Among the strikers there were some few who secretly went back to work. They rose very early and did not return to their homes until after nightfall. Tiémoko had recruited a group of commandos to take care of such men, and the ‘renegades’, as he referred to them at meetings, were dealt with harshly. This collective action made the strike-breakers more wary and discouraged others from joining them, but there was, nonetheless, one case which caused considerable commotion and provoked extremely varied reactions, depending largely on the age, the sex, or the particular situation of those who were involved. It was the case of Diara, the ticket collector.
When Diara’s trial was held in the union building, the meeting hall was filled to overflowing and had lost its customary aspect – there were several women present, and this was something entirely new. Diara himself was seated at the center of the stage, alone, and without even a table before him. His head was bowed so deeply that all that could be seen was his forehead. He seemed to have shrunk – actually to have shriveled up somehow – giving the appearance of a piece of meat that had been set out here to dry. His back was bent beneath the weight of his humiliation, and his arms hung limply at his sides, grafted to his shoulders like lifeless stumps.
Seated at a table to his right were Konaté, the secretary of the Bamako local, and the regional director from Koulikoro. With them was Sadio, Diara’s son, and facing them, aligned on a bench, were the eight jurors. The hall itself was so crowded that those who had been unable to find a place were jammed into the door and the windows, as they had been on the night the strike was called. But the atmosphere this night was frigid, and not a sound disturbed the silence.
Diara, the ticket collector, was accused of dynfa – a Bambara word that was seldom used any longer, but which meant nothing less than treason: betrayal of one’s own people. This was serious enough in itself, but in addition there was the fact that this was the first time that anyone there – in the hall or up on the stage – had taken part in a trial. Subconsciously they were torn between the feeling of brotherhood that each of them had for the others – including the accused – and a vague memory of what was meant by the law, which they knew only from fragments of stories they had heard. Because of this conflict of emotions, they had a curious feeling of having been removed from their natural element, but the very newness of being forced to make a decision of this kind for themselves had sharpened their interest and their curiosity. There were some of them who realized that, for the first time, they were being called upon to play the role of a man – of their own man.
It was Tiémoko, who was the official record-keeper for the local strike committee, who had insisted on holding the trial, and everyone knew that the idea for it, and even the manner in which it was being handled, had come from a book in Ibrahim Bakayoko’s library. Konaté was presiding, and he began by exhorting everyone who would have something to say to do so without hatred or malice toward Diara.
Standing up, with one hand still resting on the table, he said sorrowfully, ‘I have no need to tell you that this affair is disagreeable for all of us.’ Over his shoulder, he glanced at Sadio, the son of the accused, who seemed as broken and unhappy as his father, and then he continued. ‘Until this moment, we have punished strike-breakers simply by beating them, and, as you know, there are two who are still laid up as a result. I went to see them before coming here. That is a sorry business, because we all have wives, and mothers and fathers, and children.
‘But now there is the case of Diara. Diara voted for the strike, and like ourselves he received his proper share of relief, but then he moved over to the side of our enemies. Now it is up to you to speak. Everything you say will be carefully noted, and then your judgment will be carried out by men who will be appointed for that purpose.’
Normally, when Konaté had finished speaking, he was always loudly applauded, but this time everyone was so conscious of the gravity of the matter that no one moved. For a moment there was utter silence in the hall, and even among the crowd at the door and the windows, and then a voice called out, ‘Why don’t we ask Tiémoko to begin?’
‘If Tiémoko wishes to begin, I am willing,’ Konaté said.
Tiémoko was seated in his customary place in the third row. He rose heavily, his bull neck seeming even more massive than usual. The sweating in his palms bothered him, and he folded his arms across his chest. Before speaking, he flicked his tongue over his lips, and his strong, white teeth bit down on them, hard. He knew very well what he must do, but his tongue rebelled against it. ‘Ah,’ he thought, ‘if Bakayoko was here in my place, he could make them understand, right away!’
The eyes of everyone there went from Tiémoko to Diara, and from Diara back to Tiémoko. Diara’s appearance troubled them. Where was his normal dignity, his splendid bearing? Deep lines, like scars, ran down from the bridge of his nose and circled the corners of his mouth, his eyes were glassy, and the tight skin around his nostrils was gray. Their hearts constricted at the sight of him, as if they were in the presence of a dying man. And Sadio, watching his father, felt that he, too, was dying, slowly and painfully. There was no hatred or bitterness in him, toward anyone, but just a sort of dazed incomprehension. He would gladly have taken his father’s place and had even asked to be allowed to do so. Now he had a feeling of being lost, and like the sacred dancers of some parts of Central Africa he ‘buried his countenance in his soul’.
