Money has a weight.
I do not mean the physical mass of the coins that jingle like heavy rain in a trouser pocket or the grimy density of sweat-stained banknotes that have circulated through fish markets and mechanic workshops. I mean the psychological gravity of it. Money possesses a gravitational pull that bends the light around a man's soul. It distorts time. It changes the way a man breathes.
For my father, Tashi Mbua, money had never been a solid object. It had always been water. It flowed in like a flash flood after a lucky hand of poker, and it drained away just as quickly into the thirsty earth of debts and bad investments. He had spent his entire adult life as a conduit, a cracked pipe through which currency passed but never stayed. He was a man who lived in the terrifying velocity of the transaction.
But now, everything was different. Now, he was the Treasurer.
The title sat upon his shoulders like a heavy woolen coat in the dry season. It was a garment of immense honor, but it was suffocating him.
I sat at my workbench in the rear of the shop. The air in the back room was cool and smelled of ozone, melting rosin, and the sharp tang of stripped copper wire. I was officially repairing a broken voltage regulator for a Toyota Corolla taxi, a simple job that required replacing a single Zener diode. However, my hands worked on autopilot. My mind was entirely focused on the front of the shop where the real drama of the day was unfolding.
The shop was luminous. The solar-powered fluorescent tubes I had installed cast a clean, clinical white light that made the dust on the floor tiles visible. It was a light that hid nothing.
Tashi stood behind the glass counter. He was not wearing the faded, mismatched clothes of the man who used to beg Pa Che for another week on the rent. He was wearing the uniform of the Manager. It was a crisp, short-sleeved khaki shirt I had bought for him from the second-hand market, washed and ironed by Liyen until the creases were sharp enough to cut paper. A cheap blue ballpoint pen was clipped to the breast pocket, a symbol of administrative power.
On the glass counter lay the ledger. It was a simple "Exercise Book" with a blue cover, the kind children use for arithmetic. Liyen had drawn neat columns in it with a ruler. Name. Date. Amount Paid. Balance Remaining.
Beside the ledger sat the metal cash box. It was a dark grey steel box with a small brass lock. To anyone else, it was just a container. To Tashi, it was the Ark of the Covenant.
The bell above the door chimed, a cheerful sound that seemed at odds with the tension radiating from my father.
Auntie Manka walked in. She was a formidable woman, large and solid as a baobab tree, wrapped in a vibrant fabric printed with yellow hibiscus flowers. She brought the smell of the market with her, a rich perfume of smoked fish, red palm oil, and honest sweat.
She approached the counter not as a friend, but as a member of the Union approaching an official.
"Good afternoon, Massa Tashi," she said, her voice respectful.
Tashi straightened his spine. He adjusted the collar of his shirt. He cleared his throat, a small nervous tic he had developed since assuming office.
"Good afternoon, Manka," Tashi replied, his voice pitching slightly lower, aiming for gravitas. "You have come for the installment?"
"I have," she said.
She reached into the deep folds of her wrapper and pulled out a knotted handkerchief. She untied the knot with slow, deliberate fingers. Inside lay a bundle of banknotes. They were old, soft notes, worn thin by hundreds of hands.
"Five thousand francs," Manka announced, placing the money on the glass. "From the school uniforms I sewed for the Baptist College."
Tashi picked up the notes. He didn't just count them; he performed an inspection. He snapped each bill between his thumbs and forefingers, listening for the crisp sound, checking for tears. It was a performance of diligence.
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five," Tashi counted aloud.
He picked up the pen from his pocket. He opened the ledger to the page marked Manka, E.
"Five flawless thousands," Tashi declared. "That brings your total contribution to fourteen thousand francs. Your balance remaining for the motor and the battery is one thousand francs."
He picked up the rubber stamp I had carved for him from an old eraser. He pressed it into the ink pad and slammed it onto the page. PAID.
"Thank you, Massa Tashi," Manka said, beaming. "This machine... I tell you, it is working fine-fine. I finished three uniforms yesterday before the sun went down. My legs did not hurt. The light was steady. It is a miracle."
"It is not a miracle, Manka," Tashi said, smiling the benevolent smile of a technological prophet. "It is the future. Tell your friends. Tashi and Son are here to serve."
