Tuesday, 11:45 AM
The betting shop was not a building; it was a cave carved out of plywood and despair.
Located behind the fish market, "Winner's Chapel Pools" (no relation to the church, though people prayed harder here) was a narrow corridor smelling of wet sawdust and stale cigarette smoke. The walls were plastered with old Guinness posters and faded fixtures lists from the English Premier League.
I stood across the street, hiding behind a stack of empty crates with Collins. The sun was beating down on the corrugated zinc roofs of the market, turning the air into a shimmering haze of heat and noise.
My hand was in my pocket, clutching the 5,000 francs. It felt hot, like a burning coal.
"Collins," I whispered. "You are sure about this place?"
Collins chewed on his sugarcane, spitting the fibers onto the ground. He looked unbothered. To him, the market was a playground. To me, it was a minefield.
"I sure," Collins said in low Pidgin. "The man wey di sell ticket na 'Pa Kila'. Yi blind for one eye. If you give am money, yi no di look face. Yi just di look CFA."
"Does he know my father?"
"Tashi?" Collins scoffed. "Tashi di play for 'City End'. This side na for market people. Tashi no fit come here. Too dirty for am."
I took a deep breath.
< Probability of recognition: 12%. Probability of transaction success: 65%. Risk factor: High. > Gemini's analysis scrolled across my vision in cool blue text.
We take the risk, I thought. We need leverage.
"Okay," I said. "Here is the plan. We don't do 'Pools'. Pools are random. We do 'Fixed Odds'. Correct Score."
Collins stopped chewing. He looked at me like I was speaking Greek. "Correct Score? Nkem, that one hard oh. Why you no just play 'Win'?"
"Because 'Win' pays 2-to-1," I explained patiently. "If I put 5,000, I get 10,000. That is pocket money. But 'Correct Score 2-0'... that pays 12-to-1. That is 60,000."
Collins' eyes popped. "Sixty thousand? You wan buy moto?"
"I want to buy freedom," I said. "Let's go."
We crossed the muddy street, dodging a pushcart loaded with plantains. We stepped into the gloom of the shop.
It was dark inside. A ceiling fan wobbled dangerously overhead, slicing through the smoke but moving no air. A wooden counter with a wire mesh grill separated the customers from the clerk.
Pa Kila sat behind the mesh. He was exactly as Collins described: an ancient man with a face like crumpled paper and one milky-white eye. He was stamping tickets with a rhythmic thud-thud-thud.
There were three men ahead of us. Hard men. Market porters with muscles like twisted ropes, betting their daily earnings on teams they had never seen play.
We waited. I felt small. I was small. The counter was at my eye level.
Finally, the men left. It was our turn.
I stepped up to the mesh. I had to stand on my tiptoes.
Pa Kila looked down. His good eye narrowed.
"Weti? School pikin? Go house. We no sell sweet here."
Collins stepped up beside me, leaning casually against the counter. He slammed a 100-franc coin on the wood.
"We no find sweet, Pa. We find business."
Pa Kila looked at the coin, then at Collins. "You get beard for face? Or you think say betting na marble game?"
"My Massa send me," I lied. My voice was steady, pitched slightly deeper than normal. "He is sick. He cannot come. He said I should play this ticket for him."
I slid a piece of paper under the mesh. I had written the bet down clearly:
Match: Man Utd vs Newcastle.
Bet: Correct Score 2-0.
Stake: 5,000 CFA.
Pa Kila picked up the paper. He squinted at it. Then he looked at the money I pushed through—five crisp 1,000 franc notes.
The sight of the blue notes changed everything. In 1999, 5,000 francs commanded respect, regardless of who held it.
"Five thousand for one score?" Pa Kila grunted. "Your Massa get heart oh. Or yi head don touch."
"He knows the ball," I said simply.
Pa Kila shrugged. "Money na money."
He grabbed his pen. He pulled a carbon-copy slip from his book. He wrote the details down. Scritch-scratch.
He stamped it. PAID.
He tore the top sheet off and slid it back under the mesh along with the carbon copy.
"Hold am fine," Pa Kila warned. "If paper loss, money loss. No cry for here."
I took the ticket.
Ticket No. 0492.
Potential Payout: 60,000 CFA.
