#abowlofhotsoup

 I’m in the middle of something when the phone rings. I take one look at the screen and silence it. But on second thought…
“Hi.”
“Hi, it’s been some time.”
“Look, I cannot go into small talk now,” he whispers, “I need some money, repayable Monday.”

I hold the phone away from my ear and do a fast rewind. The time he was picked up by two plainclothes police officers. The stint in civil prison three years ago. When his gambler friends bailed him out. When he borrowed and had a memory lapse.

“I cannot help you now.” Did that come out right?

Silence. Then a whoosh.  

“Okay, thanks for the help. Let me see what to do.”

I guess, no, I know, he is in a pot of hot hot soup. Over money. He must be scrolling through his phone for all his pals, whoever has been paid. Even those he hasn’t talked to for years. Its month end. A mad search.

What happened to the bed he bought for 2.5 million shillings? What about the kitchen that was packed with every electronic gadget that, with just the tap on the button, made his life easier? What about the two landline house phones and the new Rav 4?

As he makes the calls, is there someone standing over him, holding a gun to his head? Is a policeman hammering at the door? Did he make promises and the deadline is fast approaching?