A heavy, mud-caked boot struck Kwesi in the ribs, knocking him sideways into the thick mire.

“You! Empty your pockets!” the bandit leader barked.

Kwesi played the part perfectly. Trembling, he reached into his soaked jacket and pulled out the crumpled CFA notes he had kept aside after paying for his transport. He held them out with shaking, dirt-stained hands, keeping his eyes averted in a display of absolute submission.

The bandit snatched the money, his lip curling in disgust as he quickly counted the meagre sum. It was barely enough to buy a decent meal in Conakry, let alone satisfy a highwayman.

“Is this a joke?” the bandit spat, grabbing Kwesi by the collar and hauling him halfway up the ground. “You travel the cross-country road with the change of a beggar?”

“It is all I have, patron,” Kwesi rasped, letting his voice crack with feigned terror. “I am just a labourer looking for work at the port.”

The highwayman patted Kwesi down aggressively, his rough hands slapping against Kwesi’s sides and chest. Kwesi’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He forced his muscles to remain completely slack, hiding the strength he had forged in Abidjan.

The bandit’s hands reached Kwesi’s waist and found the thick, heavy leather of Old Man Forson’s belt.

Kwesi stopped breathing. The hidden zipper was flawlessly integrated into the inner lining, a masterpiece of careful craftsmanship. But if the bandit decided to inspect the stitching closely, the entire legacy would be exposed.

“A beggar wearing a belt thicker than his arms,” the bandit sneered. He didn’t search for a hidden compartment; he simply saw a piece of sturdy leather and an opportunity to humiliate a man who had offered him too little.

With a violent jerk, the bandit unbuckled the belt and ripped it from Kwesi’s waist. He weighed it in his hand for a fraction of a second. To an untrained eye, it was just a very old, heavy strap of cowhide.

“Trash,” the highwayman muttered in disgust.

Instead of keeping it, the bandit walked to the edge of the road. Below was a steep, deep valley, roaring with rushing water from the heavy rain.

“No—” Kwesi cried out before he could stop himself.

The highwayman struck him across the jaw, sending him crashing on the road. “Learn your place.”

He raised his arm and threw the leather belt over the edge. It vanished into the dark, muddy water far below.

Satisfied that the passengers had nothing left of value, the leader fired two more shots into the air. The bandits melted back into the dense jungle as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind a profound, weeping silence among the stranded travellers.

Kwesi lay on the street. His pocket money was gone. But more importantly, the bandits had no idea they had just thrown away a fortune.

Now, he just had to get it back.

The rain continued to pour. The minibus driver sat slumped by his shattered window, bleeding and cursing softly. The bandits had taken the vehicle’s keys, and two of its tyres were slashed. They were stranded in the middle of the Guinean forest.

Kwesi did not waste a single second mourning his lost pocket cash. Ignoring the sharp pain in his jaw and the deep throbbing in his ribs, he walked straight to the edge of the steep valley where the bandit had thrown his belt.

The slope was nearly vertical, slick with fresh mud and choked with thorny, dense vines. Far below, the flash flood roared like a beast, a churning mass of brown water carrying broken branches and forest debris.

“Do not go down there, my friend,” the elderly merchant called out, shivering in the cold rain. “You will break your neck. It is just an old belt.”

Kwesi didn’t answer. He couldn’t explain to a stranger that his entire future, the hard-won legacy of Old Man Forson, and the key to a British fortune were trapped in that piece of leather. He sat on the edge, swung his heavy boots over the side, and began the highly dangerous descent.

He slid down the muddy bank, his raw hands gripping thick roots and sharp rocks to slow his fall. Thorns tore at his damp clothes and scratched his skin. Finally, he reached the bottom, stepping waist-deep into the freezing, rushing water. The strong current immediately pulled at his legs, threatening to sweep him away into the dark jungle.

He searched frantically. He waded through the thick mud along the bank, his hands feeling blindly under the murky water and tangled roots. Panic began to claw tightly at his chest. If the violent current had already carried the belt downstream, the colonial map was lost forever.

Ten agonising minutes passed in the pouring rain. Then, his fingers brushed against something heavy and smooth caught in a dense cluster of dead branches.

Kwesi plunged his arm deeper into the muddy water and pulled hard. The heavy brass buckle emerged from the brown mud, followed by the thick leather strap.

He collapsed against the muddy bank, clutching the dripping belt tightly to his chest. He quickly ran his fingers along the inner lining. The hidden zipper was still securely closed. The thick leather had perfectly protected the hidden compartment. The Golden Boy was unbroken.

Kwesi strapped the wet belt tightly around his waist and began the gruelling, slippery climb back up to the road.

When he finally pulled himself over the edge, exhausted and covered in dark mud and cuts, he found that the situation on the road had shifted. The passengers had gathered together.

“The driver says we are nearly twenty miles from the next major trading town,” the merchant told Kwesi as he approached them. “No cars or buses will pass this way until the heavy rain stops tomorrow morning. If we stay here in the dark, the forest will take us, or the bandits might return to finish us off.”

“So we walk,” Kwesi said, his voice a hoarse, steady rasp.

“Yes,” the merchant nodded, pointing a trembling finger down the winding road. “I travel this route often to sell my goods. I know the way to the town. From there, we might be able to find a cargo truck heading to Conakry. But it will take us a full day on foot to reach it.”

Kwesi looked at the old man. The logic of his current situation was crystal clear. Kwesi had no local knowledge of the terrain. He could not survive the dense forest alone, nor could he navigate blindly to the capital.

Kwesi looked down at the exhausted mother. “I will take one of the children.”

Kwesi hoisted one of the sleeping toddlers onto his broad shoulders and picked up the merchant’s torn canvas sack. He looked down the dark, treacherous road leading deeper into the jungle. The journey to Conakry had just become infinitely harder, but as he fell into step behind his local guide, Nana Kwame Mensah took his next step toward Conakry.