was, though it would have been hard for anyone apart from his father to tell.
And so the Bad Zone passed on. He quickly fished into his jacket pocket and came out with a small bottle of Smirnoff Red Label vodka, swigged, and returned fully to the Good Zone. Ahead of him was Eagle Bank. He smiled to himself. He forced himself to calm down and breathe in. The usually friendly night watchman, Ochieng, was frosty.
‘You are being waited for,’ he said in Kiswahili, shaking his head at the absurdity of youth.
Inside he was met by the manager’s secretary, Mrs Maina, a dark, busty and jolly woman. She too was all business today.
‘You are late, Kandle,’ she said. ‘We have to wait for the others to reconvene.’
This was the first time she had ever spoken to him in English. She had lost that loving Kikuyu feeling for him.
Kandle, who knew how to ingratiate himself with women of a certain age, had once brought Mrs Maina bananas and cow innards mixed with fried nundu, cow hump, for her birthday. She had told him later that they were the tastiest things she had ever eaten, better than all the cards she’d received for her birthday. Even the manager, Guka, coming out of his office and trying some, commented that he wished his wife could cook like that.
Mrs Maina blurted out another few words as Kandle waited outside the manager’s office. She sounded overcome with exasperation.
‘What? What do you want? Do you think you’re too good for the bank?’
‘No. I don’t want much. I think I want to become a chef.’
She couldn’t help it. They both laughed. Kandle excused himself and went to the bathroom.
When he was alone he removed a white envelope from his jacket pocket and counted the money inside again. Sixty thousand shillings, which he planned to hand over to the accountant to pay for the furniture loan he had taken out before he went on leave. Back in the bank, Mrs Maina told him that the committee was ready, and Kandle was ushered into Guka’s office.
There was a huge bank balance sheet in the centre of the desk. Guka Wambugu, the branch manager, was scowling at the figures. The man was dressed like a gentleman farmer, in his perennial tweed jacket with patches at the elbows and a dull, metallic-grey sweater underneath, over a brown tie and a white shirt. All he needed were gumboots to complete the picture. Kandle noticed that the old fool wore scuffed Bata Prefect shoes. Bata Mshenzi. Shenzi type. Kandle held down the laughter that threatened to burst out of his chest.
Some room had been created on each side of the desk for the rest of the committee. Mr Ocuotho, the branch accountant, sat on Guka’s right, looking dapper and subservient as usual, his face thin and defined, just shy of fifty and optional retirement. He was famous in the branch for suits that hung on his shoulders like they would on a coat hanger. He was a costcutter, the man who stalked the bank floors like a secretary bird, imagining the day he would have his own branch to run. He had once been the most senior accountant at the largest Eagle branch in Kenya, and had been demoted to the smaller Harambee branch only after a series of frauds occurred under his watch. As a result, though he was here representing the bank’s management, he was partly sympathetic to the boy in front of him. He had been in the same position, albeit at a managerial level.
Next to Ocuotho, at the far-right corner of the desk, was a bald-headed man, Mr Malasi, from Head Office Personnel. He was wearing designer non-prescription spectacles. Kandle thought he recognised him from somewhere. At the far left, representing the union and, in theory, Kandle, was the shop steward, Mr Kimani, a young-looking, lanky, forty-year-old man with soft Somali hair and long, thin hands that he cracked and flexed continually. He also happened to be Kandle’s immediate boss. He was the man behind the yearlong deals in the department. On Kimani’s right was a younger man, the deputy shop steward at the branch, Mr Koigi, a youth with a rotund belly and hips that belied his industry. He had had an accident as a child, and was given to tilting his head to the right like a small bird at the most unlikely moments. Like Kandle, he had worked at the bank for a year, and was considered a rising star. He was also Kandle’s drinking buddy.
There was a seat right in front of the desk for Kandle. Just as he was lowering himself into it, sirens blared, and everyone in the room turned to watch the presidential motorcade sweep past, out on the street. The man, done for the day, heading home to the State House. Kandle grinned, and remembered shaking the President’s hand once when he was in primary school, as part of the National Primary School Milk Project promotion. There was an old photo of Kandle drinking from a small packet of milk while the President beamed at him. The image had been circulated nationwide, and even now people stopped Kandle on the street, mistaking him for the Blueband Boy, another kid who had been a perpetual favorite in 1980s TV ads.
When the noise died down, Guka turned to him.
‘Ah, Mr Karoki. Kandle Kabogo Karoki. After keeping us waiting you have finally allowed us the pleasure of your company. I am sure you know everybody here, apart from Mr Malasi, from Personnel.’ Guka stretched his arm towards the bald-headed man in the non-prescription spectacles. His back was highly arched, as usual; his eyes were those of an old tribal elder who brooked no nonsense from errant boys. Kandle suddenly remembered who the bald-headed man was. He was the recruiter who had endorsed him when he had first applied for his job.
Guka turned to the shop steward. ‘Mr Kimani, this committee was convened to review Mr Karoki’s conduct, and to make a decision – sorry, a recommendation – to Head Office Personnel.’ He gave Kandle a long, meaningful look. ‘This is not a complex matter. Mr Karoki decided he was no longer interested in working for Eagle, and stopped coming to work. Before me, I have his attendance record, which has of course deteriorated over the last two months. Prior to this, Mr Karoki was an exemplary employee. We have tried, since this trend began, to find out what was wrong, but Mr Karoki has not been forthcoming. What can anyone say? I am here to run this branch office, and eventually, as the Americans say, something has to give.’ He paused, cleared his throat, and looked out the window with self-importance. Then he turned back to Kandle.
‘The British, whom I worked for when I joined the bank, would have said Queen and Country come first. Eagle next. At that time, when I joined, I was a messenger. The only African employee at Eagle. I worked for a branch manager named Mr Purkiss, a former DC who made me proud and taught me the meaning of duty. I have been here for forty years. I turn sixty next year. It seems that young men no longer know what they are doing. When I was your age, Mr Karoki, no one my age would have called me Mister. I was Malasi’s age, thirty-six, before anyone gave me a chance to work in Foreign Exchange. I was already a man, a father of three children. Now look at you. You could have been in my seat, God forbid, at forty. It is a pity that I did not notice you before this, to straighten you out.’ He paused again. ‘But before we hear from you, let us hear from the branch accountant, Mr Ocuotho.’
By now everyone from the branch was trying to hide a smile. Mr Malasi had a slight frown on his face.
‘Thank you, Mr Guka,’ Ocuotho said, clearing the chuckle from his throat. He spoke briskly.
‘Mr Karoki is a good worker, or was a good worker. But after he received his June salary, which was heavily supplemented by the furniture loan he took, he never came back. We received a letter from a Dr Koinange, saying that Mr Karoki needed a week off for stress-related reasons. After that week, he did not appear at work again. This is the first time I am seeing him.’
Mr Malasi shifted in his seat at the mention of Dr Koinange. Kandle was looking at his boss, Kimani, who wore a grave expression. Feeling Kandle’s eyes on him, he gave the most imperceptible of winks.
‘What was the
