Evening Audit
That night, copper coins and cowrie shells formed constellations across the family's roof. The humid breeze smelled of cocoa blossoms from Papa's tiny plot. Malik's mother chuckled softly at the tableau—her husband pretending to explain the day's success while the real strategist moved silent pieces in the background.
Mama Obeng (teasing): "So, Kwaku, when did you learn to invent such clever boxes?"
Papa (shrugging, sincere): "I only speak for the genius. He speaks for the sun."
Malik blushed, half pride, half urgency—there was work yet. He sorted the coins, placing exactly ten shillings into a separate bag. That bag he handed to his father. "Your salary as company spokesman," he said, voice formal. Papa tried to wave it off; Malik insisted. Firm contracts avoided later misunderstandings—one of many lessons from a previous life.
Once his parents retired, Malik placed Cortana's prism upright on the parapet. She flared to life, a woman wrought of starlight and spinning code.
Cortana: "Profit check: £200 projected by month‑end once final payments clear. Converted, that is roughly $7,600 in 2025 terms. Congratulations."
Malik: "Thank you. But today proved something else: The fiction of a grown inventor lands better than the truth of a child."
Cortana: "Perception management achieved. Your father's credibility adds thirteen percent to risk‑adjusted sales velocity. Retain him as figurehead until your thirteenth birthday or until societal trust thresholds shift."
Malik: "Understood. Now, tell me about the cocoa dip."
Blue graphs ribboned the night air: a jagged price curve showing an abrupt 11 percent drop in London cocoa futures, triggered by rumors of a bumper crop in neighboring Côte d'Ivoire. Cortana overlaid rainfall probabilities, port congestion reports, and historical rebound timelines. Her conclusion glowed in bold glyphs: Window to accumulate: six trading days.
A plan formed as naturally as breathing. Malik would reinvest half his first‑month profit into discounted beans, using Papa again as purchasing agent. The other half he'd plow into raw materials to meet growing Sun‑Water demand. His greatest resource—credibility—now had two faces: a smiling father for the public and an invisible AI for the future.
Father as Front‑Man
The next morning Malik broached the subject formally at breakfast. Papa chewed slowly while the boy laid out a simple partnership: Papa's role was to represent Mensah Innovations in all adult negotiations, liaise with carpenters, and receive deliveries at the family compound. Malik would design, cost, and schedule production, keeping a seventy‑thirty profit split in Papa's favor—on paper. In reality, Papa would return most of his share to the company coffers, but the arrangement reinforced belief in Papa's authorship.
Papa (eyes wide): "You want me to pretend?"
Malik: "Not pretend—protect. People will trust a man's signature more than a boy's idea. Until that changes, be my pen."
Papa laughed, half‑nervous, half‑proud. He agreed, only condition: Malik must still play hide‑and‑seek and chase goats like other children between contracts. Malik rolled his eyes—business before goats, always—but promised.
Scaling Production
By mid‑month the household courtyard echoed with hammers. Malik had hired two teenage cousins, paying them two shillings per finished box. Papa handled their lunch breaks and occasional squabbles; Malik managed quality control, inspecting for perfect glass seal and uniform paint thickness. He kept a ledger of sun hours needed to cure the black coating, scheduling batches so there was never idle time.
Cortana generated daily burn‑rate charts. When Malik discovered the cousins wasting nails—hammering six where four sufficed—he produced smaller hammers calibrated to drive nails flush with fewer strikes. Papa proclaimed the design genius; cousins grumbled but adopted the tool, reducing per‑unit cost by one penny, fractionally increasing profit.
Evenings, they rehearsed Papa's talking points for upcoming deliveries: how the black paint absorbed photons, how condensation purity surpassed coconut filtering, and why repeat treatment during Harmattan haze was unnecessary. Malik mostly listened, correcting only technical slips, while Cortana fed him silent prompts—risk flags, competitor murmurs, the shifting politics of colonial procurement.
First Delivery & Credibility Boost
Delivery day dawned cloudless. Papa led the ox cart stacked with finished boxes, Malik perched atop the load like a young prince surveying his tiny realm. At each household Papa demonstrated operation; Malik unobtrusively nudged details—angling the glass a shade steeper, adjusting hose length so cups rested safely on stools. Post‑installation water tests drew smiles wider than coastal horizons.
Payment came mostly in coin, some in dried fish, a few in credit notes against upcoming yam harvests. Malik converted commodity pledges into immediate value by pre‑selling the yams at a slight discount to a Fante trader who trusted Papa's handshake. It was the first time Malik experienced arbitrage, and he felt a thrill ripple through his five‑year‑old frame stronger than any sugar rush.
By sunset their ox cart returned empty of boxes but heavy with £17 in new coins and barter goods soon to be liquidated. Papa sang a work song; Malik mentally apportioned funds: timber account, paint account, secret cocoa fund. In his mind Cortana's graphs updated in real time, blue bars inching toward the £200 profit goal like patient caterpillars.
Rooftop Debrief
That night the family slept early, exhausted. Malik climbed to the roof, Cortana rising like a second moon.
Cortana: "Receipts logged. Inventory turnover ahead of schedule by eight percent."
Malik: "Good. But father's presence introduced a new variable—human error. He likes to embellish."
Cortana: "Mitigation strategy: script his future demonstrations. I can project cue cards onto his spectacles if he consents."
Malik (laughing quietly): "One miracle at a time."
Below, a single lantern burned in Papa's workshop. The man was sanding cedar edges, humming the same work song. Malik felt a tug of affection. His father's willingness to play figurehead was more than strategic—it was love expressed in public belief. Malik made a note to increase Papa's official stipend, even if most would cycle back into the company.
Stars wheeled overhead. Cortana displayed the cocoa price dip graph one last time, listing storage options, transport times, humidity risks. Malik touched the hologram, tracing the curve upward where Cortana predicted rebound.
"Tomorrow we secure a warehouse," he whispered.
"Tomorrow," Cortana agreed, "we start building an empire."