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You part with the money but you don’t see the man for the next one week. When you bump into him in the streets, he seems surprised to see you and says, “Chief, you are a lost man. Just imagine, the day before yesterday, I had a whole three thousand shillings . . . I have nothing in my pockets. Would you by any chance have a ka-fifty? I will pay back with whatever else I owe.”
By WAHOME MUTAHI,December 6, 1998
Now I think you all know that there are people who carry a whole one million bob in the boot of their cars and then call that petty cash. It is so little petty cash that when their wallets dry up, they dispatch their drivers to go the boot to refill the wallet.
I know all about it because I have been reading about certain Kenyans who have been borrowing millions from banks and then pretending that they owe what I owe Man Kiboro, my local kiosk man.
I have been getting the idea that all they need to do to have a million in their pockets as part of their lunch money is walk into the bank at around mid-day.
Once they are inside, the manager opens the safe and asks them: “How much today? A million or three. Please don’t take less than a million. You will break my heart if you do so.” The fellow would not like to break the heart of the manager so he takes two and a half million very reluctantly.
If that is not what has been happening, then I don’t know how those Kenyans we have been reading about and their millions have managed to get so much from banks, the same places where hunters and gatherers like Whispers the Son of the Soil are not welcome.
Ask me how the manager looks like and I will tell you that I have absolutely no idea. I have made attempts to meet them but next time, I will try to shake God with my own hands instead of trying to talk to a bank manager.
I have tried to meet those characters called bank managers and they have made me understand why they are called so. They are called bank managers, because they operate from bunkers where the likes of Whispers the Son of the Soil are not supposed to come near.
So what happens when I present myself wearing a borrowed suit because none of mine is fit to be worn when one is seeing a bank manager? I go to the counter where appointments to see the manager are made and I meet the kind of character I was telling you last Sunday is found in a bank.
The character is otherwise called a stone face because as I said, bankers look like funeral home attendants and think smiling is a crime. I announce my name to the stone face and I say I want to see the manager.
“What about?” asks the stone face giving me a look that suggests that I have just escaped from Kamiti Prison. I reply, “1 am interested in taking a loan.”
The stone faced sizes with my head. I add, “just little money to finish a house I am building. Stone face asks: “would you by any chance be having an account with us?”
The way he asks suggests that he expects a No. I tell him that I have an account. He cannot believe me and he looks at me in a way to say that if indeed I have an account, a mistake was made by whoever allowed me to have one.
Stone face demands that I produce documentary evidence to show that a mistake was made sometime in the past. The mistake happens to be for anyone to have imagined that I qualified to have an account.
Relevant documents
I produce the relevant documents to prove that indeed I have an account. Stone face takes the documents and disappears into the stomach of the bankwhere I cannot see him. I assume that he is finally impressed with me and has gone to book an appointment for me with the mysterious character called a bank manager.
The fellow returns after half an hour and asks me, “Yes, can I help you?” I mutter things to the effect that he had taken my documents in and that I was expecting him to come and tell me whether I can see the manager. He scratches his head as I pray to God to strike the man with dandruff and other afflictions that affect the place he is scratching.
He makes a quick turn and this time returns after five minutes, holding my documents. He asks again why I want to see the manager. I tell him that I have always wanted to join the class of landlords and therefore that I need a loan to build a house.
The man manages a smile and I tell myself that he is pleased to know that I am an investor. I expect him to open the door so that I can meet this mysterious man called the manager.
I discover that I am very wrong when the same stone face, now wearing a face that looks like granite asks me: “Do you belong to a co-operative society by any chance?” I say I belong to one. The man then asks: “Why then don’t you take a loan from it?”
I give him the look that I normally give the landlord, that is the one that says that I would like to see him in a coffin. The man does not get the message and he says, “if your co-operative society is not co-operative, why don’t you try your funeral and benevolent society?
“You know the Nyaituga Burial and Benevolent society. Such societies are known to help the less, fortunate members of society.”
The man is telling me that it is easier for me to die than to see the bank manager. In other words, the man is offering me sound advice that my kind does not qualify for loans from banks. My kind can only be trusted by co-operative societies. However, I still insist that I must see the bank manager.
Stone face now puts on a face that suggests a hard rock and says: “At the moment, we are not lending for house building. It is our company policy.”
The way he says “we” and “our” suggests that he is the chairman of the bank. The next thing I know is that he is very busy opening the door to the manager’s office, for a fellow who carries petty cash in the boot of his car.
