The city of Bamenda is built on a slope. Geography is destiny. At the bottom, in the dust and the noise, is Commercial Avenue. The market. The rats. At the top, on the cool, breezy ridge known as "Up Station," is the Government. The Governor's mansion. The Customs office. The Gendarmes.
In the middle, clinging to the hillside like a polite buffer zone, is the GRA. The Government Residential Area. Here, the roads are paved. The hedges are trimmed. The houses have gates, and the gates have guards.
We walked up the hill. Tashi wore his best suit, though the cuffs were fraying. I wore my school uniform, cleaned and pressed. We weren't going to a shop. We were going to a sanctuary.
We stopped at a small, white-washed bungalow with a brass plaque polished to a mirror shine: SAMUEL FRU & ASSOCIATES. Barristers & Solicitors.
"Button your shirt," Tashi whispered. "In this house, we are not mechanics. We are clients."
He patted his chest pocket. The lump was there. The Sony Micro-Cassette. The Liability. We had slept with it in the safe for three nights. Every time a car slowed down outside the shop, Tashi flinched. Lucas was right. We were drowning. And you shouldn't swim with a stone in your pocket.
The office smelled of old paper, floor wax, and power. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead. It wasn't powered by a bicycle. It was powered by the Grid. The secretary, a woman with glasses on a chain, nodded at Tashi.
"He is expecting you, Mr. Tashi."
We walked into the inner office. Samuel Fru stood up from behind a mahogany desk that looked heavy enough to crush a car. He was a small man, sharp-featured, wearing a suit that cost more than our entire plating operation.
"Tashi," Fru said, extending a hand. "It has been a long time. Since the incorporation papers."
"Too long, Samuel," Tashi said.
They sat. I stood by the door, trying to be invisible. Fru looked at Tashi. He looked at the exhaustion etched into my father's face. He looked at the slightly grey tinge of my hands.
"You look like a man who is walking into a storm," Fru noted.
"I am already in the storm," Tashi said. "I just want to make sure I don't get struck by lightning."
Tashi reached into his pocket. He pulled out the cassette tape. He placed it on the polished wood. Click.
"What is this?" Fru asked. He didn't touch it. Lawyers never touch things until they know the price.
"Insurance," Tashi said. "Evidence. A recording of a conversation between the Chairman of the Council and the Mayor."
Fru's eyes narrowed. The playful social air vanished. He sat back. "Is it illegal?"
"It is truth," Tashi said. "The Chairman is threatening to cut the Council's fuel allocation unless the road contract goes to his shell company. Delta Construction."
Fru stared at the tape. He knew the Bookman. Everyone in the legal fraternity knew the Bookman. He was the reason half the lawsuits in Bamenda never made it to court.
"Why give it to me?" Fru asked softly.
"Because if they find it in my shop, they burn my shop," Tashi said bluntly. "They will say it is a fabrication. They will arrest me for espionage. But if they find it with you..."
"It is privileged attorney-client material," Fru finished. "Inadmissible without a warrant. And to get a warrant for my safe, they need a judge from Yaoundé."
Fru smiled. It was a thin, terrifying smile. "You want me to be your vault."
"I want you to be my lawyer," Tashi corrected. "Retainer."
Tashi reached into his other pocket. He pulled out a stack of coins and small notes. 5,000 Francs. It was the profit from the plating. The profit from the watch repair. It was three days of Collins' sweat and my burned fingers.
Tashi pushed the money across the desk. "This is the retainer."
Fru looked at the pile of crumpled notes. It was a pittance for a man who charged 50,000 for a consultation. But then he looked at the tape. Knowledge is a currency, too. And Tashi was offering him a weapon he could keep in his drawer.
Fru picked up the tape. "It is a small retainer," Fru said. "But the case is... compelling."
He opened his desk drawer. He dropped the tape inside. He locked it with a small key. Snap.
"It is safe," Fru said. "But Tashi..."
"Yes?"
"If this tape is what you say it is... you are holding a grenade. Don't pull the pin unless you are ready to be in the blast radius."
"I am not pulling it," Tashi said, standing up. "I am burying it. If I disappear, Samuel... if the shop burns down... then you open the drawer."
Fru nodded slowly. "Understood. We represent your interests, Tashi & Son."
We walked back down the hill. The air grew hotter, thicker, dustier as we descended from the GRA to the Commercial Avenue.
Tashi loosened his tie. "Do you feel lighter?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "But we are poorer."
"We bought peace of mind," Tashi said. "5,000 francs is cheap for a life insurance policy."
We turned the corner onto our street. The shop came into view. The shutter was half-open.
Someone was waiting.
It wasn't a customer. It wasn't Lucas. It was a young man in a clean white shirt and pressed trousers. He held a large manila envelope. He looked out of place among the hawkers and the mud.
"Mr. Tashi?" the boy asked as we approached.
"I am Tashi."
"Message from Dr. Foncha," the boy said.
My stomach dropped. Dr. Foncha. The contract. The reason we had started this whole war. We hadn't heard from him in eight weeks. We assumed he was still in Yaoundé, fighting the bureaucracy.
Tashi took the envelope. It was heavy, cream-colored paper. Expensive. He opened it. He read it. His face went from the relief of the lawyer's office to the pale grey of panic.
"What does it say?" I asked.
Tashi handed me the letter.
Dear Tashi,
The rains are ending. The dry season begins in two weeks. I have returned from Yaoundé. The equipment has been released from customs. Solar panels. Batteries. Inverters. They are waiting in my warehouse.
The Village Council of Bafut meets on October 15th. I have promised them a demonstration. A working system.
I expect you and your team ready to deploy on Monday, October 5th. If you are not ready, I will contract Delta Energy.
Do not disappoint me.
Dr. Foncha.
I looked at the date on my Databank watch (which I had repaired for myself from a scrap heap). Friday, October 2nd. Monday, October 5th.
"Three days," I whispered. "That is three days."
"He wants us to deploy," Tashi said, his voice hollow. "He thinks we are the same company he hired in August. He thinks we have a truck. He thinks we have tools. He thinks we are ready."
We walked into the shop. It was dark. Collins was sitting on the floor, rubbing his legs. The bicycle rig stood silent, a monument to our desperation. The plating tank bubbled quietly in the corner.
We looked at our inventory. Transport: None. (Sold). Power: Dead. (9.2 Volts). Tools: Scavenged. Manpower: One exhausted mechanic, one crippled boy, one desperate man.
"If we lose this contract," Tashi said, staring at the letter, "we lose the future. Delta Energy is the Bookman's company. If they take the village project, they take everything."
"We can't do it, Papa," I said. "How do we move solar panels to Bafut? On our heads? On the bicycle?"
Tashi looked at the empty space where the Unimog used to be. He looked at the letter. He looked at the direction Lucas had driven last night.
"The plating stops," Tashi announced. "The grey market stops."
"But Papa..."
"We call Lucas," Tashi said.
"You said he is chaos."
"He is," Tashi said. "But he has a truck. And he hates the Bookman."
He crumpled the envelope in his fist.
"We have three days to turn this sweatshop back into an engineering firm. On Monday... we are going to Bafut."