The Air Mountains
The Sudanese Democratic Republic
9:42, 3rd of January, 2022
“Well, we’re here” announced the driver, as he pulled the land cruiser to a stop, the tires gently crushing the stony earth underneath. Babacar Ag Reis peered from out of the passenger seat, his eyes hidden behind a pair of luxurious aviators. Their destination was a small canyon tucked away in a remote part of the Air Mountains. A few hardy trees were the only signs of greenery that could be seen in the mostly desolate area, a burst of life amongst the drab sand and imposing rocks that dominated the field of view. Around him, Babacar could observe the figures of men perched above them at various points of the canyon, silhouettes in the harsh sunlight. In the vehicle ahead of him, a small and lithe figure emerged, his face covered like all inhabitants of the desert, motioning at Babacar and his entourage to follow him.
Babacar turned around in his seat to the three armed men who sat behind him “Wait here and watch the car” he then turned to the driver on his left “Karim, you follow me”. With a nod, Karim grabbed the Kalashnikov that lay to the side of him and exited the vehicle, his full imposing height now visible outside of the car. Seeing both Babacar and Karim exit their vehicles, their guide began to walk forward towards the opening of the canyon, where a cluster of stone dwellings could be observed. Built possibly centuries ago, small houses like this dotted the mountains, forgotten by civilization but commonly utilized by nomads, smugglers, bandits and other dwellers of the Sahara desert. Babacar himself possessed extensive knowledge on the location of many such places, having built up an impressive mental map over a lifetime of smuggling. It was part of what made him so useful to the Sudanese Government, which struggled to impose its authority over the vast expanses of the desert.
As they approached the entrance to the main building, the guards who were sitting in front playing cards got up and motioned for Karim to leave his weapon at the door. The imposing bodyguard scowled beneath his veil, but was stopped by Babacar, who motioned for him to do as he was told. Had he been afraid for his life, he would not have bothered to come at all. Upon entering the building, the change in atmosphere was almost instantaneous, as a cool darkness enveloped the two men. The room itself was basic, but comfortable. Some cushions and a rug occupied the middle of the room, a table with a number of documents, mobile phones and other miscellaneous items lay off to the side, while a generator whirred noisily next to it, providing power to a small air conditioning device. In the middle of the room sat a small and wiry figure, dressed in a mixture of military and desert garb, his face covered by a deep indigo veil worn by the Tuaregs of the desert.
“Please take a seat” he spoke, motioning to the two cushions that lay in front of him. Nodding in thanks, Babacar and Karim took their seats calmly. A woman, hidden in the corner, emerged with a small metal table, holding tea and deserts, a small treat for his guests. Babacar pulled out a packet of cigarettes and paused, waiting for his host’s approval before lighting up. The host pulled back his veil, revealing an old and weathered looking face sporting a bushy moustache, as he reached forward to gently pick up a tea cup.
“Have you any recent news of the Capital? It is hard to get up to date information out here in the desert”
Babacar exhaled before answering “I’m sure you’re well aware, more of the same. People are angry over rising fuel and food costs. They protest, they riot, the police kill them and then the President promises change and a few heads roll” he shrugged “Life goes on”.
“Indeed” replied the old man, sipping at his cup delicately “and from what I have been hearing many of those close to the Presidency are now losing their favor, as ranks close and those not in the inner circle may find their positions in jeopardy.”
Babacar scoffed at this, “Those with nothing to offer perhaps.”
“And what makes you so sure place is so secure?”
“Because without me the Uranium mines stop and suddenly the Preident Shakira finds himself unable to power his state ” Babacar replied with a smirk, likely realizing where the conversation would go. “I would like to see Ibrahima or any other southerner try to control the Arlit mines without my protection.”
The old man shook his head “We are all just pawns to be used and discarded at the whims of those in the Capital. The natives of this land eke out a miserable existence on the edge of the desert, while the Sudanese government allows corporations to extract the true wealth beneath our soil so that others may live in comfort and luxury. Tell me Babacar, is your empire of dirt worth the continued suffering of your people?”
Babacar scowled at the old man’s question but didn’t respond. The Tuareg of the north had always had a troublesome relationship with the Sudanese state. The desert nomads resented the increasing interference that the government, drawn overwhelmingly from the far more populous south, imposed on them, while at the same time lamenting their lack of representation and access to state resources. As the civil war that racked the Sudanese state in the closing decades of the 20th century wind down to a close, the Tuaregs were among the last to pacified by the incoming revolutionary government. In exchange for pledging allegiance to the new regime and protecting key infrastructure in the north, rebels such as Babacar and their militia were integrated into the military. In addition to being given a stipend, the government turned a blind eye towards the illicit activities of these warlords, who were able to make a fortune through participation in the smuggling of people, drugs, weapons, as well as other less dangerous contraband, across the Sahara.
While it bought a degree of security for the north, this was by no means complete, as the Sudanese government faced sporadic mutinies by these men of dubious loyalty. Indeed, it was well known policy that President Ibrahima would frequently play off the various Tuareg factions and distribute his patronage accordingly to keep the numerous clans divided. Meanwhile, many commoners face increasingly grim prospects as desertification destroyed their way of life and many lacked the skills and education for other employment. Criminality or Destitution seemed to be the fate of many young Tuareg.
“Speak for yourself Mostafa, your own failure to play the political game does not reflect on all of us”
Like his guest, Mostafa Asheriffa had been a major rebel commander who had reluctantly accepted the offer of amnesty by the Government of Ibrahima Shakira. Unlike his guest, Mostafa had grown disillusioned with the peace that he had been sold, and increasingly saw the separation of the Tuareg as the only means by which his people could find some semblance of salvation. Mostafa had been an elusive figure over the past few years, slowly stockpiling weapons and gathering around him a new generation of recruits to fight the next war,a war of liberation. Babacar was certainly not blind to the schemes of the old man, who rumor had it had been building alliances with whomever he could, including the Jihadists who had come to insert themselves in the desert.
“President Ibrahima’s grip on the nation grows weaker. The public grows increasingly angry at the failures of his government and are no longer content to sit back helpless as their living standards continue to deteriorate. His own allies are beginning to doubt the viability of his regime and are quietly talking behind his back.” Mostafa leaned forward and fixed his guest with a steely gaze. “The time for action comes now, History will move forward with or without you”.
Babacar abruptly stood up along with his bodyguard, brushing the dust off of his legs. “If you want to pursue a fools dream you are free to do so” he said “but I’ll have no part in your suicide pact”
As he turned to go, Mostafa called out to him “I only ask that when the time comes you pick your own people over that of your enemies”.
