The shop didn't just smell like dust and hairspray anymore. It smelled like success which, in the electronics business, is a mixture of hot lead, melting rosin, and the ozone scent of a freshly charged battery.
We had been open for three days.
The shelves were no longer empty. Alongside the rows of Zombie Lights, I had added a new product: The Power-Up Station. For 200 francs, people could bring their small lead-acid batteries or rechargeable torches, and I would top them off using a bench power supply I'd rigged from a modified PC power unit.
In a town where the electricity went out as soon as a cloud looked at the sky, I was selling the one thing people craved more than food: Reliability.
I was in the back room, bent over the tenth Thomson TRC-300 radio. The silver-plated wire coils were laid out on my bench like jewelry.
< Fine motor control optimized, > Gemini whispered. < We are 15% ahead of the Colonel's deadline. Suggestion: Increase the gauge of the power bus wires to reduce heat dissipation. >
I'm already on it, Gemini, I thought, touching the iron to a stubborn solder joint.
"Nkem!"
Tashi's voice came from the front of the shop. It wasn't his "proud businessman" voice. It was tight. High-pitched. The voice he used when a creditor was at the door.
I put down my iron and walked into the front shop.
Tashi was standing behind the glass counter, his hands flat on the surface. Standing across from him were three men.
They weren't thugs. They didn't have Razor's gold chains or Bone's scars. They wore cheap, ill-fitting polyester suits that were shiny at the elbows. They carried leather briefcases. They looked like gray ghosts of the bureaucracy.
The man in the middle, a skinny individual with a mustache that looked like a smudge of grease, tapped a plastic badge pinned to his lapel.
"Council Office," he said. His voice was a nasal whine. "Licensing and Revenue Department."
Tashi looked at me, then back at the man. "Officer, I pay my market fee. Every week."
"Market fee is for hawkers," the man said, pulling a long, carbon-copy form from his briefcase. "This is a permanent structure. You need a Business Operation Permit, a Fire Safety Clearance, a Sanitation Certificate, and a Technology Import Levy."
He looked around the shop, his eyes lingering on the military radios in the back.
"And," he added, a greedy glint in his eye, "you are doing specialized repair work. That requires a Master Technician Certification from the Ministry in Yaoundé."
Tashi went pale. "Master Technician? I... my son is just fixing small things."
"Your son?" The man looked at me. He didn't see a genius. He saw a child. A violation. "Child labor. That is another fine. 50,000 francs."
I stepped forward. I didn't look at the man's face. I looked at the briefcase.
< Scan: Document headers, > I commanded.
< Analyzing... > Gemini responded. < The seal on the form is the 1996 version. The current Council seal was updated in January 1999. Conclusion: These documents are unofficial. They are 'Ghost Forms'. >
I felt a surge of cold clarity. The Bookman had sent the "Clipboards." This wasn't a real inspection; it was a shakedown.
"Which office did you say you were from?" I asked.
The man looked down at me, annoyed. "Council Office. Are you deaf, boy?"
"I am not deaf," I said in English, making my voice as flat as a textbook. "But I am confused. According to the Decree of 1994 on Small and Medium Enterprises, a new business has a 90-day grace period to register for VAT and local levies. We have been open for 72 hours."
The man with the mustache froze. He wasn't expecting a ten-year-old to quote the Law of Finances.
"Who taught you that?" he snapped.
"I read," I said. "And I noticed your form has the old seal. The one from before the Council restructure. If you represent the Council, why are you using expired stationery?"
The two men behind him shifted uncomfortably. They looked at the door.
"You think you are smart?" the leader hissed, leaning over the counter. "I can lock this shop today. I can call the police to take you for questioning."
"You could," I said. "But then you would have to explain to Colonel Lucas why you interrupted the repair of Gendarmerie communication equipment."
I pointed to the back room. The Thomson radios, with their military-green casings and "Property of Gendarmerie National" stencils, were clearly visible.
"The Colonel is coming in two hours for a status update," I added, checking the wall clock. "I can tell him you were very helpful with the paperwork."
The mention of the Gendarmerie hit them like a physical blow. In Bamenda, you can ignore the Police. You can bribe the Council. But you do not cross the Gendarmerie.
The man with the mustache started sweating. He snatched his briefcase off the counter.
"This is... a misunderstanding," he stammered. "We were just... doing a census. A preliminary survey."
"I hope the survey is finished," I said.
They didn't answer. They turned and practically ran out of the shop.
Tashi let out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire. He slumped against the counter, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Nkem," he whispered. "How did you know about the seal?"
"Gemini," I whispered back.
"What?"
"Nothing, Papa. It was a guess. A lucky guess."
But I knew it wasn't a guess. The Bookman had sent his first wave of "Lawfare," and we had repelled it. But they would be back. Next time, they would have real forms.
The Lab
1:00 PM
I went back to the radios. But I wasn't just fixing them anymore. I was thinking.
If the Bookman was using the Council, I needed a way to fight back that wasn't just relying on my Uncle's guns. Guns are loud. Law is quiet.
< Objective: Legal and Administrative Shielding, > Gemini noted.
