02 — Story
One road out.
He walks it.
Momo has a goat called Zoubida, a room in the hills above Ketama, and one person left in the world who calls him son. Everybody he meets tells him the same thing. There is nothing here. Go.
He has already been to Europe once, and he came back, and he will not say why. So when he finally walks out of the valley he is not taking a van and he is not paying anyone. He is taking the road, and the border is a hundred and ninety kilometres down it.
Past the second ridge he finds a woman sitting in the shade with nothing at all — no bag, no water, no name she is willing to give him. She speaks French, not Darija. She will not explain the scar on her face either. What she does is hand him her bottle.
She has been walking for fourteen months. Conakry, Bamako, Gao, Agadez, then the desert, Tamanrasset, Maghnia, and the border on foot. His journey is a few days. Hers is a continent. They walk the last of it together, and twice over the film each of them is the only reason the other is still alive.
At the fence they have to split up, because he can climb it and she cannot. She goes by sea. He goes over the wire, on a night when seventy thousand people are doing exactly the same thing at the same time.
And on the other side, in a Spanish town that sits on the African coast, the men waiting for them with bats look exactly like the men coming over the fence. Half of them were born there. The other half had fathers who walked.











