Bamenda
8:30 PM
The smell of frying onions is the smell of peace.
In Bamenda, when the oil hits the hot pot and the scent of tin-tomatoes and onions drifts out from the kitchen shed, it means the crisis is over. At least for tonight.
We were back in the parlor. The electric bulb was dim, buzzing with the low voltage that plagued the grid every evening. It cast a sickly yellow light over the room, throwing long, restless shadows against the peeling walls.
My mother, Liyen, was on the floor, dishing food from the blackened aluminum pot.
Rice. White, steaming rice. And stew.
Real stew. Not just oil and Maggi cubes, but thick, red tomato stew with chunks of smoked mackerel.
My father, Tashi, sat in his armchair like a king on a throne. He had a bottle of "33" Export beer on the small table beside him a luxury he had bought with the winnings before coming home.
He was retelling the story of the card game. But in his version, the story had changed.
"You should have seen me, Liyen," Tashi boasted, taking a long swig of the beer. "Razor thought he had me. He looked at me with his snake eyes, holding that Pick Two. But he didn't know who he was playing with."
He slapped his chest.
"I calculated it," Tashi lied, his voice loud, filling the small room. "I saw his hand shake. Just a small shake. I knew he was bluffing. So I played the Square. Bam! I locked him."
Liyen handed him a plate of food. She didn't look at him. She looked tired. Her hands were rough, the nails stained with red oil.
"Eat, Papa Nkem," she said softly.
"He was crying!" Tashi laughed, ignoring her lack of enthusiasm. "Razor was crying! He said, 'Tashi, how did you know?' I told him, 'My friend, football is luck, but cards? Cards are science!'"
I sat in the corner on my mat, holding my plate.
I didn't say anything. I just ate.
I ate with my fingers, feeling the heat of the rice against my skin. I molded the grains into a ball, dipped it in the oily red stew, and put it in my mouth.
The flavor was explosive. Salt. Chili pepper. The smokiness of the fish.
< Caloric intake efficient. > Gemini's voice was smooth now, no longer glitching. < System reserves at 38%. Cognitive functions stabilizing. I recommend consuming the fish skin. High concentration of Omega-3 fatty acids required for neural plasticity. >
I'm eating it, Gemini. Relax.
I watched my father. He was drunk on victory. He truly believed he had won that game. The human mind is amazing at editing memories to protect the ego. He had forgotten the part where his ten-year-old son told him which card to play. He had forgotten that ten minutes ago, he was terrified.
"Nkem!" Tashi called out, waving a chicken bone at me. "Why are you quiet? Tell your mother! Tell her how I finished him!"
I looked up. My mouth was full of rice.
Liyen stopped eating. She looked at me. Her eyes were pleading. Don't upset him. Just agree.
"Yes, Papa," I said, swallowing. "You played the Square. Razor was feared."
Tashi grinned, satisfied. "You see? The boy knows. He learns from me."
He leaned back, belching loudly. "Tomorrow, I will go back. Razor wants a rematch. I will take the six thousand and turn it into twenty. Maybe fifty. We will buy a TV, Liyen. A color TV."
The spoon froze in Liyen's hand.
"Tashi," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "The rent... Pa Che said..."
"Pa Che can wait!" Tashi snapped, his mood turning instantly. "Why are you always afraid? I am winning! The luck has turned!"
He stood up, swaying slightly. "I am going to sleep. Tomorrow is business."
He marched into the bedroom, taking the rest of his beer with him.
The silence returned to the parlor. It was heavy, filled with the sound of crickets outside and the distant hum of a generator.
Liyen looked at the closed bedroom door. Then she looked at the plate of rice he had barely touched.
She turned to me.
"Finish his fish," she whispered. "He won't remember."
I crawled over and took the piece of mackerel from his plate.
We ate in silence, conspirators in a war against hunger.
11:00 PM
The house was dark.
My parents were asleep in the bedroom. I could hear Tashi's heavy, rasping snores through the thin curtain that separated the parlor from their room.
