The classroom smelled of chalk dust and damp wood. Mr. Ngu paced the aisle, his cane tapping against his leg. Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was the Geography drill.
"Burkina Faso," Ngu announced, stopping at the middle row.
He looked at me. He looked at my bandage. He skipped me. He looked at Jean. "Jean. Capital."
"Ouagadougou, Sir."
"Correct. Exports."
Jean froze. The farm boy knew about yams and maize. He didn't know about the Sahel. "Millet, Sir?"
"Millet is food, not export," Ngu snapped. "Sit down. Foolishness."
Jean sat, shrinking into his bench.
Ngu turned. His eyes landed on Collins. Collins was trying to make himself invisible. He was staring at a fly crawling on his desk.
"Collins," Ngu barked.
Collins jumped. The desk rattled. "Sir?"
"Burkina Faso. Exports. Two of them."
The class held its breath. The "Big Boy" from the garage was about to get roasted. Caleb, sitting in the back, snickered.
I looked at Collins. I saw his hands clench into fists under the desk. Grease-stained knuckles turning white. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the air, searching for the rhythm we had found over the laundry bucket.
"Gold," Collins said. His voice was rough, but steady.
Ngu paused. He raised an eyebrow. "One," Ngu counted. "And?"
Collins took a breath. "And Cotton. Sir."
Silence. Mr. Ngu looked at Collins. He looked for the cheat sheet. He looked to see if I was whispering. I was silent.
"Correct," Ngu said.
He didn't smile. He didn't praise him. He just turned and walked to the next row. "Manka. Nigeria. Capital."
Collins let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. He looked at me. He didn't smile. He just gave a tiny, imperceptible nod. The Rats are learning the maze.
School ended. We ran home. We didn't stop for plums. We didn't stop for bread. We had a project.
The shop was open, but dormant. Tashi was sitting behind the counter, reading a Bible. The safe was locked. The shelves were dusty.
"Welcome," Tashi said, turning a page. "Did you learn?"
"We learned," I said. "Collins got the answer right."
Tashi looked at Collins. "Gold and Cotton?"
"Yes, Boss."
"Good," Tashi said. "Go change. There is rice."
We ate the rice fast. Then we went to the backyard.
It was time for the Plating Division.
We didn't have a factory. We had:
- A plastic jerrycan cut in half (The Tank).
- A strip of zinc cut from an old roofing sheet (The Anode).
- A handful of rusty bicycle bolts scavenged from the scrap pile (The Product).
- A bottle of white vinegar bought for 300 francs (The Electrolyte).
- A packet of salt.
And the Power. I ran two wires from the Lab window to the yard. The battery bank was resting at 10.1 Volts. It was too weak to run the compressor. Too weak to run the inverter. But for electrolysis? It was perfect.
"Chemistry," Collins whispered, looking at the vinegar bottle. "Tashi say no chemistry. If he see us..."
"It's not acid," I promised. "It's salad dressing. Smell it."
Collins sniffed. "E sour. Like bad wine."
"Mix it," I commanded.
We poured the vinegar into the plastic tub. We added the salt. I wired the zinc strip to the Positive wire. I wired a rusty bolt hanging from a copper wire to the Negative wire.
"Dip it," I said.
Collins lowered the rusty bolt into the vinegar. I connected the battery.
Fizzzz.
Tiny bubbles began to rise from the bolt. It wasn't the violent, angry boiling of the sulfuric acid. It was a gentle effervescence. Like champagne.
"It is eating the rust," I said. "And it is moving the zinc from the sheet to the bolt. It is putting on a new skin."
We watched it for twenty minutes. The sun beat down on our necks. The vinegar turned cloudy. The bubbles didn't stop.
"Pull it," I said.
Collins lifted the wire. The bolt came out. It wasn't rusty anymore. But it wasn't shiny either. It was covered in a dull, dark grey sludge.
"E dirty," Collins said, disappointed. "You spoil am."
"Wait," I said. "This is the Rat part."
I handed him a rag and a handful of fine sand. "Polish it."
Collins took the bolt. He rubbed it with the sand and the rag. He rubbed it hard. He wiped the grey sludge away.
Underneath, the metal wasn't brown rust. It wasn't dull steel. It was Silver. Bright, dull-silver zinc. It caught the sunlight.
"Ehh," Collins breathed. "Na magic."
"It's Galvanization," I said. "Do the rest."
