Tashi & Son Electronics
Commercial Avenue
Wednesday, July 14, 1999
The request from my mother hadn't just been a demand for a tool; it was a manifesto. By asking for a motorized sewing machine, Liyen was drawing a line in the red dust of Bamenda. She was refusing to be a relic of the old world while her son and husband built the new one.
I sat in the Lab, the morning light filtering through the high vents, illuminating the dust motes that danced over my workbench. Liyen's old Singer sewing machine a heavy, black cast-iron beast with gold filigree fading on its neck sat before me. It was a treadle model, designed to be powered by the rhythmic pumping of a foot pedal.
In 1999 Cameroon, this machine was the backbone of the female economy. Thousands of women spent ten hours a day pumping those pedals, their calves aching, their backs stiffening, all to produce the school uniforms and Sunday wrappers that kept the town clothed.
"It's not just about the motor, Gemini," I whispered, running my fingers over the balance wheel. "It's about the torque. If the needle jams on heavy denim and the motor stalls, it'll burn out. I need a way to control the speed with her foot, just like she does with the treadle."
< Technical Analysis: > Gemini's blue schematic overlaid the black iron. < A standard AC motor from a blender or a fan lacks the necessary low-end torque. You require a DC permanent magnet motor with a Pulse Width Modulation (PWM) controller. >
I don't have a PWM controller, Gemini. And I don't have a DC motor strong enough to pierce four layers of Ankara cloth.
< Scanning Inventory... > Gemini's cursor flickered. < The Gendarmerie scrap. The radiator cooling fan from the Mercedes jeep the Colonel brought in for repair yesterday. >
I stood up. I went to the scrap pile in the corner. There it was a heavy, high-shroud cooling fan. It was 12 Volts, high-amperage, and built to run in the harshest heat of the Sahel. It was perfect.
The first problem was the mechanical coupling. A sewing machine needs a belt drive. I had to strip the plastic fan blades off the motor without unbalancing the central shaft.
I used my 40-watt soldering iron to heat the plastic until it softened, then pried it off with a screwdriver. What remained was a stout, threaded steel shaft.
"Papa!" I called out.
Tashi came in, wiping grease from his hands. He had been busy trying to organize our growing "Power Bank" in the front shop. "Yes, Nkem? You started the Mami's machine?"
"I need a pulley," I said. "Small. About the size of a bottle cap. And I need a V-belt."
Tashi looked at the motor. "A pulley? Use the one from the broken alternator in the yard. I will grind it down for you."
Tashi was becoming useful. His time spent at the "Bookman's" had taught him how to "make do," and now he was applying that grit to my technical needs. He took the alternator part to the street-side blacksmith, and thirty minutes later, he returned with a perfectly notched steel pulley.
I mounted the motor to the rear of the Singer using a bracket I'd fashioned from a galvanized iron sheet.
< Alignment Check: > Gemini projected a straight green line from the motor pulley to the machine's balance wheel. < Deviation: 1.2 degrees. Correct it, or the belt will slip under load. >
I tapped the bracket with a hammer until the line turned solid green.
The second problem was the "Throttle." A seamstress needs to slow down for corners and speed up for long seams.
I couldn't find a variable resistor (potentiometer) strong enough to handle the current of a car fan motor. It would just melt. I needed to build a Transistorized Foot Pedal.
I went to my box of "Bombay Junk." I found a heavy-duty NPN power transistor a 2N3055 mounted on a thick aluminum heat sink. It looked like a silver UFO.
I took the old treadle pedal from the machine's base. I rigged a spring-loaded mechanism using a brake cable from a bicycle. When Liyen pressed the pedal, it would move a sliding contact across a coil of resistance wire I'd harvested from a broken electric heater.
It was a primitive PWM, but it worked. The more she pressed, the more current flowed through the transistor, and the faster the motor spun.
"Nkem," Tashi whispered, watching me solder the final connections. "You sure this no go shock your Mami? If she touch that metal and the thing bite her..."
"It's 12 Volts, Papa. It's like a car battery. It can't shock her. The only thing it will bite is the cloth."
By 5:00 PM, the "Singer-Gemini Hybrid" was ready.
