Wednesday afternoon was "Manual Labor."
It was the colonial legacy distilled into a single hour. Six hundred students, armed with machetes and hoes, descended on the school compound to cut grass.
I didn't have a machete. Tashi wouldn't let me handle one with my bad arm. So I was assigned to "Debris Collection."
I walked behind the slashers, picking up cut grass and putting it into a basket. My uniform was already stained green. My back ached. Collins was twenty meters away, swinging a rusted machete with terrifying efficiency. He was angry. He took it out on the elephant grass. Swish. Chop.
I bent down to pick up a clump of weeds. A shadow blocked the sun.
I looked up. Junior.
He wasn't cutting grass. The "Big Men" usually paid younger students 50 francs to do their portion. Junior was standing under the shade of a mango tree, holding his shiny BMX bicycle.
He waved at me. Not a "hello" wave. A "come here" wave.
I looked at Mr. Ngu. He was at the far end of the field, smoking a cigarette. I walked over to the shade.
"You missed a spot," Junior said, pointing to a tuft of grass near his shoe.
"I am not your gardener, Junior," I said quietly.
Junior didn't smile. He looked at his bike. It was a beautiful machine. Chrome frame. Mag wheels. Hand brakes. But there was a blemish. The kickstand was rusted. It was a jagged, brown scar on perfection.
"My driver tried to paint it," Junior said, kicking the stand. "The paint peeled. It looks ugly."
"Rust is nature," I said. "Iron wants to return to the earth."
"I want it silver," Junior said. "Like the Land Cruiser."
I froze. He wasn't speaking in code anymore. He was placing an order.
"I don't know what you mean," I said.
"Don't be boring, Nkem," Junior sighed. "I saw Collins' hands. I saw the wheel nuts at the garage. I know you have a tank."
He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a crisp 1,000 Franc note. He tucked it into the handlebars of the bike.
"Bring it tomorrow," Junior said. "Make it German Spec. Matte finish."
He started to walk away.
"Why?" I asked.
Junior stopped. "Why what?"
"Why come to me? Your uncle owns the town. Buy a new kickstand. Buy a new bike."
Junior looked at me. For a second, the mask of the bored prince slipped. He looked... lonely.
"My uncle buys everything," Junior said. "But he buys the cheap stuff. He buys in bulk. He doesn't fix things. He throws them away."
He tapped the rusty stand.
"I like this bike. I don't want a new one. I want this one to work."
He walked off toward the classrooms. I looked at the bike. I looked at the 1,000 franc note. It was enemy money. But it was also just money.
I wheeled the BMX into the shop. The tires hissed on the concrete floor.
Tashi looked up from the ledger. He saw the bike. He saw the expensive mag wheels. His face went dark.
"Whose is that?"
"Junior," I said.
Tashi stood up. "The Bookman's nephew?"
"Yes."
"Get it out," Tashi said. "Get it out now. We do not service that house."
"He paid, Papa," I said, putting the 1,000 francs on the counter. "Cash in advance."
"I don't care," Tashi snapped. "It is a trap. If we touch it, and it breaks, the Bookman comes. If we fix it, and the Bookman sees it, he asks questions. We are hiding, Nkem. You don't invite the hawk into the rat hole."
Collins walked in from the yard. He saw the bike. His eyes went wide. "Massa! Na BMX! Look the brake!"
He touched the handlebars reverently. To a mechanic, politics didn't matter. The machine was the truth.
"Take it outside, Collins," Tashi ordered. "Leave it on the street."
"Wait," Liyen said.
She was standing in the doorway to the house, wiping a pot. She looked at the bike. She looked at Tashi.
"He came to us?" Liyen asked.
"To Nkem," Tashi said. "At school."
Liyen walked over to the bike. She inspected the rusty kickstand. "The boy has everything," Liyen mused. "But he comes to the shop with no lights to fix a kickstand."
"He is mocking us," Tashi said.
"No," Liyen said. "He is looking for something his uncle can't give him."
She looked at Tashi.
"If we fix this, Tashi... we hold something of his. We have leverage. Even a small leverage."
"It's a kickstand, Liyen. Not a hostage."
"It is a relationship," Liyen corrected. "The uncle is the enemy. The boy is just... a boy. And boys talk. If he is happy, maybe he talks to us. Maybe he tells us things."
Tashi looked at the bike. He hated it. But he looked at the 1,000 francs. And he looked at the dead battery bank.
"One time," Tashi said. "We plate it. We give it back. We never speak of it."
