Lola was not so much a town as it was a muddy scar carved into the edge of the immense, suffocating Guinean rainforest. The air here was distinctly different from the coastal humidity of Abidjan; it was thick, green, and heavy with the scent of decomposing leaves and woodsmoke.

Kwesi found a communal water pump near the bustling, chaotic market square. He stripped off his ruined jacket and spent ten minutes scrubbing the thick layer of black grease and diesel soot from his skin and hair. The freezing water shocked his exhausted system, finally clearing the lingering fog of the smuggler’s cavity.

He bought a loaf of hard bread and a bottle of water from a sleepy vendor, paying with some of the small denomination CFA notes he had carefully unzipped from his belt in the shadows of an alleyway. He kept some of his CFA in his pocket to pay for his transport to Conakry. His French, perfectly inflected with the rough cadence of the region thanks to Forson’s relentless prison drills, raised no suspicion. To the locals, he was just another weary labourer moving between the logging camps.

His actual destination, however, lay nearly a thousand kilometres to the west, on the Atlantic coast. He needed to reach Conakry.

The primary mode of long-distance travel in this remote region was the taxi-brousse – the bush taxi. At the edge of the market, a rusted, overloaded minibus sat idling, belching thick grey smoke into the morning air. Its roof rack was piled dangerously high with sacks of rice, live chickens in wicker baskets, and tied-down mattresses.

Kwesi approached the driver, a lean man chewing vigorously on a kola nut. A brief, rapid-fire negotiation secured him a spot in the very back row of the vehicle.

The interior of the minibus was a masterpiece of discomfort. Designed to hold twelve passengers, it currently held nineteen. Kwesi was wedged tightly between an elderly, snoring merchant and a woman holding two restless toddlers.

When the driver finally threw the minibus into gear, it lurched forward with a metallic groan, beginning its gruelling crawl toward the capital.

For the first few hours, Kwesi simply let his exhausted body succumb to a fitful sleep. The minibus crawled through the dense rainforest, the thick canopy of ancient trees blocking out the sun and casting the interior into a permanent, greenish twilight.

When he awoke, the rain had started, drumming a deafening rhythm against the thin metal roof.

Kwesi watched the endless wall of green blur past the cracked window. He thought of the stark contrast between this miserable, bone-rattling journey and the air-conditioned, leather-bound Land Cruisers he used to command as the logistics manager for Ashanti Cocoa Buying Company.

But Nana Kwame Mensah found a strange, brutal comfort in this mini-van. Every jolt of the suspension, every mile of road they crossed, was a physical barrier placed between him and Jude Asamoah. He was moving deeper into the wild, shedding the last remnants of his former vulnerability.

He just needed to endure the road.

As the minibus pushed deeper into the isolated, mountainous terrain of the Guéckédou region, the dense jungle seemed to press in closer, swallowing the narrow road entirely. They were approximately halfway between Lola and Conakry. The lively chatter among the passengers had died down hours ago, replaced by the collective, weary silence of people sleeping.

Kwesi closed his eyes, mentally reviewing the precise phrases he would use when he finally stood before Kofi Jean-Luc Forson in Conakry.

Because his eyes were closed, he did not notice the driver suddenly go rigid. He did not see the crude barricade of freshly felled mahogany logs blocking the road ahead. And he did not realise the danger until the minibus slammed violently on its brakes, throwing everyone forward into a terrifying, screaming chaos.

Kwesi’s eyes snapped open as he was thrown hard against the seat in front of him. A collective gasp from the nineteen passengers instantly filled the cramped, stifling space.

Through the windshield he sees a massive barricade of freshly felled mahogany trunks. It was a deliberate, impassable wall blocking the narrow jungle road.

Before the driver could even throw the vehicle into reverse, the surrounding forest erupted.

Half a dozen men stepped out from the dense, rain-soaked undergrowth. They did not wear uniforms or masks; their faces were hardened visages of predatory indifference. In their hands, they carried locally made guns and long, jagged machetes.

“Dehors! Tout le monde dehors! ” the leader roared, slamming the heavy steel butt of his rifle against the driver’s side door as he commanded everyone to get out of the bus.  

Panic exploded inside the minibus. The woman wedged next to Kwesi began to scream, frantically clutching her toddlers to her chest, while the elderly merchant beside her began to pray loudly in a breathless, terrified whisper.

Kwesi’s instincts, forged in the brutal environment of the ACP and sharpened on the Abidjan docks, surged immediately to the surface. His first impulse was to fight. He quickly calculated the angles, the distance to the nearest bandit, and the sheer weight of the panicked bodies pressing around him. He had the physical strength to disarm the closest man.

But the cold, mechanical logic of his survival took over. He was outgunned, trapped in a metal box, and surrounded by civilians. A single stray bullet would end his journey, rendering the colonial map in his belt utterly useless. He could not afford to die over a handful of stolen luggage.

“Keep your head down,” Kwesi murmured in French to the terrified mother beside him, his voice remarkably steady amidst the chaos. “Do exactly what they say.”

The side doors were wrenched open, and the passengers were roughly hauled out into the driving rain.

Kwesi tumbled out with the rest. He adopted a hunched, subservient posture, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road.

“Bags! Money! Jewellery! Now!” the bandit leader commanded. The highwaymen moved through the shivering passengers with practised, brutal efficiency. They slashed open canvas sacks with their machetes, spilling meagre belongings into the roadside. They tore cheap gold chains from the necks of weeping women and snatched the hard-earned cash from the pockets of the merchants. Anyone who hesitated or begged was struck down with the flat side of a blade.

Kwesi kept kneeling, the cold rain soaking through his frayed jacket. He mentally prepared himself. He had some notes left in his pocket for the bundle he took to buy bread and pay for his transport. He hoped this would satisfy them. But beneath his soaked shirt, the leather belt felt heavier and more conspicuous than ever before. He held his breath, praying his performance as a poor labourer would be enough to keep their greedy hands away from his waist.