In the silence which followed the moment when Tiémoko rose to his feet, the same voice which had called for him to begin was heard again. ‘Well, Tié,’ it said, ‘we are listening,’ and another voice said, ‘Yes, go ahead, speak.’
And at last Tiémoko was able to open his mouth. ‘I promised you,’ he said, ‘that we would take care of any renegades, and we have done it. But, is beating people really a proper way to convince them of anything?’
It was a big question he had asked, and since no one ventured an answer he went on. ‘I know that some men are like mules, and sometimes you have to hit them just to make them move, but this kind of beating is no real solution, especially when we are all together in this thing, when we are all sharing the same hardships. Why, then, must we judge Diara, and why should I be here to judge him, when you all know that Diara is my uncle? If I asked why to this, then I must also ask why to the whole question of the strike, and the white men, and the machines.’
The words came to him with such difficulty that he seemed to be moaning rather than speaking.
‘What I have to say is very difficult for me. If Bakayoko were here, he would have understood me and helped me to make you understand. As it is, I will have to go back to the beginning of this story of the renegades …’ This is the story Tiémoko told of what had happened.
*
About ten o’clock one morning, when the strike had been going on for several weeks, the strikers had all come to the union office in a state of great confusion. Every one of them had received an order drafting him back to work on the railroad. It seemed like an actual mobilization order, and they had no idea of what to do. Konaté had done his best to calm their fear and told them to leave the draft orders with him. Two days later, Tiémoko, recording the orders, discovered that five of them were missing. It could mean only one thing – the five men who had received those orders had deserted their comrades. The idea of a punitive expedition came to him at once and was readily accepted by the strike committee; all the more readily because, at that particular time, about twenty of the strikers had just been jailed.
The first two strike-breakers were trapped in the Place Maginot, almost in front of the police station. There was a brief scuffle, and then the men of Tiémoko’s commando group had taken them to their own homes and administered their rough form of justice.
Two of the others were caught later, but Tiémoko decided that their punishment should not take place in the relative privacy of their homes; he wanted to make a public example of them. He chose a dead-end street between the statue of Borgnies-Desborde and the church for the purpose, and when his men had done their work the two deserters were forced to keep to their beds for several days. But from that time on the battle lines were drawn between Tiémoko’s commando group and the authorities.
Since that day, Diara had been escorted everywhere he went by five policemen. His two wives lived at some distance from each other, and whenever he stayed with one of them both the commandos and the police were on guard outside. Tiémoko had placed men all around the station, and he scarcely slept himself, but he was forced to watch helplessly as Diara came and went. Returning to the union office empty-handed after one such vigil, he had been enraged to learn that Diara had begun forcing the wives of the strikers to leave the train whenever they attempted to visit one of the neighboring towns.
Tiémoko began reinforcing his group of volunteers. Konaté, who had other things on his mind, was of no use to him in this, but he did enroll his young cousin Sadio, Diara’s own son, who joined the commando group out of a spirit of adventure and without knowing much about what it was doing.
A short time after this, the one train that ran every week was forbidden to the wives of the strikers, but the European employees and the soldiers who were functioning as mechanics and station masters were careful not to molest or annoy anyone. As for Diara, he was still the only Sudanese who was working on the line. When Tiémoko thought about it he became so furious that, if he had been face to face with his uncle, he might have killed him. Sadio still played his part in the commando group and did as he was ordered, but without much conviction. He was well aware that his father was behaving badly toward his comrades, but he thought that they would never go so far as to beat him.
At last Tiémoko could stand it no longer and decided to risk pursuing his quarry into the station itself. He told his cousin to wait for him in front of the Chamber of Commerce and started off by himself. The streets that led to the station were swarming with people. Automobiles and carts were parked at every corner, and a long line of women was waiting patiently in front of the big general store owned by the Lebanese. Some children were playing in the shade of a huge flame tree, and emaciated dogs ran in and out of the crowds, growling angrily at everyone.
