Success leaves a stain.
I sat in the break yard, hiding my hands. They were a map of our crimes. The fingertips were grey from the zinc plating. The palms were stained a deep, indelible purple-black from the Tiger Dye. The knuckles were raw from the steel wool.
I looked like I had dipped my hands in a mixture of oil and blood and let it dry.
"Nkem," a voice said.
I looked up. Junior was standing there. He wasn't with his usual crowd of "Big Men." He was alone. He was holding a bottle of Djino, the condensation dripping onto his polished shoes.
He looked at my hands. I pulled them into my sleeves.
"Ink," I lied. "A pen exploded."
Junior took a sip of his soda. He didn't blink.
"My uncle imports ink," Junior said softly. "Parker. Bic. Pelikan. I know what ink looks like."
He stepped closer. He lowered his voice.
"My driver put new wheels on the Land Cruiser yesterday. Matte silver. He said Tashi did it."
I said nothing. The rule of the spy: Deny everything.
"And this morning," Junior continued, "my auntie was screaming. She wanted to sew a dress for the Fomunyuy funeral. But the tailor Madame Florence told her the price of black thread had gone up. Because the 'Union Supply' is premium."
He looked at me. He looked at the bulge in my pocket where I kept the small pair of pliers I used for repairs.
"You are busy," Junior said.
"We are surviving," I said, my voice tight.
Junior nodded. He looked at the school building. He looked at Mr. Ngu standing on the veranda.
"My uncle hates surprises," Junior whispered. "He controls the port. He controls the road. If things appear in the market that he didn't sign for... he gets headaches. And when he gets headaches, people lose their shops."
He finished his soda. He placed the empty bottle on the bench next to me.
"Wash your hands, Nkem," Junior said. "You look like a mechanic."
He walked away. I looked at the empty bottle. It wasn't a threat. It was a weather report. The barometer was falling.
The shop was buzzing. Not with electricity we were still dead dark but with people.
Two mechanics were waiting for Collins to finish a batch of wheel nuts. A woman from the Union was collecting three spools of "Midnight Special" thread. Pa Mathew had sent a boy with a bag of rusty radio screws.
We were moving product. Income for the day: 6,500 Francs. We were rich. relatively speaking.
Then the shadow fell across the doorway.
The chatter stopped. The mechanics stepped back. The Union woman clutched her bag and hurried out.
Emeka stood in the doorway. He was a large man, wearing a flowing agbada that took up half the frame. He was the biggest distributor in the Commercial Avenue Market. The man who had refused to sell thread to Liyen. The man who answered to the Bookman.
He walked in. His sandals made no sound on the concrete. He looked at the empty shelves. He looked at the dark lights. Then he looked at the spool of black thread sitting on the counter.
He picked it up. He weighed it. He pulled a strand and snapped it. Pop.
"Tashi," Emeka said. His voice was deep, like stones grinding together.
"Emeka," Tashi replied. He didn't move from behind the counter. He kept his hands visible.
"Business is good," Emeka noted. "I hear the tailors are happy. I hear the mechanics are happy."
"We do our best," Tashi said.
Emeka placed the spool back on the counter. "I checked my manifest, Tashi. I checked the trucks from Ikom. I checked the trucks from Douala. No container of black industrial yarn entered Bamenda this week."
He leaned forward. The smell of expensive cologne filled the shop.
"So," Emeka said. "Where did you get it?"
The room was silent. Collins stopped scrubbing in the corner. I held my breath.
If Emeka knew we dyed it in the kitchen, he would laugh. Then he would call the Health Inspector again for "unlicensed chemical production." But if he thought we smuggled it...
Tashi smiled. It was a cold, tight smile.
" The border is long, Emeka," Tashi said. "And the bush paths are many."
Emeka's eyes narrowed. He respected smugglers. Smugglers were businessmen. They took risks. They paid bribes. They were part of the game.
