Conspiracy Theory (Part One)

By Baba Galleh Jallow

As his plane touched the tarmac at the international airport, Moses Mijofa 
felt a galloping sensation in his chest. No, it was not the bumping effect 
of the landing that made him feel as if a horse suddenly galloped off in his 
heart. It was the prospect of returning home after so many years of exile. 
The prospect of walking the beloved grounds of his dear homeland after 
twelve long years was in itself almost unreal. But even more surreal was the 
thought of what awaits him on the ground. Below leaving his safe haven in 
distant Europe, he had received all manner of assurances that he would be 
just fine. But how could he be sure of those assurances? Now that he had 
taken the great plunge into uncertainty, he figured he would just have to 
wait and see what happens and to hope, almost against all hope, that 
everything would be just fine.

Down the plane he walked, pausing briefly to scour the environment with a 
pair of dazed eyes. Everything looked strange and somehow filled with a 
certain sense of gloom. Everything looked gray and dusty compared to the 
neat illumination of European airports and topography. He felt as if he had 
traveled out of the real world into some distant country buried in the gray 
and archaic past. He walked down, holding on to the rails for fear that he 
might get dizzy and fall headlong onto that sizzling tarmac. He managed the 
descent and walked along with the trickle of passengers towards the quaint 
airport terminal. International Airport indeed, he thought. This looks like 
a hamlet compared to even the smallest airports in Europe. And this regime 
makes so much noise about building the best airport in Africa! He almost 
spat out in disgust but managed to keep from doing so.

With a sense of trepidation and a biting expectation of the unknown, Moses 
Mijofa waited nervously in line as Immigration officers checked the 
passports of the arriving passengers and waved them through. He knew without 
any doubt that there were some secret service agents at that passport 
checking point, just as they were everywhere in this country. But he had 
been assured that everything would be just fine, and those assurances helped 
him retain enough self-control to keep from displaying the torrents of 
anxiety raging inside his tummy and making his chest tight.

At long last, it was his turn to be processed. He handed over his passport 
to a stone-faced Immigration officer with blood-shot eyes. He wondered if 
that officer was not on alcohol or some kind of drug. It was inconceivable 
that a man’s eyes could be that naturally red. The officer looked at the 
passport and looked up at him. He then reached down and pulled out a drawer, 
lifting out what looked like a picture from it. He compared the picture in 
the passport to the one he had taken out of the drawer. Then he called out 
to one of the men seated in a corner behind him. The man came over and 
looked at the passport and the picture the Immigration man was showing him. 
He looked up at Moses Mijofa.

“Aha, so you are the famous Mr. Moses Mijofa,” the second man said with a 
hint of a cynical smile on his lips.

“Well, Moses Mijofa is my name. I’m not sure I am the famous one you 
referring to,” Moses said, his heart throbbing wildly inside his chest.

“But you are this man in this picture,” the man said, showing him the 
picture. Moses looked.

“Yes, that’s definitely me,” he said.

“All right,” the man said. “We need you to come with us Mr. Mijofa.”

Moses Mijofa picked up his brief case and walked round the counter. He was 
escorted by two men out of the terminal and towards a brand new SUV packed a 
few meters away.

“I need to pick up my luggage,” Moses said. “And I need to tell my family 
what’s happening and have them take my luggage home.”

“Your luggage will be taken care of Mr. Mijofa,” one of the men told him as 
he held the door of the SUV open for him. “And you can see your family 
later, after we have finished with you. You can call them with my cell phone 
and tell them that just we need to ask you a few questions and that 
everything is fine.”

“But who are you?” Moses asked.

“State security,” the man said. “Just say that state security wants to ask 
you a few questions and then you will be back home in a little while. Now 
get in the car Mr. Mijofa.”

Moses Mijofa climbed into the car and the man climbed in after him. He was 
sandwiched between two stone-faced men as the SUV got onto the highway and 
sped off into the growing darkness of the dusty evening.

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