"I will tell them. God bless you, Tashi. And God bless the wizard boy in the back."
She waved at me. I raised my soldering iron in a silent salute.
Manka turned and walked out, her step lighter than it had been when she entered. The bell chimed again as the door closed, leaving Tashi alone in the silence of the shop.
The performance ended. The mask slipped.
Tashi looked at the money on the counter. Five thousand francs. It was enough to buy a crate of beer and roast fish for three friends. It was enough to place a solid bet on a Premier League match.
He picked up the key to the cash box. His hand trembled. Just a micro-tremor, barely visible, but I saw it. I had the eyes of a hawk where my father was concerned.
He unlocked the box. The lid creaked open.
It was full.
Inside lay the accumulated wealth of the Seamstresses' Union of Commercial Avenue. There was nearly one hundred and fifty thousand francs in that box. It was a chaotic pile of wealth. Blue ten-thousand franc notes, green five-thousands, red two-thousands, and a heavy layer of coins at the bottom.
It was more money than Tashi had held in his hands at one time in five years.
But it was not his money. It was the Union's capital. It was the blood and sweat of twenty women who trusted him. It was designated for the next shipment of copper wire and solar cells from Douala. It was the seed corn for the harvest.
I put down my soldering iron and turned off the fume extractor fan. The sudden silence in the shop was heavy. I watched him through the gap in the partition.
Tashi stared at the money. He didn't blink. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
I saw his hand move. It hovered over a bundle of ten-thousand franc notes held together by a rubber band. That bundle alone was fifty thousand francs.
He touched it.
His fingers brushed the paper. It was an electric contact. I could see the jolt run up his arm.
He looked at the door. Through the glass, the street was busy. Cars honked, hawkers shouted, life moved on. Nobody was watching him. Liyen was at the market. I was in the back, presumably lost in my circuits.
He was alone with the temptation.
< Behavioral Analysis: > Gemini's voice whispered in my neural interface, cool and detached. < Subject Tashi displays acute signs of dopamine craving. Pupil dilation is at maximum. Heart rate is elevated; I can see the pulse visible in the carotid artery. The proximity to large liquidity is triggering the Gambling Addiction pathways. The brain is screaming for a release. >
I know, Gemini, I thought. He is standing on the edge of a cliff.
Tashi picked up the bundle. He weighed it in his hand. Fifty thousand.
With fifty thousand, he could walk into the City End betting house. He could put it on a high-risk accumulator. If he won... if he just won once... he could turn that fifty into five hundred. He could put the fifty back in the box before anyone knew. He could buy Liyen a real gold necklace. He could buy a car for the shop. He could be the hero he was pretending to be.
The logic of the addict is the most seductive force on earth. It whispers that it is not stealing if you put it back. It whispers that it is an investment. It whispers that you are smarter than the odds.
He brought the money closer to his chest. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of the cash.
Then, the door opened.
It wasn't a customer.
The figure that stepped into the cool, air-conditioned sanctuary of our shop was a ghost from the bad days.
It was Sammy Soft-Hand.
Sammy was a relic from the dark timeline. He was a small, ferret-like man who wore oversized, double-breasted suits that had been fashionable in 1985. He smelled of cheap gin, stale cigarettes, and bad decisions. His nickname came from the fact that he never did a day of hard labor in his life; his hands were as soft as a baby's, reserved only for shuffling cards and picking pockets.
He was a "runner" for the high-stakes poker games in the back rooms of the Nkwen quarter. He was the devil's messenger boy.
"Tashi!" Sammy cried out, spreading his arms wide as if greeting a long-lost brother. "Big Man! I hear say you don become the Governor of Commercial Avenue! Eh! Look at this place!"
Tashi jumped as if he had been shot. The bundle of money fell from his hand back into the box. He slammed the lid shut. CLANG.
The sound echoed violently in the small shop.
"Sammy," Tashi said. His voice was breathless. "I am busy."
Sammy walked to the counter. He moved with a sliding, liquid grace, like oil on water. He looked at the closed box. He looked at Tashi's pale face. He smiled, revealing teeth stained yellow by kola nuts.
"Busy counting millions, eh?" Sammy leaned his elbows on the glass, invading Tashi's space. "I see the line of women outside every morning. They are bringing you money like pilgrims bringing offering to the shrine. You are chopping money like groundnut, my brother."