I folded it carefully and put it in the zippered pocket of my shorts.
"Thank you, Pa."
We walked out of the shop. The sunlight hit us like a physical blow.
Collins grabbed my arm. He was shaking with excitement. "Nkem! You see am? Yi no even ask name! Sixty thousand! If we win, you must buy me bicycle."
"If we win," I said, "I will buy you two bicycles. Now, quiet. We act normal."
We walked back toward the school. The weight of the ticket in my pocket felt heavier than the 5,000 francs. That piece of paper was my future.
< Transaction complete, > Gemini noted. < Now comes the hardest part: Waiting. >
The Long Wait: Wednesday & Thursday
Time in Bamenda moves differently.
When you are hungry, an hour feels like a day. When you are waiting for a football match that determines your survival, three days feels like a geological epoch.
Wednesday was a blur of anxiety.
I went to school. I sat in class. Mr. Anye taught us about the rivers of Cameroon (Sanaga, Benue, Wouri). I answered questions robotically.
Sanaga is the longest.
Benue flows into Nigeria.
In my head, I was running simulations.
What if history changed?
What if my presence here caused a butterfly effect?
What if Roy Keane doesn't get injured?
< Probability of divergence is low, > Gemini assured me during a geography test. < The FA Cup Final is a macroscopic event. Your actions in a small town in Cameroon have not influenced the structural integrity of Roy Keane's hamstring in London. >
I hope you're right, I thought.
After school, I went back to the unfinished building with Collins. We didn't make more lights. We couldn't flood the market too fast or the price would drop. Scarcity creates value.
Instead, we scavenged. We stripped copper from the rest of the Headmaster's box. We prepared the raw materials for next week.
Thursday evening was worse.
The atmosphere at home was brittle.
Tashi was hoarding the rent money. He hadn't gambled it yet, but the urge was itching under his skin. He paced the small parlor, smoking cigarettes, staring at the calendar.
"Saturday," he muttered to himself. "Saturday."
Liyen watched him like a hawk. She knew he had the money. She knew he was waiting. She didn't know about my "dream" or the 2-0 prediction. She just knew that Saturday was the day the money would either multiply or vanish.
I sat in my corner, doing homework by the light of the Zombie Lamp.
"Papa," I said.
Tashi jumped. "What?"
"Did you check the odds?"
"I checked," he said, his voice low. "Man U to win is small money. But the score... the score pays well."
He looked at me, his eyes searching my face for any sign of deception.
"You are sure about the dream, Nkem? The red man? The number 10?"
"I am sure," I said.
He nodded, taking a drag of his cigarette. "If you are wrong... we are finished. You know that?"
"I know."
He wasn't threatening me. He was confessing.
It was a heavy burden to put on a ten-year-old. But I wasn't ten. I was thirty-six, and I had bet on riskier things than this.
Friday: The Eve of Battle
Friday was market day.
Liyen left early to sell her dresses. Tashi went out to "scout" the viewing centers.
I was left alone in the compound.
I took out the ticket. 0492.
It was crumpled slightly at the edges.
I smoothed it out.
Gemini, I thought. What if we lose?
< We have backup plans, > Gemini replied. < We have the Joule Thief technology. We can pivot to repair services. We can farm snails. We can... >
Shut up, I thought. We are not farming snails.
The gate opened.
It wasn't my parents.
It was Razor.
I froze.
Razor, the card sharp. The man Tashi had beaten.
He walked into the compound like he owned it. He wore a faux-leather jacket despite the heat, and a gold chain that looked fake even from a distance.
He stopped in the middle of the yard, looking around.
He saw me sitting on the veranda.
"Small boy," Razor said. His voice was like grinding gears.
I stood up. "Good afternoon, Sir. My father is not home."
Razor laughed. He walked closer. He smelled of cheap cologne and tobacco.
"I know he is not home. I saw him at City End. He is talking loud. Telling people he has a 'Secret Weapon'."
Razor leaned against the veranda railing, invading my space.
"He says his son dreams the future."
My heart hammered against my ribs. Tashi had a big mouth. A very big mouth.
"He is just talking," I said, trying to look like a dumb kid. "He likes to talk."
Razor stared at me. His eyes were cold, dead things.
