Saturday was not a day of rest. It was just another gear in the machine.
The alarm clock a wind-up Chinese model that ticked like a bomb went off in the dark. Ring-Ring-Ring.
I reached out with my left hand and slapped it off. The Lab was freezing. The damp cold of the rainy season seeped through the concrete walls, settling into my bones. My arm ached a stiff, hollow pain that felt worse in the morning.
"Up," Tashi's voice came from the front shop. "The exam does not sleep."
I groaned. On the floor next to me, Collins was a lump under a blanket.
"Collins," I whispered. "Wake up."
The lump moved. "Massa, na Saturday," Collins mumbled, his voice muffled by wool. "Even Jesus rest for Saturday."
"Jesus wasn't in Class Six," I said, kicking his foot gently. "And Jesus didn't have Mr. Ngu."
Collins threw the blanket off. He sat up, shivering. He looked at his hands hands that could strip a carburetor in five minutes, now fumbling with the tiny buttons of a school shirt.
"This shirt tight," Collins complained. "E di squeeze my neck."
"It's the collar of knowledge," I said, pulling on my own uniform. The fabric was cold against my skin.
We didn't eat. Tashi was sitting by the kerosene lamp, polishing his shoes. He had already eaten his ration a piece of bread and tea. There was nothing on the counter for us.
"The mind is sharper when empty," Tashi said, not looking up.
It was a lie. The mind is angrier when empty. But anger is a fuel, too.
06:15 AM
The walk to school was a march through the clouds. A heavy white mist had descended on Bamenda, erasing the hills. The streetlights the few that worked were yellow halos suspended in the grey void.
We weren't the only ones. Out of the fog, other shapes emerged. Blue and white uniforms. Shadows with backpacks. Hundreds of children, walking in silence. No one laughed. No one ran. It was the Class Six Trudge.
We passed the Bookman's kiosk. Even at this hour, there was a small queue. People waiting for the 150-franc kerosene. Collins stopped. He looked at the queue.
"If I go queue now," Collins whispered, "I fit buy 20 liter. Sell am for black market. Make 500 francs."
"Keep walking," I said.
"500 francs, Nkem. That na rice and stew."
"Tashi said no."
"Tashi no dey here," Collins muttered. But he kept walking. The discipline of the shop was stronger than the hunger of the belly.
Government School Atuakom 06:45 AM
The classroom was cold. The windows were open, letting the mist drift in over the desks. Sixty-five students sat with their arms folded.
Saturday school wasn't about teaching. It was about Drilling. There were no textbooks. No notes. Just rapid-fire questions.
Mr. Ngu paced the front of the room. He wore a heavy sweater over his suit.
"Mental Arithmetic," Ngu announced. "Speed. Precision. The exam gives you 45 seconds per question. I give you five."
He pointed the cane.
"Manka. 7 times 8." "56, Sir." "Correct. Peter. 12 times 11." "132, Sir." "Correct. Jean. Square root of 81." "9, Sir."
The cane moved like a metronome. Tick. Tock.
"Collins."
Collins froze. He sat up straight, his knees banging against the desk. "Sir?"
"15 percent of 200."
The room went silent. I knew the answer. 30. I nudged Collins' leg with my knee. I tapped three fingers, then made a zero with my hand.
Collins stared at the board. He stared at Mr. Ngu. His lips moved. 15... 200...
"Three," Ngu counted. "Two."
"Fifty?" Collins guessed.
The class giggled. A ripple of cruel laughter. Mr. Ngu didn't laugh. He just lowered the cane.
"Wrong," Ngu said softly. "It is 30. Sit down, Mr. Collins."
Collins sat. He shrank into himself. He was the biggest boy in the class. He could lift an engine block. But in this room, he was the smallest.
"Nkem," Ngu said.
I stood up.
"The capital of Burkina Faso."
"Ouagadougou, Sir."
"Spell it."
I took a breath. "O-U-A-G-A-D-O-U-G-O-U."
"Correct. Sit."
I sat. I looked at Collins. He was staring at his desk, picking at a splinter in the wood. His ears were burning red. He hated me in that moment. Not because I was smart. But because I was part of the system that made him feel stupid.
The bell rang. We walked out into the mist, which was slowly burning off under the morning sun.
We found a spot behind the latrines the "Rat Zone." We sat on a fallen log.
I reached into my bag. I had saved half of my bread ration from yesterday. I broke it in two. I handed a piece to Collins.
He took it. He didn't eat it immediately. He crushed it in his fist until it was a doughy ball.
