The shop was humming.
It was a literal hum, a low-frequency vibration that seemed to emanate from the very walls. It was the sound of six refurbished electric sewing motors whirring in unison from the houses of the lucky women who had picked up their machines that morning. It was the sound of the solar inverter cooling fan kicking into high gear as the midday sun beat down on the zinc roof. It was the sound of a town waking up to a new industrial rhythm.
I sat at my workbench in the back, surrounded by the debris of progress. Snippets of wire, blobs of solder, and the stripped carcasses of old radios lay scattered across the wooden crate I used as a desk. I was working on a voltage stabilizer for the "Union Power Bank," a centralized charging station I was designing to handle the influx of batteries from the seamstresses.
Tashi was in the front, leaning against the glass counter with the relaxed posture of a man who believes he has finally figured out the game. He was chatting with a taxi driver who had come to buy a new fuse.
"It is simple logic, my brother," Tashi was saying, pointing a pen at the ceiling lights. "The sun shines for free. SONEL charges you for darkness. Why pay for darkness when you can harvest the light?"
He was quoting me, of course, but he delivered the line with the conviction of a preacher.
Then the door flew open.
It did not open with the polite chime of the bell. It slammed against the rubber stopper with a violence that made the glass display case rattle.
Liyen stood in the doorway.
She looked like she had walked through a storm. Her wrapper was dusted with the red laterite of the street. Her headscarf was slightly askew. Her chest was heaving, not from exertion, but from a rage so hot it radiated across the room like thermal blooming.
She was not carrying her notebook. She was not carrying the heavy bag of fabric she usually hauled from the market on Wednesdays.
She was clutching a single, white plastic spool.
She marched to the counter. The taxi driver, sensing the shift in atmospheric pressure, grabbed his fuse, threw a coin on the glass, and bolted out the door without waiting for change.
Liyen slammed the spool onto the counter. CRACK.
It was empty. Just a hollow white cylinder where five hundred meters of cotton thread should have been.
"They are squeezing us," Liyen said. Her voice was not loud. It was low, trembling with the effort to keep from screaming. "They are trying to choke the baby in the crib."
Tashi stared at the empty spool. He looked at his wife's flushed face. The confident "Manager" persona evaporated, replaced by the worried husband.
"Liyen? What happened? Did you lose the thread?"
"I didn't lose anything," Liyen spat. She leaned over the counter, her eyes blazing. "I went to Pa Fomunyuy's store. The big wholesale warehouse near the Food Market. We need twenty boxes of white thread and ten boxes of blue for the Baptist College uniform order. The women are waiting. The machines are ready."
She took a breath, a sharp intake of air that sounded painful.
"He told me the price has changed."
"Inflation?" Tashi asked, frowning. "The franc has been steady this week."
"Extortion," Liyen corrected him. "Last week, a box of Moon Brand thread was one thousand five hundred francs. Today? He looked me in the eye and said four thousand five hundred."
Tashi's jaw dropped. "Four thousand five? That is triple! That eats the profit. That eats the labor cost. That eats the food money."
"I told him!" Liyen shouted, her control finally snapping. "I told him, 'Pa Fomunyuy, are you mad? Cotton did not turn to gold overnight!' And do you know what he said? He smiled. That greasy, kola-nut smile. He said, 'Madame Tashi, there is a shortage. Transport problems. The border is closed.'"
She grabbed the empty spool and threw it across the room. It hit the wall of my lab with a hollow clack.
"He is lying! I saw the boxes! The door to his back store was half open. I saw them stacked to the ceiling! The blue boxes. The white boxes. He is sitting on a mountain of thread, Tashi. He is hoarding it."
I stood up slowly from my stool. I walked to the corner where the spool had landed and picked it up. I turned it over in my hands. Moon Brand. Made in Nigeria.
It was a cheap piece of plastic, but right now, it was more valuable than the copper wire on my desk.
"It's not a shortage," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence of the shop. "It's a siege."
Tashi and Liyen turned to look at me. I walked out from behind the partition, holding the empty spool like a piece of evidence.
"Who controls the wholesale market?" I asked. "Pa Fomunyuy pays tribute to the Bookman. Everyone knows that. The Bookman tried to burn the machines, and he failed. The Union stood up to him. So now he is changing tactics."
