Tuesday Morning
The next morning, I skipped school.
I didn't make a habit of it, but today was a logistics day. You can't build an empire while singing nursery rhymes.
I told Liyen I had a stomach ache. She believed me—mostly because I looked like a skeleton dipped in chocolate. She let me stay home, which meant I waited until she left for the market, then I slipped out.
I had 1,200 francs in my pocket. To a child, this was a fortune. To a businessman, it was seed capital.
My destination was "Electronic Row"—a stretch of shacks near the Main Market where the radio repairmen worked.
These men were wizards in their own right. They could fix a television with a soldering iron heated in a coal fire. But they lacked one thing: Theory. They fixed by trial and error. I fixed by quantum calculation.
I walked up to a shack marked "God's Time Electronics."
The owner, Pa Polycarp, was a giant of a man with thick glasses and hands that looked like baseball mitts. He was hunched over a circuit board, cursing in Pidgin.
"Morning, Pa," I said.
He didn't look up. "We no di sell sweet here. Go school."
"I want to buy solder," I said.
That made him look up. "Solder? You be welder?"
"I want one meter of lead solder. And flux."
He squinted at me. "One meter na 200 francs."
"I also want dead boards," I said. "The ones you throw away. The ones with the black spiders (chips) and the capacitors."
He laughed. "You wan buy rubbish? Weti do you?"
"I am doing a project for school," I lied. "Science class."
He pointed to a cardboard box in the corner, overflowing with e-waste. "Take am. 100 francs for the whole box. You do me favor to carry am go."
I suppressed a smile.
He was selling me gold for the price of dirt.
That box contained hundreds of resistors, transistors, diodes, and capacitors. In 2025, recycling this would cost money. Here, he was paying me to take it.
"Deal," I said.
I paid him 300 francs total.
I had 900 left.
"Pa," I said, lingering. "You have a soldering iron?"
"Iron dear," he grunted. "2,000 francs."
I didn't have 2,000.
"Can I rent one? Just for one hour? I sit here, I do my work, I give it back."
He looked at me. He looked at the empty bench beside him. He was bored.
"200 francs. You sit there. You no steal nothing."
"Yes, Pa."
I sat down.
I plugged in the soldering iron. It hummed. The smell of hot rosin flux filled the air. It was the best smell in the world.
I dumped my scavenged parts onto the bench.
I worked fast.
Gemini projected the schematics onto the table.
< Optimization: Batch processing. Pre-tin all wires first. >
I built five Joule Thief circuits in forty minutes.
They were cleaner this time. Soldered joints. Tight coils. Professional.
I mounted them on pieces of plastic cut from an old oil container.
Pa Polycarp watched me out of the corner of his eye. At first, he was ignoring me. Then he was glancing. Then he stopped working entirely and watched.
He saw a ten-year-old boy handling a soldering iron with the precision of a surgeon. He saw me reading resistor color codes without a chart.
"Boy," Polycarp said, his voice heavy. "Who teach you work?"
"My father," I lied. Tashi couldn't change a lightbulb.
"Your father na engineer?"
"Something like that."
I finished the fifth light. I tested it.
Blaze.
Polycarp whistled. "That light strong oh. Weti be the circuit? I never see that style."
"It's a voltage booster," I said, packing my tools. "It squeezes the juice."
I stood up. "Thank you, Pa."
I turned to leave.
"Wait," Polycarp said.
He reached into his drawer and pulled out a broken Sony Walkman. A high-end one.
"The audio IC is burn," he said. "I replace am, but sound no comot. If you fit fix am... I pay you."
I looked at the Walkman.
< Scan complete. > Gemini said instantly. < It is not the IC. It is a hairline crack on the trace leading to the headphone jack. Invisible to the naked eye. >
"I can fix it," I said. "But not now. I have to go sell these lights."
"You sell lights?"
"Yes. To the market women."
Polycarp looked at me with respect. "You be serious man. When you finish, come back. If you fix this Sony, I give you 500."
"1,000," I countered.
He grinned. A gold tooth flashed. "800. And free solder next time."
"Deal."
I walked out of the shack.
I had 700 francs left. I had five lights worth 1,200 each (potential: 6,000). And I had a job offer.
But first, I needed a partner.
I couldn't sell five lights alone. I was too small. People would think I stole them. I needed a face. Someone loud. Someone who knew the streets.
I needed Collins.
Collins was my classmate—the one who smelled like wet dog. But the smell wasn't dog; it was hard work. Collins lived in the market. He pushed a wheelbarrow after school. He knew everyone. He knew every thief, every policeman, every Buyam-Sellam.
I found him at the Main Market entrance, sitting on his wooden wheelbarrow, waiting for a customer. He was eating a piece of sugarcane.
"Collins," I said.
He looked down. He was big for his age, with a scar on his knee and a smile that was missing a tooth.
"Nkem? Why you no come school? Teacher Anye vex."
"I am doing business," I said. "I have a job for you."
Collins laughed. "You? Small man? You wan push barrow?"
"No. I want you to be my Sales Manager."
I pulled out a Zombie Light. I switched it on. Even in the daylight, it was bright.
"Weti be that?" Collins asked, eyes widening.
"Money," I said. "I make them. You sell them. We split 70/30."
Collins stopped chewing the cane. He looked at the light. He looked at the busy market full of dark stalls. He did the math.
"How much?"
"1,200. You keep 300 for every one you sell."
"300?" Collins stood up. That was the price of 6 trips with the wheelbarrow. "You get how many?"
"Five."
"Give me."
He grabbed the lights. He didn't ask how they worked. He didn't care. He just saw the profit.
He marched into the market, shouting in his loud, market-boy voice.
"Light! Light! Never die light! Come see wonder! Fire no dey, na electricity!"
I sat on his wheelbarrow and waited.
Gemini hummed in my head.
< Personnel recruitment: Successful. Distribution network: Established. >
Ten minutes later, Collins came back.
His hands were empty. His pockets were bulging.
He was grinning like a maniac.
"They rush am!" he shouted. "Ma Mary fight Ma Lucas for the last one! Nkem, you be wizard!"
He handed me the money.
He kept his share (1,500).
I took mine (4,500).
I added it to my 700.
5,200 francs.
I was rich.
Well, in 1999 Bamenda terms.
I had enough to buy a bag of rice. I had enough to pay a month of rent.
But I wasn't going to pay the rent.
I looked at the betting house across the street.
Saturday was coming.
Manchester United vs. Newcastle.
If Tashi won, we were safe.
But if I could bet my own money?
If I put 5,000 on a 2-0 Correct Score at 12-to-1 odds?
That was 60,000 francs.
That was capital. That was a soldering station. That was a generator. That was the beginning of Gemini Corp.
But a ten-year-old can't bet.
I looked at Collins.
"Collins," I said. "You have a fake ID?"
Collins laughed. "Nkem, this is Bamenda. If you get money, you no need ID."
I looked at the betting shop.
"One more job," I said. "And this one is big."
< High Risk detected, > Gemini warned. < Gambling is volatile. >
It's not gambling if you know the future, I replied. It's investment.
"Let's go," I told Collins. "We are going to rob the bank."