Tashi & Son Electronics
Commercial Avenue
Tuesday, June 22, 1999
The air in the shop was humming. It wasn't just the sound of my soldering iron or the cooling fan of the solar inverter; it was the hum of a town on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
The newspapers from Douala and Yaoundé were arriving at the park with headlines that felt like prophecies of doom. "Y2K: Will the Computers Kill Us?" and "SONEL Assures Nation of Year 2000 Readiness."
Nobody believed SONEL.
I sat at my bench, staring at a printout Gemini had reconstructed from my future-memories the internal logic of the SONEL grid controllers used in the late 90s.
< Analysis: SONEL uses Siemens and Schneider Electric relays from the 1980s, > Gemini projected onto my workspace. < Most are purely electromechanical. They don't have clocks. They won't "crash" at midnight. >
I know that, Gemini, I thought, desoldering a capacitor from a dead TV board. But the billing systems, the management databases in the offices, and the digital timers for the load-shedding cycles? Those will glitch. When the billing stops, the technicians stop working. When the timers glitch, the sub-stations will trip just to be safe. The grid won't die because of a bug; it will die because of human fear.
"Nkem! Look at this!" Tashi called from the front.
He was holding a flyer that had been circulated in the market. It was printed on cheap, yellow paper.
Y2K PROTECTION SERVICES
Don't let the Millennium Bug burn your house!
The Bookman offers 'Digital Filters' for your TV and Radio.
5,000 CFA per device. Guaranteed Safety.
I looked at the flyer and felt a cold knot of anger.
"Digital filters? It's a scam, Papa. It's probably just a 100-franc fuse in a plastic box."
"People are paying it, Nkem," Tashi said, his voice dropping. "Ma Fomunyuy bought three. She is afraid her fridge will explode at midnight."
This was the Bookman's counter-move. He wasn't fighting us with guns anymore; he was stealing the town's lunch money using the Y2K ghost.
"We can't let them do this," I said. "We need to show the people what real protection looks like."
Thursday, June 24, 1999
Dr. Foncha had delivered on his word.
A military truck provided by Uncle Lucas was parked at our gate, loaded with two dozen "Grade B" solar panels from the Ministry's warehouse in Yaoundé. They were dusty, and some had minor scratches, but they were high-wattage monocrystalline units.
Our destination was Bamendankwe, a village perched on the hills overlooking Bamenda. It was the ancestral home of the Fon (the King), and it had never seen a single electric bulb.
We arrived as the sun was beginning to dip behind the hills. The village was a collection of mud-brick houses with thatch and zinc roofs, centered around a large open courtyard and the Fon's palace.
The arrival of a military truck usually meant trouble taxes or arrests. The villagers stood at a distance, the men holding machetes loosely by their sides, the women clutching their children.
Uncle Lucas stepped out of the cab, his red beret a sharp contrast against the green hills. He didn't look like a soldier today; he looked like a protector.
"People of Bamendankwe!" Lucas shouted, his voice echoing off the valley walls. "The Government has not forgotten you! We bring the Light of the Millennium!"
The Fon, an elderly man in a magnificent traditional gown of blue and white ndop cloth, walked out of the palace. He leaned on a carved staff.
"Colonel," the Fon said, his voice a low rumble. "We have heard of lights that do not need oil. We have heard of a boy with four eyes. But we are a people of tradition. We do not want 'white man magic' that will anger the soil."
Tashi looked nervous, but I stepped forward. I wasn't carrying a gun or a clipboard. I was carrying a single Zombie Light and a small, handheld solar cell.
"Mfon," I said, bowing my head in the traditional sign of respect. "This is not magic. It is like the rain. The rain falls on the grass and makes it grow. The sun falls on this glass and makes it shine. It is a gift that God has already given you. I am just the one who catches it."
I held the solar cell up to the dying sunlight. The LED on the light glowed.
The Fon leaned in, squinting at the tiny bulb. He touched the glass. It was cool.
"There is no fire?" he asked.
"No fire, Mfon. No smoke. No kerosene to buy."
The Fon looked at his people. Then he looked at the dark hills where the night was already swallowing the paths.
"Build your hub," the Fon commanded. "If the light stays, you are welcome. If it goes, the Colonel takes his truck and leaves."
We worked through the night by the light of our own battery-powered torches.
I had designed the Millennium Hub to be simple. We mounted the panels on the roof of the village meeting hall. Inside, we installed a "Power Bank" made of four deep-cycle batteries.
I stayed up until 3:00 AM, teaching two young men from the village the "Technicians" how to check the water levels in the batteries and how to wipe the dust off the panels every morning.
"The dust is the enemy," I told them in Pidgin. "If the panels are dirty, the sun cannot see the glass. No sun, no power."
< System Optimization: > Gemini noted as I finished the final wiring. < The village hub can support 10 streetlights and a central charging station for 50 radios. We are currently at 100% efficiency. >
As the first light of Friday morning touched the peaks of the mountains, I flipped the switch.
Ten "Zombie streetlights" weatherproof units I had built in the shop flickered to life along the main village path.
The village didn't wake up to the sound of a rooster. They woke up to the sound of a hundred voices gasping in unison.
The children ran to the lights, touching the wooden poles, dancing in the cool white glow. The old women stood in their doorways, their faces illuminated for the first time in their lives after sunset.
The Fon walked out. He looked at the path leading to his palace. It was as bright as day.
"The boy with four eyes," the Fon whispered, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. "You have brought the sun down to rest in our village."
While the village celebrated, Tashi was at the truck, talking to the soldiers. He looked happy, but his eyes kept darting to the forest line.
"Nkem," Tashi whispered as I walked over to get some water. "We did it. Dr. Foncha will be happy. The Colonel is happy."
"But you aren't, Papa."
"I saw a motorcycle," Tashi said, his voice trembling. "An hour ago. Near the lower path. It wasn't a village bike. It was a Yamaha. Black. Like the ones Razor uses."
I looked toward the forest.
The Bookman was watching. He saw what we were doing. By bringing light to the villages, we were breaking his monopoly on fear. If the villages had power, they didn't need his "Y2K protection." They didn't need to depend on the town.
< Strategy Alert: > Gemini warned. < You have provided a static target. The Bamendankwe Hub is vulnerable to sabotage. If the hub fails, the 'magic' becomes 'cursed', and the Ministry will pull our contract. >
"They're going to try to break it," I whispered.
"Who?" Tashi asked.
"The Bookman. He can't kill me because of the Colonel. But he can kill the project."
I looked at the solar panels on the roof. They were beautiful, shining in the morning sun. They were also fragile. A single well-placed rock could shatter the silicon.
"We aren't leaving, Papa," I said.
"What? The truck is leaving in an hour!"
"You go with the Colonel," I said. "I'm staying here for three days. I need to 'train the technicians'."
"Nkem, it's dangerous!"
"I have Gemini," I said, though he didn't know what that meant. "And I have a plan for the Yamaha."
I walked back to my toolbox. I didn't reach for a screwdriver. I reached for a long coil of hair-thin copper wire and a high-voltage capacitor.
If Razor wanted to touch my panels, he was going to get a lesson in Millennium Security.