The sun was dying behind the hills, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. But on the street, the day was just waking up.
Walking through Bamenda in 1999 was an obstacle course.
There were no streetlights here only the orange glow of kerosene lamps on roadside tables and the blinding white headlights of okada riders swerving through the potholes.
I walked slightly ahead of my mother. I felt the Kumba bread sitting heavy in my stomach, turning into the electricity my brain needed.
< Visual Cortex: Online. Night Vision enhancement: Minimal. Audio filtering: Active. >
Gemini was awake. The noise of the street the loud Makossa from the bars, the shouting of hawkers, the roar of engines usually overwhelmed me. Now, Gemini was dialing it down, turning the chaos into a manageable stream of data.
Liyen gripped my shoulder. Her hand was shaking.
"Nkem, we should go back," she whispered in English. "This is not a place for a child. If your Papa sees us..."
"If we go back, we don't eat," I said.
We turned the corner toward "Corner Bar." It wasn't really a bar; it was a wooden shack painted blue, with a rusted zinc roof that vibrated from the bass of the speaker outside.
This was the Bookman's territory.
The smell hit us first cigarettes, stale beer, and the sharp, nervous sweat of men who were losing money.
Liyen stopped. In Bamenda, a decent woman does not enter a gambling house. It brings shame.
"I cannot go inside," she said, her voice tight.
"Stay here, Ma," I said. "I will bring him."
I stepped into the doorway.
The room was thick with smoke. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting long, jumping shadows. There were about ten men inside. Some were drinking Jobajo (cheap locally brewed beer), but most were crowded around a chalkboard on the wall or huddled over a table in the corner.
They spoke the Deep Pidgin of the gamble. Fast. Aggressive.
"Massa, cut that ticket! I tell you say Arsenal no go draw!" one man shouted.
"Weti draw? You check say ball na luck?" another spat back. "Na calculation! Put money for ground if you get heart!"
I scanned the room.
< Face Recognition: Active. >
I saw him.
Tashi was at the corner table. He wasn't looking at football scores. He was holding cards.
He was playing Whot not the friendly family version, but the street version where money moves fast. Across from him sat a man with a scar running through his eyebrow. They called him "Razor." He worked for the Bookman.
On the table, there was a pile of crumpled notes.
I recognized the blue of the bills.
It was the four thousand francs from the radio.
Tashi was sweating. His eyes were wide, feverish. He held his cards tight against his chest.
"Last card," Razor said. His voice was like grinding stones. "Tashi, you wan play or you wan run?"
Tashi licked his lips. "I dey inside. I no di run."
He threw a thousand francs onto the pile.
That was the rice money. Gone.
I felt a cold rage. Not the child's fear, but the adult's disappointment. He was doing it again. Just like he did in the timeline before.
I walked up to the table. I was so small that nobody noticed me until I was standing right next to Tashi's elbow.
"Tara," I said.
Tashi jumped. He looked down. When he saw me, his face went from focus to shock, then to fury.
"Nkem?" He switched to rough Pidgin because his friends were watching. "Weti you di find here? Who send you?"
"Mami dey outside," I said. "She di wait for rice."
The men around the table laughed. It was a cruel sound.
"Eh, Tashi!" Razor mocked, slapping the table. "Pikin don come carry you go house! You no go buy milk for baby?"
Tashi's pride cracked. He stood up, towering over me.
"Go home!" he shouted, raising his hand. "You hear me? Comot for my face!"
I didn't flinch. I looked at the cards in Razor's hand. He was holding them loosely, confident he had won.
Gemini, I thought. Scan the deck. Scan the discard pile.
< Input limited. Logic inference active. Game: Whot. Opponent behavior: Confident. Discard pile top card: Triangle (3). Probability Opponent holds a 'Hold On' or a 'Pick Two': 92%. >
Can Tashi win?
< Scan Host's hand... Tashi holds: Square (4), Circle (1), and Star (8). >
< Outcome: Loss. Razor will play a 'Pick Two'. Tashi lacks a defense card. Tashi loses the pot. >
Tashi was about to lose everything.
