The rain had stopped, but the humidity remained a thick, wet blanket that trapped the heat inside the concrete walls. The shop didn't smell like an electronics store anymore. It smelled like a chemistry experiment gone wrong: sharp vinegar, metallic zinc dust, and the stale sweat of desperate labor.
I sat at the workbench, squinting through my loupe at the plastic gears of a child's toy car. The axle was snapped. I was drilling a hole to insert a paperclip as a splint. Price of repair: 50 Francs.
Behind me, the rhythm of our survival thumped like a slow, dying heart. Whir-Clank. Whir-Clank.
Collins was on the Flywheel. He wasn't sprinting; he was enduring. His head hung low, sweat dripping from his chin onto the bicycle frame. He was generating 12 Volts to keep my soldering iron hot and the single lightbulb glowing. He had been pedaling for three hours.
Tashi stood at the counter, the ledger open. He was counting the coins from the "Grey Market" tin. Clink. Clink. Clink. Income: 4,500 Francs.
It was enough to buy rice. It was enough to buy kerosene. It was enough to keep the landlord away. But it wasn't enough to live. We were treading water in a sea of mud. We weren't drowning, but we weren't moving. We were just getting tired.
Then, the silence of the street was shattered.
It started as a low rumble, vibrating the glass of the display cabinet. Then came a series of violent coughs mechanical, wet, and angry. CHUG... WHEEZE... BANG.
A vehicle mounted the curb outside, crushing the grass verge with zero respect. The headlights—one bright, one dim cut through our window, blinding us for a second. The engine died with a shudder that rattled the teeth in my skull.
"Customer?" Collins gasped, not stopping his legs.
"No," Tashi said, closing the ledger. "That is not the sound of a customer. That is the sound of trouble."
The door of the vehicle kicked open with a metallic screech. A man stepped out into the humid night.
He was tall, gaunt, and terrifying. He wore a faded camouflage jacket with the insignia ripped off, leaving dark patches on the shoulders. Underneath was a greasy black T-shirt. A red beret was tucked into his belt, next to a sheath knife. He wore jungle boots caked in red mud that looked weeks old.
He didn't knock. He shoved the roller shutter up with a violent clang and strode in.
He brought the smell of the outside world with him—unburned diesel, stale tobacco, and an aggression that filled the small room instantly.
He stood in the center of the shop, hands on his hips, surveying us. He looked at the dark overhead lights. He looked at Collins, legs pumping, eyes wide. He looked at me, holding a toy car and a paperclip. He looked at Tashi, standing guard over a pile of small coins.
The man threw his head back and laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound, like gravel tumbling inside a cement mixer.
"So the rumors are true," the man rasped. "The Wizard of Bamenda. The man who lit up the Cathedral. Look at you."
He walked to the bicycle rig and kicked the tire lightly. "You are running a power plant with a boy's legs. It is medieval, Tashi. It smells like a pickle factory in here."
Tashi didn't flinch. He kept his hands on the counter. "Hello, Lucas."
Colonel Lucas. The man wasn't just a smuggler. He was a piece of Bamenda's history that had been erased. Six weeks ago, he was the Commander of Logistics for the Northern Sector. He controlled the fuel depots. He controlled the convoys. He was the man who moved the mountains. Now, he was a ghost.
Lucas walked to the counter. He leaned in, his face inches from Tashi's. "I heard you sold the Unimog," Lucas said. "To Pa Chi. For peanuts."
"It was a strategic liquidation," Tashi replied calmly. "We needed capital."
"Strategic?" Lucas spat on the floor. "It was suicide. A man without wheels is just a pedestrian with debt, Tashi. You cut off your own legs to buy bread."
He reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a bottle of King Arthur whisky the cheap, potent stuff that came in plastic bottles. He slammed it on the counter. THUD.
"Drink," Lucas commanded. "Wash the vinegar out of your mouth."
The Stolen Convoy
Tashi poured two cups. One for him. One for Lucas. They drank. Tashi winced as the fire hit his throat. Lucas sighed, a long, rattling exhalation.
"Why are you here, Lucas?" Tashi asked. "I thought you were in Yaoundé. Fighting your case."
Lucas's face changed. The mockery vanished, replaced by a cold, hard bitterness. The kind of anger that doesn't burn out; it just turns into stone.
"There is no case," Lucas said softly. "The tribunal is closed. I am on 'Indefinite Administrative Leave'. That is the polite way of saying they buried me."
He poured another shot, his hand shaking slightly not from fear, but from rage.
"You know what happened during the Eclipse, Tashi?" Lucas asked.
"The power went out," Tashi said. "The line from Edea failed."
"No," Lucas said. He pointed a finger at Tashi. "The grid failed. But the system worked perfectly. For the thieves."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Three days after the lights went out, a convoy arrived from Douala. Ten trucks. Military transport. Loaded with relief supplies. Kerosene. Rice. Batteries. Candles. Sent by the Ministry of Interior to stabilize the North West."
I stopped soldering. The flywheel slowed down as Collins listened. We had never seen those trucks. The town had starved for weeks.
"I was at the depot," Lucas continued, his eyes staring at a memory. "I had the manifest in my hand. I had my drivers ready. We were going to distribute to the markets. Free of charge. Emergency relief."
He took a drag of a cigarette he had conjured from nowhere, blowing blue smoke into our dark shop.
