“You know how it is; just because
I’m not married doesn’t mean I don’t have responsibilities.” “So how is Mzee?” Gerald asks. You have been friends for long and he knows how much your family means to you. “He is fine. It is just that we need money; the twins are going for their last semester. By Friday, everything should be paid and Mzee does not have the money now.
He asked me for five ma!”
“Five million! Hah!
That is tight!
How are you going to get that money in four days?” You shake your head from side to side – you wish your mother was still alive, she always had a way of taking care of things – “I don’t know! Borrowing here and there I guess!
Maybe you can lend me something...”
“My pockets are dry too! I just paid my daughter’s school fees. That ‘cheap’ nursery school is actually expensive.
I wonder how much
I will have paid by the time she gets to university!” “You ask me!
That five ma doesn’t even cover all their expenses! Education is so expensive, yet we earn so little.” “I know!
How many times have we thought of quitting this insurance thing for better jobs?” You and Gerald are both graduates of social sciences.
But somehow, you found jobs as sales executives at a local insurance firm. “Maybe if the better jobs were there, we would actually quit,” you reply. “But they’re not there! About the money, I doubt many people have much to spare. Since it’s the beginning of the school term, you should try Katumwa.” “But he is a shark and his rates are through the roof!”
Katumwa is your colleague in accounts. To ‘get somewhere’ in life, he runs an ‘underground’ money lending business.
He is not as bad as the other loan sharks around town. You have heard stories of people ‘getting’ fatal accidents because of failing to pay off their debts in time. But you have not heard anything bad about Katumwa.
Then again, who knows?
“Maybe so, but he is your best bet,” Gerald says, “I don’t see any bank giving you that money at such short notice, and of course the other money lenders...” “
...I know,” you interrupt Gerald, “...they’re out of the question...they are more dangerous than a colleague, but still you never know...”
You are thinking that if you fail to pay up, Katumwa might send you to jail. But if you fail to find the money, that will be the end for the twins.
A brief picture of your mother’s lifeless face flashes in front of your eyes. It is just like the last day you saw her in that coffin – the life seeped from her body, but her bright gomesi strangely vibrant and full of life. The twins were just two when she died. She might be helpless to help the twins, but you’re not. “Too late to go to the bank now,” you repeat, as if you are thinking it for the first time.
“Let me go see Katumwa, before the boss gets here.” You do not know when you started to think of
Katumwa as the ‘Little Shark’.
In a strange way the name comforts and fills you with dread at the same time. “Do not forget the boss wants the field report and the returns on his desk,” Gerald adds. “Yes, they’re almost ready,” you say as you shut the door to the small office you share with Gerald. As you go through the brightly lit corridor to Little Shark’s office, you touch the flash disk in your pocket – at least you have most of the work there, and another copy of it on your laptop at home.
You rap softly at his door, his office is at the end of the corridor. The joke round office is that Little Shark always has his ears peeled to a knock that needs ‘economic redemption’. “Come in!” His shrill voice cuts through the door. As you turn the silver door handle your grip slips because your hands are so clammy with sweat.
You wipe your hands on the flanks of your trousers, and furtively look through the corridor hopping to God that no one has seen you feeling your buttocks at the threshold of Little Shark’s
10 door.
You finally manage to turn the door handle with both hands. You walk in with the mind that the door is a minute trap door that will only reveal itself once you pay up. “Good morning Katumwa, I need your help!” “Vincent! First things first, you never come to see me! You only remember me in hard times, ehh?” You look at his short forearms supporting his burly face. How can such a small man have so much power? As if he is following your train of thought, Little Shark smiles and says, “How much do you need?” “Five million.” “That is Ok.
When do you want it? You know the usual rate, right?” “As soon as yesterday; ten percent, isn’t it?” “My friend, if I lent at that rate, I would never get anywhere. You know the economy is tight, my rate is fourteen percent. Some other guys in the business are charging fifteen percent every month.” “Over a hundred thousand a month? Katumwa, you will kill me!”
Before your eyes, the light in his
office dims. Manically, he raps his chubby fingers over the calculator keys. “Let’s see...that is just about right; five hundred and twenty-five thousand shillings in three months.” “In three months! That is so much...” “...
We can talk six months if you want...” “Out of the question! So you can milk me for twice the amount?” Not in the least bit offended,
Little Shark chuckles, “It’s the times my friend, and this is business.” You shake your head and touch your neck. The black beads of your rosary feel like a chokehold, “Fine. I’ll take it.” He springs off his desk with a quickness that surprises you. For the first time you notice the steel safe mounted in the wall in the corner of the room. His chubby fingers deftly turn the knob for the combination. It’s like he knew you were coming. He takes out five bundles of fifty
thousand notes
. He walks over to the counting machine and runs it. It’s all there. He bands it and wraps it in hard khaki paper and tapes the edges.
He hands you a grey box package.
“Good doing business with you,” Little Shark says. You nod, thinking about the ride to the bank. As you reach the door, he is already bending over his notebook. You turn back to see what he is writing. “There is a receipt for you of course,” he says as he opens a drawer on his left. He pulls out a receipt book and writes out one for you.
“The money is in your account, Mzee.” You are on phone with your father. It is three o’clock and you are exiting the bank. “Eeh! Weebale nnyo mutabaani! Thank you very much son,” he repeats in English. “It is good to have a son who is somewhere, at least your brother and sister will not drop out, they will get somewhere too one day, not so mutabaani?” “Yes Mzee, they will get somewhere too.” As you hang up the phone, you wonder where that somewhere will be
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