Harmattan by Gavin Weston

Ferrari printed on the front.
    His friend was sitting on the same side of the table as us, so at first I could see only one side of his pale face. Strands of lank, wispy hair jutted out from beneath a green baseball cap, while his shirt was a riot of flowers – prettier than any pagne I had ever seen.
    I suppose I must have stared for too long. The man with the glasses mumbled something to his partner. He looked up from his cards, turned his head towards me and stuck out his tongue.
    ‘Don’t pay them any heed, Mademoiselles,’ Monsieur Youssef called from behind his stove.
    Abdelkrim had been waiting by the stove to carry our food to the table. He walked towards us, fiddling in his breast pocket as he crossed the room. ‘Let me take care of this,’ he whispered. He walked to the far end of the long room and, standing with his back to us, spoke quietly to the French men.
    Sushie looked down at me, pulled a funny face and shrugged. I smiled, and then strained to catch the conversation. We were not close enough to hear easily and the radio continued to blare, but it soon became obvious that Abdelkrim had said something to displease them.
    ‘Merde!’ exclaimed the one with the spectacles, putting out his cigarette.
    The man with the patterned shirt mumbled something across the table and then, standing up, handed a piece of paper to my brother. Clearly, he too was agitated.
    I was beginning to feel a little apprehensive, until Abdelkrim saluted the two men in a theatrical way and I heard him say, ‘Monsieur Franck, Monsieur Michel.’
    Then he turned, smartly, and returned to our end of the table, taking a seat opposite myself and Sushie.
    ‘What was that all about?’ Sushie said.
    ‘Oh, nothing. It’s dealt with.’
    Sushie coughed and began drumming her fingers on the table.
    ‘What did you say, Abdel?’ I demanded.
    He shot a glance at the two anasaras and gave a little smile. ‘Let’s just say that they won’t be bothering you again.’
    ‘Uhuh?’ Sushie stopped drumming and held out her open palm, to indicate that she expected more information.
    ‘I showed them my military ID and then made sure that their documentation was in order – you know, carte de passage , passports, visas, that sort of thing.’
    ‘Can you do that?’ Sushie asked.
    ‘I just did.’
    ‘They didn’t sound happy about it.’
    ‘No. They weren’t. But when they challenged my authority, I told them that we might meet again. And that next time it might be when I really was on duty…’
    ‘Ah,’ Sushie said. ‘You mean to tell me that you’re just another corrupt official, Abdel? – always on the lookout for a little bribe here, a little deal there?’
    ‘Not at all,’ my brother said. ‘In fact, Mademoiselle, I despise any countryman of mine who behaves in such a manner!’ He rolled his eyes towards the French men and gave a little sideways nod. ‘But they don’t know that.’ He looked very pleased with himself.
    Monsieur Youssef set three battered aluminium bowls, containing a thin, dark, steaming stew of goat meat, cow peas and peppers, in front of us. ‘Bon appetite, mes amies,’ he said.
    ‘It looks good, Monsieur,’ said Sushie.
    ‘You came at the right time, Mademoiselle,’ he replied. ‘The camion will be full of hungry people, so I slaughtered this goat just yesterday.’ He smiled, broadly, revealing more space than teeth.
    As we ate, the radio announcer declared that students in the capital were protesting at the delay in the payment of their allowances and that several mid-ranking military officers had been arrested, following rumours of plans to mutiny.
    ‘Mainassara has had his day!’ Abdelkrim said under his breath. He nodded towards a framed picture of our president at one end of Monsieur Youssef ’s building.
    ‘You really think so?’ Sushie said.
    ‘For sure. I know lots of gendarmes and soldiers who would dearly like him to stand down. He’s never been forgiven for scrapping the