Alias sat back in his chair, the gentle hum of the Acapulco Bar washing over him—the clinking of glasses, the distant murmur of waves, the low chatter of locals and tourists alike. He watched Buba work his way through the terrace, weaving between tables with practiced ease, flashing smiles, cracking jokes, selling with a rhythm that seemed almost effortless.
There was something different about him.
The other manteros stuck to the beach, their goods laid out on blankets, ready to be whisked away at the first sign of trouble. Buba was not like them. He worked alone, in town, never pushy but never idle. He was part of the mantero world, yet somehow apart from it.
As Buba finished a playful negotiation with a Dutch tourist, Alias raised his glass slightly. A simple gesture. An invitation.
Buba caught the signal and grinned, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. He sauntered over, dropping into the chair across from Alias with the ease of a man who had long ago learned to read invitations and their intent.
"Monsieur, I see you are a man of great taste," Buba said, his voice rich with humor as he nodded toward Alias' untouched drink. "But you know, tinto de verano is not to be admired—it is to be finished."
Alias smirked. "Then I’ll order another. What do you drink?"
"Moi? Ah, mon ami, that depends on who is paying!" Buba laughed, then waved at the waiter. "Un whisky, bien chargé!"
Alias chuckled. The man was sharp. Quick on his feet.
"You’ve been working this terrace for some time now," Alias said casually. "I’ve seen you here many times. But you don’t seem quite like the others."
Buba took his glass from the waiter with a nod of thanks. "Ah, you wound me, mon frère! Are we not all the same? Just simple men trying to survive?"
Alias smiled. "You don’t sell on the beach."
Buba shrugged. "The beach is for amateurs. Here?"—he gestured around—"Here, people sit. They drink. They relax. They make bad financial decisions." He took a sip of his whisky and grinned. "I am simply here to help them make one more."
Alias laughed, shaking his head. "Where are you from, Buba?"
"From the land of lions, of course!" Buba declared, tapping his chest. "Senegal, mon ami. The most beautiful place on Earth, but… alas, also a place where even a lion must learn to hunt in other lands."
"And your family?"
"Still there. My wife, my children. Four of them, and each one more expensive than the last." He winked. "You know how it is. A father’s pockets have holes, but his love must be infinite."
Alias nodded, taking in the words. Family. Responsibility. A man who had left behind everything to provide for those who stayed.
"How did you get to Europe?"
Buba let out a dramatic sigh. "Ah, mon frère, do you want the tragic version? The one where I cross the desert on foot, fight off bandits, brave the sea on a raft, with only my dreams to keep me afloat?"
Alias raised an eyebrow. "Is that what happened?"
Buba grinned. "Non. But it makes for a better story." He leaned in slightly. "I came legally. Years ago. And unlike many of my brothers, I stayed."
Alias studied him. "You have papers?"
"Of course! You think I would be sitting here, drinking with you, if I did not?" He tapped his chest proudly. "I have an EU passport, my friend. I am as legal as your bartender."
Alias frowned slightly. "That’s not easy to get."
Buba laughed. "Ah, you see, you are asking the wrong question. The question is not how I got it. The question is why I still do what I do, even with it."
Alias was intrigued. "And why do you?"
Buba leaned back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Because freedom is not a piece of paper. Freedom is knowing how to move, how to adapt, how to survive. The moment you think a passport will protect you, mon frère, you have already lost."
Alias took in the words. This man was sharp. He understood systems—not just the official ones, but the real ones. The invisible networks that kept people moving, trading, surviving.
He decided to push further.
"Where do you get your goods?"
For the first time, the humor in Buba’s eyes flickered.
"Why do you ask?"
His tone was different now. Not hostile, but no longer playful. A calculated shift.
Alias kept his expression neutral. "Curiosity."
Buba studied him for a long moment, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice was softer now, but firm. "Curiosity is good. But some questions? They are asked only by policemen. Or by men who do not understand what they are stepping into."
Alias met his gaze. It was a test. A moment where trust could be built—or broken.
He reached for his glass, took a sip, and then, deliberately, changed the subject.
"Tell me more about Senegal," he said. "You said it’s the most beautiful place on Earth."
Buba watched him for a beat longer, then smiled, the tension easing. "Ah, mon frère, now that is a question worth answering!"
And just like that, the game continued.
