24 June.’
‘Today is Thursday, 15 August. So not counting his sick and annual leave, Mr Karoki has been away for two weeks with no probable reason. And after eight weeks, he doesn’t seem to have solved his problem.’ Mr Malasi coughed, but Guka ignored him. The manager stretched and stroked his belly. ‘Let us hear from the shop steward, Mr Kimani.’
Kimani straightened up. ‘I have worked with Kandle for a year,’ he said, ‘and in all honesty have seen few such hardworking boys of his age. A few weeks ago he failed to appear at work, as Mr Ocuotho has mentioned. He called in later and said he wasn’t feeling very well, and that something had happened to his mother. He said he would be sending a doctor’s letter later in the day. I didn’t think much of it. People fall sick. Kandle had never missed a day of work before that. I told him to get it to the accountant, give the department a copy, and keep one for himself. Then, of course, he went on leave. When he didn’t come back as scheduled – I was to go on leave after him – I got worried and tried to get in touch. When we spoke, he told me his problems weren’t done and that he claimed to have talked to Personnel. I told him to make sure that he kept copies of his letters.’
Mr Guka was getting agitated. It was obvious he was not aware of any contact with Personnel, with whom he’d already had problems. After he had accused the legendary Hendrix of insubordination, Personnel had decided otherwise and transferred the man to Merchant Services, which was a promotion. Hendrix was now Eagle’s main broker. Guka had been branch manager for eight years; his old colleagues were now executive managers or had moved on to senior positions at other companies.
Guka loosened his tie. He remembered that he was due to retire at the end of the year. He wished he were on the golf course, or out on his tea farm, and reminded himself that he needed to talk to Kimani later, to find out whether there was any chance that the currency deals would start up again. It had been two months since he had received his customary Ksh 20,000 a week. He needed to complete the house he was building in Limuru. This was not going the way he had expected.
‘I am not aware of any such documents or communication,’ Mr Malasi offered.
‘But as you all know, we are a large department. It’s certainly possible we overlooked something. I will check up on that.’
Guka cleared his throat. ‘I think the facts are clear –’
Malasi interrupted him. ‘I think we should hear from Mr Karoki before we decide what the facts are.’ Head Office Personnel had paid out millions of shillings to ex-employees for wrongful dismissal, and Malasi was starting to wish he had stayed away from this one and sent someone else. It was looking like one of those litigious affairs. For one, the boy seemed too calm, almost sleepy. And what was the large sheaf of documents he had in his lap? The reference to one of Nairobi’s most prominent psychiatrists, Dr Koinange, had introduced a whole new element.
Dr Koinange happened to be on Eagle Bank’s board of directors. The belligerent hubris of one old manager would be, in the face of such odds, ridiculous to indulge. Even if they managed to dismiss the boy, Malasi decided he would pass on word that Mr Guka should be quietly retired. As the oldest manager at Eagle, he was well past his sell-by date. Malasi decided he would recommend Ocuotho as a possible replacement.
Guka cleared his throat again. ‘Young Mr Karoki, you have five minutes to explain your conduct.’ His easy confidence had become a tight and wiry anger. ‘Before you start, maybe we should address the small matter of the furniture loan you took out.’
Kandle quietly removed the white envelope from his pocket and placed the shillings, together with the contents of the large brown envelope, on Mr Guka’s desk.
Malasi reached for the documents and handed copies to everyone. Kandle spoke in a quiet voice.
‘Over the last year, my mother has lost her mind. Being the first-born, with my father’s constant absences, it has been up to me to look after her. My sister is in the US, and my brother lives in a bottle. Two months ago my mother left my father’s house in Buru Buru and moved to a nearby slum. At the same time, I started to get severe headaches. I could not eat or sleep, and even started hallucinating, as Dr Koinange, our family doctor, explains in one of these letters. He expressly told me that he would be in touch with the bank’s personnel department. That is why I haven’t been in touch. My doctor has.’ There were tears in Kandle’s eyes.
Guka sat back in his seat and glared at the ceiling. He tucked his top lip into the bottom, re-enacting the thinking Kikuyu man’s pose. The Kikuyu Lip Curl.
Malasi looked up from the documents. It was time to end this, he thought.
‘Yes, I can see that Personnel received letters from your doctor. I also see there are letters here sent to us from your lawyer. Why go to such lengths if you were truly sick?’
‘I thought about resigning, because I did not see myself coming back to work unless my mother got better. But my lawyer advised that that wasn’t necessary.’
One tear made it down his left cheek. Kandle wiped it away angrily.
‘Do you still want to resign?’ Malasi asked, somewhat hopefully.
‘I’d like to know my options first.’
‘Well, it won’t be necessary to bring in your lawyer. No. It won’t be necessary. We will review your case and get back to you. In the meantime, get some rest. And you can keep the money, the loan, for now. You are still an employee of this bank.’
He turned to everybody. ‘Mr Guka?’
The manager glared at Kandle with a small smile on his face. He remained quiet.
‘Mr Karoki, you are free to leave,’ Mr Malasi said.
As they all trooped out, leaving Mr Guka and Mr Malasi in the office, Kandle realised that he had just completed one of the greatest performances of his young life.
He hummed Bob Marley’s ‘Crazy Baldhead’ and saw himself back in Zanze till the early hours of the morning.
‘Can I see you for a minute in my office?’
It was Ocuotho. Before Kandle followed him down the hall, he shook Kimani’s and Koigi’s hands and whispered, ‘I’ll be at Zanze later.’ Then he walked after Ocuotho, into the glass-partitioned office right in the middle of the bank floor.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about your problems?’ Ocuotho said, when they were inside. ‘I thought we agreed you would come to me. I know people in Head Office. We could have come to an arrangement. You know Guka does not understand young people.’
‘Thank you, Sir. But don’t worry. It is taken care of.’
‘You now have some time. Think carefully about your life.’
‘That is exactly what I am doing, Sir.’
Ocuotho sighed, and looked at him. ‘I have a small matter. A personal matter. My daughter is sick and I was wondering whether you could lend me something small. Maybe Ksh 10,000?’
‘No problem. The usual interest applies. And I need a blank cheque.’
‘Of course.’ Ocuotho wrote a cheque and handed it over.
Kandle reached into his back pocket and counted out twenty 500-shilling notes from the furniture-loan
