Government School Atuakom Wednesday, September 2, 1999 10:00 AM
Penicillin is a miracle.
Twenty-four hours after the expensive needle pricked my hip, the fire in my blood had died down to a smoldering ember. The fever broke in the night, leaving me soaked in cold sweat but clear-headed.
My arm still throbbed a deep, dull ache that lived in the bone but the ants were gone. The angry red infection had retreated, beaten back by 1,500 francs worth of chemistry.
I sat in the middle row of Class Six, squeezed between the boy who smelled of woodsmoke (Jean) and the quiet girl (Manka).
On the blackboard, Mr. Ngu was conducting a symphony of boredom.
Topic: The constituent rivers of the Benue Basin.
"The Mayo Kebbi," Mr. Ngu intoned, writing the name slowly in cursive. "Flows into the Benue. Which flows into the Niger."
He turned to the class.
"Repeat."
"The Mayo Kebbi flows into the Benue!" sixty-five voices chanted.
I moved my mouth. I made the sounds. But my brain was screaming.
< Boredom Alert: > Gemini whispered. < Cognitive underload detected. Dopamine levels critical. Suggest background task: Prime number calculation? Structural analysis of roof trusses? >
"Stand down," I thought. "We are spies. Spies love the Benue River."
I looked at my exercise book. Tashi had told me to "show the working." To act like the donkey.
I picked up my Parker pen. I wrote the date. I underlined it twice with a ruler. I wrote: The Mayo Kebbi flows into the Benue.
My handwriting was perfect. It was a mask. Yesterday, I had tried to be a Ferrari in a traffic jam. Today, I was a Corolla. I was grey. I was slow. I was safe.
At 10:30 AM, the bell rang. A rusted iron rim hit with a hammer. CLANG-CLANG.
The class erupted. The noise was physical a wall of shouting, laughing, and scraping benches.
I walked out slowly, clutching my bad arm to my chest to protect it from the stampede.
The playground was a dust bowl divided by invisible lines of capital.
Near the tuck shop, the "Big Men" gathered. These were the children of civil servants, contractors, and police commissioners. They held meat pies wrapped in greaseproof paper. They drank Top and Djino from glass bottles.
Junior was there. He was leaning against a neem tree, peeling a hard-boiled egg. He looked clean. While the rest of us were covered in a film of red dust, Junior looked like he had been preserved in plastic wrap.
He saw me. His eyes flicked to my bandage, then to my face. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just chewed his egg, observing.
I walked to the perimeter. The "Rat Zone." Here, the students sat on tree roots or on the bare ground. They ate puff-puff wrapped in old newspaper, or roasted corn. Or, like me, they ate nothing.
I found a spot under a flamboyant tree away from the crowd. I sat down. I didn't have lunch. Tashi had offered me a piece of bread, but I saw him eyeing the loaf it had to last for dinner. I told him I wasn't hungry.
"Spy work," I told myself. "Fasting sharpens the senses."
A shadow fell over me.
Caleb.
He was big for Class Six. He had a square head and scars on his knees. His father was a Sergeant at the Mobile Wing police station. In the ecosystem of the school, he was an apex predator.
He stood over me, blocking the sun. Two smaller boys flanked him his hyenas.
"New boy," Caleb grunted.
I looked up. I shielded my eyes.
"Good morning, Caleb."
"You get meat pie?"
"No."
"You get money?"
"No."
Caleb frowned. He looked at my shiny new backpack. He looked at my new uniform.
"You lie," Caleb said. "You get Parker pen. You get new bag. You be 'Ajebutter'. Rich pickin."
He kicked my boot gently. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to mark territory.
"Find something," Caleb commanded. "Tax."
I felt the heat rise in my chest. I knew physics. I knew leverage. A sharp kick to the peroneal nerve behind his knee would drop him instantly. A palm strike to the solar plexus would wind him.
< Combat Solution Available: > Gemini flashed. < Target is off-balance. Strike point: Left patella. Success probability: 92%. >
I looked at Caleb. Then I looked at the teachers standing by the staff room. I looked at Junior watching from the tree.
If I fought, I was the "Crazy Boy." The violent one. If I fought, Mr. Ngu would call Tashi. If Tashi came to school again, he would lose more dignity.
