The machine was hungry.
In the center of the Lab, the bicycle rig was screaming. Whir-Clank. Whir-Clank.
Collins was the engine. He was shirtless, his skin slick with sweat that dripped onto the concrete floor. His legs pumped the pedals in a brutal, rhythmic cadence. The chain scavenged from a rusted mountain bike groaned as it spun the polishing wheel.
I stood at the business end, feeding rusty bolts against the spinning denim buffing wheel. Zzzzt. Sparks flew. Grey dust filled the air.
"Faster," I said over the noise. "The friction is dropping."
"I di try!" Collins gasped, his chest heaving. "My leg... e di burn."
"Maintaing 60 RPM," I said, checking my watch. "We have fifty more bolts."
This wasn't the Rat Economy anymore. This was a sweatshop. We had scaled up. The demand for "German Spec" plating and "Midnight Special" thread had exploded. But we hadn't scaled the power. We had just scaled the suffering.
Tashi walked in from the front shop. He was holding a bag. A heavy bag. He dropped it on the floor. CLANG.
The noise startled Collins. He missed a stroke. The machine jerked and slowed.
"What is that?" I asked, coughing in the dust.
"Massa Joe," Tashi said. He looked worried. "He sent a runner. He wants these done by Monday morning. 200 wheel nuts. And four brake calipers."
"200?" I looked at the bag. "Papa, that's impossible. We are already running a double shift. Collins can't pedal for twelve hours."
"Joe said it is an emergency," Tashi said. "A fleet contract. If we do this, he gives us the whole Taxi Park account."
"And if we don't?"
"He goes back to buying new parts," Tashi said. "And he tells Emeka we are a fraud."
The Grey Market teeth. We had created a dependency, but now the dependency owned us. We couldn't say no, or the illusion would collapse.
I looked at Collins. He was draped over the handlebars, gasping for air. "We can't," I said. "Physics, Papa. Energy in, energy out. The engine is overheating."
Tashi looked at Collins. He saw the exhaustion. But he also saw the ledger. The 150,000 francs in the safe was sacred. This new money the sweat money was the only thing keeping us fed.
"We take turns," Tashi said, taking off his jacket. "I will pedal."
It didn't work.
Tashi was strong, but he wasn't a cyclist. He lasted twenty minutes on the rig before his knees gave out. I tried. My legs were too short to get full leverage, and my bad arm made it hard to stabilize the frame.
The machine was jerky. Whir... slow... Whir... stop.
When the speed dropped, the polishing wheel didn't strip the rust. It just rubbed it. The finish was uneven. We were ruining the parts.
"Stop," I said, throwing a half-polished nut into the reject bin. "It's garbage. The RPM is too variable."
Collins was sitting on the floor, eating a ball of cold fufu Liyen had brought. He watched the machine with narrowed eyes.
"The chain loose," Collins mumbled, his mouth full.
"It's not the chain," I argued. "It's the torque curve. Human legs push hard on the downstroke, but zero on the upstroke. It creates oscillation."
"Big Grammar," Collins scoffed. He swallowed the fufu. "The thing need weight."
He stood up. He walked to the corner of the yard where we kept the construction debris. He picked up a heavy, broken chunk of concrete part of an old breeze block. It weighed maybe ten kilos.
"What are you doing?" Tashi asked.
"Modifying," Collins said.
He dragged the concrete block to the bicycle wheel the rear rim we used as the drive pulley. He grabbed a roll of duct tape and some heavy wire. He began to strap the concrete block to the spokes of the wheel.
"You'll unbalance it," I said. "It will wobble."
"No be for balance," Collins said, tightening the wire with pliers. "Na for momentum. You know wetin be Flywheel, Engineer?"
I froze. A Flywheel.
Of course. A heavy rotating mass stores kinetic energy. It smooths out the power delivery. It carries the rotation through the "dead spots" of the pedal stroke.
Collins wasn't using physics equations. He was using engine memory. He knew how a crankshaft worked.
"Help me tape am," Collins commanded.
I helped him. We taped the concrete chunk tight to the rim, then added a second stone on the opposite side to balance it. It looked ugly. A bicycle wheel with rocks taped to it.
