(Warehouse 17, Takoradi – December 1953)
The Harmattan should have brought dry, dusty air from the Sahara, but that December the Gulf sent storms instead. Rain drummed Warehouse 17's patched tin, and humidity clung to the cocoa like damp hands. Malik Obeng stood at the center aisle, thermometer in one fist, hygrometer in the other. Both needles flirted with the red.
Cortana (whisper‑band): "Ambient humidity eighty‑two percent. Fungal bloom window = eighteen hours."
Malik's stomach knotted. Twenty‑two sacks—his entire discounted harvest—would rot if spores took hold. Papa Kwaku paced the floorboards, eyeing the ceiling seams they had repaired only weeks earlier.
"Roof holds," Papa said, voice tight, "but air inside is heavy as palm soup."
Malik inhaled, mind combing through remembered schematics. A half‑finished pedal‑powered fan prototype leaned against a crate: bicycle frame, chain, wooden blade wheel scavenged from a broken mill. Mensima, the teenage mechanic, had abandoned it when rivets snapped. Malik's gaze flicked from the fan to twin rows of idle pedal‑sewing machines stored by a tailor two doors down.
"Papa, what if we turn legs into wind?"
Papa blinked. "Explain."
"Pedal cranks drive fan blades. Kids pedal in shifts; airflow drops humidity." Malik sketched quick chalk lines on the warehouse floor—gear ratios, airflow arrows, sack layout.
Cortana: "Projected relative humidity after two hours of continuous ventilation: sixty‑eight percent. Mold risk negligible."
Papa rubbed his beard. "Children will want payment."
Malik nodded. "Six pence an hour, four-hour shifts. Seven children for a week totals £6." (Side‑note: £6 in 1953 ≈ $230 today.)
Papa winced at the cost, but the math of lost cocoa hurt worse. "Do it."
Building the Wind Farm
Mensima arrived by bicycle, grease to his elbows. Together they stripped six frames, bolted sprockets to wagon‑wheel hubs, and fashioned two‑meter blades from split bamboo and canvas scrap coated in pine resin. Sparks the radio boy wired surplus telegraph wire into safety cages. Papa's carpentry crew erected a scaffold so each fan could pivot above the cocoa rows.
By dusk, three giant fans hunched like mechanical vultures under the roof trusses. Malik climbed onto a grain barrel to address the assembled children—boys and girls aged eight to twelve who normally hauled crates for pennies.
"Shift lasts one hour," he announced. "Pedal steady, not fast. Water and plantain provided every break. One shilling per shift, paid nightly." The promise of real coin lit eyes around the circle.
Cortana (to Malik only): "Sentiment +42 %. Labor secured."
The first trio mounted saddles. Chains clacked; bamboo blades whoomp‑whoomped, stirring muggy air into a river of wind that billowed Malik's shirt. A chorus of delighted shouts echoed when loose cocoa skins skittered across the floor like brown snow.
Two hours later the hygrometer read seventy‑one percent. By midnight, sixty‑seven. Cortana displayed a green check‑mark.
"Spore risk minimal," she confirmed. Malik allowed himself a small fist pump.
Ledger of Motion
At dawn Papa tallied wages: £6 for seven pedalers, plus £1 10s for Mensima's metalwork and four shillings to Sparks for wiring. Total outlay £7 14s. Malik logged it under 'Emergency Ventilation Project'.
Cortana: "Cocoa preservation value vs. fungal loss: £55 saved. Net advantage: £47 6s."
Papa exhaled, relief softening his shoulders. "Leg power cheaper than miracles."
Dividends in the Post
That same morning the Sekondi post rider delivered a blue‑rimmed envelope stamped Barclays – London Correspondence. Papa sliced it open at the desk; two dividend warrants fluttered out.
Cadbury Ltd.
• Final dividend: 3 ¼ pence per share
Holdings: 60 shares → Total: £0 16s 3d(≈ $31 today)**
Malik's eyes danced over the numbers—modest, but validation that their sterling engine was turning.
Cortana: "Reinvest or divert to scale Sun‑Water fleet? Decision node."
Papa tapped the warrant. "Pennies by London's measure, but it could buy more glass or another fan."
Malik weighed the warehouse's humming ventilators against the vision of a village lined with Sun‑Water columns.
"We reinvest," he decided. "One share becomes two; two buy us a factory later."
Papa's smile was proud and a little weary. "You think in decades, son. I think about next month's roof."
Malik squeezed his father's hand. "Both visions will meet."
Hook to the Airwaves
That evening, as children pedaled and cocoa breathed, Sparks burst through the side door, grease‑streaked and grinning.
"Radio in Cape Coast reports new import duty on cement next quarter!" he panted. "Prices could triple."
Papa groaned; Malik's pulse quickened—not with dread, but with opportunity.
Cortana: "If cement rises, alternative binders gain value. Suggest investigation: gypsum sources."
Malik turned to Sparks. "Can your coastal contacts trace gypsum shipments?"
Sparks's grin widened. "Give me two nights."
The ventilators droned overhead like giant patient lungs, keeping cocoa safe while, below, fresh schemes formed in the boy's mind.