"I say go!" Tashi pushed me. I stumbled back.
"Don't play the Star," I said.
The room went quiet. A ten-year-old giving advice in a gambling den?
Razor narrowed his eyes. "Small boy, shut mouth."
Tashi looked at me, his hand hovering over the Star card (Number 8). "You crazy?"
"If you play Star, he go play Pick Two," I said, pointing at Razor. "Then you go pick two. Then he go finish you with Circle."
Razor froze. His grip on his cards tightened.
I saw it. A micro-expression. Surprise.
He was holding a Pick Two and a Circle.
Tashi saw Razor's hesitation. He looked at his hand. He looked at me.
He was a gambler. He knew how to read fear. And Razor looked suddenly afraid that his trap had been spotted.
"You hold Pick Two?" Tashi asked Razor, his voice changing.
Razor scowled. "Play your card, man! Time di go!"
Tashi didn't play the Star. He pulled the Square (4) instead.
"I play Square," Tashi said.
Razor cursed under his breath. Mtcheew.
The Square forced the number. Razor didn't have a Square. He had to go to the market (draw a card).
He drew.
He drew again.
The momentum shifted.
Tashi played the Circle. Razor played a Circle. Tashi played the Star.
"Check up," Tashi slammed his last card. "Game finish."
The table erupted.
"Eh! Tashi don kill am!"
"Small boy get eye oh!"
Razor stared at me. His eyes were cold, dangerous. He threw his cards down.
"Luck," he spat. "Na just luck."
Tashi grabbed the money. The pile was big now. almost eight thousand francs. He was laughing, shaking, high on the win.
"You see?" Tashi shouted, grabbing my shoulder and shaking me. "My pikin bring luck! Wuna see am? Magic!"
He looked at me with wild eyes. "Nkem! We go chop chicken today!"
He was about to bet again. I could see it. He wanted to double it.
I grabbed his wrist. My grip was weak, but my eyes were hard.
"Mami dey outside," I said in Dialect. "She is crying."
The words cut through his high. He looked at the door. He saw the shadow of his wife standing in the dark street, afraid to come near the sin.
Tashi looked at the money. He looked at Razor, who was shuffling the deck, waiting for the rematch.
"Next game," Razor growled. "Double or nothing."
< Probability of Tashi winning next round: 14% > Gemini warned. < Opponent is shuffling the deck. Slight of hand detected. He is cheating. >
I squeezed Tashi's wrist. "Let us go, Father. The luck is finished."
Tashi hesitated. The gambler in him wanted to stay. But the shame of his wife waiting outside, and the strange, eerie calm of his son, broke the spell.
"Tomorrow," Tashi said to Razor. He shoved the money into his pockets. "Man pikin need sleep."
He pushed me toward the door. "Walk fast."
We stepped out into the cool night air. Liyen was waiting, her arms crossed, shivering.
When she saw Tashi, she didn't smile. She looked at his hands.
"You have it?" she asked.
Tashi pulled out the wad of notes. He peeled off two thousand francs and handed it to her.
"Take. Buy rice. Buy fish. Big fish."
He kept the rest the other six thousand. I knew he would lose it tomorrow. But not tonight.
Liyen took the money. She looked at me. She didn't ask what happened inside. She just took my hand.
"Let's go home," she said.
We walked back up the dark street. Tashi walked behind us, whistling, feeling like a king because he had won a card game in a shack.
I felt the drain again. The Kumba bread was used up. The focus, the scanning, the calculation it cost too much.
< Battery low. Entering sleep mode. >
I stumbled. Liyen caught me.
"I've got you," she whispered.
I looked back.
Razor was standing in the doorway of the bar, watching us leave. He wasn't looking at Tashi. He was looking at me.
He took a drag of his cigarette, the embers glowing red in the dark.
He knew.
He knew I had called his hand.
In 2025, I made enemies because I was rich.
In 1999, I had just made my first enemy because I was smart.
And Razor wasn't just a card player. He worked for the Bookman.
Trouble, I thought as the darkness took me. Trouble is coming fast.