Tashi & Son Electronics
Commercial Avenue, Bamenda
Friday, August 27, 1999
Healing is not a passive act. It is an itch.
Two weeks had passed since the acid burned my arm. The angry red islands of raw flesh had scabbed over, turning into a hard, brown topography that pulled tight against my skin every time I moved. Underneath the bandages, my arm felt like it was covered in ants.
I sat in the front shop, dismantling a broken cassette player with my left hand. My right arm was still in the sling, useless.
The shop was open. The weather was beautiful the heavy rains of August had paused, leaving the sky a crisp, laundered blue.
But the shop was dead.
The "Silent Siege" had settled into a dull, grinding routine. The Bookman hadn't burned us down. He hadn't arrested us. He had simply turned off the tap.
The thread embargo held. Liyen had no stock.
The kerosene dumping continued. 150 francs a liter.
Our battery bank held a ghost charge of 10.9 Volts enough for lights, but not for business.
We were existing. Like a plant in a dark room that hasn't died yet but has stopped growing.
Tashi was sitting on his stool, staring at the street. He wasn't reading the newspaper anymore. He was watching the traffic. Specifically, he was watching the children.
It was late August. The season of the Book List.
Everywhere you looked, parents were dragging reluctant children into bookshops. They carried long sheets of paper—the lists of required textbooks, exercise books, math sets, and toilet rolls mandated by the Ministry of Education.
Tashi watched a man walk past carrying a stack of new, glossy textbooks wrapped in plastic. Tashi's eyes followed the books. He calculated the cost in his head. Then he looked at his hands.
"September is coming," Tashi murmured.
"Tuesday," I said, snapping the plastic casing of the cassette player. "September 1st."
Tashi sighed. It was a heavy sound, loaded with the specific guilt of a father who knows the calendar is an enemy.
"Class Six," Tashi said. "The Common Entrance year."
"Yes."
"You need to go," Tashi said. He wasn't talking to me. He was talking to himself. "If you miss Class Six, you miss the GTC entrance. You miss the Technical College."
He turned to me.
"Nkem, have you seen the list?"
"I don't need the list, Papa," I said, putting down the screwdriver. "I know the math. Registration: 5,000. PTA Levy: 3,000. Uniform: 4,000. Books: 15,000. Total: 27,000 francs."
I patted the petty cash tin. It rattled.
Contents: 850 Francs.
"We can't afford it," I said flatly. "I will study at home. Gemini has the entire British curriculum in the database. I don't need a classroom."
Tashi stood up. He walked over to me and took the screwdriver from my hand.
"No," he said.
"Papa, look at the ledger. We barely eat."
"You are not a mechanic, Nkem," Tashi said, his voice hard. "You are not an apprentice who sits on the floor fixing radios for 100 francs until he dies. You are an Engineer. Engineers go to school."
He grabbed his hat.
"Where are you going?"
"To the school," Tashi said. "To Government School Atuakom. I know the Headmaster. We played football together in the youth league."
"Papa, you can't pay him with football stories."
"I will pay him with my face," Tashi said. "I will beg. Stay here."
He walked out.
I watched him go. He walked with his shoulders hunched, bracing himself against the humiliation to come.
Liyen came out from the back. She was holding a bundle of blue fabric scraps.
"He went?" she asked.
"He went."
She nodded. She spread the scraps on the counter. They were off-cuts. Leftovers from uniforms she had sewn for other children months ago. Different shades of blue. Some cotton, some polyester.
"I can't buy fabric," Liyen whispered, smoothing a wrinkled piece. "Emeka still won't sell to me. The embargo is tight."
"So?"
"So, we improvise," she said. She picked up her scissors. "Stand up, Nkem. Let me measure you."
I stood up. She draped the scraps over my small frame.
"It will be... colorful," she tried to joke, but her eyes were wet. "A bit of light blue here, a bit of dark blue there. A quilt."
"It's fine, Ma," I said.