< Strategic Analysis: > Gemini's voice was cool and detached in my mind, contrasting with the heat in the room. < This is classic supply chain interdiction. The adversary realizes he cannot destroy the means of production (the motors), so he is targeting the raw materials. If the input cost exceeds the output value, the system collapses. >
"He wants to starve the machines," I said. "If the women cannot afford thread, the electric motors are useless. They can sew fast, yes, but they cannot sew air. If they can't fulfill the school uniform orders by next week, the schools will cancel the contracts. The women will blame the Union. They will blame the 'New Price'. They will blame you, Ma."
Liyen sank onto a customer stool. She put her head in her hands.
"I promised them," she whispered. "I promised Ma Mary. I promised Manka. I told them if they bought the motors, they would be rich. Now... if they pay four thousand five hundred for thread, they will work for free. They will work just to pay for the thread and the electricity."
Tashi looked at her, then at me. He looked terrified. The fragility of our new life was suddenly exposed. We were building a castle on a foundation of sand, and someone had just turned on the hose.
"What do we do?" Tashi asked, his voice rising in panic. "We can't pay the new price. We can't go back to the women and say, 'Sorry, the price of the dress has tripled.' They will burn the shop."
"We don't pay the price," I said. "And we don't cancel the orders."
I walked to the map of Cameroon pinned to the wall a promotional calendar from a brewery. I traced the thick red line of the N5 highway.
"We bypass them," I said. "Where does the thread come from, Ma?"
Liyen looked up. "Douala. The port. Or Nigeria. The Ibo traders bring it across the border to Ikom, then down to Douala, then up to Bamenda."
"So the thread is in Douala," I said. "Pa Fomunyuy buys it there for maybe eight hundred francs. He trucks it here and sells it for one thousand five. Now he is selling for four thousand five."
"We cannot go to Douala," Tashi said, shaking his head. "It is six hours by bus. And if we buy twenty boxes, the Customs police at the toll gate will stop us. They will ask for import papers. They will ask for tax receipts. They will seize the goods if we don't bribe them. By the time we pay the bribes and the bus fare, the price will be the same."
"We don't take the bus," I said.
I turned and looked at the shelf behind the counter. Sitting there, charging on the new solar rail, was one of the heavy green military radios I had refurbished.
"And we don't pay Customs."
I looked at Tashi. He was wearing his khaki Manager's shirt. It was clean. It was official.
"Papa," I said. "Put on your best shoes. You are going to the Barracks."
"Me?" Tashi pointed to his chest. "To see the Colonel?"
"Yes. You need to talk to Uncle Lucas."
"Talk to him about what? Thread? Lucas is a soldier, Nkem! He cares about guns and radios. He will laugh at me if I ask him to help me buy cotton for skirts."
"He won't laugh if you frame it correctly," I said. "You are not asking for sewing thread. You are asking for 'Textile Insulation Material' for the Technical Training Center."
Tashi frowned, his brow furrowing. "Textile Insulation? What is that?"
"It is what we are going to call it," I said. "We use cotton to wrap wire harnesses, don't we? We use it to bind cables. Technically, thread is an industrial supply."
I stepped closer to him.
"The Colonel has a supply truck. It runs to Douala every Thursday night to pick up diesel and spare parts for the jeeps. It comes back Friday morning. It drives right through the toll gates. The Customs officers salute when they see the red license plates. They don't search a Gendarmerie truck."
Tashi's eyes widened as the realization hit him.
"You want to smuggle thread... in a military convoy?"
"It is not smuggling, Papa," I said calmly. "It is logistics. The Colonel promised to support the Training Center. We need materials. Pa Fomunyuy has declared war on us. We are just using a bigger tank."
Tashi looked at Liyen. She was watching him. She wasn't crying anymore. She was waiting to see if her husband was big enough to solve this.
Tashi stood up straight. He smoothed his shirt. He picked up his pen.
"Give me the money," Tashi said to Liyen. "Give me the Union box."
I did not go with him. This was a journey Tashi had to make alone. He had to walk through the heavy iron gates of the Up Station Gendarmerie Legion not as a gambler begging for protection, but as a businessman negotiating a transport contract.