"It is business money," Tashi said stiffly. He put his hand on top of the box, as if to shield it from Sammy's gaze. "It is for stock. For parts."
"Of course, of course," Sammy winked. One eye closed slowly, conspiratorially. "Business money. Stock money. But money is just paper, Tashi. It is meant to multiply. No be so?"
Sammy looked around the shop. He sneered at the neat shelves of Zombie Lights. He looked at the clean floor.
"You have become a clerk, Tashi," Sammy said, his voice dripping with mock pity. "Look at you. Wearing a uniform. Taking orders from old market women. 'Yes Mami, No Mami.' Is this the Tashi I know? The Tashi who cleared the table at City End in '95? The Tashi who had the heart of a lion?"
Tashi flinched. The memory of 1995 was a double-edged sword. It was the year he had won big, yes. It was also the year he had lost it all two weeks later.
"I am working," Tashi said. "I am building something for my son."
"Building?" Sammy laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. "You are sweeping floors and counting copper coins. That is not building. That is slavery."
Sammy leaned closer. He lowered his voice to a hiss that slid under the glass partition.
"Listen to me, Tashi. There is a game tonight. Blue Moon Hotel. Room 4."
Tashi shook his head. "I don't play anymore, Sammy. Go away."
"Not a small game," Sammy pressed on, ignoring the rejection. "This is not the market boys playing for beer. This is a Whale game. Some rich contractors from Yaoundé are in town. They are building the new road. They have cash, Tashi. Bags of it."
Sammy's eyes glittered.
"They are drunk. They are arrogant. And they do not know the cards. They play blind. They are practically throwing the money on the floor and asking us to pick it up."
Tashi's hand twitched on the lid of the cash box. His fingers curled into a fist.
"I said no," Tashi whispered. But it was a weak no. It was a no that asked to be convinced.
"Entry fee is fifty thousand," Sammy whispered. He looked pointedly at the metal box under Tashi's hand. "Just fifty. But the pot? Tashi, the pot is over a million francs. Maybe two."
Two million francs.
I saw Tashi's eyes widen. I saw the calculation racing through his mind. Two million. He could buy the shop building. He could send me to the best school in Buea. He could buy Liyen a house in the village. He could stop being the "Manager" and start being the "Owner."
"Imagine it," Sammy crooned. "You take one small bundle from that box. Just one. Nobody knows. The box does not scream. You come to the Blue Moon. You play for two hours. You clean out the Yaoundé fools. You come back. You put the bundle back in the box. You lock it."
Sammy spread his soft hands.
"Who is hurt? Nobody. The women still get their parts. But Tashi? Tashi buys a Mercedes. Tashi walks into the church on Sunday and puts one hundred thousand in the offering plate. Tashi becomes the King."
The silence in the shop was suffocating. The air conditioner hummed, but the air felt hot and heavy.
I could feel the temptation radiating off my father like heat waves off the tarmac. It was a physical force. The demon was in the room, and it was wearing an oversized suit.
I picked up my soldering iron. The tip glowed orange.
I wanted to shout. I wanted to run out there and tell Sammy to get out. I wanted to tell Tashi that I knew what he was thinking.
But I stayed seated.
I couldn't save him from this. I had built the shop. I had built the lights. I had fought the thugs. But I could not fight his mind. If I stopped him now, like a policeman, he would resent me. He would feel like a child in his own shop. And the hunger would remain, waiting for a moment when I wasn't there.
He had to make the choice. He had to kill the demon himself.
Tashi looked at the box. He looked at Sammy's grinning, expectant face. He looked at the "Manager" shirt he was wearing, with the pen clipped to the pocket.
Then, he looked toward the back of the shop.
He couldn't see me clearly through the wire mesh and the shelves of parts. He could just see my silhouette, bent over the workbench, the smoke of the solder curling up around my head.
He watched me working.
He remembered the night I stood in the alley and faced Razor. He remembered the fire at the gate. He remembered the way the Colonel looked at me. He remembered Liyen's face when she used the sewing machine for the first time.
I wasn't looking at him. I was working. Trusting him.
That trust was heavier than the money. It was a crushing weight. If he took that money, he wasn't just stealing cash. He was stealing the labor I had put into the walls. He was stealing the respect the Colonel gave us. He was stealing the future I was trying to build for us.