We need a lawyer, Gemini. But lawyers in Bamenda cost more than the rent. Where do we find someone who hates the Bookman as much as we do?
< Searching Memory Archives... 1999 Bamenda Legal History... >
A name popped up.
< Barrister Simon Fru. >
The "Pro-Bono Rebel"? I remembered the name from my past-future life. He was a human rights lawyer who spent most of his time in jail for protesting the government. He was brilliant, broke, and obsessed with the rule of law.
"Papa," I called out.
Tashi came in, still looking a bit shaky. "Yes?"
"We need to invite someone for a beer tonight."
6:00 PM
Tashi & Son (After Hours)
Barrister Simon Fru did not look like a lawyer.
He wore a suit that was older than I was, and his briefcase was held together by a piece of copper wire which I offered to replace immediately. He had deep-set eyes and a voice that sounded like it was made of gravel and smoke.
He sat on a crate in my lab, looking at the Thomson radios.
"Colonel Lucas is a hard man to have as a friend, Tashi," Simon said, sipping the beer my father had provided. "He is like a lion. He keeps the hyenas away, but he might eat you if he gets hungry."
"We know, Barrister," Tashi said. "But the Council came today. They wanted 50,000 francs for 'Fire Safety' and 'Child Labor'."
Simon laughed. It was a short, sharp bark. "The Bookman's usual trick. He owns the Council clerks. He uses them to squeeze anyone he can't buy."
He turned to me. "And you are the child labor?"
"I am the Master Technician," I said, handing him a Zombie Light.
Simon examined the light. He clicked it on and off. He looked at the circuit I had soldered. His eyes sharpened.
"You built this?"
"I did."
"Simon," Tashi leaned in. "The boy is... different. He has a head for these things. I want to protect him. I want this shop to be 100% legal. No 'Ghost Forms'. No bribes."
Simon Fru looked at me for a long time. Then he looked at the Gendarmerie radio.
"If you want to be legal in Cameroon, you have to be invisible," Simon said. "But the boy is already too bright. So, we make the shop a 'Technical Training Center'. A non-profit wing of the Gendarmerie contractor group. If you are 'Training' the youth, the Council cannot tax you the same way. And the labor laws change for apprentices."
"Can you do the papers?" I asked.
"I can," Simon said. "But it will cost you. Not money. I don't want your money."
"Then what?"
Simon pointed to a broken, ancient laptop in his briefcase. A Toshiba T1000. It was a relic from the late 80s.
"My work is on this," Simon said. "The screen is dead. Three 'experts' in Commercial Avenue said it is scrap. If you can make it talk again... I will be your lawyer for one year. Free."
I looked at the Toshiba.
< Diagnostic: The T1000 uses a gas-plasma display, > Gemini analyzed. < The high-voltage inverter for the display is likely blown. Alternatively, the CMOS battery has leaked and eaten through the traces. >
"Bring it here," I said.
I opened the casing. It was a nightmare of ribbon cables and proprietary screws.
Tashi and Simon watched in silence as I stripped the machine down. I wasn't a ten-year-old anymore. I was a technician in a trance.
I found the leak. The tiny nickel-cadmium battery had turned into a green crust of acid, burning a hole through the motherboard traces that controlled the keyboard and display.
I took a single strand of copper from a speaker wire. Using my new 40-watt iron and the digital multimeter, I began to "bypass" the burnt sections.
< Precision required: 0.5 millimeters, > Gemini warned.
I held my breath. I soldered the bridges. One. Two. Three.
I cleaned the acid with a drop of gin from Tashi's bottle.
I put it back together. I plugged in the heavy power brick.
I flipped the switch.
Beep.
The screen didn't glow it was an old LCD but the text appeared.
MS-DOS Version 3.30
C:>
Simon Fru stood up so fast he knocked over his beer. He grabbed the laptop, his eyes tearing up as he saw his legal briefs appearing on the screen.
"My files..." he whispered. "Two years of cases. I thought they were gone."
He looked at me with a reverence that was almost frightening.
"Nkem Mbua," he said. "You are not a technician. You are a resurrectionist."
He closed the laptop and tucked it under his arm.
"The papers will be ready by Monday," Simon said, his voice hard. "If the Council comes back, tell them to call me. I have been looking for an excuse to sue the Mayor anyway."
Saturday Morning
The Shop
The Colonel's radios were finished. Twenty units, upgraded, tuned, and boxed.
But as I was cleaning my bench, I noticed something in the box of "junk" Patel had given me. It was a small, round component with a glass window.
A Solar Cell.
It was from an old garden light. It was small, producing barely 2 Volts.
But in my head, a new map was forming.
Gemini, I thought. If we can't rely on the grid (SONEL), and we can't afford gas for a generator...
< I see where you are going, Operator, > Gemini replied. < If we can scale up the photovoltaic collection, we can disconnect from the world. >
"Disconnection is independence," I whispered.
I looked at the red dust of Bamenda. The sun was always there. Even when the lights went out, the sun was there.
I had the soldiers. I had the lawyer.
Now, I was going to capture the sun.