I lay on my bamboo mat in the parlor. The floor was hard, but I was used to worse. In 2025, I had slept in a refugee camp tent for three weeks.
The darkness was total. No streetlights outside. Just the heavy, suffocating black of an African night.
Okay, I thought. Meeting time.
< Acknowledged. > Gemini replied. < Environment: Secure. Host status: Stable. >
A blue interface flickered into existence behind my eyelids. It was cleaner now, sharper.
Gemini, I projected my thought clearly. We need a sit-rep. Where are we exactly? Not geographically. I mean, what can you do?
< Diagnostic Report: >
< Hardware: Biological Brain (Age 10). Neuroplasticity is high, which is good. But physical endurance is low. >
< Software: Gemini LLM Iteration 4. Local Database: Updated to 2025. >
< Connectivity: Zero. >
Zero?
< There is no Wi-Fi, Operator. There is no 3G. There is barely GSM. The internet exists, but it is trapped in dial-up modems in cyber cafés that won't be common here for another two years. I am an encyclopedia locked in a safe. >
I rolled over on the mat, staring at the invisible ceiling.
This was the problem.
I knew the future. I knew that Bitcoin would be invented in 2009. I knew that Facebook would launch in 2004. I knew that Leicester City would win the Premier League in 2016.
But knowing that didn't help me buy breakfast tomorrow.
I need money now, I thought. Tashi is going to lose that six thousand francs tomorrow. I guarantee it. If he loses it, we are back to starvation.
< Probability of Tashi losing funds to Razor: 99.8%. > Gemini confirmed. < Razor is a professional card sharp. He let Tashi win one hand to bait the hook. The 'Check Up' was a psychological ploy. >
I know, I thought. So, what do we do? I can't bet. I'm ten. They won't let me in the betting shop without my dad. And my dad won't listen to me.
< Analysis of Local Economy: >
< 1. Agriculture (Low Yield, High Labor). >
< 2. Petty Trading (Low Margin). >
< 3. Service/Repair (High Demand, Low Skill Supply). >
Repair, I thought. Like the radio.
< Affirmative. You fixed a device worth 5,000 CFA using trash. The skill gap in 1999 Bamenda is massive. Electronics are entering the market VCRs, Radios, Televisions but the technical knowledge to maintain them is scarce. People throw things away because of a blown fuse. >
I sat up in the dark.
That was it.
I didn't need to invent Facebook yet. I needed to be the Ghost Mechanic.
But I have no tools, I argued. I have no soldering iron. I have no multimeter. I can't fix a circuit board with a kitchen knife every time.
< You need capital, > Gemini stated. < You need the six thousand francs currently in Tashi's pocket. >
I looked toward the bedroom curtain.
Steal it?
If I stole it, Tashi would beat me. Or worse, he would blame Liyen. He would say she took it for food. It would cause a war in the house.
No stealing, I decided. I need him to give it to me.
< Manipulation strategy required, > Gemini noted. < Tashi is driven by two variables: Greed and Pride. >
I smiled in the dark. It was a cold, adult smile on a child's face.
I know exactly how to play him.
The Next Morning
6:30 AM
The morning in Bamenda is cold. A mist rolls down from the Station Hill, wrapping the town in a wet, grey chill that bites through your clothes.
I woke up shivering.
I washed my face in a bucket of cold water in the yard. My reflection in the water rippled—a skinny boy with big eyes.
Tashi was already awake. He was dressed in his best shirt a polyester button-down that had been ironed with charcoal so many times it was shiny. He was drinking tea and looking at the wad of money.
He looked manic.
"Morning, big man!" Tashi shouted when he saw me. He was in a good mood. The dopamine of the gamble was already hitting him.
"Morning, Papa," I said, grabbing my school bag. It was an old plastic rice sack that Liyen had sewn straps onto.
"I am going to town," Tashi announced. "When I come back, I will bring meat. Cow meat."
Liyen was in the kitchen shed. I could hear her sweeping. She was hiding. She didn't want to watch him leave with the rent money.
I walked up to him. I had to time this perfectly.