We carried it to the house. The neighborhood was quiet, the evening mist beginning to settle over the compound. Liyen was sitting on her stool, hand-stitching a hem by the light of the Zombie Lamp I'd made her.
We set the machine on the table. It looked strange a Victorian-era iron beast with a modern, black military motor strapped to its back like a jetpack.
"Ma," I said. "Try it."
Liyen looked at the machine with deep suspicion. She touched the new foot pedal I'd placed on the floor.
"What is this cable?" she asked.
"Power," I said. I plugged it into a dedicated 12V battery I'd brought from the shop.
Liyen sat down. She threaded the needle with the practiced ease of thirty years. She placed a scrap of heavy denim under the presser foot.
She hesitated. Her foot hovered over the pedal.
"Just press small," Tashi encouraged.
Liyen pressed.
Whirrrrrrr...
The motor hummed. The balance wheel spun. The needle became a blur of silver. Chit-chit-chit-chit-chit.
Liyen gasped and pulled her foot back. The machine stopped instantly.
"It's fast!" she said, her eyes wide. "Nkem, it's too fast! It will eat my fingers!"
"Try again, Ma. Press like you are stepping on an egg."
She tried again. This time, the needle moved slowly. Stitch... stitch... stitch. She eased into it, and the machine responded, the motor growling with low-end torque as it pierced through four layers of folded denim without a single hiccup.
Liyen's face changed. The suspicion vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated wonder. She started sewing a straight line, her feet usually exhausted from pumping the treadle resting comfortably on the floor.
She turned a corner. She sped up. She slowed down.
"I can do in one hour what used to take me all day," she whispered.
She looked at her hands. They weren't shaking. For the first time in her life, she was the master of the machine, not its engine.
By Thursday morning, the "Miracle Machine" was the only topic of conversation among the market women.
Auntie Manka was the first to arrive at our shop. She didn't come to complain or gossip. She came with her own machine a rusted Butterfly model wrapped in a burlap sack.
"Nkem!" Manka shouted, slamming the machine onto the counter. "I see weti you do for Liyen. My leg di swell every night because of this treadle. Fix my own. I get money."
She pulled out a wad of notes. 5,000 francs.
I looked at the money, then at Tashi.
< Market Analysis: > Gemini projected. < There are approximately 400 active seamstresses in the Bamenda Main Market. If 10% convert to electric, you have a 200,000 CFA revenue stream. This is 'Grassroots Industrialization'. >
"Auntie," I said, "The motor is 5,000. The labor is 2,000. But you need a battery. SONEL is not steady."
"I take everything!" Manka said. "If I fit finish ten dresses for one day, Pa Che no go fit talk for my rent again!"
By midday, three more women were standing outside the shop with their machines.
Tashi was in heaven. He was the "Manager of the Motorization." He was taking names, collecting deposits, and acting as if he had invented the electric motor himself.
But as I looked at the line of women, I saw Liyen walking toward us from the house. She wasn't carrying food. She was carrying a notebook.
She walked past the queue and stood next to me.
"Nkem," she said, her voice clear and authoritative. "These women... they don't just need motors. They need a 'Union'. If they all have electric machines, the price of a dress will drop. We need to set a 'Standard Price' so everyone can eat."
I looked at my mother. She wasn't just a seamstress anymore. She was becoming a Labor Leader.
"And Tashi," she said, turning to my father. "Stop taking 7,000 francs. Take 6,000. If they can't pay all at once, let them pay 1,000 every week. We are not the Bookman. we are family."
Tashi opened his mouth to argue, but Liyen gave him a look that could melt lead.
"Yes, Mami Nkem," Tashi muttered, reaching for his pen to change the prices.
I went back to my soldering.
The "Liyen Project" had done more than just automate a needle. It had given my mother her power back. And in the process, it was turning our shop into the heart of a new, female-led economic revolution in Bamenda.
But out in the street, I saw a black Yamaha motorcycle slow down. The rider didn't look at the lights. He looked at the line of women. He looked at the money changing hands.
The Bookman's "Kerosene Monopoly" was being bypassed by a ten-year-old and a group of seamstresses.
The war was about to get very personal.