I reached into my bag. I pulled out the Parker pen. It was beautiful. Blue barrel. Chrome clip. It cost 1,500 francs. Tashi had bought it with the truck money.
"I have a pen," I said quietly.
Caleb looked at the pen. He snatched it from my hand. He inspected it. He clicked it. Click-clack.
"Nice," Caleb grinned. He put it in his pocket.
"Tomorrow," Caleb said, leaning down, "bring puff-puff. Or I take the bag."
He walked away, laughing with his hyenas.
I sat there. My hand was empty. I felt a sickness in my gut that was worse than the acid. It was the taste of submission.
I looked across the yard. Junior was still watching. He had seen everything. He took a bite of his egg. He didn't look impressed. He didn't look pitying. He looked bored. He had just watched a gazelle surrender to a lion. It was nature. It wasn't news.
The afternoon dragged. English Grammar. Subject-Verb Agreement.
"The boy runs," Mr. Ngu wrote. "The boys run."
I sat without my Parker pen. I used a cheap Bic biro I found at the bottom of my bag.
Mr. Ngu walked the rows, checking our notes. He stopped at my desk.
He looked at my book. He looked at the bandage on my arm. He looked at my face, waiting for rebellion. Waiting for the "Magician" to reappear.
I kept my head down. I wrote: The boy runs. The boys run.
Mr. Ngu grunted. A sound of satisfaction. He had broken the wild horse.
School ended at 2:30 PM. The bell rang. CLANG-CLANG.
I walked out the gates. I didn't wait for anyone. I walked down the hill, past the Cathedral, past the market.
My arm was aching badly now. The painkillers had worn off.
I reached the shop at 3:00 PM. The shutter was up. The lights were off. Tashi was sitting behind the counter. He was repairing a toaster. Liyen was sewing.
They looked up when I entered.
"Welcome, Engineer," Tashi said, putting down his pliers. "How was the factory?"
"It was fine," I said.
"Did you learn?"
"Yes."
"Did you show the working?"
"Yes, Papa. I wrote every step."
Tashi smiled. It was a relieved smile. "Good. No trouble?"
I thought about the Parker pen in Caleb's pocket. I thought about the 1,500 francs. I thought about telling Tashi that I had been robbed.
If I told him, he would march to the school. He would shout at the Headmaster. He would confront the Police Sergeant father. And the Bookman would hear about it. And Mr. Cletus would hear about it. And we would look weak. Or worse troublesome.
"No trouble, Papa," I lied.
"Where is your pen?" Liyen asked, sharp-eyed as always. "The Parker."
I didn't blink.
"I left it in my desk," I said. "So I don't lose it on the road. It is safe."
Liyen looked at me for a long second. She looked at my dusty uniform. She looked at the set of my jaw. She knew I was lying. But she also knew why I was lying.
She nodded slowly.
"Go change," she said. "There is rice."
The Night Shift
I went to the Lab. I took off the uniform. I put on my overalls.
I wasn't a student anymore. I was a Rat again.
I sat at the workbench. The battery bank was holding at 10.7 Volts. Critical. If we didn't charge it tomorrow, the lights would die for good.
"Gemini," I whispered.
< Online. >
"Status of the Battery Bank."
< Terminal. Capacity is 15%. We need lead. We need acid. Or we need a new energy source. >
I looked at the window. It was boarded up. I couldn't fix the batteries. I couldn't fix the school. I couldn't fix the rent.
But I had eyes.
"Gemini," I said. "New Project."
< Specify. >
"Surveillance," I said. "If I cannot fight the lions, and I cannot fight the hyenas... I need to hear what they are saying."
I pulled a box of scrap from under the bench. Old radio parts. A broken microphone from a cassette recorder. A coil of thin copper wire.
I couldn't build a power station. But I could build a Bug.
An FM transmitter. Tiny. Low power. Something I could drop in a teacher's pocket. Or leave under a bench.
Mr. Ngu wanted me to listen? Fine. I would listen to everything.
< Schematic Loading: FM Voice Transmitter (1 Transistor). Range: 50 meters. >
I picked up the soldering iron. My hand shook slightly from the pain. But the anger steadied it.
I wasn't going to be a donkey. I was going to be a wiretap.