"Papa," I said.
"What?" He was busy counting the notes.
"Are you going to play Whot with Razor again?"
He paused. He looked down at me. "Man business, Nkem. Go to school."
"Razor is angry," I said innocently. "I heard him tell the other man... he said he will use the 'Mirror' today."
Tashi froze.
"Mirror? What mirror?"
I didn't know what a 'Mirror' was. I made it up. But gamblers are superstitious. They believe in tricks and signals.
"I don't know," I whispered, looking around as if Razor might be listening. "He said because you beat him with the Square, he will use the Mirror to see your hand."
Tashi frowned. The confidence evaporated. Paranoia set in.
"Cheating..." he muttered. "I knew it. That boy has devil eyes."
"Don't play him today, Papa," I advised. "He is waiting for you. If you go today, the Mirror will chop the money."
Tashi looked at the money. He looked at the gate. He wanted to gamble, but the fear of being cheated was stronger than the greed.
"So what?" Tashi snapped. "I sit here? Money does not grow on trees."
"The Bookman has matches," I said.
"Matches?"
"Football matches," I clarified. "Razor plays cards. But the Bookman does the football papers."
I pointed to the calendar on the wall.
"Man U is playing Newcastle on Saturday. FA Cup Final."
Tashi scoffed. "Football is slow money. Whot is fast."
"But football is not a trick," I said. "Razor can cheat cards. Can Razor cheat Manchester United?"
Tashi paused. The logic landed.
He looked at me with that strange expression again suspicion mixed with wonder.
"You know who will win?" he asked, lowering his voice.
Gemini, I thought. Give me the stats. 1999 FA Cup Final.
< Accessing Sports Archive. Date: May 22, 1999. Match: Manchester United vs Newcastle United. Score: 2-0. Scorers: Sheringham (11'), Scholes (53'). Key Note: Roy Keane was injured early (9th minute), replaced by Sheringham. >
I looked at my father.
"I dreamed it," I whispered.
Tashi leaned in. In the Grassfields, dreams are messages. "What did you dream?"
"I saw a man in a red shirt," I said, reciting the data as a vision. "He fell down early. Very early. Pain in his leg."
"Keane," Tashi whispered. "Keane is the captain."
"Then another man came in. Small man. Number 10. He scored. Bam. Then later... the ginger man. Number 18."
"Scholes," Tashi breathed.
"Two to zero," I said. "Red wins."
Tashi stared at me. He was trembling.
This was safer than cards. If I was right...
"Saturday," Tashi muttered. "Saturday is far."
"Keep the money, Papa," I said. "Don't give it to Razor. Razor is a thief. Wait for the Red Man."
Tashi nodded slowly. He shoved the money deep into his pocket, past the easy reach of his hand.
"Okay," he said. "I will wait. I will go to the market, look for small business. But I will keep the capital."
He patted my head. It was a heavy, rough gesture.
"You are a strange boy, Nkem. Very strange."
He walked out.
I let out a breath I had been holding for two minutes.
He wouldn't gamble today. The superstition about the "Mirror" would keep him away from Razor. And the promise of the "Dream" would make him hoard the money for Saturday.
I had bought us three days.
"Nkem!" Liyen called from the kitchen. "You will be late for school! Run!"
I grabbed my rice-sack bag.
School.
I had to go sit in a concrete room with fifty other children and learn that 1 + 1 = 2.
< Educational Environment detected, > Gemini noted. < Opportunity for social mapping. Identifying potential allies or resource nodes. >
Resource nodes? I thought as I ran out of the gate. It's primary school, Gemini. The only resources are chalk and broken pencils.
< Never underestimate the playground, Operator. That is where the economy starts. >
I ran onto the dirt road, joining the stream of children in blue and white uniforms heading toward Government School Bamenda.
But I wasn't just going to learn.
I was looking for something.
I needed tools. Screwdrivers. Wire. Batteries.
And I knew exactly who had them.
The Headmaster's office had a broken VCR sitting on the shelf for two years.
It was time to offer my services.