(Takoradi Depot, Midnight Storm – May 1952)
The first thunderclap struck like a cannon against the harbor cranes, and a metallic tremor shivered through Warehouse 17. Malik woke on a burlap bedroll to the sharp scent of ozone and the drum‑beat percussion of tropical rain smashing tin. For a heartbeat he lay still, listening—counting the seconds between flash and rumble the way sailors measure distance to lightning. Two seconds: the storm was almost overhead.
A fresh rivulet spattered his cheek. Another. He sat up fast. Rainwater snaked through the same pitted skylight that had ruined yesterday's calm inspection, but now the leak was no timid drip. Water poured in greasy ropes, splashing the canvas fly he and Papa had stretched above the cocoa sacks.
Malik (hoarse whisper): "Papa—up! The canvas won't hold."
Papa Kwaku Obeng lurched from sleep, eyes searching the dark rafters that rose like ribs of an iron whale. Lightning flashed, revealing the full scale of disaster: sheets of corrugated tin peeled back by wind, dozens of star‑shaped holes, and on the earthen floor below, new puddles creeping toward the elevated platform where twenty‑two sacks of precious cocoa sat only half a meter above the mud.
Cortana's Aerial Blueprint
Malik dug into his shirt for the quartz prism. Cortana flared, projecting a chest‑high hologram of the warehouse interior as though the roof were peeled away. Luminous red patches mapped incoming water; green patches showed relative dryness. Overlays of tensile‑strength estimates hovered around the bamboo poles stacked in a corner—wartime litter no one had bothered to remove.
Cortana: "Bamboo density: 0.63 g/cc—sufficient for interim rafters. We must distribute load across beam junctions every ninety centimeters."
Papa blinked at the blue woman in the storm gloom but wasted no time arguing. Malik grabbed a coil of hemp rope, a handful of iron nails scavenged earlier, and shoved a short machete into his father's hands. "Strip the fronds, leave the segments whole," he ordered. Papa nodded—in the dark storm they had no room for adult/child hierarchy; only competence mattered.
Ascending the Whale‑Bones
Lightning provided intermittent back‑lighting as they hauled the first bamboo pole up crude iron ladder rungs. Malik climbed ahead, bare feet finding the cold slick steel. When he reached rafter height—almost eight meters up—he wrapped his legs around a main beam, heart pounding with the electric thrill of danger and responsibility. Cortana hovered at shoulder level, projecting dotted blue circles where poles should seat.
Cortana: "Angle fifteen degrees for water‑shedding. Lash with double‑clove knots. Rope tensile strength adequate if soaked, but nails through nodes add fifty percent security."
Wind roared, rain strafed sideways. Malik's fingers worked furiously—loop, pull, cinch—trusting Cortana's ghostly rings. Papa steadied each pole from below, then climbed to drive four‑inch nails through joints where Cortana placed glowing X marks. The lightning's strobe revealed cartoonish silhouettes: a grown man and a tiny boy flitting like spiders across a cathedral of rust.
After thirty minutes the first patch of roof took shape: bamboo lattice undergirding, a salvaged tarpaulin stretched tight, weighted with scrap iron. Red zones on Cortana's map cooled to amber, then green. Rain still battered the tin above, but runoff now div‑erted to the western gutter.
The Breath Between Bolts
They paused on a rafter to drink rainwater cupped in Malik's hands. Lightning flashed—Papa saw his son's face glowing azure from Cortana's emission and wondered if angels carried slide rules. Malik caught the look and grinned, rainwater streaming like comet tails from his lashes.
Malik: "One more quadrant and we save the beans." Papa (catching breath): "Show me the next X, little foreman."
An hour later the bamboo matrix covered the worst breaches. Canvas redirected drips into iron drums where Papa planned to store wash‑water for later cleaning. Cortana's final overlay declared: "Mold risk reduced to seven percent—acceptable."
Ledger of the Night
They descended shakily, muscles quivering, and surveyed the sacks—dry for now. Malik scribbled fresh numbers by lantern light: twenty‑five bamboo poles requisitioned (zero cost), twenty nails lost to bent shaping, rope length consumed one‑third coil. He calculated a maintenance depreciation allowance—one shilling per fort‑night—to remind future Malik that temporary fixes always age into future liabilities.
Papa leaned against a cocoa sack, chest heaving. "Son… every bag safe is twenty shillings gained. How old are you to know such things?"
Malik (softly): "Old enough not to lose what we've earned."
Papa accepted the answer like a parable, wiping rain from his moustache.
Barclays on the Horizon
The storm began to ebb just before dawn, thunder crawling seaward like a beast leaving ruins. Malik and Papa wrapped themselves in salvaged canvas for warmth. Cortana dimmed her avatar, conserving charge.
Cortana (quiet, to Malik only): "Next priority: secure financial storage. Cash in sacks is vulnerable."Malik: "Barclays Sekondi—the only branch handling small accounts." Cortana: "Branch manager requires an adult signatory for legal compliance. You must bring your father."
Malik glanced at the sleeping giant beside him. Papa could lift bamboo like feathers but hesitated to sign papers he did not understand. Yet the plan demanded it. Tomorrow they would leave the depot in the care of the night watchman and journey by lorry to Sekondi. Malik rehearsed the pitch in his head: deposit slips, share certificates, safe boxes—an invisible ocean into which today's small river of coins must flow.
Cortana: "Prepare talking points. Adults trust paternal pride. Frame the visit as securing your son's future."Malik (smiling despite exhaustion): "First he must survive this one."
Hook for Tomorrow
As dawn cracked grey‑pink across the harbor, Malik traced Cortana's pulsing map one last time. Green zones held. The cocoa smelled earthy, not sour. He allowed himself a single sigh of relief.
But tomorrow promised new storms—the polite kind: polished floors, fountain pens, signature requirements. Malik would need every ounce of his father's calm presence and every kilobyte of Cortana's calculations.
He pulled the canvas tighter, rested his head on a sack, and whispered toward the rafters he had just conquered. "Sleep fast, Papa. Bankers wait for no storm."
(Can I ask for votes now lol)