(Dusty Roadside near Sunyani – August 1953)
Sunlight wobbled over the asphalt like heat‑shy mirages when Papa Kwaku Obeng's Bedford lorry rattled to a stop at Mile Four, just south of Sunyani. Two dozen open‑back trucks already lined the roadside, draped in Convention People's Party bunting—red, white, and a nascent green the party claimed as the future. Loudspeakers crackled with highlife guitar; women sold kenkey from enamel bowls balanced on kerchiefed heads. Every merchant within twenty miles seemed to have appeared, yet none drew quite as many curious stares as the cedar crates strapped under canvas on the Obeng truck bed.
Malik, still only six though his calm suggested decades, hopped down and darted to the tailgate. Cortana's hologram flickered three centimeters tall inside his shirt pocket, a pale blue spark no one else could see.
Cortana (whisper‑band): "Ambient temperature thirty‑four Celsius. CPP staff hydration deficit likely within one hour. We should set price before demand spikes."
"Papa," Malik called, keeping his voice pitched just above the music, "let's site the water columns near the generator tent—shade will keep yield high."
Papa Kwaku adjusted his felt hat—now the unofficial uniform of Obeng Innovations—and boomed the words for anyone who cared to overhear: "A wise choice, engineer." He winked at Malik, then signaled two hired porters to off‑load the boxes.
The Set‑Up
Twenty Sun‑Water Boxes took five men half an hour to arrange: glass panes angled to the sun, collection troughs dripping into enamel basins below. Malik used a carpenter's square to perfect the tilt; Papa Kwaku spoke with inquisitive rally organizers, presenting the devices as simple father‑and‑son ingenuity. When an official asked how old the "assistant" was, Papa answered "Nearly seven" to push disbelief farther away.
Within forty minutes, the first basin filled with clear water. CPP volunteers—sweaty from flag‑tying—gulped it down, eyes widening at the coolness. A queue formed instantly.
Malik flipped a chalkboard: "Filtered Water — 1 penny per cup or 1 shilling per day (box share)." The day‑rate was essentially a rental fee. By noon, nineteen of the twenty units were prepaid for exclusive use by different volunteer teams, each marked with a ribbon of colored cloth. Total take: £50–roughly $1.9 k in 2025 dollars.
Cortana: "Goal reached. Secondary objective: goodwill capture."
Winning Hearts
Malik directed two free units toward the women frying plantains for the rally crowd. "Hot oil dehydrates faster than drumming," he told them. The women laughed, and one pressed a plantain skewer into his hand. Moments later, The Ashanti Pioneer's field photographer, Evelyn Osei, snapped a picture of the boy sharing plantain with an elderly volunteer, Sun‑Water Box glowing behind them.
Flash. Another column of goodwill inked into Cortana's unseen ledger.
The License Threat
Success, however, breeds scrutiny. In late afternoon, a khaki‑clad duo from the colonial Department of Trade Licensureapproached, flanked by a town constable. Their leader, Clerk Forson, twirled a moustache the color of pipe ash.
"Who authorized commercial dispensing of potable water in a public rally?" Forson demanded, brandishing a clipboard.
Papa Kwaku stepped forward, tipping his hat. "Obeng Innovations operates under the Rural Permitting Ordinance, sir—"
Forson cut him off. "That ordinance covers farm wells, not mobile distillation. If you intend ongoing commerce, you require Class‑Three certification and quarterly inspection."
Malik felt a prickle under his ribs, but Cortana's voice stayed cool.
Cortana: "Maintain courtesy. Offer demonstration free of charge. Frame as public health, not profit."
Papa gestured to a fresh basin. "Perhaps a taste, Officer? Clean water eases rally fever. On the house."
The constable accepted, drank, and smiled involuntarily. Forson wavered, then sipped. Cortana filled Malik's ear with real‑time sentiment analysis: Skepticism –30 %, Comfort +25 %.
Still, Forson tapped his pen. "Regulations are regulations. Have your senior engineer file Form T‑17 within fifteen days or face confiscation of equipment."
Malik slid from behind his father, bowing slightly—an old‑world gesture he'd practiced to defuse tension.
"Sir, we'll gladly comply," he said, voice steady. "But you'll need to guide us. No trade officer in Nyaneyem keeps Form T‑17. Might we collect one from your Sekondi office Monday?"
Forson puffed out his chest, pleased at the deference. "Indeed. Ask for me directly. We'll review diagrams." His tone softened: "The water is…impressive."
As the clerks left, Papa muttered, "Diagrams he can't read." Malik just smiled.
Counting Coins at Dusk
The lorry's tailgate served as an impromptu ledger table. Malik poured the day's take—shillings and pennies—into piles as Cortana's holographic abacus floated over the coins.
Cortana: "Rental revenue: £50. Operating cost: cart hire & porters, £6. Net gain: £44 (≈ $1.67 k)."
Papá scooped the coins into a lockbox. "We could buy more glass, double output," he suggested.
"Glass yes," Malik agreed, "but first we file that form before Forson weaponizes bureaucracy."
Quiet Strategy
Night found them parked beyond rally noise, campfire reflecting in Papa's eyes. Malik traced designs in the dirt—an idea for collapsible Sun‑Water frames that would fold like accordion ribs. Papa listened, occasionally offering a carpenter's tweak.
Then Cortana projected a faint red banner only Malik could see: "Risk — Clerk Forson may alert Gold Coast Office to unregistered youth enterprise."
Malik murmured, "We need a shield."
Papa frowned. "Meaning?"
"Formal company papers," Malik said. "If the firm exists on colonial ledgers, Forson's leverage dies."
Papa tossed a palm‑nut shell into the fire. "Registrar's office is in Cape Coast—two days' ride."
Malik met his father's gaze, eyes older than any six‑year‑old's. "Then let's start tomorrow." Cortana's tiny form nodded in assent.
As they doused the fire, thunder rumbled far to the south. Cortana overlaid the storm's projected path—straight over Takoradi, where warehouses lined a leaking roof Malik thought he'd fixed forever. He swallowed a knot of worry.
Cortana: "Probability of roof failure in next squall—twenty‑seven percent."
Papa clapped Malik's shoulder. "We'll patch whatever tears, son."
But Malik's gaze followed the distant lightning, already calculating bamboo loads, labor hours, and the bureaucratic dance ahead.