The human body is a battery. It has a capacity rating. If you drain it faster than you charge it, the voltage drops. The internal resistance rises. Eventually, the chemistry fails.
I sat in Class Six, staring at the back of Peter's head. Mr. Ngu was talking about the Digestive System. "The stomach," Ngu said, drawing a lumpy sack on the board. "Churns the food with hydrochloric acid."
Acid, I thought. Everything is acid.
I looked to my left. Collins was asleep. Not dozing. Not resting his eyes. He was comatose. His head was on the desk, buried in his arms. His breathing was a slow, heavy rhythm that vibrated the bench.
Mr. Ngu turned around. He saw Collins. The class waited for the explosion. They waited for the cane.
Ngu walked down the aisle. He stood over Collins. He looked at the boy's hands, exposed on the desk. They were covered in small cuts, the knuckles swollen, the skin stained a permanent dull grey from the zinc sludge. He looked at the dark circles under Collins' eyes that were visible even in profile.
Ngu didn't shout. He didn't strike. He picked up a piece of chalk and threw it gently. It bounced off Collins' shoulder.
Collins jerked awake. "I no sleep! I no sleep!"
"You are drooling, Mr. Collins," Ngu said dryly. "If you must sleep, do it at home. Or are you working the night shift at the brewery?"
"No, Sir," Collins mumbled, rubbing his face. "Family business."
"Tell your father," Ngu said, turning back to the board, "that a mechanic who cannot read the manual is just a man with a hammer. Stay awake."
It was a mercy. A small, dry mercy. But it confirmed what I already knew: We were fading. The "Ghost Shift" working from 7 PM to midnight by kerosene lamp—was eating us alive.
We walked home in a daze. The pink notice was still on the door, curling in the humidity.
FINE: 25,000 FRANCS. DUE: 3 DAYS.
We entered the shop. Tashi was standing by the window, watching the street. Outside, a car had pulled up. It wasn't a customer. It was the enemy.
It was a Peugeot 504. The official car of the Cameroonian Civil Service. This one was a wreck. The white paint was yellowed. The bumper hung loose on the left side. The chrome trim was eaten away by rust, leaving jagged brown scars along the doors.
A man stepped out. He wore a safari suit that strained at the buttons. He carried a clipboard. It was Mr. Fomara. The Health Inspector.
"He is back," I whispered.
"Hide the tub," Tashi commanded.
Collins grabbed the plating tub and shoved it under the counter. I threw a cloth over the pile of rusty bolts we had scavenged from the dump.
Fomara walked in. He didn't knock. He smelled of beer and bureaucracy.
"Mr. Tashi," Fomara said, tapping the clipboard. "The seven days are ticking. I do not see a receipt for the 25,000."
"I am appealing the violation," Tashi said, standing his ground behind the counter. "There is no factory here. We are cleaning scrap metal. That is not industrial activity."
"You are using chemicals," Fomara said. "I smell vinegar. I smell metal. That is a chemical process. Section 12 of the Municipal Code."
He looked around the dark shop. "And you are operating without lights? Is this a safety violation too?"
"We are conserving energy," Tashi said.
Fomara smiled. It was a greasy smile. "You are broke, Tashi. Everyone knows. The Bookman has choked you."
He leaned on the counter.
"I can close you down today," Fomara said. "I can put the seal on the door. Or... you pay the fine. 25,000. Cash. Now."
Tashi's hand drifted toward the safe. The 150,000 was in there. The Seed. If he paid Fomara, we survived. But we ate the Seed. If he didn't pay, we closed.
I looked at Collins. He was staring out the window at Fomara's car. He wasn't looking at the Inspector. He was looking at the Peugeot.
"Massa," Collins said suddenly. His voice was loud in the small shop.
Fomara turned. "Who gave you mouth, boy?"
Collins ignored the insult. He pointed at the window. "Your car," Collins said. "E di cry."
"What?" Fomara frowned.
"The 504," Collins said. He stepped out from behind the counter. He walked to the window. "The bumper rust. The grill rust. Even the door handle di rot. A Big Man like you supposed to drive clean car."
Fomara stiffened. "The roads are bad. The rain is heavy."
"Na shame," Collins said, shaking his head. "If you go for Governor office with that car, people go laugh. They go say you be small boy."
"Collins!" Tashi warned.
But Collins kept going. The mechanic in him had woken up. "But the engine sound sweet," Collins said. "E get power. Na just the skin wey spoil."
Fomara looked at his car. He looked at the rust eating the chrome. It clearly bothered him. In Bamenda, a man's car is his face.
"Parts are expensive," Fomara muttered, defensive now. "A new bumper is 40,000."
Tashi's eyes narrowed. He looked at Collins. He looked at the car. He saw the opening.
"Mr. Fomara," Tashi said smoothly. "My boy is rude, but he has eyes."
Tashi walked around the counter. He picked up the Brake Lever—the sample we kept on display. The "German Spec." He held it out.
"Look at this."
Fomara took it. He rubbed the silver finish. "So? It is a lever."
"It was rusty yesterday," Tashi said. "We fixed it. We plated it. Zinc and Nickel alloy. Weatherproof. Better than chrome."
Fomara looked at the lever. He looked at his car.