"It is not fine!" she snapped, cutting the air with the scissors. "You are the son of the Union President! You should have the crispest uniform in the school! You should look like a Prince!"
She stopped. She took a deep breath. She touched my bandage.
"But you will look like a fighter," she whispered. "And that is better."
She began to pin the scraps together.
Snip. Snip.
The sound of poverty trying to look like dignity.
Tashi returned at noon. He looked drained, as if he had run a marathon.
"Well?" Liyen asked, looking up from the sewing machine.
"Mr. Abang took the registration," Tashi said, pouring himself a cup of water. "He waived the PTA levy. For 'Old Time's Sake'."
"And the books?"
Tashi pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. The Book List.
"He cannot waive the books," Tashi said. "The Ministry inspectors come on the first day. If the child has no books, they send him home. It is the law."
He looked at me.
"We need the Math book, the English reader, and the exercise books. Minimum."
"How much?" I asked.
"New? 12,000."
"We have 850."
"We go to the Second-Hand Market," Tashi said. "Commercial Avenue. The 'Bend-Skin' sellers."
We walked out. Me, Tashi, and Collins carrying an empty rice sack.
The sidewalk of Commercial Avenue was transformed. It was a chaotic river of paper.
Hundreds of street vendors had laid out thousands of used books on the pavement. It was a graveyard of knowledge. Dog-eared textbooks, coverless readers, exercise books with the first few pages torn out.
"Book! Book! Class One to Class Seven!" the hawkers shouted. "Chemistry! Physics! Cheap cheap!"
We walked through the gauntlet.
Tashi stopped at a pile of math books. He picked one up. Evans Mathematics for Africa: Book 6.
The cover was missing. The spine was taped with masking tape. Scribbles covered the margins.
"How much?" Tashi asked the boy sitting on the crate.
"1,500," the boy said.
"800," Tashi countered. "It has no cover."
"The numbers still dey inside, Papa," the boy grinned. "1,200."
Tashi put it down. He moved to the next pile.
I watched my father haggle over a book that was falling apart. He touched the pages gently, checking for missing leaves. He was negotiating for my future with coins he didn't have.
Then, I saw Him.
Across the street, stepping out of a shiny white Toyota Corolla, was a boy my age.
He was wearing a brand new, crisp uniform. He was holding a bag from the expensive bookshop, Presbook.
He was followed by a driver carrying a box of supplies.
It was Junior. The Bookman's nephew. The one who lived in the White Villa.
He looked at the street vendors with disdain. He looked at me.
He saw my sling. He saw my father arguing over a torn book. He saw Collins holding a dirty sack.
Junior smiled. It wasn't a mean smile. It was a pitying smile.
He pulled a brand new Evans Mathematics from his bag. The cover was glossy and blue. It caught the sun.
He tapped it, winked at me, and got back in the car.
I felt a heat rise in my chest that had nothing to do with the acid burn.
"Papa," I said.
Tashi looked up. He followed my gaze. He saw the white car driving away.
He looked at the torn book in his hand.
He dropped the book.
"Come," Tashi said. His voice was tight.
"Where?"
"To the shop," Tashi said. "We are not buying trash today."
"But the list..."
"Forget the list!" Tashi snapped. "We need money. Real money."
We walked back to the shop in silence.
Tashi marched straight through the front door, past Liyen, and into the backyard.
He stopped in front of the Unimog.
The massive, rusted beast sat on blocks. We used it for deliveries, but we rarely drove it far because it guzzled diesel like a tank. It was Tashi's pride. It was the symbol that he was a "Transporter," not just a shopkeeper.
Tashi put his hand on the grill.
"Collins," Tashi said.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Go to the motor park. Find Pa Chi. The timber merchant."
"Pa Chi?"
"Tell him the Unimog is for sale."
Liyen dropped her scissors. She ran to the back door.
"Tashi! No!"
"We need the money, Liyen," Tashi said, not looking at her. "School starts Tuesday. The boy cannot go with torn books. He cannot go as a beggar."
