The shop was under occupation.
It wasn't the police. It wasn't the Bookman. It was the Bamenda Tailors' Union.
Twelve women sat on the benches, on the counter, and on overturned crates. The air was thick with the smell of roasted groundnuts, cheap perfume, and anger.
I sat in the corner of the Lab, invisible. Collins was outside, washing the plating buckets. Tashi was behind the counter, looking like a captain whose ship had been boarded by pirates.
He was the "Manager," but in this room, he was a spectator. Liyen was the center of gravity.
She stood in the middle of the shop, her arms crossed. She wasn't wearing her apron. She was wearing her Union sash faded purple velvet with gold lettering.
"We have a deadline," a woman shouted. It was Madame Florence. She was a large woman with a loud voice and a shop in the Main Market. She was Liyen's rival.
"Pa Fomunyuy is dead," Florence announced, playing to the crowd. "The funeral is on Saturday. Five hundred guests. The family has bought the fabric white lace. But the uniform for the women is Black. Black skirts. Black headties."
"So sew them," Liyen said calmly.
"With what?" Florence snapped. she reached into her bag and pulled out a spool of thread. It was White.
"Emeka has no black thread," Florence spat. "The distributors have no black thread. The Bookman has locked the color Black. He knows it is funeral season. He is holding the stock."
She turned to the other women.
"I went to the Bookman's warehouse," Florence admitted.
The room went quiet. This was treason.
"He has black thread," Florence said, defiant. "Moon Brand. Strong. But he will only sell to a Registered association. He says the Union is... disorganized."
"He means the Union is led by the wife of his enemy," Liyen said. Her voice was ice.
"He means we are suffering for your husband's war!" Florence shouted. She pointed at Tashi. "Why must we sew with white thread on black cloth? It looks like teeth! It looks cheap! If we don't deliver for Fomunyuy's funeral, the Union is finished. The women will go to the independent tailors."
Florence stepped closer to Liyen.
"Step down, Liyen. Let me register the association with the Chairman. I will get the thread. We will save the contract."
Tashi opened his mouth to speak, but Liyen held up a hand. She didn't look at Tashi. She looked at Florence.
"You want to register?" Liyen asked. "You want to pay his fees? You want to kiss his ring?"
"I want to work!" Florence yelled. "I am a tailor, not a soldier!"
"Give me 24 hours," Liyen said.
"We don't have 24 hours! The funeral is Saturday!"
"Tomorrow morning," Liyen said. "08:00 AM. I will have the thread. Black thread. Strong thread."
"From where?" Florence sneered. "Nigeria? You can't even afford petrol."
"That is my business," Liyen said. "If I don't have it by 8 AM... you can have the sash."
The women left. The silence returned.
Tashi looked at Liyen. "Liyen," he whispered. "We don't have money for a smuggling run. And Emeka won't sell to you."
"I know," Liyen said. She took off the sash. She folded it carefully.
"Then where?"
"Nkem," Liyen said. "Come."
I stood up. "Yes, Ma."
"We are going to the market."
We walked. We didn't go to the textile row. We didn't go to the electronics row. We went to the Food Market. The muddy, chaotic section where the village women sold spices and palm oil.
Liyen moved with purpose. She stopped at a stall smelling of dried shrimp and peppers. "Ma Agnes," Liyen greeted the old woman.
"Liyen," Agnes smiled, revealing toothless gums. "You want pepper?"
"I want Caustic Soda," Liyen said. "And Black Potash. And salt."
She bought a kilo of caustic soda crystals (used for making soap). She bought a bag of heavy rock salt.
Then we went to the hardware lane. She bought ten packets of Tiger Dye. Black. The cheap powder used for dyeing cement floors or old jeans.
Finally, we went to the "Bend-Skin" section the used clothes. But she didn't buy clothes. She found a boy selling Industrial Yarn huge cones of raw, white cotton thread intended for knitting machines, not sewing machines. It was cheap because nobody used knitting machines in Bamenda anymore.
She bought five cones. Total Cost: 4,000 Francs. She took it from her own purse her "kitchen money." She didn't touch the Safe.
We were back in the Lab. Tashi watched us, confused. Liyen set up a large aluminum pot on the gas burner in the kitchen.
"We boil the thread," Liyen said. "We dye it."
"It won't work, Ma," I said.
Liyen stopped. "Why?"
I pointed to the massive, tight cones of white thread. "The cone is wound tight. If you throw it in the pot, the dye will touch the outside. But inside? It will stay white. When you sew, the thread will be striped. Black, white, black, white."
Liyen looked at the cone. She pressed it. It was hard as rock. "You are right," she whispered. "The pressure ..."
She looked at the clock. "To dye it properly, it must be loose. A skein."
"We have to unwind it," I said. "Dye it loose. Dry it. Then wind it back."
Liyen looked at the five cones. Each one held maybe 5,000 meters of thread. "That is miles of thread, Nkem. To wind it by hand... it will take a week."
