The school compound was a dust bowl.
Hundreds of children in blue and white uniforms swarmed the open field, kicking balls made of wrapped plastic bags or running through the red dirt. The noise was deafening a high-pitched wall of screaming, laughing, and shouting.
I stood at the edge of the assembly ground, clutching the straps of my rice-sack bag.
To a normal ten-year-old, this was just Monday morning. To me, it was a sensory overload.
Scanning environment, Gemini whispered in my mind. The voice was softer now, blending into my own thoughts. Overcrowding detected. Sanitation levels poor. Structural integrity of Building B is compromised. Don't walk near the left wall, Nkem. It leans.
I adjusted my grip on my bag. I know. It collapsed in 2003 during the rainy season. Nobody died, but Mr. Tita broke his leg.
The bell rang. It was a piece of truck wheel rim hanging from a mango tree, struck by a prefect with an iron rod. Clang. Clang. Clang.
The chaos instantly organized itself into lines.
"Straight lines! Arms length!" the prefects shouted, wielding their canes like officers.
I shuffled into the line for Class 5. My classmates were pushing and shoving, but I stood still. I felt like a giant trapped in a small body. I had to spend the next six hours learning the alphabet and simple addition. It was going to be torture.
Our teacher, Mr. Anye, walked down the line. He was a tall man with trousers that were too short and a face that looked like it had been carved out of mahogany. He carried a long cane. He was known as "The Lion" because when he roared, you felt it in your stomach.
"Good morning, class," he bellowed in strict English.
"Good morning, Sir!" we chanted in unison.
"March to class. Silence!"
We marched. The classroom was a concrete box with open windows and no glass. The desks were long wooden benches squeezed so tight you couldn't move your elbows. I sat near the back, sandwiched between a boy named Collins who smelled of wet dog and a girl named Bih who was already sleeping.
The lesson began. Mathematics.
Mr. Anye wrote on the blackboard with a piece of chalk that screeched like a dying cat.
24 + 15 = ?
He turned to the class. "Who can tell me the answer?"
Hands shot up. "Sir! Sir! Me, Sir!"
I looked out the window. In the courtyard, I could see the Headmaster's office. The door was open.
Through the gap, I saw it.
Sitting on the shelf behind the Headmaster's desk.
A grey box. A VCR. A JVC video cassette player.
It had been there for years in my previous timeline. It was broken. The Headmaster, Mr. Fongod, kept it there as a status symbol, even though it couldn't play a single tape.
Gemini, I thought. Scan that device.
Distance is 45 meters, Gemini replied. Resolution low. However, based on the model—JVC HR-J600—the common failure point is the loading belt. It stretches in the heat. The motor spins, but the tape doesn't load. Repair cost: A rubber band. Repair value: High.
I smiled. A rubber band.
If I could fix that VCR, I could ask for a favor. I could ask for the old, "broken" junk in the storeroom. Copper wire. Magnets from broken speakers. Old batteries. The raw materials I needed to build my empire.
"Nkem!"
The shout snapped me back to the room.
Mr. Anye was standing over me. The class was silent.
"Stand up," he commanded.
I stood up.
"You are looking outside," Mr. Anye said, his voice dangerously low. "Is the answer written on the mango tree?"
"No, Sir."
"Then tell me. What is 24 plus 15?"
"Thirty-nine, Sir."
He frowned. I answered too fast. He didn't like that. He wanted me to struggle, to count on my fingers like the others.
"Come to the board," he said. "Solve this one."
He erased the simple sum. He thought for a moment, then wrote something harder. A multiplication problem designed to humiliate a distracted student.
142 x 13 = ?
The class gasped. That was a big number.
I walked to the front of the room. The chalk dust danced in the sunbeams. I picked up the chalk.
I didn't calculate it. I didn't need to. Gemini flashed the number in my mind before I even touched the board.
1,846.
But if I just wrote the answer, they would say I was guessing. Or using juju. I had to show the working. I had to pretend to be a student.
I wrote the numbers slowly. I did the long multiplication, carrying the tens, adding the columns. My handwriting was terrible—my child hands were still clumsy—but the math was perfect.
I underlined the answer twice. 1,846.
I put the chalk down and turned to Mr. Anye.
The room was quiet. Mr. Anye stared at the board. He checked the numbers in his head, moving his lips silently.
He looked at me. He looked annoyed. I had robbed him of the chance to cane me.
"Go to your seat," he grunted.
"Sir," I said. I didn't move.
"What?"
"The Headmaster's video," I said. My voice was quiet, but clear enough for the front row to hear.
Mr. Anye blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"The video player in the office. I can fix it."
The class erupted in giggles.
"Eh! Nkem the Mechanic!" someone shouted.