To reach the station, it was necessary to pass through a barbed-wire fence guarded by infantrymen and sailors. There was just one opening, scarcely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. In the courtyard behind the fence a group of legionnaires lounged about, laughing and joking. As Tiémoko went through the entrance he put his hand up to his face, as if he had something in his eye. He had no wish to be recognized by the militiamen.
Covered with sweat, he came at last to the central hall of the station, where a vast crush of people was gathered, waiting hopefully for a train that might never come. Every corner of the hall was crowded with men, women, and children, seated on the ground or resting on whatever baggage they were carrying – boxes and cases of every size, rolls of clothing, animal skins or matting, sacks of dried grass and herbs. A fearful stench filled the air and flowed out of the waiting room, on to the covered porches and the tracks, where still more people waited. The walls and floors were covered with dripping, spreading stains of spit, dyed red from the chewing of cola nuts, or black from plugs of tobacco. Clouds of flies swarmed over gourds which still held some remnant of food and clustered around the sandals which were scattered everywhere, as if waiting for their owners to return. The station looked like the camp of a conquered army, carrying with it its plunder, its wounded, its dead, and its limitless vermin.
Tiémoko was too preoccupied with the angry mission which had brought him here to pay much attention to the spectacle. He glanced briefly at the closed and barred service doors and the deserted ticket booths and then went over to a woman who was bouncing a baby on her knees.
‘Woman,’ he said, ‘do you know if the train from Kati has arrived?’
‘Yes, it has, and it left again a few minutes ago.’
As she was speaking, he heard someone call, ‘Hé, Tié!’ and saw a man he knew leaning against one of the ticket booths. The man straightened up and said to the people who were standing around him, ‘He’s one of the strikers.’
When they heard this, a little circle of curious people formed around Tiémoko.
‘Brother,’ the man went on, smiling, ‘when is this strike going to end?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tiémoko answered. ‘Perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow.’ He knew very well that there was no chance of the strike ending, either that night or the next day, but he was beginning to be a little alarmed at seeing himself surrounded like this. He tried to slip away from the crowd, but to no avail.
‘Do you work here?’ one of the men asked. He was a big fellow, tall and straight as the trunk of a tree.
‘Yes,’ Tiémoko replied.
‘Well, then, tell us what this strike is all about. Don’t you ever think about people like us, who have to stay here and wait a week or more for a train? Look here – this is my daughter …’ He took a pretty girl of sixteen or seventeen by the hand and pushed her forward. ‘She was supposed to join her husband at Tamba-Counda, and now she is just waiting, like all the rest of us …’ His arm made a sweeping gesture toward the throng in the hall. ‘Everyone says that you don’t want to go back to work. Do you think the trains belong to you? They don’t – no more than they did to your fathers – but you decide to stop working, just like that, without thinking about other people. And yet you workmen, of all people, should be satisfied with what you have. You don’t have to worry about drought or rain or taxes, and you don’t have any expenses. Why should you prevent these farmers from going where they want to go?’
The man had seized Tiémoko by the shoulder, like a father reprimanding a child. He had the air of someone who was accustomed to giving orders. A little skull cap of cotton, set on the back of his head, left his enormous forehead free of any shadow, and his eyes were clear. For a moment he was silent, and then he said, ‘Look at all of these poor people! One train a week, and that one is like a jungle! And on top of that, most of them have had nothing to eat for days.’
‘Neither have we,’ Tiémoko said. ‘We have had nothing …’
‘If you have nothing, it’s your own fault,’ the man said, ‘and it’s as it should be. Some of you are in prison, and that is as it should be, too.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You should tell your comrades to go back to work.’
‘I will tell them – but let me go now please. The “soldiers” don’t like to see us here.’ By ‘soldiers’ Tiémoko meant the militiamen, because he had recognized that this man must be a retired watchman. He was beginning to feel very uneasy and had even forgotten why he had come to the station. ‘If they should spot me, I’ll be good for a trip to jail myself.’
The woman to whom he had first spoken rose to her feet, holding the baby in her arms. ‘Let him go,’ she said. ‘He’s not the only one who has stopped working, and he can’t make the trains run again all by himself.’
‘You don’t know anything about men like him. In my day we used to throw them all in prison. I probably should call a watchman now.’
‘Don’t do that, Uncle,’ the woman implored.