"I don't think so. I saw you at the card table. You told him to play the Square. You knew I had the Pick Two."
He reached out and grabbed my chin. His fingers were rough.
"Who tells you the cards, boy? Is it juju? Or are you stealing signs?"
I didn't flinch. I let my face go slack, staring past him.
"I just guessed," I whispered.
Razor held my chin for a second longer, then shoved me back.
"Tell your father something for me," Razor said. "Tell him Saturday is coming. If he wins big... tell him to watch his back. The Bookman does not like people who win too much."
He spat on the ground, turned, and walked out.
I sank onto the concrete floor. My legs were shaking.
Razor wasn't just a gambler. He was a thug.
And now we were on his radar.
< Threat Level upgraded to Severe, > Gemini noted. < Operator, I suggest we invest a portion of the winnings in a perimeter security system. >
Perimeter security? I thought hysterically. We live in a rental with a broken gate! What do you want me to do, build a laser turret?
< A simple tripwire alarm would suffice for now. >
I closed my eyes.
The game hadn't even started, and the stakes were already life or death.
Saturday, May 22, 1999
The Day of Reckoning
Bamenda on a Cup Final day is a festival.
Since morning, the air had been filled with the sound of motorcycles honking and radios blasting pre-match commentary. Manchester United was a religion here. The "Red Devils" had more support in Cameroon than the national team on some days.
Tashi woke up at 6:00 AM. He bathed. He shaved. He put on his "Lucky Shirt"—the shiny polyester one.
He was pacing. He couldn't sit down.
"Nkem," he called. "Put on your shoes. We are going."
"Where?" Liyen asked from the kitchen doorway. She looked worried.
"To the center," Tashi said. "The boy needs to see the match. It is his dream."
Liyen looked at me. "Be careful. Those places are rough."
"We will be fine," Tashi promised. He patted his pocket. The money was there.
We left the house at 1:00 PM. The match started at 2:00 PM (local time).
We walked to "City End", a popular viewing center near the Hospital Roundabout.
It was a large wooden shed painted red. A satellite dish the size of a UFO sat on the roof.
Inside, it was a sauna.
Hundreds of men were packed onto wooden benches. The smell was a cocktail of sweat, beer, cigarettes, and adrenaline. A 21-inch CRT television sat on a high shelf in a wooden cage (to protect it from flying bottles).
Tashi paid the entry fee (100 francs each). We squeezed onto a bench near the back.
The room was divided. 90% were Man Utd fans. 10% were "Anyone But Man Utd" fans (mostly Arsenal and Liverpool supporters praying for a Newcastle win).
Tashi leaned close to me.
"I put the money," he whispered. His breath smelled of toothpaste and fear. "All of it. Four thousand."
He had kept 2,000 for food, thank God. But 4,000 was on the line.
"On what?" I asked.
"Correct Score. 2-0. Like you said."
I nodded. I touched my own pocket. I had my ticket there too. 5,000 on the same score.
If we won, the Mbua family would have a combined payout of nearly 100,000 francs.
If we lost, we were destitute.
Kickoff.
The screen flickered. The familiar roar of Wembley Stadium filled the shed. The commentary was barely audible over the shouting in the room.
"Kill them! Keane! Break his leg!" someone shouted.
< Minute 9: Roy Keane tackles Gary Speed. >
On the screen, Keane went down. He held his ankle.
The room gasped.
"Eh! Captain down!"
"Change am! Yi don die!"
Tashi grabbed my knee. His grip was painful.
"Nkem," he hissed. "You said he falls early."
"Watch," I said.
The substitution board went up. Sheringham came on.
Tashi stared at me. His eyes were wide.
"The dream..." he whispered. "It is happening."
Minute 11.
Scholes passed to Sheringham. Sheringham played a one-two with Cole. He shot.
Through the legs of the defender.
GOAL.
The shed exploded.
Men jumped up, hugging strangers. Beer flew into the air. The noise was deafening. GOAAAAL!
Tashi didn't jump. He just sat there, frozen, gripping my knee.
"One zero," he muttered. "One zero."
The rest of the half was torture. Newcastle pressed. Shearer had a chance.
Every time Newcastle crossed the halfway line, Tashi stopped breathing.
Halftime.
Manchester United 1 - 0 Newcastle.
