Sunday in Bamenda is a different universe.
The aggressive roar of the motorcycles fades away, replaced by the distant, rhythmic chiming of church bells. From the Catholic Church at Mankon to the Presbyterian Church at Ntamulung, the air fills with the smell of incense, pressed Sunday bests, and the dust kicked up by thousands of faithful feet.
The compound was silent. Tashi, suffering from a hangover that no amount of prayer could cure, had been dragged to church by Liyen. She was wearing her white CWF (Christian Women's Fellowship) uniform, determined to thank God for the miracle of the rent money.
I didn't go. I claimed the "stomach ache" had returned. Liyen, flush with the relief that we weren't being evicted, touched my forehead, found no fever, and left me with a piece of bread and strict instructions to rest.
The moment the gate latched shut, I was off the bed.
I moved to the backyard. The morning sun was already biting, baking the red earth. I walked to the latrine a concrete block structure that smelled of ammonia and neglect.
I held my breath and reached into the hollow space behind the loose block near the roof. My fingers brushed against spiders and grit before touching the cool plastic of the bag.
I pulled it out.
60,000 francs.
It was gross hiding money in a toilet, but in a compound where neighbors had eyes like hawks, the toilet was the only sanctuary.
I retrieved the cash, wiped the bag down, and stuffed it deep into my rice-sack school bag. I threw in a bottle of water and the few tools I had scavenged from the school.
Today was Procurement Day.
The "Joule Thief" lights I had built for the market women were cute. They were Level 1 technology survival tech. They brought in food money. But to survive what was coming Razor, the Bookman, the inevitable crash of Tashi's luck I needed Level 2.
I needed Intelligence.
In 1999, information moved at the speed of gossip. Mobile phones were non-existent for the common man. The internet was a rumor. If you wanted to know if someone was coming to kill you, you usually found out when they kicked down your door.
I needed to change that. I needed ears where I couldn't be.
I needed to build a bug.
Commercial Avenue
10:30 AM
The streets were empty. The shops were shuttered with heavy iron bars. Only the "Heathens" and the Indians were open for business.
I walked past the closed market stalls to the upper section of Commercial Avenue. My destination was Bombay Electronics.
It was the only shop in Bamenda that smelled of the 21st century. While everyone else sold knock-off radios and cheap clothes, Mr. Patel imported the real deal. Stabilizers, fans, blenders, and legitimate electronic components.
I pushed the glass door open. A bell chimed. The blast of air-conditioning hit me like a physical blessing, instantly drying the sweat on my neck.
Mr. Patel was sitting behind the high glass counter, reading a week-old copy of the Times of India. He was a heavy-set man with weary eyes and a skepticism that ran bone-deep.
"Shop is closed," he said without looking up, turning a page. "Sunday. Come back tomorrow."
"I have cash," I said.
The rustle of the newspaper stopped. Patel lowered the paper slowly. He looked over his reading glasses. He saw a skinny, ten-year-old boy in oversized shorts and a faded t-shirt.
"Cash?" Patel scoffed. "You want to buy batteries? Go to the kiosk outside."
I walked up to the counter. I was barely tall enough to see over it.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a 10,000 franc note. I placed it on the glass.
Then another.
Then another.
30,000 francs.
Patel's eyebrows shot up. In 1999, a child holding 30,000 francs was either a thief or a prince.
"I am not here for batteries," I said, my voice steady. "I want a multimeter. A digital one. Not the needle type. And I want a soldering station. Variable temperature. 40 Watts."
Patel put the newspaper down completely. He stood up, leaning over the counter to get a better look at me.
"You are the boy," he said slowly. "Polycarp told me. The one who fixes things."
News in Bamenda travels faster than fiber optics.
"Polycarp talks too much," I said.
"He says you fixed a Sony Walkman trace he couldn't even see with a magnifying glass," Patel said, his eyes narrowing. "He says you are a ghost."
"I am not a ghost, Sir. I just have good eyes. Do you have the meter?"
Patel stared at me for a long moment, assessing. Then he turned and unlocked a glass cabinet behind him. He pulled out a yellow box.
"DT-830B," he said, placing it on the counter. "Chinese make. But reliable."
Then he reached for a blue box. "Soldering iron. Ceramic heater. This is not a toy, boy. It gets to 400 degrees. You will burn your house down."
"I know how to use it," I said. "How much for both?"
"25,000," Patel said automatically. "And I throw in a roll of solder."
< Valuation Analysis, > Gemini whispered in my head. < Market value of DT-830B in 1999: roughly 8,000 CFA. Iron: 5,000 CFA. Total fair value: 13,000. He is gouging you because you are a child. >
"15,000," I countered. "For the meter, the iron, the solder... and that box of junk under your desk."
I pointed to a cardboard box kicked under the counter. I could see wires and broken casings sticking out of it.
Patel frowned. "That is e-waste. I am waiting for the trash man."
"Exactly. It costs you money to throw it away. I will take it for free."
"15,000 is too low," Patel grumbled. "The iron alone is quality. 20,000."