Tiémoko felt the hand on his shoulder relax its grip, and without waiting for any further discussion he made his way hurriedly through the crowd. But he didn’t breathe freely again until he was past the barbed-wire fence and out of reach of the soldiers.
Lost in his thoughts, he walked right by Sadio at the corner where he had told him to wait.
‘Tié!’ Diara’s son called. ‘I was beginning to get worried.’
Tiémoko gestured to the young man to follow him and walked on silently, his head bowed. A horde of conflicting sentiments and confused ideas seemed to be doing battle in his mind. At Bakayoko’s urging, he had done a great deal of reading, and he had not always understood what he read, but now a single phrase came back to him, and he murmured it half aloud, as if he were intoning a prayer.
‘It is not necessary to be right to argue, but to win it is necessary both to be right and never to falter.’
‘Are you reciting the Koran?’ Sadio asked, in astonishment.
Tiémoko seemed not to have heard him and went on repeating the phrase like a litany. He could not remember clearly where he had read it, but he did remember what Bakayoko had said about it.
They crossed the park in silence, and then Tiémoko said suddenly, ‘Let’s go to Bakayoko’s house.’
‘What for?’ Sadio asked. ‘The others are waiting for us.’
‘You don’t want them to beat your father, do you?’
‘That’s a hell of a question!’
‘Well, then, come with me, before it’s too late.’
Tiémoko had remembered where he read the phrase that had come to him like a ray of light in the darkness, and now he was in a hurry. As they walked he explained briefly why he had been delayed in the station.
‘I don’t see the connection between that and going to Bakayoko’s now,’ Sadio said.
‘You will see. This strike is like a school, for all of us. We have punished some people for what they have done, but is that a good thing?’
‘I don’t know, but in any case they haven’t gone back to work.’
‘Right; they haven’t gone back. But is that enough, for the future?’
‘Are you asking me that?’ Sadio said, completely baffled.
Tiémoko himself was tormented by his inability to explain this phrase which resounded so clearly in his ears and seemed so true to his mind.
‘Look, Sadio, your father is my father’s brother; you are my cousin. Your honor is also mine; your family’s shame is my family’s, and the shame of our whole country, the dishonor of all of our families together. That is why we cannot beat your father.’
‘I knew that you were a friend, and not just a relative.’
‘Don’t speak too soon. We won’t punish my uncle as we have punished the others, but suppose we should decide to try him, before all of the workers?’
‘What! Have you lost your mind? Do you know what you are saying? My father – there, in front of everyone – and everyone insulting him, disgracing him! I’d rather die than … ?’
‘It’s not a question of dying, cousin. It’s a question of learning, and of winning. It’s a question of doing what is right, and of doing it as men should.’
They had arrived at the compound of the Bakayokos as they spoke, and after the customary greetings had been exchanged Tiémoko addressed himself to Fa Keïta, who had been talking quietly with old Niakoro.
‘I came to borrow a book,’ he said. ‘Ibrahim told me that I might use them when I needed them.’
‘What my son has is yours,’ Niakora said.
‘I will ask his daughter to help you,’ Fa Keïta added, and called, ‘Ad’jibid’ji, Ad’jibid’ji!’
Then, speaking to Sadio, he asked, ‘And your father, is he well?’
‘God be thanked,’ Sadio answered, frowning. ‘God be thanked, he is well, Fa Keïta.’
‘Hé,’ Niakoro said, ‘you are Diara’s son? Hé, how the children grow up! To think that I knew your grandparents. The Diaras are people of a good line. Come closer, and let me look at you.’
Sadio bent over a little, and the old woman put her hand up to touch his cheeks and his forehead, and the contact of her fingers against his skin made him realize again how old she was.
Ad’jibid’ji came out to the veranda where they were gathered, and Fa Keïta said, ‘Tiémoko has come for some books.’
‘Only one, Fa Keïta; there is just one that I need.’
The child showed no pleasure at the sight of Tiémoko. She had seen him only three times since the beginning of the strike, but on each of these occasions she had been aware of a surge of anger she could not explain, even to herself.
‘Yes, Grandfather,’ she said. ‘Father told me he might. Follow me, Tiémoko.’
Sadio remained with the two old people and, as Ab’jibid’ji watched, Tiémoko rummaged through the shelves in the main room of the house. He had to search for a good ten minutes, but at last he pulled out a volume wrapped in blue paper.
