(Obeng Family Compound, Takoradi – May 1954)
The convoy from Kumasi reached Takoradi at twilight, three lorries rattling like tin kettles dragged behind a wedding car. As the Bedford eased through the sandy lane that separated the Obeng compound from the neighbor's plantain grove, the scent of charcoal smoke and pepper stew wrapped itself around Malik like a homespun blanket. He had negotiated royalties, chased telegrams, and drafted cotton contracts, but nothing steadied his heart like Mama's stew simmering in a dented brass pot.
Papa Kwaku sounded the horn twice—ritual notice that travelers had returned. From the doorway of the adobe kitchen emerged Ama Serwaa Obeng, apron dusted in cassava flour, followed by the four children who orbited her like satellites: Kojo (11), Abena (9), Malik (6), Yaa (4), and toddling Kwame (2) clinging to Abena's skirt. Malik, third in that celestial order, leapt from the truck before it fully stopped and collided with Mama's embrace, inhaling the sweat‑and‑soap scent he had missed on every kilometer of the journey south.
Mama Ama (laughing): "Ei, you bring half of Ashanti dust on your face!"
Malik (muffled): "And a bit of Ashanti gold in the ledger."
Kwaku hefted a small strongbox from the cab. It clanked with coin and the comforting scratch of paper banknotes. He set it on the veranda table—a low platform carved by Kojo during last year's rainy‑season boredom.
Papa Kwaku: "Family council."
The children gathered like pupils. Mama wiped her hands, curiosity winning over domestic tasks.
Sharing the Spoils
Kwaku opened the box. Inside lay a folded Barclays money order for £80—the licensing fee from Gujarat Mill Syndicate—eight crisp ten‑pound notes bound with twine, and a half dozen silver shillings jingling loose at the bottom. Next to it, a smaller envelope containing £20 in bright new florins: Malik's private allocation from stall rentals and Sun‑Water deposits.
Kwaku: "First fruits to the family. Mama, you keep the house; you take forty."
Ama's lips parted in protest—forty pounds equaled nearly two years of market profits from her kenkey stall—but Kwaku pressed the notes into her palm. "For roof repairs and school fees."
Kwaku (turning to Kojo): "Mechanic's apprentice needs tools. Five pounds for you, to buy proper wrenches and a bicycle pump that does not leak."
Eleven‑year‑old Kojo straightened like a tree staked against wind. "Yes, Papa." He already loved grease more than marbles.
Kwaku: "Abena—our clever clerk. Three pounds so you may purchase lined exercise books for your sums and perhaps a small lockbox to guard them."
Abena's eyes—sharp as mango thorns—sparkled at the prospect of fresh paper.
Kwaku: "For Yaa and Kwame—Mama will decide: new sandals, or perhaps a goat to fatten."
Yaa squealed; baby Kwame clapped though he understood nothing except the joy of noise.
That left thirty‑two pounds. Kwaku slid the stack toward Malik. "Partner's dividend." Malik hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of adulthood. He took only sixteen and nudged the rest back.
Malik: "Warehouse roof still leaks near the east gutter. We must purchase proper galvanised sheets before the long rains."
Kwaku's chest warmed. Small professor indeed. He nodded. "Galvanised it is."
Lamplight Reflections
Night settled thick and cricket‑loud. The family dispersed—Kojo to oil his salvaged bicycle, Abena to copy verses, Mama to rock Kwame to sleep. Malik sat under the veranda lamp with a tin cup of millet drink, Cortana's voice threading through the background hiss of kerosene.
Cortana: "Meditation balance: five hours, twenty‑one minutes. Solar forecast: clear dawn. Recommend rooftop session at 06:12."
Malik stifled a yawn. "After family chores."
A pause—Cortana respected rhythms. Then:
Cortana: "Family asset audit complete. Analysis of siblings' competencies suggests strategic ventures."
Malik perked up. "Let's hear them."
The AI projected tiny holographic icons on the table: a wrench, a ledger, a paintbrush, a seedling.
Kojo – Mechanical Aptitude: Erect bicycle‑repair kiosk by roadside. Capital needed: £3 for spare tubes, £2 wood. Payback period: six weeks. Long‑term: funnel talent into future pedal‑machine factory.
Abena – Numerical & Negotiation Skills: Train as accounts clerk. Task her with maintaining Obeng Innovations' petty‑cash and invoice system. Could oversee micro‑credit program for Sun‑Water buyers.
Yaa – Artistic Demeanor & Verbal Spark: Assign branding duties—paint colorful logos on Sun‑Water Boxes. Test market appeal; early study suggests 11 % higher stall draw with painted units.
Kwame – Agricultural Curiosity (projected): Potential to oversee experimental crop plots (e.g., high‑yield cassava, drought‑resistant maize) by 1960.
Malik tapped the icons, sending them spinning like tops. "A family conglomerate before Kwame can spell his name."
Cortana: "Families compound faster than factories. Also—Kojo's kiosk could quietly prototype chain‑driven ventilators for Warehouse 17 version two."
Malik grinned. "And Abena can track the royalties. Mama already trusts her sums more than mine."
Mother's Counsel
Ama Serwaa appeared in the lamplight, wiping flour from her arms. "Still plotting, Malik?"
He offered the tin cup. She sipped. "I plot futures, Mama, like Kojo rebuilds wheels."
She sat, eyes soft. "Futures are good, my son, but present moments feed tomorrow. Your brother needs a mentor more than a kiosk. And your sister must learn patience as much as columns."
Malik nodded, chastened. "Then we invest time as well as coins."
Ama squeezed his hand. "I see greatness in your eyes, but remember: the tallest tree that forgets its roots is the first to fall."
Cortana (in ear only): "Maternal wisdom: optimise humility buffer."
Malik nearly laughed aloud.
Dawn Breaths
Pre‑dawn cool wove through the courtyard. Malik spread a raffia mat on the flat roof. Kojo, still smelling of axle grease, joined, curious. Abena crept up with a notebook, Yaa trailing in her faded smock. Even Mama climbed the ladder, baby Kwame on hip.
Sun's edge bloomed. Malik led the family through Solar Spiral Breathing—in four counts, hold two, out six—Cortana counting silently. Light gilded their faces. Kwame giggled; Yaa mimicked the whoosh.
Cortana: "Meditation tally now twenty‑two hours, seventeen minutes—one hour forty‑three remaining to Level Two."
Malik exhaled, feeling the family's breath merge with his own. The path to Level Two no longer felt singular; it felt like a cord braided from six strands.
Plans in the Morning Glare
After breakfast, they walked the perimeter of the compound. Malik pointed out where Kojo's kiosk could stand, where Abena might chalk stock ledgers on the wall, where Yaa's mural could brighten the storage shed. Mama listened and lightly corrected: "Not here—the rain pools. Not there—goats chew the reeds."
Kojo finally spoke: "If I fix bikes, I can charge threepence a tire. But if I attach a dynamo, the wheel turns a fan. Warehouse may stay dry without children pedaling."
Malik beamed; Cortana underlined a holographic note: Sibling synergies realigning.
Evening Ledger
That night, Cortana updated the balance sheet:
Family disbursement: £48
Warehouse fund: £16
Working capital retained: £45
Meditation remaining: 1 h 43 m
Malik drifted to sleep to the chorus of frogs and the soft click of Mama's abacus as she tallied the day's blessings.