"Get on," Collins told me.
"Me?"
"I fix am. You test am."
I climbed onto the saddle. It was hard to start. The heavy wheel resisted. I pushed. Ugh. I pushed again.
The wheel turned. Slow. Heavy. But once it started spinning, the rocks took over. Whoosh... Whoosh... Whoosh.
The weight pulled the pedals around. I didn't have to push constantly. I just had to tap the pedals to keep the momentum alive. The rotation was smooth. Powerful. Consistent.
"It works," I whispered. "It stores the energy."
Collins wiped his grease-stained hands on his shorts. "Garage sense," he said flatly. "Now get down. I get work."
The Flywheel saved us, but it didn't save Collins.
The machine was efficient, but it was still a machine. We worked through the night. The noise was a constant, rhythmic drone that seemed to vibrate the very walls of the shop. Whir-whoosh. Whir-whoosh.
We finished the 200 nuts. We finished the brake calipers.
At 3:00 AM, the chain finally snapped. CRACK. It lashed out like a whip, slapping Collins on the calf.
He didn't scream. He just stopped pedaling. He looked at the broken chain snaking on the floor. He looked at the pile of finished silver nuts.
"Done," Collins whispered.
He fell off the saddle. He didn't catch himself. He hit the concrete floor hard.
"Collins!" Tashi shouted, dropping the polishing rag.
We ran to him. He was conscious, but his eyes were rolling back. His legs were cramping visibly—the muscles bunching up under the skin like knots of rope.
"Water," Collins croaked. "Salt."
Liyen ran in from the back. She had been awake, boiling water for tea. She saw Collins on the floor. She didn't panic. She went into "Matron Mode."
"Hold his legs," she ordered Tashi.
She mixed a cup of warm water with a heavy spoon of salt and sugar. "Drink," she commanded, lifting Collins' head.
He drank. He choked. He drank again.
Liyen massaged his calves. She dug her thumbs into the knots. Collins hissed in pain, but the cramps began to release.
"Enough," Liyen said, looking up at Tashi. Her eyes were fierce. "Look at him, Tashi. He is fifteen. You are driving him like a donkey."
"We had a deadline," Tashi defended, but his voice was weak.
"Deadlines don't bury children," Liyen snapped. "This stops. The factory stops at 10 PM. I don't care what Massa Joe wants. I don't care about the ledger."
She pointed at the machine the ugly contraption of bicycle parts and rocks.
"We are becoming the thing we hate," Liyen whispered. "We are becoming the Bookman. Grinding people to make numbers."
Tashi looked at Collins, shivering on the floor. He looked at the bag of finished nuts worth 10,000 francs. He looked at the machine.
"You are right," Tashi said quietly. "We stop."
We delivered the bag to Massa Joe. He was happy. He paid 10,000 Francs without blinking. He asked for double next week.
"No," Tashi said.
Joe frowned. "Weti? You no want money?"
"We are at capacity," Tashi said firmly. "We do 200 a week. No more. If you want more, the price doubles."
Joe grumbled. He spat. But he didn't argue. He needed the German Spec. We had set a boundary.
We walked to school. Collins walked slowly. He had a limp the chain whip had left a nasty welt on his calf, and his muscles were still stiff.
We reached the gate. The students were filing in.
But something was different. People were looking at us. Not with the usual disdain. Not with the "poor boy" sneer.
A boy from Class Five ran up to Collins. "Massa Collins," the boy said, breathless. "My bicycle chain cut. You fit fix am?"
Collins stopped. He looked at the boy. "I fit," Collins said. "But e go cost you."
"I get 50 francs," the boy said.
Collins shook his head. "100. And you carry my bag go class."
The boy looked at Collins' heavy backpack. He looked at the 100 francs. He nodded. He took the bag.
Collins walked into the schoolyard. He didn't carry his load. He walked with a limp, but he walked light.
I watched him. He had solved the machine with a rock. He had solved the school with a trade.
I looked at my own hands. The grey stains were fading, replaced by calluses. We were tired. We were hurting. But we weren't just surviving the system anymore. We were starting to engineer it.