Tashi took a deep breath. It was a shuddering, ragged intake of air. He held it for a second, then exhaled slowly. His shoulders slumped.
"Sammy," Tashi said. His voice was quiet. It wasn't angry. It was just tired.
"Yes, my brother?" Sammy smiled, thinking he had won. He reached into his pocket to pull out the invitation card.
"Get out."
Sammy blinked. His hand froze halfway to his pocket. "Weti?"
"Get out of my shop," Tashi said. His voice was louder this time. Stronger. It vibrated in the glass of the counter.
Sammy's smile faltered. "Tashi, be reasonable. The opportunity..."
"There is no opportunity," Tashi said, staring hard at Sammy. "There is only a trap. You want me to be a rat again? Running in the dark? Eating scraps?"
Tashi placed both hands flat on the counter. He leaned forward.
"I am not a rat, Sammy. I am a Treasurer. I hold the money for twenty families. Do you know what that means? It means if I fall, twenty houses go hungry."
"You are a fool," Sammy sneered, his face twisting into ugliness. "You think you pass us now? You think because you wear a clean shirt and sit in the AC you are a big man? You are just a lucky fool, Tashi. The luck will finish. And when it finishes, you will come crawling back to the Blue Moon."
"Maybe," Tashi said. "But not today. And tell the Yaoundé men that Tashi Mbua does not play with rats."
Sammy recoiled as if he had been slapped. He looked at Tashi with pure venom. He spat on the floor a wet, glob of disrespect on our clean tiles.
"We go see," Sammy hissed.
He turned and slunk out of the door, his oversized suit flapping around him like the wings of a vulture.
The bell chimed. The door closed.
Tashi stood there. He was trembling. His whole body was shaking now, the adrenaline crash hitting him hard. He gripped the counter to stop himself from falling.
He looked at the spot where Sammy had spat.
He picked up the cash box.
He walked around the counter. He walked to the back room.
I didn't turn around. I pretended to be busy with the diode.
Tashi walked up to my desk. He placed the heavy metal box right next to my soldering station.
"Nkem," he whispered. His voice was thick with emotion.
I turned on my stool. "Yes, Papa?"
He looked at me. His eyes were red. He looked exhausted, as if he had just run a marathon.
"Keep this," he said, pointing to the box. "Put it in your safe. Or hide it in the ceiling. Just... take it away from me."
"Why, Papa? You are the Treasurer. It is your job."
"My hands are shaking," he admitted. He held them up. They were vibrating uncontrollably. "I... I almost opened it, Nkem. Sammy... he said..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. The shame was choking him.
"But you didn't," I said softly.
"I wanted to," he confessed. "God help me, I wanted to. The hunger... it is a terrible thing."
He pushed the box toward me.
"Keep it until the truck comes. Please. I cannot look at it anymore today."
I looked at the box. Then I looked at my father. I saw the terror in his eyes the terror of a man who knows his own weakness. But I also saw the courage it took to admit it.
I took the box. I placed it under my desk, behind the heavy transformer.
"I will keep it, Papa," I said. "You did good."
Tashi nodded. He wiped his face with a rag.
"I am going to clean," he said. "The floor is dirty. Sammy spat on my floor."
He walked back to the front shop. He grabbed a broom.
I watched him. He started sweeping furiously. He attacked the spot where Sammy had spat with a vengeance. He swept the dust. He swept the dirt. He swept the invisible remnants of his old life out the door.
< Crisis Averted, > Gemini noted in my mind. < Willpower +10. Character Growth initialized. >
"He didn't do it for the money," I whispered to the empty air of the lab. "He did it for the shirt."
I turned back to my work. The diode was fixed. The taxi would run again. And for today, Tashi Mbua would remain a Treasurer.
But I knew Sammy was right about one thing. The luck would eventually run out. The Bookman was still out there. And next time, he wouldn't send a tempter. He would send a destroyer.
I looked at the calendar on the wall.
July 19, 1999.
Three weeks until the eclipse.
"We have to work faster," I told myself.
I picked up the iron. The solder hissed. The smell of rosin filled the room, masking the lingering scent of Sammy's cheap gin.
We were safe. For now.