We stripped the kickstand. It was good steel, just neglected.
I ran the tank. Collins pedaled the flywheel. Whir-Whoosh.
It was strange working on this object. Usually, we plated rusty junk for taxis—tools of survival. This was a toy. A luxury item. We were burning our sweat to polish a rich kid's vanity.
"E heavy," Collins said, polishing the stand after the bath. "Better steel pass the wheel nut."
"It's imported," I said. "Real steel."
We finished at 7:00 PM. The kickstand was a dull, smooth grey. The "German Spec." Collins reassembled it. He greased the spring. Click-Clack. It snapped up and down with a satisfying sound.
It looked better than new. It looked custom.
"It is done," I said.
Tashi didn't look at it. He was busy covering the windows. "Hide it in the back," Tashi said. "If Emeka walks past and sees a BMX in here, he will ask questions."
I rode the bike to school. It was smooth. Silent. For five minutes, I wasn't a Rat. I was a King. I glided over the potholes that usually broke my ankles.
I met Junior at the gate. He was waiting.
I got off. I kicked the stand down. Click. The bike stood firm. The matte silver stand caught the morning light.
Junior looked at it. He crouched down. He ran his finger over the metal. He smiled. A real smile this time. Not the bored smirk.
"German Spec," Junior whispered.
"It's zinc," I said. "Don't scratch it deep. It heals small scratches, but if you cut it, it rusts."
"I know," Junior said. He stood up. He took the handlebars.
"My uncle is angry," Junior said suddenly.
I stiffened. "About the bike?"
"No. About the receipts."
He looked around to make sure no prefects were listening.
"The Headmaster... Mr. Abang. He has been eating the school fees," Junior whispered. "My uncle audited the books last night. The cash payments are missing. There are no records for half of Class Six."
My stomach dropped. Tashi had paid cash. 15,000 francs. From the truck money. Abang had taken it. He hadn't given a receipt. He said "Old time's sake."
"What happens?" I asked.
"The Inspectors are coming on Monday," Junior said. "They will call the register. If your name is not in the official ledger... you go home. No school. No exam."
He gripped the handlebars tight.
"Tell your father," Junior said. "If you don't have a government receipt... find one. Or get out before Monday."
He hopped on the bike. He rode away toward the assembly ground. Click. The kickstand snapped up.
I ran home. I burst into the shop.
"Papa!"
Tashi was serving a customer a mechanic buying two bolts. "Wait, Nkem," Tashi said.
"Now, Papa!"
Tashi saw my face. He finished the sale quickly. "What is it?"
"The receipt," I gasped. "The school fees. Did Abang give you a government receipt?"
Tashi frowned. "He gave me a note. On school paper."
"Not a note," I said. "A Treasury Receipt. With a stamp. A number."
Tashi went to the safe. He opened it. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. It was a handwritten note on Government School Atuakom letterhead. Received from Tashi: 15,000 FRS. School Fees Class 6. Signed: Abang.
There was no stamp. No Treasury seal.
"It is worthless," I whispered. "Junior told me. Abang ate the money. The Inspectors are coming on Monday. If we don't have a Treasury Receipt, I am expelled."
Tashi stared at the paper. His face went grey. He had sold his truck for this. He had swallowed his pride for this. And Abang had stolen it.
"15,000," Tashi whispered. "He ate 15,000."
"We have to pay again," I said. "Monday. We have to go to the Treasury and pay. Get a real receipt."
"We don't have 15,000 in the cash tin," Tashi said. "We have 8,000."
"The safe," I said. "The Seed."
Tashi looked at the safe. The 150,000 was there. But every time we touched it, we got weaker. First the vinegar. Now the fees. Again.
"No," Tashi said. His voice was hard. "I paid. I will not pay twice."
"Papa, the Inspector—"
"I will see Abang," Tashi said. He folded the fake receipt. "I will see him tonight. At his house."
"He will deny it."
"Let him deny it," Tashi said. He reached under the counter. He pulled out a heavy wrench. He didn't hold it like a tool. He held it like a weapon.
"Liyen," Tashi called.
Liyen appeared. "What?"
"Watch the shop," Tashi said. "I am going to collect a refund."
"Tashi," Liyen warned. "Abang is a government man."
"He is a thief," Tashi said. "And he stole from my son."
He walked out. He didn't take the flashlight. He walked into the dark street, the wrench heavy in his pocket.
I looked at the fake receipt on the counter. Junior's intel was good. But intel doesn't solve the problem. It just tells you which wall is about to fall on you.