Vultures in the Playground

Chapter 1: Xtraktiv

Shadows of dead palms stretched like talons. The harmattan blew dust south from the Sahara, reducing the sun to a fuzzy, red orb that shimmered above a sea of zinc roofing. Even now, in the depths of dry season, the air was a dank and fetid sponge, pungent with charcoal smoke and burning plastic.

Archie had fouled up big this time. Jet lag had dulled his normally keen sense of direction. He had gotten turned around and had no idea how to make it back to his hotel.

Two men tailed him, their gaits loose and jaunty, like young lions replete after a meal but game for an opportunity kill. Faces rigid and unsmiling, they had mirrored every twist and backtrack in his route, loitered outside every shop in which he feigned an interest.

He had been indulging his habit of taking a long walk before settling into his hotel room after a long flight. The practice incurred little to no risk in a stable country like Ghana, but in a failed state like Liberia, it only begged trouble, particularly with fifteen thousand in crisp hundreds lining the zippered pockets of his smuggler’s vest.

The money was destined for an NGO outpost in Nimba County whose local bank embargoed wire transfers until ‘special handling fees’ had been paid. Between the flimsy doors of his room and the squirrely demeanor of the desk clerk, he hadn’t felt comfortable leaving the money behind at the hotel. If he had thought it any more secure to carry it on his person, he had been mistaken.

Eyes forward, legs churning, he strode on, pretending to know exactly where he wanted to go and how to get there. But one glimpse sufficed to tell anyone he was lost. What possible business could a man of his advantages—spotless clothes, white skin—have in the meanest shanty town in Monrovia? Walking alone at nightfall? Men like him were meant to be chauffeured in shiny Land Cruisers.

Children waved and laughed. They chased him until their worried mothers called them back.  But their presence made Archie feel no more secure. Little kids were ubiquitous in this landscape and had little influence on the affairs of adults.

‘Boss man,’ they called him—a relict term that offended him more than epithet ever tossed his way on this continent, seething with connotations of slavery and subjugation. All the other names, at least—faranji, mzungu, obruni, oyinbo, yovo—denoted whiteness or foreignness not just caste or privilege.

Boss man. What a bizarre thing for a nation founded by repatriated slaves and having no colonial history to call its paler visitors. He was no boss man. He was just a man.

He paused at a soft drink stand crammed into what could pass for a double wide phone booth, pieces together from scrap plywood and painted in the universal colors of Coca Cola.

A woman sat inside with a baby on her lap. “Liberty Hotel? Do you know it?”

For the umpteenth time he asked the question and received only a shrug in return. He bought a Coke with a clean, uncreased bill—further proof of his privilege, clashing with the wad of greasy, blackened dollars she kept in her pouch.

This bottle might come in handy if things got rough, serving as a projectile, a club or even a knife. Though, he shuddered to think of a confrontation coming to violence. It might be better not to resist and hope no one noticed his money vest.

He tracked his pursuers out of the corner of his eye. They had had ample opportunity to pounce, yet they still kept their distance. Why so cautious?

It couldn't be because they feared him. He probably looked like easy prey—another pasty, out-of-shape American, one of the common breed of international functionary that came to shuffle aid proposals or hold workshops, the kind who didn’t read the State Department security warnings, ignorant of Liberia’s recent history, its civil wars, massacres and chronic lawlessness.

The alleys were busy with people going about their late day chores, hauling water, packing up market wares, hauling kindling and bundles of scythed grass for their goats. But crowds were no deterrent to a determined pair of muggers. These ordinary folk knew better than to meddle in someone else’s dirty business. How many civil wars does one survive sticking one’s nose where it didn’t belong?

If it wasn’t for the treasure trove he carried in the vest beneath his shirt, he might have called their hand and gotten the whole thing over with. He had a dummy wallet in the rear pocket of his khakis, stuffed with small bills and expired credit cards. He had left the flap unbuttoned, to further entice and distract. If that didn’t satisfy them, they were welcome to the iPod bulging his shirt pocket and the Nikon dangling from his belt. Those were replaceable; they might even be insured. A simple bump and snatch would leave him no more harmed than a gecko sacrificing the tip of its tail.