Description
Format: paper
Number of pages: 114 pages
Language: English
Looking for the digital version? Please click here
Two continents. Two sons. One mother facing a shattering truth.
Keza survived the horrors of Rwanda to give her twins the « Western Promise. » Thirty years later, she is about to find out exactly what that promise is worth.
In Minneapolis, Lucas is a brilliant student—the very definition of the American Dream. In Paris, Hugo is a star athlete and the heart of his neighborhood. But as global borders begin to fracture, the system they trusted to protect them turns into a relentless machine.
While independent journalists Yanis and Daemon—one French, one American—track two parallel networks, the trap begins to close.
Based on real events and classified documents, Words as Weapons exposes the dark underbelly of the migration crisis across Europe and the United States: a world where excellence is punished on one side of the Atlantic, while chaos is subsidized on the other. For Keza, the time for mediation is over. The time for the truth has begun.
« A geopolitical thriller of burning relevance. A story of words as weapons against the cynicism of an age that has forgotten the price of a human life. »
Excerpt :
Prologue
I am Aïssata. I am eighteen years old, the young woman repeated to herself like a mantra. She had been saying it in her head since leaving Bamako, like a prayer: Aïssata, eighteen, from Kayes, destination: Europe. Aïssata, who had left her mother standing in the doorway without looking back—because if she had, she wouldn’t have had the strength to keep going.
The journey had lasted weeks. Pickup trucks, buses, forced marches through the dead of night. She had given everything to the smugglers: the money her family had saved for three years, her grandmother’s jewelry, and her illusions, one by one. And now, she was here.
A transit camp run by an international migration agency in the Canary Islands. Tents lined up under a blistering sun, endless lines, and men everywhere. Young men—almost exclusively men—watching her pass with eyes that said nothing good.
« Next! »
She stepped toward the corrugated metal counter. A woman in a blue vest with an official Organization badge pinned to her chest handed her a clear plastic pouch, offering a thin smile.
« Your kit, honey. Don’t lose it. It’s for your protection. »
Aïssata stepped aside to make room. She opened it, expecting soap, vitamins, or maybe some clean clothes. She saw… condoms? A pill labeled “emergency contraception”? A whistle? And finally, a small brochure folded in four.
She looked up, bewildered.
« What… what is this for? »
The woman looked at her with a gaze heavy with exhaustion.
« For when… if they… well, you know. At least this way, you’ll be protected. »
Aïssata felt the world tilt. The dirt ground seemed to vanish beneath her feet. Was this real? Had she understood correctly?
She looked around. The tents, the lines, the men. Hundreds of young men—tired, frustrated—waiting. And there she was, alone, holding a “rape kit” in her hands with no one to protect her.
« Where do we sleep? » she asked, her voice tight.
The woman pointed to a large marquee on the other side of the camp.
« Women with women. But it’s full. You might have to share with the men tonight. We do what we can. »
Aïssata clutched the pouch to her chest like a useless shield. She stared at the marquee, the shadows moving inside, and the eyes that followed her every move.
Her mother had told her Europe was a land of justice, respect, and women’s rights. No one had mentioned this. No one had told her the journey would end here, in a camp where they handed out whistles to lone girls so they could scream for help—without saying who would listen, or if anyone would even come.
She wanted to call her mother, but her phone was off to save the battery. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She wanted to run, but where? There was nothing but dust for miles.
So, she just stood there, clutching her kit, watching night fall over the camp, listening to the voices of the men rising in the darkness.
The weight of the small whistle felt heavy in her sweaty palm.
That night, Aïssata did not sleep.
Chapter 1 – The Network
A stack of CFA francs. Thick, worn, almost damp in his hand. Sékou realized exactly what it represented: his family’s life savings, the sacrifices they had made for him. The field his father had sold. His mother’s few pieces of jewelry. And the savings of his entire village, all betting on him to send money back every month once he reached Europe.
The price of his future.