I looked at the cones. I looked at the bicycle wheel hanging on the wall an old rim Collins had saved. I looked at the drill Tashi kept in the toolbox.
"We don't do it by hand," I said. "We are Rats. We use machines."
"Collins!" I shouted.
Collins came in from the yard, his hands dripping with vinegar. "Weti?"
"We need a rig," I said. "The bicycle rim. We mount it on the table. We use it to unwind the cones into loose loops."
We worked fast. We nailed the bicycle axle to a wooden plank. We tied the end of the white thread to the rim.
"Spin it," I told Collins.
Collins spun the wheel. Whirrrr. The thread flew off the cone and wrapped around the spinning rim. In five minutes, we had a giant, loose loop of white thread a "hank."
We did all five cones. We had piles of loose white spaghetti on the floor.
Liyen took over. The kitchen became a witches' cavern. She boiled the water. She added the caustic soda (to open the cotton fibers). She added the salt (the mordant, to fix the dye). She added the Tiger Dye.
The water turned a deep, oily black.
She dropped the loose hanks of thread into the pot. She stirred it with a wooden spoon. The smell was chemical sharp and earthy.
"Keep the temperature steady," she commanded. "If it boils too hard, the cotton weakens. If it cools, the color fades."
We watched the pot for an hour. Tashi stood in the doorway, watching his wife. He had banned chemistry in the shop. But he couldn't ban chemistry in the kitchen. This wasn't "Industrial Activity." This was "cooking."
We pulled the thread out. It was jet black. We rinsed it in cold water until the water ran clear.
Now came the hard part. Wet thread is useless.
"The oven," Liyen said.
She turned the gas oven to low. We draped the hanks of wet black thread over the racks. We left the door open slightly to let the steam escape.
We waited. We ate rice and beans while the thread baked.
The thread was dry. It was stiff, crinkly, and black as night. But it was in big, loose loops. You can't put a loop on a sewing machine. You need a spool.
"Phase Two," I said.
We set up the drill. I found five empty spools from Liyen's sewing box. I jammed a spool onto a drill bit. I clamped the drill to the table with tape.
Collins held the loose skein of black thread on his arms, acting as the tensioner. I guided the thread. Tashi managed the drill trigger.
"Slow," I said.
Zzzzzt. The drill spun. The black thread flew from Collins' arms onto the spinning spool.
It was mesmerizing. The pile of loose chaos was becoming a tight, disciplined product. Zzzzt. Zzzzt.
My arm ached holding the guide, but I didn't stop. Collins' arms were tired holding the skeins, but he didn't drop them.
By midnight, we had five massive spools of thread. Deep, rich, black thread. It wasn't Moon Brand. It was rougher. It smelled faintly of salt. But it was Black.
Madame Florence arrived early. She brought three other women with her. They looked grim, ready to strip the sash from Liyen's shoulders.
"It is 8 o'clock, Liyen," Florence said, stepping into the shop. "Did you get the shipment? Or are we going to the Bookman?"
Liyen stood behind the counter. She looked tired. Her eyes were red from the fumes. Her hands were stained black from the dye.
She didn't speak. She reached under the counter.
Thud. She placed the first spool on the glass. It was huge. Bigger than a standard spool. A monster of black cotton.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Four more joined it.
"Five industrial spools," Liyen said. "Equivalent to fifty standard spools. Enough for the funeral. And the wedding next week."
Florence stared at the thread. She picked it up. She pulled a strand. She snapped it. It broke with a sharp pop.
"It is strong," Florence admitted. She looked at the color. It was a matte black, darker than the commercial stuff. "It is... very black."
"It is 'Midnight Special'," Liyen lied smoothly. "A custom blend."
Florence looked at Liyen's stained hands. She looked at the bicycle wheel still mounted on the table in the Lab. She looked at the lingering steam in the air.
She knew. She knew it wasn't imported. She knew Liyen hadn't bowed to the Bookman. She knew Liyen had made it.
Florence put the spool down. She looked at the other women. They were smiling. They didn't care about the brand. They cared about the color.
"How much?" Florence asked.
"Market price," Liyen said. "We are a Union. We do not gouge each other."
Florence nodded. A slow, grudging nod of respect. "You keep the sash, Liyen."
She picked up the spools. "We sew today."
The women left. The shop was quiet.
Tashi walked over to the counter. He looked at the black stains on the glass. He looked at Liyen.
"You cooked the thread," Tashi said.
"I cooked the thread," Liyen agreed.
"You saved the Union."
"I saved the contract," she corrected. "The Union is just a collection of people who are afraid to be alone."
She looked at me and Collins. "Clean the pots. If my rice tastes like Tiger Dye tomorrow, you will wash clothes for a month."
I smiled. We had no electricity. We had enemies on every side. But we had just manufactured our own supply chain in the kitchen.
I opened the ledger. I didn't write Income. I wrote: Asset: The Union. Status: Secure.
The Bookman could block the road. He could block the port. But he couldn't block the kitchen.