Fatigue is a heavy blanket. It muffles everything the sound of the birds, the shout of the teacher, the sting of the sun.
We were on the football pitch for Physical Education. Thursday P.E. was mandatory. Mr. Ngu stood on the sidelines with a whistle and a clipboard, marking us on "Vigor."
I sat on the grass, excused because of my arm. But Collins was not excused.
He stood in the goalpost, acting as goalkeeper for Team B. He looked terrible. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull. His uniform hung loose on his frame. His hands—usually strong enough to crush a walnut—were wrapped in dirty rags to hide the cuts from the steel wool.
"Corner kick!" Caleb shouted.
Junior took the kick. He was the striker for Team A. He looked fresh, his jersey bright white. He ran up and kicked the ball. It was a clean arc.
The ball flew toward the goal. It was an easy catch. Slow. Predictable. Collins reached up.
But his hands didn't close. The salt-sting from the steel wool cuts must have flared when the leather ball hit his palms. Or maybe his muscles just gave up after four nights of scrubbing rust.
The ball slipped through his hands. It hit his face. Thud. It bounced into the net.
"Goal!" Caleb screamed, dancing a jig. "Butter-fingers! Collins sleep for goal!"
Mr. Ngu blew the whistle. "Goal for Team A. Collins, wake up. Minus five marks for lack of coordination."
Collins didn't argue. He didn't shout back at Caleb. He just bent down to pick up the ball. He moved like an old man. stiff. Slow. He threw the ball back to the center line. It wobbled in the air, weak.
I watched him. The "Big Man" of the garage was being dismantled, piece by piece. By day, the school humiliated his mind. By night, the factory destroyed his hands.
And I was the architect.
The shop was dark. The kerosene lamp hissed on the counter. The smell of vinegar was sharp in the air.
We were working on the second batch for Massa Joe. Two buckets. One hundred wheel nuts. Projected Income: 5,000 Francs.
But something was wrong.
I sat by the plating tank, watching the bubbles. They were sluggish. I checked the voltmeter. 9.4 Volts.
The battery was dying. The current density was dropping.
"It needs more time," I whispered. "The zinc isn't moving fast enough."
Collins was scrubbing the finished nuts in the corner. "Nkem," he said. "Look this one."
He held up a wheel nut. It wasn't silver. It was patchy. Grey in some spots, brown in others. The plating hadn't taken.
"Did you clean it?" I asked.
"I scrub am hard," Collins said, his voice tight. "My hand di pain me, Nkem. I scrub am."
I took the nut. I scratched it with my fingernail. The grey coating flaked off, revealing rust underneath.
"It's peeling," I said. "Poor adhesion. The current was too low. Or the surface was dirty."
Tashi stepped into the light. He took the nut. He looked at it. He looked at the pile of twenty nuts Collins had just finished.
He picked up another one. It flaked too.
"Trash," Tashi said.
He swept the pile of twenty nuts off the counter. They scattered on the floor.
"Boss!" Collins cried out. "We work two hours for that!"
"We do not sell trash," Tashi said. His voice was cold, but I saw the twitch in his jaw. "If we give this to Joe, he will know it is a trick. He will know it is not 'German Spec'. He will know it is boys playing with vinegar."
He pointed at the floor.
"Do them again."
"I no fit!" Collins shouted. He held up his bandaged hands. "My hand don finish! The salt di chop me! Nkem, tell am!"
I looked at Tashi. "Papa, the battery is dead. We can't plate tonight. We need to recharge."
"How?" Tashi asked. "We have no grid."
"We wait for the sun," I said. "We charge tomorrow. We deliver late."
Tashi looked at the Deadline. "Joe wants them tomorrow morning."
"Then Joe waits," I said. "If we give him bad parts, we lose the contract. If we give him nothing, we make an excuse."
Tashi stared at the bad nuts on the floor. He calculated the loss. The vinegar. The time. The food we wouldn't buy tomorrow.
"Fine," Tashi whispered. "We close."
He blew out the lamp. We sat in the dark. Hungry. Tired. And failing.