I looked up at the ceiling.
Above the door, a massive Panasonic Air Conditioner was vibrating. Rattle-thud-Rattle-thud. It sounded like it was dying.
"Your AC is crying," I noted.
Patel sighed, looking up at the noisy machine. "The compressor is going. I have to order a new one from Douala. 300,000 francs."
< Acoustic Analysis, > Gemini chimed in. < Frequency of vibration suggests a loose mounting bracket on the blower fan, not a compressor failure. The harmonic resonance is causing the casing to shake. >
"It's not the compressor," I said. "It's the blower fan mount. The screw has vibrated loose."
Patel looked at me. "You are an AC technician now?"
"Do you have a ladder?" I asked.
Patel hesitated. Then, driven by the possibility of saving 300,000 francs, he went to the back and brought out a stepladder.
I climbed up. I pulled a screwdriver from my bag.
I popped the plastic cover off.
I saw it immediately. The mounting screw for the cylindrical fan had backed out by three millimeters. The fan was wobbling, hitting the casing.
I tightened the screw.
I put a piece of folded paper between the plastic joints to dampen the vibration.
I snapped the cover back on.
The Rattle-thud stopped.
The machine hummed a smooth, quiet whisper of cold air.
I climbed down.
Patel was staring at the AC unit with his mouth slightly open. He looked at me. The skepticism was gone, replaced by a calculating respect.
"15,000," Patel said. "For the tools. And the junk box. And... if I have returns, I call you?"
"My consultation fee is high," I said, putting the money on the counter.
"Get out of my shop," Patel smiled, but it was a genuine smile. "You are a dangerous boy."
I grabbed the heavy box of junk and my new tools.
"Thank you, Mr. Patel."
I walked out.
I had the tools. I had the raw materials.
Now, I needed a fortress.
The Compound
1:00 PM
The house was still empty. Tashi and Liyen would be at church until at least 2:00 PM.
I went to the back of the kitchen shed.
There was a small room there, barely a closet. It used to be a store for yams, but now it was filled with old sacks, spiderwebs, and the distinct, musky smell of rats.
I opened the wooden door. The hinges screamed.
Dust motes danced in the single beam of sunlight cutting through the cracks in the wall.
"This is it," I whispered. "Gemini Corp HQ."
I spent the next hour working like a slave.
I hauled out the rotten sacks. I swept the dirt floor until the red dust settled. I chased out a family of rats that looked very displeased to be evicted.
I found an old wooden crate and turned it upside down. That was my desk.
I found a broken plastic chair in the yard. I wired the leg back together. That was my executive chair.
Now, power.
The room had no light bulb.
I went to the main house. I found the main wire running from the meter into the ceiling.
I took my new knife. I carefully stripped the insulation on the live and neutral lines without cutting the power.
< Warning: High Voltage. > Gemini flashed red. < One slip and cardiac arrest is probable. >
Relax. I've done this a thousand times in the slums of Lagos.
I spliced a spare cable onto the line, wrapping it tight with black tape. I ran the cable through the ventilation gap and into my new "Lab."
I wired it to a multi-socket strip I found in Patel's junk box.
I plugged in my new soldering station.
I flipped the switch.
The blue light on the iron glowed.
The Lab was live.
I dumped Patel's junk box onto the crate.
It was a goldmine.
Broken landline phones (microphones and speakers).
A cracked baby monitor (RF transmitter!).
Old circuit boards (capacitors, resistors, transistors).
Dead remote controls (IR diodes).
"Okay," I said, sitting down. "Phase Two: Surveillance."
I needed to hear what Razor was planning. I couldn't be everywhere.
I picked up the broken baby monitor. The casing was smashed, but the circuit board looked intact.
< Component Analysis, > Gemini overlaid the board with green lines. < The crystal oscillator at 49MHz is intact. The microphone preamp is functional. The antenna trace is severed. >
"We don't want 49MHz," I muttered. "That's a standard frequency. If I use that, anyone with a baby monitor will hear Razor talking."
< Suggestion: Retune the tank circuit. >
I heated up my soldering iron. The smell of melting flux filled the small room the perfume of progress.
I desoldered the inductor coil. I wound a new one using copper wire from a broken transformer. Fewer turns meant higher frequency.
I aimed for 88.5 MHz the bottom of the FM radio band.
Why FM?
Because I could use any standard radio to listen to it. I didn't need to build a receiver; I just needed to tune a radio to an empty station.
I desoldered the bulky microphone from the baby monitor and replaced it with a tiny electret microphone harvested from one of the broken landline handsets. It was smaller than a corn kernel.
I stripped the circuit down to the bare essentials: Battery clip, Oscillator, Microphone, Antenna.
I packed it all into a small black plastic matchbox I found in the dirt.
I taped a 9V battery connector to the outside.
It was ugly. It looked like a bomb detonator.
But when I plugged a battery in...
I turned on the small radio I had bought back from Tashi (I told him I needed it for "parts," but really I just needed a receiver).
