Buba sat on a low stone wall at the edge of the beach, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The tide was coming in, rolling forward in gentle waves, erasing the footprints left behind by the day’s beachgoers. A fitting metaphor, he thought. Some things left no trace. Others, like the words Alias had spoken to him, stayed.

"That’s why it starts with people like you, not the ones looking for a quick profit. The ones who see the bigger picture."

Buba frowned, rolling the words over in his mind. Alias wasn’t just talking about the manteros in Spain. He was looking beyond, deeper, into the roots of the network, past the street vendors and the handbags, past the sunglasses and trinkets, past the daily struggle of selling under the watchful eyes of the police.

"Not in Europe."

That had been the real tell. Alias wasn’t thinking about the manteros on the paseo marítimo. He was thinking about the ones back home—the ones in Dakar, in Saint-Louis, in Bamako, in Abidjan. The ones who weren’t just surviving, but trying to build something.

Buba exhaled slowly, pulling out his phone and scrolling absentmindedly. He knew what Alias wanted now. He wanted a way in—not just into the mantero network in Spain, but into the source. The supply lines, the connections, the routes that made it all work. But this wasn’t just about goods. Alias was after something much bigger.

"A new kind of money."

Buba had seen plenty of outsiders come with big ideas before. NGOs, businesspeople, even missionaries. They all thought they were bringing something new, something revolutionary. Most of them left frustrated, unable to grasp the layers of trust, respect, and understanding that dictated who could operate within these networks and who would be shut out.

Alias was different. He wasn’t promising anything. He wasn’t trying to impose a vision. He was looking for someone who could see—someone who could weigh the risks, calculate the moves, understand what was at stake.

There was only one person Buba knew who fit that description.

Ndaye.

A former trader, Ndaye had been many things over the years—a businesswoman, a smuggler, a community leader. She had advised Buba on how to cope in Europe. She wasn’t one of the street vendors, nor was she a distant observer. She understood the mantero network because she had lived it, shaped it, survived in it. She had contacts in Senegal, in Mali, in Guinea. She understood money—how it flowed, how it could be stopped, and most importantly, how it could be protected.