Standing across from him, leaning against the massive hull of a fishing boat repainted midnight blue, was a man from El Capitan. “Mr. Pirogue” remained stone-faced as he took the money. Sékou was the last to board. Mr. Pirogue passed the cash to a boy who ran toward a large Mercedes parked at the top of the dune, headlights blazing. Sékou followed him with his eyes and saw a well-dressed man wearing dark sunglasses and heavy gold chains. The boy handed him the bag containing the life savings of the thirty men boarding the boat. A fortune, Sékou thought.
« The GPS is reliable, » Mr. Pirogue said in a flat monotone, pointing to a smartphone wrapped in three layers of plastic. « The power bank is fully charged. Don’t turn it on until you’re in open water, only at the coordinates I showed you. The Spanish Coast Guard are just bureaucrats; luckily, they don’t play hero. And besides, they hate working at night. »
Sékou nodded, mimicking the smuggler’s cold professionalism. He wasn’t afraid. Fear was for those who left without a plan, those who jumped into the water on a whim. He had a plan. An expensive plan, but an optimized one.
It had all started two years ago on his phone. A thirty-second TikTok video. A guy in mirrored shades, leaning against a Mercedes in front of the Eiffel Tower. Afrobeats blaring in the background. The text overlay read: « Tired of the grind? DM for the real life. »
That « DM » had led to a WhatsApp group, then to a call with El Capitan. No vague promises, just a service offer. Logistics. A price. El Capitan had explained the process like he was selling a cell phone plan. « The crossing is the easy part, » he’d said. « A boat will come for you. That’s the rule. They’ll take you to the Canaries. From there, the NGOs take over. Food, housing, papers. Then the flight to the mainland. It’s all included in the Premium Package. »
The « Premium Package. » Sékou liked the sound of that. It felt professional, organized. Not like those migrants you saw on the news, huddling in inflatable rafts, begging to be saved. He wouldn’t beg. Sékou had paid for a service.
Today, after two years of saving, he was finally leaving. All around him on the dark beach of Kayar, thirty other young men waited in silence. They didn’t look like refugees. They wore designer tracksuits and checked their phones like travelers in an airport lounge. Their eyes weren’t on the land they were leaving, but on the invisible horizon. They were all Premium clients.
One of them, a giant nearly seven feet tall named Ousmane, had even pulled out headphones and was nodding his head to the music, as if waiting for a night bus. The trip felt like a promotion, not an exodus. Sékou wondered for a moment if this was it—Europe before Europe: the feeling of embarking on a dream destination, guided by sharp-dressed men talking about « procedures » and « protocols. »
The boat’s engine sputtered to life with a greasy cough, spitting acrid smoke that mixed with the smell of salt and dried fish. They were signaled to board. The wooden planks were damp and cold under their feet. Sékou settled in, his back against a diesel canister. He didn’t look back at the flickering lights of his village. What was the point? His village was already in his phone: in the photos of his mother he carried with him, and in the eyes of the girl he planned to impress with his future Instagram stories from Paris:
« First day in Paris. The Eiffel Tower. The real life. »
An outsider would have thought he was fleeing misery. The newspapers would call him an « economic migrant, » a « youth without a future. » But he knew better. He had bought his future—a future where men like El Capitan were facilitators, NGOs were transport services, and Europe was a final destination carefully wrapped in an all-inclusive package.
The wooden boat slipped over the black water, drifting slowly away from the coast. Soon, the last sounds of the shore—the barking of dogs, distant shouts, the hum of mopeds—were swallowed by the murmur of the ocean. There was nothing left but the sound of water against the hull and the rhythmic breathing of the thirty men huddled around him.
El Capitan had been clear: « Don’t go looking for rescuers. Think of them as taxis. Taxis that are going to take you to the next stage. »
Sékou closed his eyes. He tried to sleep, but the adrenaline was too strong.
Five days later, the drinking water was gone.