‘May I see what you are taking?’ Ad’jibid’ji asked.
He showed her the title, and she read it aloud, ‘La Condition Humaine.’
She had read the book, without understanding it, and she couldn’t help wondering if Tiémoko would understand. She took an index card from a little cardboard box and studied it carefully. ‘Every time you take a book you don’t bring it back until five or six months later. I hope you won’t keep that one forever.’
‘What?’ Tiémoko demanded. ‘Does your father keep a record of everyone who borrows his books?’
‘Books are rare, and expensive, and petit père spends all his money buying them. But if it makes you feel any better, Konaté has six of them, including one he borrowed twelve months ago.’
‘He’s the person I want to see about this book.’
‘Well, perhaps if you read it together it will go faster.’ There was a note of sarcasm in Ad’jibid’ji’s voice, but Tiémoko seemed not to notice.
When he went out to the veranda again, Assitan approached him. ‘We haven’t seen you in a long time, Tiémoko. Since Ibrahim left we never seem to see anyone.’
‘Ah, woman, we have a lot to do …’
‘What?’ Fa Keïta asked. ‘Chasing after your own uncle?’
‘We are doing it for the good of everyone, Fa Keïta; and we will have need of you in the days to come.’
‘Of me? After the way you treated me at the union hall the last time? And you, especially! What will you need me for?’
‘For this matter of my uncle. When he is taken, which will be soon, we are going to try him.’
Keïta’s eyes opened very wide, and the ritual scars seemed to bite deeper into his face. Old Niakoro looked terrified. For a moment she remained openmouthed in astonishment, and then she said, ‘You are not a bearer of good news, Tiémoko. Sadio, what do you think of this?’
‘What can I think?’ the young man answered, close to tears. ‘I don’t agree, but it isn’t up to me.’
‘Tiémoko,’ the old woman said, ‘have you thought about this? You are not toubabs! How can you judge a man who is respected by everyone?’
‘Everything we need is in this book,’ Tiémoko said.
‘That book was written by the toubabs,’ Fa Keïta said scornfully.
‘And the machines were built by the toubabs! The book belongs to Ibrahim Bakayoko, and right here, in front of you, I have heard him say that neither the laws nor the machines belong to any one race!’
‘The toubabs do all kinds of things that humiliate and debase us, and now you want to do the same.’
‘There is no law in this book that you would refuse to admit. It’s not an unbreakable set of rules, it’s … it’s a way of thinking.’
Tiémoko was unable to explain what he really meant. His face twitched with the effort of concentration, and little streaks of red appeared in his eyes.
‘In any case, don’t count on me,’ Fa Keïta said. ‘And when it is really a case of your uncle, and not of a character in a book, you will not do it.’
‘If it was my own father, I would do it, Fa Keïta; I swear it on the tomb of my ancestors! And if it were you, Ibrahim Bakayoko would do the same thing.’
All of the contradictory emotions he felt were still revolving in Tiémoko’s head, like the humming of a motor he could not stop. He succeeded in controlling himself, however, and cut short the conversation.
‘I hope that you will pass the night in peace,’ he said. ‘Come, cousin.’
And he went out, followed by the dazed, unhappy Sadio.
‘I am going to put all of those books in the fire,’ Old Niakoro said, as soon as they were out of hearing.
‘No, Grandmother!’ Ad’jibid’ji cried. ‘Petit père would not like that!’
‘There would be no point to it,’ Fa Keïta said. ‘It would change nothing.’
‘But think of it! To allow the honor of such a good man to be dragged through the mud – a man of such a good family! It is the toubabs who are to blame for this. These children will never have white hairs – our world is falling apart.’
‘No, woman; it was your son who said, “Our world is opening up.”’
‘Wait until that one comes back … I may be old, but I will know what to say to him. Who would have thought that we should live to see such things?’
Niakoro’s hands were trembling, and she was forced to cling to the old man’s arm as she rose, but then she pulled herself erect, turned, and went into the house. Behind the door there was a staircase of hard clay which led up to the terrace. Ad’jibid’ji was already climbing the steps, skipping up lightly, two at a time.
*
Still followed by Sadio, and cloaked in his new resolve as if by a protective armor, Tiémoko went directly to Konaté’s house. Konaté had a diploma from the school and was the best educated of all the men on the committee, but at first he did not understand what Tiémoko meant and could only think of the necessity for avoiding arguments among themselves.