"The truck is your legs!" Liyen shouted. "If you sell it, how do we move stock? How do we expand?"
"We have no stock to move!" Tashi roared, spinning around. "The Bookman took the stock! He took the customers! Now he wants to take my son's pride?"
He pointed at the street where Junior had vanished.
"I saw him, Liyen. The Bookman's boy. With his shiny book. Looking at Nkem like he was a stray dog."
Tashi's voice broke.
"I will not have it. I am the father. If I have to walk, I walk. But Nkem will have the books. He will have the best books."
"Papa," I said, stepping forward. "I don't need"
"Quiet, Engineer," Tashi said gently. "You fix the machines. Let me fix this."
Pa Chi arrived an hour later. He was a thick-set man who smelled of sawdust and tobacco. He walked around the Unimog, kicking the tires.
"It is old, Tashi," Chi grunted. "The gearbox is loud."
"It is German," Tashi said. "It will climb a wall."
"Why do you sell?" Chi asked, eyeing the solar panels on the roof. "I thought you were the Solar King now."
"I am consolidating," Tashi lied. "Changing strategy."
Chi spat tobacco juice on the ground.
"300,000 francs."
"It is worth 800,000," Tashi said.
"In good times, yes," Chi grinned. "But everyone knows Tashi is dry. 350,000. Cash. Today."
Tashi looked at the truck. He looked at me.
He looked at the Book List in his hand.
"Done," Tashi whispered.
Pa Chi reached into his pocket. He counted out the bills. A thick stack of dirty 5,000 franc notes.
He handed them to Tashi.
Tashi handed him the keys.
Pa Chi climbed in. The engine roared to life a deep, guttural belch of black smoke.
He drove it out of the yard.
The yard looked empty. Huge and empty.
Tashi stood there, holding the money. He looked smaller. He was no longer a Transporter. He was just a pedestrian with cash.
He turned to me. He peeled off five notes.
"Collins," Tashi said. "Go to Presbook. Buy the list. Everything. New. And buy a Parker pen."
He looked at Liyen.
"Go to the textile shop. Not Emeka. Go to the expensive one in Up Station where the white people shop. Buy the best cotton. Sew the uniform."
He walked past us, into the dark shop.
He put the rest of the money in the safe.
"We have time," Tashi whispered to the empty shelves. "We have money. But we have no wheels."
Tuesday, September 1, 1999
The First Day
I stood in front of the mirror in the Lab.
The uniform was perfect. Liyen had sewn it with the precision of a surgeon. The light blue shirt was crisp. The dark blue shorts were sharp.
On my back, I wore a new backpack. Inside were the glossy Evans Mathematics, the pristine exercise books, and a Parker pen.
I looked like a rich kid.
But I knew the cost.
Outside, the yard was empty. The Unimog was gone.
Tashi walked in. He was wearing his best shirt. He had ironed it.
"Ready, Engineer?"
"Ready, Papa."
He walked me to school. We walked. We didn't drive.
We walked past the Bookman's kiosk. The line for kerosene was still there.
We walked past the empty spot where the Unimog used to park.
We reached the gates of Government School Atuakom.
Hundreds of children were swarming in the dust.
A white Toyota Corolla pulled up.
Junior stepped out. He looked immaculate.
He saw me. He saw my new uniform. He saw my new bag.
He frowned. He looked for the Unimog. He didn't see it.
He looked confused.
Tashi knelt down in front of me. He gripped my good shoulder.
"Listen to me, Nkem," Tashi said. His eyes were fierce. "We sold the legs to buy the head. Do not waste it."
"I won't."
"You are not just a student," Tashi whispered. "You are a spy. Learn everything. The math. The science. The physics. Steal it all. And bring it home."
"Yes, Papa."
"Go."
I turned and walked through the gates.
The school bell rang.
It was a loud, rusted iron sound.
I was in the system now.
The Bookman controlled the market.