Mr. Anye slammed his cane on the desk. WHACK.
"Silence!"
He glared at me. "You are mad? You leave math to talk about video players? You want to be a repair boy?"
"It is just a belt, Sir," I persisted. "I fixed my father's radio yesterday. I can fix the Headmaster's video. If I fix it, he can watch the cassette the Ministry sent."
Mr. Anye looked at me with new eyes. He knew about the cassette. Everyone knew. The Ministry of Education had sent a training tape three months ago, but the school had no working VCR to play it. It was a source of shame for the Headmaster.
If this small, skinny boy was lying, he would be punished severely.
But if he was telling the truth... and Mr. Anye was the one who brought him...
"You fixed your father's radio?" Anye asked skeptically.
"Yes, Sir. Ask him."
Anye thought about it. He looked at the clock. It was almost break time.
"Come with me," he said.
He marched me out of the class. We walked across the dusty courtyard to the Headmaster's office.
Mr. Fongod was a round man with glasses that sat on the tip of his nose. He was eating a kola nut and reading an old newspaper.
"Mr. Anye?" Fongod looked up. "What has the boy done?"
"He says he can fix the JVC machine, Sir," Anye said. He sounded doubtful, distancing himself in case I failed.
Mr. Fongod laughed. He spat a piece of kola nut into a bin.
"Fix it? The technician from Commercial Avenue said the motor is burnt. He wants ten thousand francs to fix it."
"It is not the motor, Sir," I said. I stepped forward. "It is the rubber belt. The heat made it long. It slips."
Fongod looked at me over his glasses. "Who is this boy?"
"Mbua's son, Sir. Class 5."
"Mbua..." Fongod frowned. " The gambler?"
"Yes, Sir."
Fongod sighed. "Like father, like son. Telling stories." He waved his hand. "Go back to class. Stop wasting my time."
I didn't move. I saw a thick rubber band on his desk, holding a stack of papers together.
"Sir," I said. "Give me five minutes. If I don't fix it, you can cane me. Twelve strokes."
Twelve strokes was a serious beating. It was enough to make you unable to sit for a week.
Fongod raised an eyebrow. He looked at the broken VCR. He really wanted to watch that tape.
"And if you fix it?" Fongod asked.
"I want the box of scrap in the store room," I said. "The one with the dead wires and broken bells."
Fongod laughed again. "That rubbish? You want garbage?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Five minutes," Fongod said, checking his watch. "Mr. Anye, give him the screwdriver. Get the cane ready."
Mr. Anye handed me a screwdriver from the drawer.
I walked to the shelf. My heart was hammering, but my hands were cold.
Gemini, guide me.
I unscrewed the back of the VCR. Four screws. Easy.
I slid the metal cover off. The inside was dusty.
I pointed to the black rubber belt wrapped around the white plastic pulleys. It was sagging, loose like an old shirt collar.
"You see, Sir?" I touched it. It flopped. "The motor runs, but the belt doesn't turn the wheel."
Fongod stood up and peered inside. "Ah."
I took the rubber band from his desk. It was thick, brown, and strong.
I removed the old belt. I stretched the rubber band over the pulleys. It was tight. Perfect tension.
< Tolerance check: Acceptable, > Gemini confirmed. < It will hold for approximately 300 hours of playback. >
I put the cover back on. I tightened the screws.
"Do you have a cassette, Sir?"
Fongod opened his drawer and pulled out a dusty VHS tape: Ministry of Education: Standards for 2000.
I pushed the tape into the slot.
The machine whirred. The rubber band caught the gear.
Chunk-click.
The tape loaded.
I pressed Play.
The small TV on the shelf flickered. Static. Then blue screen. Then, the Cameroon national anthem started playing, and the face of the Minister appeared.
Mr. Fongod's mouth fell open.
Mr. Anye stepped back, crossing his arms.
"It is working," Fongod whispered. "The technician wanted ten thousand..."
He looked at me. He looked at the VCR. Then he looked at the cane sitting on his desk.
"You are a wizard?" Fongod asked, half-joking, half-serious.
"No, Sir," I said, wiping my dusty hands on my shorts. "I just read books."
Fongod smiled. It was a greedy smile. He had saved ten thousand francs.
"Mr. Anye," Fongod said. "Give the boy the box of rubbish. And tell the canteen woman to give him a meat pie. On my bill."
I let out a breath.
I didn't care about the meat pie.
I had the box.
Inside that box were copper coils, magnets, and old circuit boards.
I had my raw materials.
I walked out of the office carrying a cardboard box full of junk, the taste of victory sweeter than any pie.
The playground was full of children running and screaming. They saw a boy carrying trash.
I saw a boy carrying the first components of a power generator.
Phase One complete, I thought. Now, we build.