Early this week, I received a phone call from a con artist. He politely introduced himself, said he was calling from XYZ bank, asked how my day was, and then told me that he was calling to inform me that my account was on the verge of being terminated since it had been dormant for a while.
I knew it was a con game immediately because, one, I did not bank with the financial institution he had mentioned, and two, the forced cheeriness and the unnecessary banter was out of place.
Like I do in such cases, I hung up on him mid-sentence. Only for the bugger to call back immediately. I had the mind to cut the phone call short, but I decided to pick up and see how far he was willing to go.
“Caroline, kwanini unakata simu na hii ni bank?!” he demanded. The carefully crafted English he began with had disappeared. The politeness too was gone, and from the tone, I was supposed to be scared that I had hung up on someone calling from the “bank”.
That day my morning hadn’t exactly started off well, so I was feeling a little bit disgruntled. I retorted, “Si upigie polisi wakuje waniarrest?”
The man must have been taken aback because he paused for some time, and then managed, “Kwanini unaongea vibaya mama?”
I had to laugh at this point because his con game had completely gone haywire and he was back to factory settings. By then, I was tired of the game, so I hung up, flagged the number and blocked it.
But I once fell for a con. I was away from home running errands when the call came. The person on the other end said he was calling from Kenya Power. He did not bother with pleasantries. He emotionlessly told me that he would disconnect my power if I did not pay my bill immediately.
Now, if you’re Kenyan, you know that the two things we fear most are blackouts and rain finding us in Nairobi’s CBD during the evening rush hour. I, therefore, need not tell you that I immediately panicked.
It was around 4pm, meaning that if the man with the no-nonsense tone on the other end disconnected my electricity, we would spend the night in darkness. Even worse, my two rechargeable bulbs had died months ago, and I was yet to replace them. That meant surviving the evening by candlelight. And I can tell you for a fact that there is nothing romantic about cooking or doing homework by candlelight.
I begged the man not to disconnect the power and asked him how much was due so that I could pay immediately. He was quiet for a few seconds, then told me Sh2,000, but added that since the payment deadline was long overdue, I would have to give him “kitu kidogo”, since his instructions were to disconnect the power.
Imagining the darkness that would besiege me, I was about to send the bribe when it occurred to me that it was the middle of the month. The 16th of the month, to be precise. Why was my electricity being disconnected before the end month?
I immediately called home and asked whether there was someone standing by the electricity meter with big pliers, or whatever is used to “cut” electricity. I was assured that there was no one.
At that point, had it been possible, I would have kicked myself for almost falling for such an obvious con game. I was so disappointed in myself that, against my better judgment, I decided to waste my airtime and call my almost-swindler to let him know he wasn’t as clever as he thought he was.
“Mama, tuma pesa haraka ama nikate stima ...” he barked before I could say anything.
“Kata saa hii!” I dared him, triumph in my voice.
I’m not lying to you, having realised that he was caught at his own game, the man called me a dog and hang up.
Happy Sunday, dear reader.