‘No,’ said Tiémoko, who was sitting on a strip of matting. ‘We cannot be held back by that. After the trial is held, everyone will understand, and they will know that they must not go back.’
Konaté was afraid that such a move would destroy the unity of the strikers, which thus far had been very well maintained. He was perplexed, and to gain time he said, ‘Why don’t you leave the book with me, and tomorrow I will tell you what I think we should do.’
‘No, Konaté, no! You won’t find in this book what you think you are going to find. It’s up to me to convince you, and if I don’t succeed …’
The secretary of the union was growing more and more uneasy. He tried another argument. ‘I’m not the only one to be consulted, you know. We would have to have a meeting of the local committee. There is one scheduled for the day after tomorrow.’
‘No!’ Tiémoko was risking everything now, in the hope of gaining everything. ‘We must have the meeting tonight. We can call it for seven o’clock.’
And so the meeting had been held that same night, with everyone on the committee present, and only one question before them – the case of Diara. But Tiémoko found himself alone with his conviction, faced with eleven worried and hesitant men. To judge another man this way was not a part of their prerogatives, and the strangeness of the idea made them uncomfortable and uncertain. Tiémoko spared no effort to convince them. He had eaten nothing since early morning, but the intensity of his emotion had put his hunger to sleep.
‘It is not because I ask it that you must decide,’ he said, ‘but because this case of Diara must be made to serve as an example.’
‘It may be that you are right,’ Konaté said, ‘but suppose the others do not support us? What do we do then? The whole success or failure of the strike may hang on this decision. The risk is great, and I ask all of you to think about it very carefully.’
The twelve men broke up into little groups to discuss the matter, speaking sometimes almost in whispers, and sometimes in vehement exclamations. The primary obstacle to any decision was their fear of not being upheld by the rest of the strikers. Tiémoko went from one group to another, repeating his arguments, trying to communicate his own conviction to them, and although his phrases were broken and often confused there was no mistaking the depth of his feeling.
At last one of the men said, ‘Tell me, Tié, why do you attach so much importance to this trial? Is it to prove that you are a leader, or just because you have said that it must take place?’
‘Neither,’ Tiémoko replied. His face was dripping with sweat, and his nerves were stretched to the breaking point. ‘Neither the one nor the other. I don’t have to look for a motive for something that is a motive itself. I want us to move forward to a point where it will no longer be necessary to punish men as we have in the past.’
‘That is all very well,’ Konaté said, ‘but right now we couldn’t try Diara if we wanted to. He is constantly guarded by the police.’
‘I know, Konaté – he is protected as well as the governor in his residence. But if you leave it to me, you will have him here before you, very soon.’
And in the end Tiémoko had won, through simple obstinacy and the fatigue of the others. One of them spoke for all the rest. ‘Very well, Tié,’ he said. ‘You have convinced us. We will go along with your idea.’
A few minutes after this, Tiémoko set out for his own house. The ground beneath his feet was still warm, although it was three o’clock in the morning.
As he walked, he considered all of the points of the plan he had in mind, and a sense of exultation swept through him. For the first time in his life, an idea of his was going to play a part in the lives of thousands of others. It was not pride or vanity he was experiencing, but the astonishing discovery of his worth as a human being. Walking very straight in the deserted street, he began singing aloud an ancient Bambara hymn to the founder of the empire of Mali, the Soundiata.
All the next day he didn’t leave his house. His wife, a pretty little woman with high cheekbones and slender features, told everyone who came to the door, ‘He spent the night with a book.’
Toward evening, Konaté came to see him.
‘Are you ill, brother?’ he asked.
‘No, I have been studying. You know, when this strike is over we must organize courses in reading. This book is very complicated, and I am not sure that I agree with everything the author says.’
‘After what you told me yesterday? Are you going crazy, Tiémoko?’
‘Crazy? Oh no, don’t worry about that! By the way, can you get me three policemen’s uniforms for tomorrow?’
‘Policemen’s uniforms? What for?’
‘To catch my uncle!’
‘Hé, Tiémoko, you are a surprising man!’ Konaté said.
When he received the uniforms, Tiémoko gave two of them to men he had chosen carefully and kept the third for himself.
The next morning, very early, they had gone to Diara’s house, arriving there well before the real policemen.