(Sekondi, Barclays Branch – June 1952)
A bruised pink dawn still hung over Takoradi's cranes when Malik and Papa Kwaku Obeng climbed aboard the rickety Bedford lorry bound for Sekondi. The night's storm repair left splinters in Malik's palms, but adrenaline overrode fatigue. In his canvas satchel clinked £150—the first substantial slice of Sun‑Water profits earmarked for a weapon more potent than hammers or tarpaulins: stocks.
Papa bounced on the wooden bench, uneasy at the sight of so much coin. "A bank will do what, exactly?" he asked over the engine's cough.
Malik (careful diction): "Protect our savings from theft, then multiply them through ownership of distant factories." Papa (frown): "Factories we will never see?" Malik: "But whose dividends we will feel. Money must travel faster than storms, Papa."
Columns of Marble & Ink
Barclays Bank stood like a colonial fortress amid Sekondi's clamorous market—whitewash blinding in the sun, lion‑head medallions glaring from eaves. Inside, ceiling fans stirred the scent of ink, floor polish, and starched linen. Clerks in waistcoats shuffled ledgers the size of coffins.
Malik's sandaled feet barely kissed the polished floor; Papa's boots echoed. The branch manager, Mr. Kofi Sarpong, materialized behind a mahogany counter, spectacles glinting with mild suspicion at this father‑son duo depositing more coin than many fishermen earned in a season.
Sarpong (smooth): "Gentlemen, how may Barclays be of service?" Papa (clearing throat): "My son wishes to… engage investments."
Sarpong's eyebrow rose. Malik, standing on a brass foot‑rail to reach eye level, produced a linen pouch and spilt pennies, half‑crowns, and two tidy £10 notes upon the counter. "Capital deposit," he announced, voice steady. He slid forward a neatly inked application: Obeng & Son Innovations – Current Account.
Sarpong thumbed through the form until his gaze snagged on Malik's looping signature. "Minor," he murmured, "cannot hold account without adult guarantor." He turned to Papa. "Sir, you understand you will bear legal liability?"
Papa swallowed, glanced at Malik—who gave a minute nod. "I sign," Papa said, producing the fountain pen Malik had slipped into his pocket. Sarpong smiled—documents loved ink; ink loved certainty.
The Pitch Behind the Pen
While a teller counted coins, Malik unfolded a second document: a purchase order for Cadbury (LSE:CAB) and United Africa Company (LSE:UAC) shares—thirty of the former, twenty of the latter. At that morning's London open, total price hovered just below their £150 stake.
Sarpong (amused): "Chocolate and shipping? Not exactly children's toys." Malik: "Cadbury's margins ride on cocoa—from right here. UAC controls the ships that carry it. We sell beans; they sell beans again. Owning both hedges risk."
Sarpong's amused expression slid into consideration. "Commission is three‑quarters percent."
Malik (prompted by Cortana's silent cue): "We'll pay one percent. Loyalty has value."
Clerks paused, surprised by a customer volunteering higher fees. Sarpong's skepticism melted into professional warmth. He stamped Priority on the order slip.
Figurehead Diplomacy
While telegraph clerks transmitted the order to London, Sarpong beckoned Papa to a side parlor of teak paneling and porcelain tea service. Malik followed, but Sarpong gestured to a plush chair: "Let the lad explore our lobby brochures; this conversation is for heads of households."
Malik obediently withdrew, seating himself within earshot behind a column. Cortana's prism, hidden in his breast pocket, captured the muffled exchange and forwarded transcription to Malik's inner ear.
Sarpong: "Your son is… precocious. Investors his age usually chase marbles, not dividends." Papa (pride laced with caution): "I guide his ambition. He guides my retirement." Sarpong (laughing): "Well said. Barclays values such foresight. Might I suggest a safe‑deposit box? Five shillings a quarter."
Papa hesitated; Malik silently mouthed accept. Papa nodded, sealing another small victory.
Numbers Become Paper, Paper Becomes Power
By midday the order confirmation clacked back over the telegraph wire. Malik watched Sarpong jot execution prices:
Cadbury at 115 shillings
United Africa Company at 98 shillings
Total expenditure: £149 10s after 1 % commission. Remaining cash in current account: 10 shillings—a deliberate trickle to keep the ledger alive.
Sarpong slid two crisp receipts across the polished desk along with a small brass‑keyed tin: the safe‑deposit box in miniature. "Your share certificates will arrive by post from London within three weeks," he said, "but your ownership is now on the books."
Malik accepted the receipts with both hands. Cortana's soft voice chimed inside his skull: "Asset diversification achieved. Passive income stream scheduled—first Cadbury dividend in August: ten shillings."
Lunch of the Future
Outside, Papa suggested grilled plantains from a street vendor. Malik bit into the caramelized fruit, mind racing with compounding charts. Papa cleared his throat. "I did not understand half the words, Son, but the manager treats us like chiefs now."
Malik (smiling): "Respect travels in the company of share certificates."
Papa chuckled, then grew thoughtful. "Today, I signed forms I cannot read fully. I trust you, but trust must walk with understanding. Teach me, step by step."
Malik's chest warmed. "We start tonight. Lesson one: why Cadbury loves our cocoa as much as we do."
Evening on the Wharf
They returned to Warehouse 17 at dusk. The patched roof held; puddles shrank. Malik tucked the receipts into a waxed envelope, locked it in the new safe‑deposit tin, and buried the box beneath the driest cocoa sack—a temporary hiding spot until their next trip to Barclays.
Papa began boiling water for yam porridge, humming. Malik climbed the platform, inhaled the earthy scent of beans, and allowed himself a glance at the starlit horizon. Somewhere across that horizon, in London's hallowed Exchange, invisible gears now turned for Obeng & Son.
Cortana (whisper): "Today's £150 equals roughly $5,700 in 2025 terms. A small snowball, Maker, but rolling." Malik: "Snowball meets mountain tomorrow. We still need airflow fans."
A distant rumble of surf echoed beyond the port. Malik imagined dividends arriving like those waves—steady, unstoppable, indifferent to how small a boy might feel in their presence. He whispered a vow to meet them head‑on.