Friday, September 11, 1999 Massa Joe's Garage 04:00 PM
We were late. We arrived at the garage in the afternoon, after school. Collins carried the bucket. It was heavy. We had re-plated the bad nuts in the morning sun, skipping school assembly to use the solar charge.
Massa Joe was busy. A white Toyota Land Cruiser was parked in the bay. It was pristine. Government plates. A driver in a uniform stood by the lift, smoking a cigarette.
Joe was under the car. "Tashi!" Joe shouted from under the chassis. "You late! I want fix this car morning time!"
"Quality takes time, Joe," Tashi said smoothly, stepping over a puddle of oil. "The German process is slow."
Joe slid out. He wiped his hands on a rag. He looked at the bucket. He picked up a handful of the shiny, silver wheel nuts.
"Clean," Joe admitted. "Better pass new one."
He turned to the car. He started spinning the nuts onto the wheel studs of the Land Cruiser. Zip. Zip. The air gun tightened them. They gleamed against the white rim.
The driver flicked his cigarette away. He walked over. He looked at the wheels.
"Joe," the driver said. "You buy new nut? I no authorize new part. Chairman say make we manage the old one."
My heart stopped. The Chairman. This was the Bookman's car. Or his brother's.
"I no buy new one," Joe said, grinning. "I refurbish am. New technology. 'German Spec'."
The driver frowned. He crouched down. He touched the silver nut. "Refurbish? Where?"
Joe pointed at Tashi. "Na Tashi. He get factory for Commercial Avenue. Tashi & Son Plating Division."
The driver stood up. He looked at Tashi. He looked at me. He looked at my bandaged arm. He looked at Collins' wrecked hands.
"Tashi," the driver said slowly. "I know you. You be the man wey sell the Unimog to Pa Chi."
"I am," Tashi said. He stood tall, despite his frayed collar.
"I hear say you broke," the driver said. "I hear say you di starve."
Tashi smiled. It was the smile of a poker player holding a pair of twos.
"Rumors are wind," Tashi said. "As you can see... we are expanding. Industrial Chemistry."
The driver looked at the wheel nuts again. They were shiny. They looked expensive. He couldn't reconcile the image of the starving shopkeeper with the reality of the silver steel.
"How much?" the driver asked Joe.
"2,000 for the service," Joe said.
The driver nodded. "I go tell Chairman," the driver said. "He like shiny things."
He paid Joe. Joe paid Tashi. 5,000 Francs.
We walked away fast.
We walked back to the shop. The bag of money was heavy in Tashi's pocket. But the air felt heavier.
"He knows," I whispered.
"He knows nothing," Tashi said. "He knows we cleaned some nuts."
"He knows we are working," I said. "He knows the embargo didn't kill us. He knows we have a 'Factory'."
"Good," Tashi said. "Let him wonder."
We entered the shop. Liyen was waiting. She looked worried.
"The landlord came," she said.
Tashi froze. "Cletus? We paid him."
"Not Cletus," Liyen said. "The City Council. The Health Inspector."
She pointed to a piece of paper pasted on the glass door. It was pink.
NOTICE OF VIOLATION Unlicensed Chemical Activity Commercial Zone B Fine: 25,000 Francs Payable in 7 Days.
Tashi ripped the paper off the door. He read it. His hands shook.
"They smelled the vinegar," I said. "Or the driver called them."
"It doesn't matter," Tashi said.
He looked at the 5,000 francs in his hand. He looked at the 25,000 franc fine.
The Rat Economy was working. We were making money. But the System was faster. For every 5,000 we made, they invented a 25,000 hole.
"We don't pay," Tashi said, crumpling the pink paper.
"If we don't pay, they seal the shop," Liyen said.
"Let them try," Tashi said. He threw the crumpled paper into the trash. "We are rats, remember? You can't seal a rat hole."
He looked at Collins. "Go buy kerosene. 1,000 francs. We work tonight. Double shift."
"Boss?" Collins asked, looking at his bleeding hands.
"Double shift," Tashi repeated. "We need 25,000 by next week. We need to plate every rusty bolt in Bamenda."
I looked at the dead battery bank. I looked at the vinegar bottle. I looked at the pink notice.
The enemy had found our tunnel.