Sékou hadn’t closed his eyes in two nights. Thirst burned his throat—a dry fire rising from his stomach that made his tongue feel swollen and thick in his mouth. Around him, faces had grown hollow. No one spoke anymore. No one looked at the horizon. They were packed into the bottom of the boat, backs against the sides, eyes half-closed, trying to conserve their remaining strength. Ousmane had long since stopped listening to his music. Besides, his headphones had been ruined by the spray.
The water. It seeped in everywhere, dripping through the poorly joined planks. It rose slowly, licking at their ankles, then their calves. The giant, Ousmane, bailed with a small pot, emptying it overboard with mechanical precision. The water always came back, but it was something to do. A reason not to give up.
The night of the sixth day, there was no moon.
Sékou was drifting in and out of consciousness when screams tore through the darkness. It was Ousmane. Sékou opened his eyes, disoriented, not understanding. All around him, shadows were thrashing. A body slammed into him.
« He’s lost it! He’s gone crazy! » someone yelled.
In the dark, Sékou could make out arms flailing in the air.
« The water! The water is right there! I can see it! »
The man—a Malien whose name Sékou didn’t know—leaned over the railing, reaching toward the black ocean as if he were about to scoop from a miraculous spring. Another man followed him—maybe to help, maybe to push him, or perhaps they fought—Sékou never knew.
There were two dull thuds, close together. Two bodies hitting the surface.
Then, nothing.
Silence fell over the boat again, heavier than before. No one moved. No one dove in to save them. What would be the point? In that sea, on that night, they were already dead.
Ousmane crossed himself, slowly, instinctively. A fifteen-year-old boy sobbed silently, his shoulders shaking with spasms. Sékou stared at the black water where the two men had vanished and thought of his mother. He thought of everyone who had paid for this trip, and what his family would say if they knew he was floating on a sea that had just swallowed two people whole.
The next morning at daybreak, a speck appeared on the horizon. Then another. Boats. Large ones, with white cabins and flags.
« The Spanish Coast Guard, » Ousmane whispered.
Sékou watched them approach with a mix of joy, exhaustion, fear, and relief.
When they were hauled aboard, they were given water and basic first aid. Sékou drank slowly, small sips at a time. He felt the water slide down his throat, waking up his organs one by one.
In the center where he landed in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, everyone was mixed together—minors with adults—waiting for processing. Sékou didn’t speak. He just sat on his bunk, knees pulled up to his chest, eyes vacant. At night, he could hear the sound of crying. Like many others, he was assigned to a psychologist.
Above him, the stars were the same as they had been in Senegal. The same Milky Way, the same constellations his grandpa had taught him. But Sékou knew, deep down, that they no longer lit up the same world.
He had just entered the network.
Chapter 2 – The Investigators
With his camera lens zoomed to its limit, French reporter Yanis translated the vibrating heat of the Gran Canaria port into a series of more or less successful photos. Leaning out his hotel window, he felt sweat bead on his forehead and trickle down his temples. He had grown up dreaming of being a truth-seeking journalist. And that’s what he was. A revealer of the world’s hidden gears.
For now, he was spying, stealing images—and that, too, was part of the job. Below, the spectacle was a well-oiled machine. A boat had docked, pouring out a flood of people fleeing the African continent. Men. Almost exclusively young, fit men. He spotted two female silhouettes among them. Yanis pressed the shutter. Click. Click. Click.
Hundreds of new arrivals, every single week.
His phone vibrated on the desk. A message from Daemon, an American colleague. They had been communicating for weeks via encrypted messaging. They were finally going to meet and coordinate their research.
I’m at the Hotel Vista Mar, Room 414. Jet lag is real. A good coffee would hit the spot 🙂
Yanis looked out the window. The men and the two women waiting at the port had boarded a bus that pulled away with a diesel rumble. He hesitated for a second, then grabbed his jacket.
Avis
Il n’y a pas encore d’avis.