We spent two hours dipping and polishing. We plated six bolts. A bicycle brake lever. A handful of screws. The pile of "trash" was turning into a pile of treasure.
Then the shadow fell over us.
Tashi stood in the back doorway. He was holding a cup of tea. He looked at the wires running from the window. He looked at the plastic tub of bubbling liquid. He looked at my bandaged arm.
His face went hard.
"Nkem," Tashi said. His voice was low, dangerous. "What did I say?"
I stood up. I hid my arm behind my back instinctively. "Papa, it's not—"
"I said no chemistry!" Tashi shouted. He threw the tea contents onto the ground. "Do you want to lose the other arm? Do you want to burn the house?"
He marched over to the tub. He reached out to kick it over.
"It's vinegar!" I yelled. "Papa, stop! It's vinegar!"
Tashi stopped. His boot hovered inches from the tank. He sniffed the air. It didn't smell of rotten eggs and sulfur. It smelled of pickles.
"Vinegar?" Tashi asked. He looked at the bottle. "Kitchen vinegar?"
"And salt," I said, stepping forward. "It's not dangerous, Papa. Look at the wires. Thin wires. Low current. It creates no heat."
I reached into the pile on the ground. I picked up the brake lever. It shone. I held it up.
"We are not making energy," I said. "We are cleaning."
Tashi looked at the brake lever. He took it from my hand. He ran his thumb over the smooth, silver surface. He looked at the pile of rusty junk next to it.
"You did this?" Tashi asked. "With salad water?"
"Yes."
Tashi looked at Collins. Collins was holding a rag, his hands covered in grey sludge, but his grin was wide.
"We call it the Plating Division," I said. "We can take old things rusty things and make them look new. People like new things, Papa."
Tashi looked at the lever again. He tested the mechanism. It moved smoothly, freed of rust.
"Who will buy this?" Tashi asked. But his voice had lost the edge. He was the merchant now.
"The mechanics," Collins said. "Massa Joe for garage. He get plenty old part. If we shine am, he fit sell am as 'refurbished'. We charge 50 francs per part."
Tashi looked at the bubbling tub. He looked at my arm. He didn't smile. But he didn't kick the tub.
"Keep the window open," Tashi commanded. "And wear gloves. If I smell sulfur... if I see one burn..."
"No sulfur, Papa," I promised.
Tashi handed the brake lever back. "50 francs is too low," he said. "Charge 100. It looks German."
He turned and walked back inside.
We didn't go to the mechanics. Not yet. We went to Pa Mathew in the market.
It was 5:30 PM. The market was winding down. Mathew was packing his tools.
"Solar Boy," Mathew grunted. "You come for work? I have no radios today."
"I have a product," I said.
I put the brake lever and the six bolts on his table. They gleamed against the dirty wood.
Mathew picked up a bolt. He squinted. "Stainless steel?" he asked. "Where did you steal these?"
"They are the rusty ones from your scrap box," I said. "The ones you threw away yesterday."
Mathew frowned. He looked at his scrap box. "Impossible."
"I can do it for your screws," I said. "For your radio cases. When you fix a radio, the inside works, but the screws look old. If the screws look new... the customer pays more."
Mathew looked at the bolt. He looked at the radio he had just fixed a battered Panasonic with rusty screws holding the backplate.
"How much?" Mathew asked.
"10 francs a screw," I said. "Bulk rate."
Mathew calculated. "I have a hundred screws," he said.
"Bring them tomorrow," I said. "We will return them silver."
1,000 Francs. That was two days of food.
We walked home. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple. We had ink on our fingers from the school pens. We had grey sludge under our nails from the zinc polishing. We were tired.
But as we walked past the Bookman's kiosk, I didn't feel the usual weight of envy. The queue was still there. People waiting for the cheap light.
Let them wait. We weren't selling light anymore. We were selling illusions. We were taking the decay of Bamenda the rust, the rot, the old age and dipping it in vinegar until it shined.
We entered the shop. The battery bank was at 9.9 Volts. The lights barely flickered on. It was dim. But on the counter, the stack of plated bolts caught the last rays of the sun. They looked like silver coins.
"Rats like shiny things," Collins whispered, admiring them.
"Everyone likes shiny things," I said.
I opened the ledger. I wrote: September 7, 1999. Plating Division. Income: 1,000 (Projected). Expenditure: 300 (Vinegar).
I closed the book. We were still in the siege. We were still hungry. But we had found a way to tax the rust.