African Fable - The Debt

(As told by others)

It was the sweltering summer of 198... A Soviet military advisor, traveling with his Angolan subordinates through the stifling southern prairies, was in a foul mood. The sun beat down mercilessly, and the advisor was tormented by diarrhea that had plagued him for three days, unrelieved by any pills. He contacted the brigade headquarters in the north, reporting his condition, but they merely told him that if there was no blood, there was nothing to worry about—after all, this was Angola, what did he expect? A fresh morning breeze?


The column stopped near a small, peacefully gurgling river cutting through the red plains of southern Angola. Around the halted column, the black Angolan soldiers bustled with unhealthy excitement—the column was headed to the base. They expected to arrive the next day, likely by evening. Everyone longed for the base, for leave, for vacations, or at the very least, a shower. The advisor unhooked a canteen from his backpack. There was little water left in it. He rummaged through his pack, finding a packet of water purification tablets. Looking at the nearly empty packet, he thought, “These damn tablets are probably why I’m shitting farther than I can see…”

He climbed down from the armored personnel carrier (APC) and started toward the river but turned back to grab his rifle from the vehicle’s armor. Slinging it over his shoulder, he headed to the water again. The river murmured gently in its red banks as the advisor dipped his plastic canteen into the water, avoiding the murkiest currents. Bubbles gurgled as the canteen slowly sank into the cool water along with his hand. When it was fully submerged, he pulled it out, let the water drip from the soaked cover, and dropped a purification tablet into the neck. The advisor sat on the damp, clayey bank, lazily swatting mosquitoes and watching the beginnings of a sunset.

Angola’s sunsets are magnificent! The canteen, after he’d swirled the tablet inside, stood by a pebble to let the sediment settle. The red sun illuminated the advisor’s face, and a light breeze hinted at a brief respite from the day’s oppressive heat, when suddenly he felt a GAZE upon him.

This wasn’t just a glance, like when someone in a crowd lingers on your back for a moment. Nor was it the fleeting, sympathetic look of an old woman with shopping bags on a bus, pitying a tired, unshaven soldier heading home from duty. This was the gaze of someone who knew what to do. Someone ready to act. There was no curiosity or sympathy in it—only resolute certainty that the advisor was in serious trouble.

He looked into the distance. The sun was low but not directly in his eyes, so he could make out something on the opposite bank. Against the green shrubbery, about forty meters away, a round black barrel’s pupil stared directly at him. The advisor froze, snapping out of his evening lethargy. Without moving, he assessed his situation and realized his rifle was on his back—clearly, indisputably, hopelessly, and uselessly out of reach. His bayonet hung in its sheath on his right hip, and a few magazines weighed down his left. Everything was too far, beyond his grasp.

He instantly understood that the GAZE was unwavering in its confident resolve. He was caught, and caught badly. Above the black barrel’s hole, after straining his eyes, he made out a face painted in black-and-green camouflage—not an African face, but that of a white man, discernible by the shape of his nose and eyes visible over the sight. Involuntarily, the advisor’s hand twitched, perhaps imagining yanking the rifle from his back. The face behind the sight shook slightly but decisively, just once: “Don’t even think about it!”

He understood and didn’t try. What was the point? The choice was slim, and dying for Angola, even with its beautiful sunsets, wasn’t on his list. He extended his hands forward, palms toward the opposite bank, and slowly stood. He kept his hands forward, not raised, refusing to gesture surrender despite the hopeless situation.

“If you’re going to shoot, to hell with you, but I’d rather take a bullet to the chest than the back,” his stance declared. The barrel’s pupil wavered slightly, not from surprise but as if choosing where to aim.

“Don’t play games!” it seemed to say. “If you’re in this deep, don’t squirm. Save your dignity for your memoirs.” The advisor slowly lowered his hands. He’d already shown he had nothing to shoot with, and standing in that pose any longer was pointless.

“Maybe I am playing games! I’ve got the right—you hold all the cards. But I know how to lose…”

They paused, as if weighing their next moves. The water flowed peacefully at his feet. The advisor took a tiny step back—not even a step, just a half-heel shift. The barrel’s pupil tilted slightly, like a raised eyebrow: “Feeling bold? Go ahead!”

Finally, the advisor took a slow, short, but deliberate step back. The barrel didn’t object! He took another cautious step, then another, moving backward away from the water. After a few meters, he decided it was safe to turn. Their eyes met one last time, and all he read in the menacing squint across the river was, “Well, well…”

The advisor walked slowly toward the column on the road, careful not to make sudden movements, feeling the barrel’s axis boring into his back. Then, suddenly, the gaze vanished. He turned. The green shrubbery on the opposite bank rustled carelessly in the evening breeze. Where the sniper had been, there was no one. Only a branch swayed as if in farewell: “We’ll settle this someday…”

He returned to the column and climbed onto the APC’s armor. A few minutes later, the column moved out. Only then did he realize he’d left his canteen by the river.