Guermit Bounouira was a very lucky man, or so he was told. Although being escorted by DRS agents from the military prison where he should’ve been summarily executed could certainly be described as luck, the sack on his head told a story of a man with a far worse fate. As Guermit wondered whether the nerves or the length of the trip would make him piss himself first, the car came to a smooth stop, followed by the rhythmic thumping of car doors, his the last to be opened. Two firm hands gripped his arms and dragged him out of the car and through the threshold of a building, before the sack was abruptly ripped from his head. Before he could finish adjusting to the brightly lit foyer, the men began dragging him up the grand staircase of what appeared to be an impressive french colonial mansion.

The meeting room was dimly lit, only wall mounted candles illuminating the long mahogany conference table. Greying men sat at each chair; generals, politicians, businessmen, some of the most powerful men in Algeria. The chair at the head of the table had its back facing the assembled group, yet a man clearly sat in it. Everyone present knew it was Mohamed Mediène, but no one dared demand Algeria’s kingmaker turn around. The hushed whispers of conversation permeating the room were cut short as the doors swung open, revealing the bewildered Guermit flanked by the same agents from the car. President Tebboune looked up from a conversation with the Army Chief of Staff, sprouting a warm grin as he realised his guest had arrived.

“Ah, the man of the hour!” he exclaimed “Come in, come in”.

Now addressing the assembled group, Tebboune began his speech. “I’ll be frank, I know we’re all busy people. As many of you know, I won’t be running for President again this year. My long battle with COVID has taken a serious toll on my health. As we’re all aware after Boutlefika, you can only prop up a corpse so long before people realise I’ve stopped making public appearances. Besides, the people never took to my ‘reformer’ bit very kindly; the protests haven’t died down and there’s only so much an establishment candidate can win the trust of the people. What we need is a fiery outsider, some real popular rhetoric to get people riled up, distract them from what’s happening up here. That’s where you come in Guermit. You were accused of leaking state secrets to activists, so you’ve got the alibi of being a political outsider, at odds with the elite. You pop up, spout some inflammatory stuff about taking down corruption in the establishment, zionists, Morocco, the West, the whole package deal. Meanwhile you’ve got us pulling the strings backstage making sure you’re number one in the presidential race. Once you’re in, we feed you some guys who wanted to retire anyway, you fire them or ‘arrest’ them, all of a sudden you’re changing the establishment from the inside, a national hero. As long as the economic reforms keep coming, there’ll be so much money flowing no one will stop to question you. People love a radical, spices up their lives, and you’re gonna be the figurehead of their so called revolution.You’re going to be the Che Guveura of Algeria”.

“And if I refuse?”

“Well,” Tebboune gestures to the armed guards “you can always leave through the back door”.