Tashi & Son Electronics
Commercial Avenue
Wednesday, July 7, 1999
The shop had become a theater.
Every morning, Tashi performed. He no longer wore the shiny polyester shirts of a desperate gambler. He had adopted a "Technician's uniform" a clean, khaki work shirt with a pen tucked into the pocket. He didn't know how to use the pen for anything other than marking football scores, but the image was powerful.
He spent his days behind the glass counter, regaling customers with the story of how "we" brought light to the hills.
"You see that boy?" Tashi would say, pointing toward the back room where I sat. "He get head like computer. But na me train am. I tell am say, 'Nkem, look the sun. The sun na free money. Why we di cry for SONEL?'"
Tashi was developing a new kind of addiction. It wasn't cards anymore; it was Respect. He loved the way the big men from the Council talked to him now. He loved the way the market women called him "Massa Tashi."
But at night, when the shop was locked and the "Theater" ended, I saw the cracks. He would sit in the dim light of a Zombie Lamp, staring at his hands. He was terrified that the "Magic" would stop. He was a man standing on a pedestal built by his ten-year-old son, and he knew how high the fall would be.
< Behavioral Observation: Tashi is experiencing Imposter Syndrome, > Gemini noted. < He is over-compensating. His pride is now tied to your output. If you fail, he breaks. >
"He won't break," I whispered, soldering a new diode. "I'll keep the pedestal steady."
If Tashi was loud, Liyen was becoming a ghost.
She came to the shop every afternoon to bring us food fufu and njama-njama, or roasted fish. She would set the bowls down and watch me work. She didn't talk about the "juju" anymore. She didn't pray out loud.
But I saw her eyes. When I used the multimeter, she looked at the digital numbers as if they were demonic scriptures. She was the only one who truly remembered the Nkem from three months ago the boy who cried when he scraped his knee, the boy who couldn't do long division.
One evening, as she was packing the empty bowls, she touched my hand. Her skin was rough from years of needlework.
"Nkem," she whispered. "The Colonel says you are a hero. Your Papa says you are a king."
"And you, Ma?"
She looked at the glowing soldering iron. "I think my son is gone. I think a man is wearing his skin."
It was the most perceptive thing anyone had said. I felt a sharp pang of guilt. I was an intruder in her life, a ghost from a future that hadn't happened yet.
"I am still your son, Ma," I said, my voice cracking a rare moment of genuine childhood coming through.
"Then stop looking at me like you know when I will die," she said.
She left before I could answer. The door clicked shut, and the silence of the shop felt heavier than before.
In the back room, the "Board of Directors" was meeting.
Uncle Lucas and Barrister Simon Fru sat on crates. It was an unlikely alliance: the Sword and the Shield.
Lucas was looking at the map of the North West. He had three more radios on the floor. "The Bookman is moving his money into 'Legitimate' transport companies," Lucas said. "He's buying taxis. He's buying the okada riders. He's building a network of eyes on every corner."
Simon Fru polished his glasses. "He's doing what I feared. He's building a 'Shadow State'. He knows he can't fight your soldiers, Lucas. So he's going to make it so that nothing moves in Bamenda without him knowing. Including Nkem's supplies."
"He's trying to choke the supply chain," I said, stepping into their circle.
I pointed to a list of components I needed: Deep-cycle batteries, high-purity copper, and inverter MOSFETs. "Mr. Patel is scared. The Bookman's men visited his shop. They told him if he sells to Tashi & Son, his warehouse in Douala might 'catch fire'."
Lucas slammed a fist onto his knee. "I will put a guard at Patel's!"
"No," I said. "That just makes it look like we are desperate. We don't need Patel. We need the Port."
I looked at Simon Fru. "Barrister, you said you could help with the import papers. If we can't buy in Bamenda, we buy in Douala. We buy in bulk. We use the Colonel's military trucks to move the goods as 'Defense Equipment'."
Simon smiled. "The 'Technical Training Center' papers are signed, Nkem. You are now officially an educational body. Educational materials are duty-free. If we label a shipment of solar cells as 'Physics Laboratory Supplies', the Tax Man can't touch it."
"And if the Bookman tries to stop a Gendarmerie truck on the highway?" Lucas grinned, patting his holster. "Let him try. My boys are bored anyway."
Outside the shop, Collins was changing too.
He wasn't just a wheelbarrow boy anymore. He was the "Head of Security and Logistics" for Tashi & Son. He had a new pair of boots and a walkie-talkie I had built for him a simple RF unit that allowed him to talk to me from the end of the street.
He took his job with terrifying seriousness. He had recruited four other market boys. They were his "scouts."
"Nkem," Collins' voice crackled over my receiver. "The Yamaha bike is back. Two men. They di look the shop from the pharmacy side."
"Don't move, Collins. Just watch."
"I see them fine. One get scar for yi neck. He di carry camera."
They are taking photos, I thought. They are mapping our movements.
< Behavioral Analysis: > Gemini noted. < The Bookman is not planning a robbery. He is planning an 'Event'. Something to discredit the shop publicly. >
"He wants to show everyone that the light is dangerous," I whispered.
It was Gemini who found the historical trigger.
< Alert: Celestial Event approaching, > Gemini projected. < August 11, 1999. A total solar eclipse will occur. While the path of totality is in Europe and Asia, Cameroon will experience a significant partial eclipse (80-85% coverage). >
In 1999 Bamenda, a solar eclipse wasn't a scientific curiosity. It was an omen.
If the sky turned dark in the middle of the day, and the "Wizard Boy" was the one who claimed to own the sun, the Bookman would use it. He would tell the people that Nkem had "stolen" the sun into his batteries. He would turn the village against us.
"We have to get ahead of the darkness," I said.
"Weti you di talk, Nkem?" Tashi asked, looking up from his newspaper.
"The sun is going to disappear for a few minutes next month, Papa," I said. "And if we don't handle it right, this shop will burn."
I looked at my team the gambler, the colonel, the lawyer, and the street boy. We were a ragtag group of survivors, but we were about to face the most powerful force in Africa: Superstition.
"Collins!" I barked into the radio.
"I dey here, Massa!"
"Find out who the biggest 'Pastor' is in Bamenda. The one who shouts the loudest about the end of the world. We need to invite him for a 'demonstration'."
I was going to use the church to fight the Bookman's juju. It was time for a little Millennium Theatre.