We went outside for air. Tashi smoked two cigarettes in five minutes.
"One more," he kept saying. "Just one more goal. Then they stop. No three goals. No one-one. Just two-zero."
Second Half.
Minute 53.
Solskjaer laid the ball off. Paul Scholes arrived at the edge of the box.
The Ginger Prince.
He swung his left foot.
The ball flew low and hard. It beat Harper in the goal.
GOAL.
The room erupted again. The floorboards shook.
Tashi let out a scream that sounded like a sob. "YES! YES! SCHOLES!"
He grabbed me and lifted me into the air. "My son! My wizard!"
I held on, but I wasn't celebrating yet.
It's not over, I thought. We need it to stay 2-0 for 37 minutes.
Those 37 minutes were the longest of my life.
Every time Man Utd attacked, I prayed they wouldn't score.
Yorke hit the post. I almost fainted with relief.
If it went 3-0, we lost everything.
If Newcastle scored (2-1), we lost everything.
The room wanted more goals. "Kill them! Make am three!"
Tashi and I were the only ones praying for a boring game.
"Defend!" Tashi shouted at the screen. "Kick the ball away! Ferguson, park the bus!"
Minute 88.
Newcastle corner.
Shearer rose. He headed it.
The ball floated... and went wide.
Minute 90.
The whistle blew.
FULL TIME: Man Utd 2 - 0 Newcastle.
The shed cheered for the Cup.
Tashi slumped back against the wooden wall. He was sweating as if he had played the match himself. He looked at me. He was crying. Silent tears streaming down his face.
"We won," he whispered. "Nkem... we won."
He pulled the ticket out of his pocket. It was damp with sweat.
"Forty-eight thousand francs," he said. The odds at his bookie were 12-to-1.
I touched my pocket.
I had 60,000 waiting.
"Let's go collect," Tashi said, standing up. He looked ten years younger. "Today, we are rich."
We walked out of the viewing center.
The sun was setting, casting long, golden shadows across the street.
But as we turned the corner toward the betting shop, I saw him.
Razor.
He was standing across the street, leaning against a motorbike. He wasn't alone. Two other men were with him.
They weren't looking at the traffic. They were looking at the door of the betting shop.
They were waiting.
< Threat Detection: High. > Gemini flashed red. < Ambush pattern identified. They know Tashi won. They intend to intercept the funds. >
I grabbed Tashi's hand.
"Papa," I said urgently. "Don't go to the shop."
"What? Why? I need my money!"
"Razor," I whispered. "Look. Across the road."
Tashi looked. He saw them.
His face went pale. The joy of victory vanished, replaced by the cold reality of the Bamenda streets.
"They want to rob me," Tashi realized.
"If you go in there and come out with money, they will follow us," I said. "They will take it in the dark."
"So what do we do?" Tashi asked, panic rising. "I cannot leave the money!"
I looked around. The street was crowded.
"We split up," I said.
"What?"
"Give me the ticket," I said.
"Are you mad?" Tashi hissed. "Give a child a 48,000 franc ticket?"
"They are watching you," I argued. "They think you have the ticket. They don't look at me. I am just the small boy."
I pointed to the alleyway behind the viewing center.
"I will go through the back. I will go to the shop. You walk down the main road. Walk loud. Act drunk. Make them follow you. I will collect the money and meet you at Auntie Manka's shop."
Tashi hesitated. It was insane.
But he looked at Razor. Razor pushed off the bike, starting to cross the street toward us.
There was no time.
Tashi shoved the crumpled paper into my hand.
"Auntie Manka's," he hissed. "If you lose this, Nkem, don't come home."
He turned and started shouting, acting the fool. "Man U! Champions! Who want beer? I buy beer for everyone!"
He strutted down the main road, drawing attention.
Razor and his goons saw him. They signaled each other and followed, shadowing him like sharks.
They didn't look at me.
I stood alone on the corner.
I had two winning tickets in my pocket now.
Combined value: 108,000 CFA.
In 1999, that was nearly a year's rent.
I turned and slipped into the alleyway.
It was dark. It smelled of urine and rotting fruit.
My heart was pounding in my throat.
< Adrenaline levels at 200%. > Gemini noted. < Run, Operator. Run. >
I ran.