tags, man. Around here, I’m the one who gives people names.”

We look at our feet and say nothing. Simon takes a sip of nice, cold Castel. I do the same. I can feel Omar’s gaze on us. Outwardly, Simon looks calm, but I’m quaking inside, even though there’s nothing menacing about Omar, other than his gaze, his silence. And his nickname: Benghazi Omar. Benghazi! Oh God! I’ve heard so much in the media about that Libyan city…

Omar kicks off, calm and direct: “How much do you have for boza?” “Um…um…” Simon hesitates. “How much do we need?”

Benghazi Omar gives a mean laugh. I need a pee. I watch Simon struggling to drink his beer. Omar regains his composure. He knew from the start that we weren’t boza candidates. We didn’t “have the faces of real-real strikers, the faces of those who are prepared to do anything in order to go.” And besides, the White Queen has told him about our little game.

“Oh, the White Queen,” exclaims Simon.

“Don’t try any clever stuff with Omar, my friend. Got it?”

“Very sorry, big brother,” replies Simon, bowing his head.

“The White Queen is the waitress you saw earlier.”

“But…,” says Simon, baffled. “I thought she was albino.”

“Where did you get that nonsense from?”

“Um…I mean…”

“You’ve barely arrived on my turf and already you’re chasing trannies? That does not bode well.”

Silence.

I drain my bottle. Omar downs his in one. He needs to go to the toilet. “You know, guys, with beer, you drink, you piss!” He smiles, then is swallowed up by the crowd on the terrace.

Simon’s sweating like after a marathon. We look at each other for a few seconds and then we both dissolve in a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Giggles of fear, of relief, of false courage. How much longer will it go on?

We don’t know what kind of crook we’re dealing with.

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