I tuned it to 88.5 MHz.
Static... Static...
Then, a sharp SQUEAL of feedback.
I moved the bug away from the radio.
I tapped the matchbox.
Thump-Thump.
The sound came clearly through the radio speaker.
"We have ears," I whispered.
Tuesday Night
The "Spot" Bar
I couldn't plant the bug myself.
Razor knew my face. If I walked into The Spot, he would know something was up.
I needed a ghost. I needed Collins.
I met Collins behind the market latrines as the sun was setting.
He was counting his share of the "Zombie Light" money. He had bought a new pair of plastic sandals and a packet of biscuits. He looked happy.
"Nkem," he said, spraying biscuit crumbs. "When we make more light? People di ask."
"Soon," I said. "But tonight, I have a different job. A spy job."
Collins stopped chewing. "Spy? Like James Bond?"
"Better. Like Bamenda Bond."
I handed him the black matchbox. It was wrapped tight in electrical tape. I had attached a strong magnet (scavenged from a speaker) to the back.
"You deliver beer to The Spot, yes?"
"Yes," Collins nodded. "Every Tuesday and Friday."
"Tonight," I said. "When you carry the crate to Razor's table... you know his table?"
"The corner one. Near the window."
"Yes. When you put the crate down, stick this under the metal table. Just slap it underneath. The magnet will hold it."
Collins looked at the black box. He looked nervous.
"Weti be inside? Juju?"
"No," I said. "It is a microphone. I want to hear if he is planning to rob my father again."
Collins nodded slowly. He liked Tashi. Tashi always gave him 100 francs when he won.
"If Razor catch me..."
"He won't catch you. You are invisible to them, Collins. You are just the beer boy. Do it, and I give you 1,000 francs."
"Give me 500 now," Collins negotiated. "And 500 when I come back."
"Deal."
I waited in the shadows near the market entrance.
Twenty minutes later, Collins came running back. He was breathing hard, but he was grinning.
"I put am!" he whispered loud. "Under the table. Razor was cursing Bone about money. He no see nothing."
"Good man." I handed him the 500. "Go home. Don't talk to anyone."
I ran back to the compound.
I went straight to the Lab.
I locked the door.
I put on my headphones.
I turned on the radio. 88.5 MHz.
Hiss.... Crackle....
The signal was weak. The distance was about 300 meters. The bug was struggling.
I extended the antenna on my receiver.
"...beer warm! Weti be this?"
The voice cut through the static. Razor.
I closed my eyes, focusing.
"Leave the beer," another voice said. That was Bone. "Talk business. The Bookman dey vex."
My heart skipped a beat. The Bookman. The mythical boss of the gambling rings.
"Why yi di vex?" Razor asked. "Tashi win. We try take the money, we fail. It happens."
"It is not the money," Bone said. His voice was lower, vibrating the table my bug was stuck to. "Bookman check the records. Tashi played Correct Score 2-0. Five thousand francs."
"So? Lucky guess."
"No," Bone said. "Another ticket appear for Main Market. Pa Kila shop. Same score. Same stake. Five thousand francs. Payout 60,000."
Razor went silent. I could hear the clink of a bottle.
"Who play the second ticket?" Razor asked.
"A small boy," Bone said. "Pa Kila describe am. Small. Skinny. Big eyes. Talk like big man."
"Tashi's pikin," Razor whispered. "The wizard."
"Bookman say that boy no be normal pikin," Bone continued. "Yi say nobody fit guess that match with Keane injury. Unless..."
"Unless weti?"
"Unless he sees. Unless he has the Sight."
The static swelled for a second, then cleared.
"Bookman wants the boy," Bone said. "Not Tashi. Tashi is a fool. The boy is the gold mine. We wait. We watch him. Then... we take him to the Farm."
I ripped the headphones off.
My hands were shaking.
The Farm.
Everyone in Bamenda knew stories about "The Farm." It was where people went when the underworld wanted them to disappear. Or work.
I sat in the dark, the red light of the soldering station glowing like an evil eye.
They weren't just going to rob us.
They were going to kidnap me. They wanted to enslave me, to use my "Sight" to rig bets forever.
< Threat Assessment: Critical. > Gemini's voice was cold, devoid of the panic I felt. < Kidnap probability: 94%. Timeline: Within 72 hours. >
I can't fight them, I thought. I am ten years old. Razor has muscles on his muscles.
< Correct. Kinetic engagement is ill-advised. Asymmetric warfare required. >
I looked at the table.
I looked at the pile of junk components.
I looked at the high-voltage transformer from a disposable camera I had found in the box.
"Asymmetric warfare," I whispered.
I grabbed a piece of paper.
I didn't draw a radio.
I drew a circuit.
A Cockcroft-Walton multiplier.
It takes a small voltage say, 9 Volts and steps it up. And up. And up.
Until it becomes a spark.
50,000 Volts.
"I need a Taser," I said aloud.
I wasn't a businessman anymore.
I picked up the soldering iron.
War had come to Bamenda. And I was going to shock the hell out of it.