Safara goes looking for a loan

You will be glad to hear that the drugs worked and that the Safara, that’s me, recovered fully from my coastal malarial bout by the end of last week.

I was so giddy with that happiness that comes from being well, after you’ve been quite ill, that I literally walked around (mostly to the shopping centre) on clouds, just glad to be both alive and kicking.

I even did something I have not done for years.

I went to mass very early on Sunday morning (at 6am) and thanked God for not having promoted me, not just yet, to join Him in that plane called “Higher Glory.”

I was brought down to earth with a big bang mapema on Monday morning.

There was Dawg, the caretaker of our apartment building, leaning against my door.

“Niliskia umepona,” he posed it as an aggressive statement, not a question.

“I am feeling better,” I said in the weakest possible voice I could muster.

But Dawg is not exactly the epitome of empathy.

“Sawa! Sasa inafaa ulipe rent within the next three days, sir. Umechelewa sana.”

“Forgive me for hovering on my deathbed, Dawg.”

“Sick bed,” the caretaker corrected. “Mbona unakaa surprised? Kwani unafikiri sijui kizungu sanifu? I only speak in Kiswahili to you people because it makes me sound less soft.”

I didn’t tell Dawgie that the word ‘soft’ in association to him is an oxymoron – kind of like saying “handsome Sudi.”

The threat having been delivered, the caretaker left me to my own thread of deep worry, in this monthly treadmill that haunts hustlers like myself.

Not to mention that by the end of the month, regular as menses, it would be time for this man to make sense of where to get the cents (five million of them) for Neo’s third term fees.

Life, for a Safara, is a smelly fish on a rotating music box.

I first uploaded the app for my bank, and tried to get a loan on it.

“You do not qualify for an E-loan at this moment,” the message came back on text, to my consternation.

“Back you, bank!” I said out-loud to my smartphone.

There must be many other loan apps out there in Kenya, considering how many hustlers are living hand-to-mouth-to-loan in the land of Zakayo.

Speaking of which, I first tried to get myself a ‘Hustler Fund’ loan, online.

“Bottom of the pyramid financial inclusion!” their slogan said. I went for it.

Except I did not get the loan for a number of reasons, including that it’s Sh90,000 that I wanted, and the Hustler Funder algorithm had no way of knowing if I could repay the money within the next six months, with interest.

“Give me some credit,” I yelled at my laptop in the living room, “You think I can’t get a mere 15K a month to pay you back, buddy?”

“HF cushions the majority of the informal sector (sic) against economic shocks!” another Hustler Fund slogan ironically scrolled up across my screen.

I guess when it comes to money, I Safara am a Menshevik (minority man).

I didn’t even bother to go to the other funds – Tala and Haraka and Zap.

Instead, the next day, I went to the bank and asked to see the credit manager – a slim toothy guy with a warm smile who, unbeknown to me, would be sought by police in a month to the day in connection with the wire disappearance of a billion bob, and three days later, be arrested at his ushago local, drinking beer.

Not having even made the effort to disappear. And he would pay for his cheer.
On this Tuesday, though, I didn’t know I was dealing with a budding billionaire.

“I need a Sh90K loan, to be paid across six months,” I said.

“Our interest rates are 11 per cent,” Mr Toothy said. “That’s Sh100 K to be repaid.”

“I will do it in five months,” I said.

“Actually, you can spread it out across a year, sir. Do you have our loan app?”

“I do,” I said. “I tried it, it said I don’t qualify for a loan. That’s why I’m here in person, Bwana Manager, to explain my position in person. Can’t do that with a dumb algorithm.”

The toothy grin never left the skinny manager’s face, his neck so scrawny his tie looked like a noose, as he said: “Not a daft algo. It’s smart AI bots that we use.”

“Can’t you over-rule it?” I asked. “Surely, there are human things that I can tell you that boost my case, but that does not fit into machine ‘thinking.’”

“I, we, cannot overrule the AI Bot, Mr Safara. I could get the sack just for that.”

“Clearly the machines won,” I said, rising up to crush the manager’s soft hand in my own wider one till he winced. “I came here for original intelligence, not this artificial nonsense. See you someday when I am your important customer, sir.”

The skinny banker just smiled cryptically, and said, “Good luck in life, Michael.”

It wasn’t luck but a 90K loan that I needed at this time in my life.

That evening, feeling desperate, I bought a half cheap gin and got the soda and ice to go with it. That is when Marie, a first cousin of Laura (Mama Neo) and who had always behaved inappropriately towards me, tingled on the phone.

“Hallo?” I said gloomily.

“Umeskia?” Marie shrieked gleefully. “Laura alipata job poa sana mpaka she has bought a new car. Ati 250K a month, wueh. Plus a sign-on bonus…”

“That’s nice,” I said, recalling how Marie had thrown herself at me after we broke up with Laura, until I had to tell her off as she got no hints, and never stopped talking, mostly gossip, always yapping away like a crazy chihuahua.

“It’s through her new rich boyfriend’s connections!” Marie was saying, maliciously. That hit home – not because I gave a hoot who Laura was dating.

But I wondered if the man was taking my place in Neo’s life, now that I hadn’t seen my boy in a month, both because of his mum’s attitude and my own loose finances.

I hang up on a still chattering Marie, and dial the number of her cousin, Laura. She answered on the first ring, almost as if she had been expecting the call.

“Mama Neo,” I said without preamble, “I am in serious trouble. I need a loan of 90K.”

“Okay!” she said. “I’ve given you 100K.”

“What?” I said in disbelief, heart thumping. “Just like that?”

What’s the catch?

“Yeah,” she said. “I have lent you the money by paying fees for your son for the next two terms. And you don’t have to say ‘asante’ or pay me back, Safara…”

Just before she hung up, I heard the “ha ha ha” of her cousin Marie, laughing at me in the background.

Humiliation gave way to worry as I thought of Dawg’s padlock deadline tomorrow.

‘Whatever is the hustler going to do?’

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