"Then the Chairman arrived. The Bookman. With a letter from the Governor."
Lucas laughed, a sharp bark.
"The letter said the supplies were reclassified as 'Strategic Reserves.' They were to be moved to the Municipal Warehouse for 'Safe Keeping.' We all know whose warehouse that is. We all know who holds the keys."
"The Bookman," I whispered.
Lucas looked at me. He nodded. "He wanted to hoard it. He wanted to wait until the price of kerosene hit 500 francs, until the rice was gone, until the people were eating dust. Then he would sell it back to them. He turned a disaster into a bank robbery."
"And you let him?" Tashi asked.
"I blocked the gate," Lucas said. "I put my best sergeant on the barrier. I told the Bookman: 'These trucks belong to the people. They do not leave this base except to go to the market.'"
Lucas crushed the plastic cup in his hand.
"He made one phone call, Tashi. One call to Yaoundé. He told them I was inciting a mutiny. He told them I was planning to sell the fuel to Nigeria for my own profit."
"And they believed him?"
"They didn't care about the truth," Lucas said. "They care about the envelope. The Bookman sends thick envelopes to the Capital. I send reports."
He threw the crushed cup into the corner.
"Six hours later, the Military Police arrived. They stripped my rank. They took my command. They escorted me off the base at gunpoint. And as I walked out... I saw the Bookman's private trucks driving in."
The silence in the shop was heavy. Heavier than the flywheel. So that was the Siege. It wasn't just incompetence. It was a heist. The Bookman had stolen the relief convoy. And he had crushed the only man who stood in his way.
"So now you are a civilian," Tashi said.
"I am worse," Lucas said. "I am a civilian with a Toyota Hilux and nothing to lose."
The Smuggler's Pitch
Lucas stood up straight. He adjusted his red beret. "But a ghost can go where a soldier cannot," he said. "I am going to Ikom."
Ikom. The border. The Wild West.
"I have a run," Lucas announced. "I am taking the back roads. The bush paths where the Customs officers are too afraid to go. I am going to break his blockade, Tashi. The Bookman holds the official imports? Fine. We bring in our own."
He looked at the dead shelves in our shop. "Electronics. Solar panels. Inverters. Batteries. The things you need."
He pointed a jagged finger at Tashi. "I know you have the Foncha contract. I know the Doctor is back. I know he gave you a deadline."
Tashi stiffened. "How do you know that?"
"I have ears in the Motor Park," Lucas said. "But look at you. You can't fulfill it. You have no stock. Your batteries are dead. You are plating rusty bolts to buy rice. You are drowning, Tashi."
"We are managing," Tashi lied.
"You are cycling!" Lucas roared. He gestured at Collins. "You are running in circles! Come with me. I need a co-pilot. I need a mechanic. My usual boy is... unavailable. The Gendarmes in Mamfe have him."
"I have no capital," Tashi said quietly. "The truck money is the Seed. I cannot risk it on the road."
"I have the capital," Lucas lied smoothly. "I have a financier in Ikom. You just bring the brain. And the hands."
He pointed at me. "The boy comes too."
"No," Tashi said instantly. "Nkem is in school. Exams."
"School teaches him to be a clerk," Lucas sneered. "The road teaches him to be a man. Look at him, Tashi. He looks twelve going on forty. He is tired."
Lucas looked at me. "You fixed the Casio watch," Lucas said. "I heard.
"I just soldered a wire," I said.
"Modesty," Lucas scoffed. "In Nigeria, a boy with your hands would be running a market stall. Here, you are pedaling bicycles for 50 francs."
He turned back to Tashi. "The Bookman took my command. He took your truck. He is starving your town. Are we going to sit here and plate his nephew's bicycle? Or are we going to hit back?"
Tashi didn't answer. He stared at the whisky bottle. Lucas waited. When no answer came, he shrugged.
"Monday," Lucas said. "04:00 AM."
"It is too dangerous," Tashi said. "The roads are mud. The bandits are hungry."
"Life is dangerous," Lucas said. "At least on the road, you see the enemy coming."
He turned and walked to the door. He stopped and looked back at the pathetic bicycle generator.
"You are a stubborn man, Tashi. You think if you play by the rules, the system will forgive you. It won't. I followed the rules. Look at me."
He spread his arms. "Parked. Like a broken truck they don't want to fix."
He walked out. The Hilux roared to life outside a cloud of blue smoke puffing into the shop before the vehicle rattled away into the night.
We sat in the silence. The smell of exhaust lingered, overpowering the vinegar. Collins stopped pedaling. The flywheel spun down. Whoosh... whoosh... click. The lightbulb dimmed and died.
We were back in the dark.
"He is right," I whispered.
Tashi looked at me. "About what?"
"About the Bookman. He stole the relief trucks, Papa. That is why we starved. That is why the batteries died. It wasn't nature. It was theft."
Tashi looked at the dead generator. He looked at the ledger. Income: 4,500. Expenditure: 3,000.
It was safety. But it was the safety of a prisoner who eats his ration.
"Lucas is chaos," Tashi said. "He is dangerous. He drives a wreck. He drinks while he drives."
"He has wheels," I said. "And he has a way out."
Tashi didn't answer. He poured another shot of whisky. He drank it alone, in the dark, listening to the silence where the engine used to be.