I waited in the shop with Liyen. The hours dragged by like a broken chain. The sun moved across the floor tiles. Customers came in to charge their phones or buy bulbs, and Liyen served them mechanically, her mind clearly up the hill at the military base.
"What if Lucas says no?" she whispered at 3:00 PM. "What if he gets angry?"
"Lucas respects strength, Ma," I said, soldering a connection with steady hands. "He hates weakness. If Papa goes there and begs, Lucas will kick him out. If Papa goes there and offers a solution to a logistical problem, Lucas will listen."
At 4:30 PM, a motorcycle pulled up outside.
Tashi climbed off the back of the okada. He paid the driver. He walked into the shop.
He was smiling.
Behind him walked a mountain of a man in a greasy green fatigue uniform. He had a beret tucked into his epaulet and a toothpick chewing in the corner of his mouth.
"Liyen, Nkem," Tashi announced, waving his hand at the soldier. "Meet Sergeant Abang."
Sergeant Abang grinned, revealing teeth stained deep orange by years of kola nuts. He looked like a man who enjoyed life immensely and dangerous situations even more.
"Good afternoon, Madame," Abang boomed, his voice filling the small shop. "Massa Tashi tells me you have a 'insulation' problem."
He winked. A massive, theatrical wink that involved his whole face.
"Sergeant Abang drives the Supply Logistics Vehicle," Tashi explained, trying to sound professional but failing to hide his excitement. "He is leaving for the Littoral Region at 6pm."
"I have space," Abang said, tapping his belt where a heavy pistol holster sat. "Between the diesel drums and the spare tires. I can fit... maybe fifty boxes? If they are stacked nice."
Fifty boxes.
That was two thousand five hundred spools of thread.
That was enough to flood the Bamenda market.
"How much?" Liyen asked, her voice sharp. She was the Treasurer, after all.
"For the transport?" Abang shrugged. "The truck burns government fuel. The tires are government rubber. But the driver... the driver gets thirsty on the long road. It is a dry season, Madame."
"How thirsty?" Liyen asked.
"Ten thousand francs for the... water," Abang said. "And one Zombie Light for my village house. My wife has been disturbing me since she saw the one at the Chief's palace."
Liyen didn't hesitate. She reached into the cash box. She pulled out a crisp ten-thousand note. I grabbed a packaged Zombie Light from the shelf.
"Here," Liyen said. "And here is the money for the goods."
She handed him a heavy envelope. Inside was one hundred thousand francs the vast majority of the Union's capital.
"Buy everything," I instructed Abang. "White. Blue. Black. And needles. The heavy ones for denim. Go to the wholesale market in Akwa. Don't go to the shops. Go to the warehouses behind the port. Negotiate hard."
Abang took the envelope. He weighed it in his hand.
"One hundred thousand," Abang mused. "You trust me with this, small man? I could drive to Kribi and drink this money in two days."
I looked at him. I activated Gemini.
< Behavioral Scan: >
< Subject Abang. Dilated capillaries on nose (drinker). Calloused hands (worker). Smile lines around eyes (social). He is wearing a 'Saint Christopher' medal around his neck. He is superstitious and loyal to his hierarchy. He fears Colonel Lucas more than he loves money. >
"You won't," I said. "Because Colonel Lucas knows you are here. And because you want that light for your wife more than you want the beer."
Abang threw his head back and laughed. "The Colonel was right! You are a dangerous small thing. Okay. I go. Expect me at first light."
He saluted mockingly, turned on his heel, and marched out to his waiting jeep.
Thursday night was an eternity.
We closed the shop, but we didn't go home. We sat in the back room The Lab. Tashi paced the floor, smoking cigarette after cigarette until the air was blue. Liyen sat on my stool, her hands clasped in prayer, staring at the dark window.
"He has the money," Tashi muttered at midnight. "All of it. If he doesn't come back... if he crashes... if he runs..."
"He will come back," I said. I was sitting on the floor, reading a physics textbook, but I wasn't absorbing a word. I was calculating probabilities.