"I di quit," Collins said.
"Eat the bread, Collins."
"I no want bread!" he snapped. "I want respect! Look me, Nkem. I be man! I get hair for chin! And that small man Ngu di make me fool for front of small pikin!"
He threw the bread ball into the bush. A lizard scurried away.
"I go go back for garage," Collins said. "I go carry spanner. Garage no get percent. Garage no get capital of Burkina Faso. Garage get oil and money."
I watched the bread disappear into the weeds. That was 50 francs wasted.
"If you quit," I said quietly, "you lose the apprenticeship."
"Tashi no go sack me. He need muscle."
"He won't sack you," I agreed. "But he will stop teaching you the electronics. You will be a mechanic forever. You will change tires until your back breaks. You will never open the safe."
Collins looked at me. "The safe?"
"The Seed," I said. "The 150,000. Tashi is saving it for the expansion. When the embargo breaks, we are going to build things, Collins. Big things. Amplifiers. Inverters. Systems."
I leaned closer.
"But we need a team. I am the Designer. Tashi is the Manager. You are the Builder."
I pointed at the school building.
"This place isn't school, Collins. It's the toll gate. You pay the toll, you get the paper. You get the paper, the police don't disturb you. You want to be a Big Man? Big Men have papers."
Collins looked at his hands. He looked at the school. He spat on the ground.
"Ouaga-dou-gou," he muttered. "Why man must know that one for fix radio?"
"To prove you can suffer," I said. "That's all the exam is. A suffering test."
Collins sighed. It was a deep, rattling sound in his chest. He stood up. He walked into the bush. He found the ball of bread. He wiped the dirt off it. He ate it.
"Tomorrow," Collins said, chewing slowly. "Tomorrow you teach me that percent thing. If Ngu ask me again, I wan shout the answer inside his face."
"I will teach you," I promised.
01:00 PM
School ended early. We walked back to the shop.
The sun was high now. The mist was gone. Commercial Avenue was alive. The noise of motorcycles, radios, and shouting filled the air.
We walked into the shop. It was quiet. Too quiet.
Tashi was standing in the middle of the room. He was looking up at the ceiling. The fluorescent tube was dark. The fans in the Lab were silent.
I walked to the battery bank. I looked at the voltmeter. 10.2 Volts.
It had happened. The chemistry had finally given up. The internal resistance was so high that the inverter couldn't pull a single amp without tripping the low-voltage disconnect.
"It is finished," I whispered.
"No lights?" Collins asked, stepping into the gloom.
"No lights," Tashi said.
He walked to the counter. He picked up the kerosene lamp. He shook it. Empty.
"We need kerosene," Tashi said.
Collins looked at the door. "The Bookman selling for 150," Collins said. "We get 500 francs for tin."
Tashi looked at the empty lamp. He looked at the dark shop. If we bought the Bookman's kerosene, we admitted defeat. We became customers of the enemy.
But if we didn't buy it, we sat in the dark.
Tashi reached into the tin. He pulled out a 500 franc coin rat money from my market repairs.
"Go," Tashi said to Collins. "Buy the kerosene."
Collins took the coin. He took the yellow jerrycan. He walked out.
I watched him go. He crossed the street. He joined the queue at the Bookman's kiosk. He stood in line with the others.
Tashi sat down on his stool. He looked old. He had sold the truck. He had sent his apprentice to be humiliated in Class Six. And now, he was buying the enemy's oil to light his own shop.
"We are just surviving, Papa," I said softly.
"Survival is a habit," Tashi said. "And it is a bad one."
He looked at me.
"Monday," Tashi said. "You go back to school. Collins goes back to school. I will stay here."
"Doing what?"
"waiting," Tashi said. "The Seed is in the safe. The embargo will not last forever. Even the Bookman has to blink."
I looked at the dead batteries. I wasn't so sure. The Bookman wasn't blinking. He was winning.
But then I remembered Collins eating the dirty bread. I remembered the math set I traded for water. I remembered the bug in the flower pot.
We weren't winning. But we weren't dead.
Collins came back. The jerrycan was heavy. He poured the blue liquid into the lamp. Tashi struck a match. Fwooosh.
The yellow flame flared up. It smelled of kerosene. It smelled of defeat. But it pushed back the dark.
"Study," Tashi commanded. "Ouagadougou. Spell it again."
I sat under the Bookman's light. "O-U-A-G-A-D-O-U-G-O-U."
We were rats. But rats learn the maze.