"You have a new route," Emeka stated. "A back door to Nigeria."
Tashi didn't confirm. He didn't deny. He just shrugged. "A man must eat."
Emeka tapped the spool. "The Chairman likes to know who is using his roads. If you are bringing in containers..."
"Not containers," Tashi said. "Suitcases. Small volume. High quality."
He pushed the spool toward Emeka. "Sample?"
Emeka looked at the spool. He saw the quality. It was rough, but strong. He looked at Tashi. He saw a man who had sold his truck, who sat in the dark, but who still had product.
"You are stubborn, Tashi," Emeka said. "But be careful. Small boats sink in big rivers."
He turned to leave. Then he stopped.
"The Zinc," Emeka said. "The silver parts the mechanics are buying. Is that smuggled too?"
"German technology," Tashi lied smoothly. "Trade secret."
Emeka laughed. A short, dry bark. "You are a magician. You have no money, no truck, no lights. But you have stock."
He walked out.
Tashi let out a long breath. He slumped against the shelves.
"He thinks we are smugglers," I whispered.
"Better a smuggler than a cook," Tashi said. "If he thinks we are smuggling, he thinks we are powerful. He thinks we have connections in Nigeria. He will hesitate."
"But if he checks?"
"He can't check the bush paths," Tashi said. "He is paranoid. He will spend the next week trying to find our phantom truck."
Liyen came out from the back. She was wiping her hands. "He took the sample?"
"He left it," Tashi said.
"Good," Liyen said. "Because Florence wants ten more spools. And the mechanics brought another bucket of bolts."
Tashi looked at the work piling up. Ten spools. Fifty bolts. We needed to boil the pots. We needed to mix the vinegar. We needed to sand the rust. And we had to do it all in the dark, in secret, while pretending to be international smugglers.
"We are at capacity," Tashi said. "We can't do more. The kitchen is full. The yard is full. Collins' hands are bleeding."
He looked at Collins. Collins was wrapping fresh rags around his fingers. He didn't complain. He just looked at the pile of work.
"We need a machine," I said. "For the winding. And for the polishing. We are doing it by hand. It's too slow."
"We have no power, Engineer," Tashi reminded me. "Motors need electricity."
I looked at the bicycle wheel we used for winding. I looked at the dead battery bank (9.2 Volts). I looked at the pile of scrap.
"Not electric," I said. "Mechanical."
I grabbed my notebook. I drew a circle. A pedal. A belt.
"We have the bicycle parts," I said. "If we mount the chain... if we build a treadle... we can spin the winder with our feet. Like a sewing machine. Collins can pedal. The machine spins. We wind thread ten times faster."
I looked at Tashi. "And we can mount a polishing wheel. Pedal power. No electricity. No vinegar burns on the hands."
Tashi looked at the drawing. He looked at Collins' legs strong from walking the ravine.
"A bicycle factory," Tashi mused.
"Human power," I said. "The only resource the Bookman can't turn off."
Tashi reached into the cash tin. 6,500 Francs. He handed 2,000 to Collins.
"Go to the scrap yard," Tashi said. "Buy chains. Gears. A frame. Whatever Nkem needs."
He looked at the door where Emeka had stood.
"He thinks we have a truck from Nigeria," Tashi whispered. "Let's build a factory that proves him wrong."
That night, we didn't plate. We built.
We stripped Collins' old bicycle frame. We mounted it on a wooden stand. We connected the chain to the rewinding rim. Collins sat on the saddle. He pedaled. Whirrrrrr. The rim spun at high speed. A blur.
I held the thread guide. Zip. The spool filled in thirty seconds. It used to take ten minutes.
"Faster," I said.
Collins pedaled harder. The sweat poured off him. The machine hummed. It was the sound of defiance.
I looked at the ledger.
Date: September 18, 1999. Status: Under Surveillance. Strategy: Acceleration. Energy Source: Calorie.
We weren't just rats anymore. We were Rats on wheels.