< Risk Factors: > Gemini listed. < 1. Road accident (N5 highway is notorious). 2. Banditry (Night robbers). 3. Military Police checkpoint (Unlikely to stop Gendarmerie). 4. Moral hazard (Abang steals the funds). >
< Aggregate Probability of Success: 78%. >
"Seventy-eight percent," I whispered. "Good odds."
"What?" Tashi snapped.
"Nothing, Papa. Just praying."
At 3:00 AM, it started to rain. A heavy, pounding tropical rain that hammered the roof like stones.
"The road will be mud," Liyen whispered. "The Santchou pass... it slides when it rains."
We waited.
4:00 AM.
5:00 AM.
The sky began to turn a bruised purple in the east. The rain stopped, leaving behind a thick, cold mist that wrapped around the streetlights.
Then, we heard it.
A low rumble. Deep. Throat-vibrating.
The sound of a heavy-duty diesel engine downshifting.
The squeal of air brakes.
Tashi flew to the door. He threw the bolts open.
A massive, canvas-covered Mercedes Unimog truck was backing up to our shop. It was covered in red mud up to the wheel wells. It looked like a beast that had fought the earth and won.
The passenger door opened. Sergeant Abang jumped down. He looked exhausted, his eyes red, his uniform crumpled. But he was grinning.
"Mission Accomplished, Commander Nkem!" he shouted, slapping the side of the truck.
We ran out.
Abang threw open the canvas flap at the back.
Stacked between two greasy drums of diesel fuel and a pile of spare tires were cardboard boxes.
Boxes with blue writing.
Boxes with white writing.
"I got them," Abang rasped. "The Ibo man in Akwa wanted nine hundred. I told him I represent the Army. We settled on eight hundred."
He pointed to the stack.
"Fifty boxes. Plus five boxes of needles. And I bought myself a kola nut with the change."
Fifty boxes.
That was two thousand five hundred spools of thread.
Liyen let out a cry that was half-laugh, half-sob. She climbed into the truck bed, ignoring the mud on her wrapper. She ripped open the nearest box.
She pulled out a spool.
It was full. Thick, white cotton.
"Eight hundred francs," she whispered. "Fomunyuy wanted four thousand five hundred."
She looked at Abang. "You are an angel, Sergeant. A dirty, noisy angel."
"I am just a driver, Madame," Abang said, accepting the bottle of water Tashi handed him. "But I like to see the greedy men cry."
The Market Shift
We unloaded the truck in record time. Tashi, me, Abang, and even Liyen hauling the boxes into the shop. We stacked them against the wall. It looked like a fortress of cotton.
By 8:00 AM, the shop was open.
Liyen had sent word through Collins. The Union network was faster than a telephone.
The women came.
They didn't come in a chaotic crowd. They came in a line, clutching their money.
Liyen stood behind the counter. She held up a spool.
"One thousand francs!" she announced. "For Union members. One thousand francs!"
The cheer that went up could be heard three streets away.
One thousand francs. It was cheaper than the old price. It was a miracle.
We sold thread all morning. The cash box filled up again, replenishing the capital we had risked.
At 10:00 AM, I walked out to the veranda.
I looked down the street toward Pa Fomunyuy's wholesale store.
The fat man was standing in his doorway. He was watching the line of women outside our shop. He was watching the boxes of Moon Brand thread walking out of our door in the hands of his former customers.
He looked furious. His face was a mask of impotent rage. He had hoarded his stock, hoping to gouge us, hoping to break the Union. He was sitting on millions of francs of inventory that was now overpriced and useless.
He caught my eye.
I didn't smile. I didn't wave.
I just tapped the side of my head.
Think, I projected toward him. You are fighting the past. We are the future.
Fomunyuy turned and slammed his heavy iron door shut. CLANG.
It sounded like a surrender.
I walked back inside. The hum of the shop was louder now. It was the sound of commerce. It was the sound of victory.
"Papa," I said, walking to the back room.
Tashi was high-fiving Abang, recounting the story of the "Great Smuggling Run."
"Yes, Nkem?"
"We have the thread," I said. "Now we need the cold. The Bookman failed with the fire. He failed with the cotton. Next, he will try the kerosene again. He will try to turn off the lights."