"We can't pay you 25,000 francs," Tashi said. "We don't have it. But we can save you 100,000."
"How?"
"We do the car," Tashi said. "The bumpers. The grill. The trim. The handles. We strip the rust. We plate them 'German Spec'. We make that 504 look like it just rolled out of the Douala port."
Fomara laughed. "You? Here? In the dark?"
"We are specialists," Tashi said. "You want the fine? Take it. But the money won't fix your car. We can fix the car."
Fomara looked at his sad, rusted Peugeot. He looked at Tashi. He looked at the pink notice.
"The fine remains," Fomara said.
"The fine disappears," Tashi countered. "Or we do nothing. And you drive a rusted car to the next Council meeting."
Fomara hesitated. Corruption is a barter economy. Cash is good. Status is better.
"The bumpers," Fomara negotiated. "And the grill. And the mirrors."
"Done," Tashi said.
"By Friday," Fomara added. "I have a wedding on Saturday. If it is not ready, I seal the shop."
"Friday," Tashi agreed.
Fomara threw his keys on the counter. "Don't scratch it."
He walked out. He hailed a taxi. He left us with a 25,000 franc debt and a 1,500 kilogram problem.
We stood around the Peugeot. It was a wreck.
"Friday," I said. "That is three days. To strip and plate two bumpers and a grill? We need a tank the size of a bathtub. We need liters of vinegar. And Papa..."
I pointed to the shop. "We have no power. The battery is at 9.4 Volts. To plate a bumper? We need 50 Amps. Maybe more."
Tashi looked at the car. He kicked the tire. "Collins," Tashi said. "Open the hood."
Collins popped the hood. There, sitting in the engine bay, was a massive VARTA battery. It was new. 12 Volts. 80 Amp-hours. A beast.
"We don't need our battery," Tashi said, a wicked smile touching his lips. "We use his."
"Parasitic load," I whispered. "We use the customer's energy to fix the customer's car."
"Exactly," Tashi said. "Collins, strip the bumpers. Nkem, set up the bath. We are going to bleed this car dry."
We didn't sleep. Collins and Tashi wrestled the rusted chrome bumpers off the car. They were heavy, sharp, and stubborn. I built the tank. We didn't have a bathtub. We dug a trench in the backyard clay. We lined it with two layers of heavy plastic sheeting Tashi had saved from the Eclipse packaging.
We needed electrolyte. Tashi opened the safe. He took out 5,000 Francs. "Go," he told Collins. "Buy every bottle of vinegar in the Quarter. And salt. Kilos of salt."
Collins ran.
By midnight, the trench was filled with a murky, salty acid bath. We wired the Peugeot's battery to the tank using the jumper cables.
We lowered the front bumper into the trench. It hissed.
Fizzzz.
The current draw was massive. The Peugeot's battery groaned under the load. I watched the multimeter. 12.6V... 12.5V...
"It's draining fast," I warned. "If we kill his battery, the car won't start."
"Run the engine," Tashi said.
"What?"
"Start the car," Tashi commanded. "Let the alternator charge the battery while we drain it."
Collins climbed into the driver's seat. He turned the key. VROOOOM. The old diesel engine roared to life. Smoke filled the yard.
It was madness. A car idling in the middle of the night, powering a hole in the ground filled with vinegar, plating its own bumper.
We worked in shifts. One hour monitoring the tank. One hour scrubbing the next part. One hour sleeping on the floor.
The smoke stung our eyes. The vinegar fumes mixed with the diesel exhaust. It was the Ghost Shift. But this time, we weren't just rats. We were alchemy.
It was done. The sun rose over the yard. The Peugeot 504 stood in the center.
It looked... weird. The bumpers weren't chrome-shiny. They were a deep, matte silver. The "German Spec." But they were clean. The rust was gone. The car looked tough. Industrial.
Fomara arrived at 8:00 AM. He walked around the car. He ran his hand over the grill. He looked at the matte finish.
"It is not chrome," Fomara said.
"It is better," Tashi said, leaning against the doorframe, barely able to stand from exhaustion. "Chrome peels. This is bonded. It will outlast the engine."
Fomara stepped back. He looked at the car. It looked different from every other rusty taxi in Bamenda. It looked custom.
"It is... distinctive," Fomara decided.
He took the keys. He reached into his pocket. He pulled out the pink notice. He tore it in half.
"We are square," Fomara said.
He got in. He turned the key. Click-click-click. Silence.
The battery was dead. We had drained it to the last electron.
Fomara frowned. "What is this?"
"The process," Tashi said quickly. "It... realigns the magnetic fields. Sometimes the starter gets confused."
Tashi looked at Collins. "Push."
We pushed. Me, Tashi, Collins. We pushed the heavy car down the driveway. Fomara popped the clutch. VROOOM. The engine caught.
He drove away. We stood in the yard. Covered in grease, soot, and vinegar. We had no money. We had no power. But the notice was gone.
"We survived," I whispered.
Tashi looked at the empty trench in the ground. "We worked for three days," Tashi said. "For zero francs."
"We bought time," Collins said, echoing Liyen.
Tashi nodded. He put his hand on Collins' shoulder. "Go sleep, mechanic. No school today."
We collapsed on the floor of the shop. The siege held. But we had found a way to pay the toll.
Dig sideways.