Moussa Saidou

The message came through at 3:42 a.m. One word: “Gone.” No name, no details. I threw on yesterday’s shirt, grabbed my keys and my knife, and stepped into the thick night air of N’Djamena, Chad. The humidity felt like a second skin.

By sunrise, the streets around Dembé were already tense. A fuel riot had broken out two blocks from our warehouse. My boss, still drunk from his cousin’s wedding, stood barefoot in the gravel yard, staring at the broken padlock on our main container.

Three satellite tracking units—military-grade—gone. Each one tagged, boxed, and supposed to be in a secure metal case.

“I swear, if you don’t find them…” he muttered, trailing off, eyes bloodshot.

I’m 38, and I’ve worked logistics long enough to know how fast stolen tech disappears across borders. If they crossed into Cameroon, we'd never see them again. But I had one shot: I knew who would be stupid enough to pull this job—Zakaria, ex-employee, ex-friend, and very likely high.

I found his sister. She spat at my feet but told me what I needed: he was holed up near Goudji, in the old slaughterhouse turned garage. The sun was punishing. The building stank of oil and old blood. Two bikes out front. Engine cooling.

Inside, shadows. I moved slow, knife out. One box sat near the wall, half opened. Another was being loaded into a van. I kicked over a rack of scrap metal and charged. A man rushed me—Zakaria. We hit the ground hard. He pulled a wrench; I sliced his arm.

Gunshot. One of his friends missed and hit the wall. I grabbed the box, smashed the van’s ignition with my elbow, then bolted out the side.

I didn’t get all three, but I got two back to the yard by noon. My hands were shaking. My shirt soaked in sweat and blood.

That evening, N’Djamena, Chad burned with protest smoke. But me? I sat on my roof, box at my feet, knife still in my lap, watching the stars come out like nothing had happened.