The man has come to try and not break the manager’s heart by agreeing to take yet another three million shillings from the bank. Once again I cannot get a chance to see this mysterious man called the bank manager. May be I will see him in the next millennium.
It was one man called Bill son of the Spear Shaker or William Shakespeare who said something to the effect that neither a lender nor a borrower be. Of course Bill was not living in Kenya where if you don’t borrow, you are not a Kenyan. He also did not live in Kenya so he would not have known that try as you may, you must lend.
I only wish Bill could have offered some sound advice on borrowing because those of us who live by hunting and gathering live on borrowing. The only things that we own and are not borrowed are our names.
I have yet to know how to count a borrowed million shillings lent to me although I hear it is some hundred thousand multiplied by a ten. However, I know what is to borrow from Mama Mboga who has never handled a million either but sells those vital greens.
Apart from those greens she also owns a dog-eared book where she is willing to put your name and enter what you have borrowed. Mama Mboga does not of course lend to anyone. She does not lend to civil servants.
She is old enough to know that they are very good at telling stories about an item called the computer. She is very familiar with a story that emerges from some civil servants at the end of the month that goes: “Mama, the computer has broken down and as a result I cannot pay you.”
Very simple argument
Her argument in that kind of case is very simple. It is that in the first place she did not lend to a computer so it is not her business whether that machine broke down or not. In that case, the next time the civil servant wants to borrow from her, she is very firm that her dog-eared book does not welcome his kind.
She still makes the mistake of lending me sukuma wiki (kale) and associated greens believing that since my life is not controlled by a computer, I will pay. She does not know that by the time I am taking those greens from her on credit, my neck is wanted by those others I have borrowed from.
She does not know that in the previous days, I have behaved like other Kenyans who are permanent borrowers because they are hunters and gatherers. If you are one, you know how they behave.
A Kenyan who wants to borrow two pounds from you does not come waving his title deed and declare that he has no bus fare. Instead, he will come to where you are obeying your thirst and first of all observe your buying habits.
He is trying to see how much you are worth and therefore how much he can get out of you. He is a patient creature and will stick at your table as he chews that packet of groundnuts costing five bob that he took on credit before he came to where you are.
The man will chew as if he is contemplating on the future of the world’s economy. Then he will finally say: “Son of the Soil, it is you I wanted to see a small one.”
When a Kenyan tells you that he wants to see you a “small one”, he is not likely to talk to you about the dangers of liquefying your liver and brain with Pilsner Ice but you might not be aware so you rise.
The man leads you to a corner as if he is about to make you take an oath and he says; “Whisey, I know that you are a busy man and I would not have disturbed you.
“Why I needed to see you a small one is because, you know . . . It is like this. I had a cheque that was supposed to be cleared today but you know how banks are these days. They behave as if they feel pain when they pay.”
“This is to say that as you are looking at me, the mother of my children who really is also your wife because she and yours are the same age does not have anything in the house. The bank of course does not understand that pain but I am sure you do. How about just one hundred and then – I promise in the name of our God – I will pay you back in two days.”
You part with the money but you don’t see the man for the next one week. When you bump into him in the streets, he seems surprised to see you and says, “Chief, you are a lost man. I have looked for you all over, kwani, did you change your swallowing places. Heehe! Hee! I have looked for you really. I have been touring this city like Vasco da Gama looking for you.
“Just imagine, the day before yesterday, I had a whole three thousand shillings and guess what? We had fun and we all missed you. Anyway, you know how money is these days. It just vanishes and I cannot believe my own pockets that as we are talking, I have nothing in my pockets. Would you by any chance have a ka-fifty? I will pay back with whatever else I owe.”
Since you are not as wise as Mama Mboga, you part with another fifty. Mama Mboga is not that foolish and when I have vanished for days because I have been evading her, she maintains surveillance on my house. She keeps a close watch until she is sure that I am having tough visitors. Then she strikes.
Holds her waist
When she strikes, she is a tornado. She enters the house and plants herself at the door and holds her waist. She does not say a thing for a moment. She just surveys me and my visitors.
Then she says: “I see! I see! So you think my own children can get scabies if they also eat fried food, eh? So you think they can become sick if they eat butter, eeh!
I cannot silence her by calling her the local mad woman. I have to silence her by calling her aside to ask for extra time or paying her.
All this is to say that I would not mind to carry petty cash in the boot of my car. I would like to assure the banks that I am a good borrower just like the others and so I will not pay back the loan.
Any offers?