Chapter 1967: Chapter 826: Africa Is Perfect for Startups

West Africa, outside Sangar Town, temporary camp.

Mamadou sat in an ill‑fitting leather swivel chair hauled out of the mayor’s house, the chair creaking under him.

A rough hand‑drawn map was spread out in front of him, covering a radius of about a hundred kilometers with Sangar Town at the center. Several minor bosses clustered around, their eyes a mix of excitement, greed, and a faint, hard‑to‑spot fear.

The air was thick with the smells of tobacco, sweat, and the acrid stench of burning trash in the distance.

"Kalu Village to the north has thirty men who can carry guns, the leader’s my cousin."

A scar‑faced boss spoke in the local dialect. "They’re willing to join, but they want five new guns and a monthly ’allowance.’"

"The checkpoint on the road to the east, a platoon of Government Forces ran off and left two busted trucks behind."

Another boss reported, "We can take it over and charge tolls. There are a dozen or so trucks a day heading to the mines."

Mamadou listened, his finger slowly tracing across the map. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Three days. In just three days he had gone from being a coastal smuggler to "Chairman Mamadou," owner of a town, commander of over a hundred armed men, with a future drug plantation on the horizon.

The speed of that power surge made his head spin, and also triggered a gut‑level wariness.

Africa...

really is a great place to start a business!

(Anyone interested can contact me~~)

The Dutch financial expert Hendrick had provided was squatting in a corner, murmuring into a satellite phone at high speed, mixing English and Dutch. He was setting up accounts, shifting the haul from the mayor’s house and the first batch of "start‑up capital" Hendrick had left. That Colombia "agriculturalist" had already taken a few men to survey the river valley land, while the Russian instructor was out in the camp’s open ground, barking crude French as he put a group of rookies through basic drill and weapons maintenance.

Everything was running at high speed, but Mamadou felt more like a wind‑up doll than a real master. The guns came from Hendrick, the money was laundered by Hendrick, the plan was set by Hendrick, even the name "People’s Freedom Committee" had been suggested by that Dutchman.

"Where’s Hendrick?" Mamadou asked.

"Back on the ship. Said he’s going to pick up the next batch of goods."

The scar‑faced boss replied, "He left word: you should secure Sangar Town as fast as you can, then push north and take that little airfield at the end of the valley. It’s run‑down, but the runway still works. Once we have an airfield, it’ll be a lot easier to move ’cargo’ in and out."

An airfield.

Mamadou’s heart stirred. That meant bigger throughput, faster connections—and, of course, a much more visible target.

"Any movement from the Government Forces?" he asked.

"The Capital? On the radio they’re cursing us, calling us ’bandits’ and ’drug traffickers,’ saying they’ll send troops to mop us up. But nobody’s shown up. I heard the Presidential Palace and Parliament are still fighting over the military budget." The scar‑faced man grinned, showing yellow teeth. "Best if they keep arguing a few more days."

Mamadou nodded, but the unease in his chest didn’t go away. He stood, walked to the edge of the camp, and looked at Sangar Town wrapped in dusk. Scattered lights glimmered in the town. It was quiet, but the quiet was suffocating, tinged with blood.

The scene of him chopping off the mayor’s head in public was enough to shut most people up, but the seeds of hatred had already been planted.

The Dutch expert walked over and handed him a brand‑new satellite phone and a heavy, encrypted laptop. "Mr. Chairman, your communications equipment.

The computer has a simple bookkeeping system and a contact list. Mr. Hendrick’s channel is preset as No. 1.

I suggest you contact him at fixed times every day. Also, the first batch of ’cash crop’ seeds and fertilizer will arrive with the freighter next week. We need to prepare the manpower for planting and...’security measures’ in advance."

"Security measures?"

"This crop is rather special. We need to prevent theft or...private dealing."

The Dutchman pushed up his glasses, his eyes behind the lenses flat and calm. "Mr. Hendrick suggests setting up a dedicated ’Plantation Guard Corps’ made up of your most loyal men, enforcing...the strictest discipline."

Mamadou understood. A drug plantation needed absolute control. Anyone who tried to skim a share or play games would be ruthlessly removed. This was another war—a war fought in the fields.

"Got it."

He took the phone and the laptop, feeling their weight.

"One more thing." The Dutchman lowered his voice.

"Mr. Hendrick asked me to remind you to watch the ’neighbors.’ On the East Coast of the Democratic Republic of Congo, some of our ’friends’ have run into trouble and are looking for a new foothold. They may come ’calling.’ If you run into people with this emblem on their armbands..." He pulled up a crude image on the laptop screen: a Skull with a snake coiled around it. "...you should work with them, but be careful. They’re very...direct."

Mamadou looked at the ferocious emblem and nodded. Skull and Snake—he’d heard some vague rumors: vicious, well‑equipped, and seemingly everywhere.

Night fell completely. Campfires flared up across the camp, the smell of stewed meat drifting on the air.

The newly recruited soldiers sat around the fires, clumsily fiddling with their new AK‑74Ms, chattering excitedly.

Mamadou walked back to his chair, sat down, and opened the laptop.

The cold light of the screen lit up his rough, exhausted face.

He clicked open an encrypted folder labeled "Future Plans."

It contained more than Sangar Town and the airfield. The map was marked much further out, covering a vast stretch of the Guinea Gulf coastline and even some mineral markers across neighboring borders. The ambition—or rather, the ambition of those behind him—went far beyond a single town, or even a single country.