Amina sat on the floor in front of Father’s lower cabinet, the small key resting in her palm. The drawer had scratches along its edge, as if someone had tried to open it with a knife. Halima held her phone light close to the lock.
“Do not bend it,” Neema said. “If we break it, we may lose something.”
“Perhaps the lock was damaged long ago,” Halima said. “These scratches are not from yesterday.”
Amina inserted the key slowly. It resisted, then turned with a small click. The drawer opened a few centimeters. Inside was an old phone with a plastic cover, two memory cards, an envelope of receipts, and a small note carrying four phone numbers.
Juma had still not returned.
“This phone may have Father’s messages,” Neema said.
“Or it may have the things Juma was looking for,” Halima replied.
Amina connected it to the charger inside the drawer. After several minutes it lit up. The screen showed Father smiling while holding a basket of tomatoes. Behind him was their shop, before Juma expanded its sheet-metal roof.
The records were full of tenant messages and payment receipts. Halima opened the ordinary messaging application and slid her finger down the list.
“Look at the date,” she said.
There was a message from a number that had not been saved under a name.
**Mr. Mhando, if I send the deposit today, will you make sure your brother completes the transfer within seven days?**
The message had been sent two days before the funeral.
Neema sat down.
“Mr. Mhando means Father?”
“Another message was sent to Father,” Halima said. “Here is the reply.”
She read it aloud.
**Do not rush. I have told my children to check the accounts.**
A second message arrived an hour later.
**Juma says he has authority to sign. I do not want the family to keep pulling apart. I have put down the money because he told me time was short.**
Amina felt her neck tighten.
“Juma signed?”
“The message says Juma claimed he would,” Neema reminded her.
“Then we will find the person who paid.”
Halima opened the number and sent a short greeting. There was no immediate response. Amina took the receipt envelope from the drawer and began arranging its contents by date. There were rent receipts, shop fuel expenses, and hospital payments. Among them was a mobile-payment slip bearing the same recipient number.
Then the old phone rang.
A new message appeared.
**I am Kaseke. I am willing to explain what I paid, but I do not want to enter a family quarrel.**
Amina replied.
**We are not asking you to choose a side. We are asking you to confirm the date and what you were promised.**
The answer came after a while.
**Juma told me the plot would be transferred quickly. He said your father had given him full authority after he was hospitalized. I sent the deposit to the number he gave me.**
Neema covered her mouth.
“Why did Father tell him not to hurry?”
“Because he knew something was unfinished,” Amina said.
Halima moved the phone closer to her eyes.
“Kaseke says he has a copy of Juma’s message.”
Amina asked him to send it. Kaseke sent a screenshot. Juma’s message was short, but it carried a date and time.
**Do not worry. I will bring the final signature myself. They will understand after the money arrives.**
Below it were the deposit reference number and the amount sent. Amina did not read the amount aloud. She did not want a number to travel from the phone into their anger before they had verified everything.
“Should we call him?” Neema asked.
“Yes. But not here.”
Kaseke agreed to meet at a tea stall near the bus station, where there were plenty of people and open tables. Amina went with Halima. Neema stayed home to wait for Juma and guard the safe.
When they saw Kaseke, Amina recognized a man who did not want to become the hero of any story. He held a brown file and his phone, repeatedly looking toward the road.
“I did not know your father had died,” he said.
“He was buried yesterday,” Amina replied. “That is why the date of the deposit matters.”
Kaseke opened his file. Inside were a copy of the message, a photograph of the plot map, and a money-transfer receipt.
“Juma came to my shop. He said your father had given him the responsibility of selling because the debt was pressing him. He told me that once he finished, we would complete the transfer within seven days.”
“Did he show you the title deed?” Halima asked.
“He showed me a copy. He did not place the original on the table. I asked why his sisters had not signed. He said you lived far away and had no time for land matters.”
Halima curled her fingers.
“And you believed him?”
“In business, a person looks at whether the person speaking has keys and knows how to reach the papers. I did not know your family had letters hiding decisions.”
Amina asked to see the deposit receipt. The date and time matched the message on Father’s phone. The money had been sent before the relatives had even gathered to discuss his final illness.
“Where did Juma say this deposit would go?” Amina asked.
“Into the business account, he said. I sent it to the phone number he wrote down. I do not know whether it belongs to the shop or to him.”
Kaseke showed her the number. Amina recognized it. Juma used it to receive shop payments, but Father’s message contained a record of a different family account.
“Why did you send it?” Halima asked.
“I wanted to prevent someone else from buying the plot. I thought we were making an open business deal.”
“And now?”
“Now I do not want to complete the transfer until I have proof of the authority of the whole family. I do not want my money to become the reason siblings break apart.”
Amina opened her notebook and recorded Kaseke’s name, the meeting date, and what he had shown them. She did not ask him to sign. She asked him to send copies of the receipt and messages to the shared number used by all four siblings.
“If you send them only to me, Juma will say I arranged the evidence,” Amina said. “Send them to all of us.”
Kaseke sent them. Amina’s phone rang immediately, and Halima’s a few seconds later.
“If Juma calls me, what should I tell him?” Kaseke asked.
“Tell him the truth,” Amina said. “The family has discovered that the deposit was paid before the funeral, and no transfer will be completed until all of us know the agreement.”
Kaseke nodded, but his face remained uneasy.
“Juma told me your father would be angry if you delayed. He said that if the debt reached its deadline, the shop would be in trouble.”
Amina felt cold move through her fingers.
“What debt did he mention?”
“A shop debt, or your father’s debt. I did not know. He only said time was running.”
They returned home as the sun began to fall. Neema was sitting near the safe, the file closed in front of her. Juma had not arrived, but he had sent a short message to Halima’s phone.
**Do not make decisions by listening to outsiders. The plot has not been sold.**
Halima showed Amina.
Amina opened Kaseke’s message, then the deposit receipt, then the photograph of Juma’s words: *I will bring the final signature myself.*
“He has not said he did not receive the deposit,” Halima said.
“And Kaseke says he promised the transfer within seven days.”
Neema stood.
“What will we tell Juma?”
Amina placed all the phones on the table.
“We will tell him that from now on, no one completes a secret sale. Tomorrow we find the preliminary agreement, learn where the money is, and ask whose debt is making him run.”
Amina’s phone rang. It was Kaseke.
She answered without using the speaker.
“I did not tell you everything there,” Kaseke said. “Juma promised that clean papers would be in my hands within seven days. Tomorrow is the second day after the deposit. He wants me to meet him so I can bring the balance.”
“Do not bring the balance,” Amina said.
“Then what should I do with the deposit?”
“Keep it. Sign nothing. We will send you the family’s written position.”
Kaseke agreed, then paused.
“There is something else. Juma said that if you refused, he would find another buyer before you opened the safe.”
When the call ended, Amina understood that Father’s letters had not arrived too late. They had arrived minutes before something disappeared completely.
She wrote on a new page:
**DEPOSIT PAID BEFORE THE FUNERAL. TRANSFER PROMISED WITHIN SEVEN DAYS.**
Under it she drew a heavy line.
**TOMORROW WE FOLLOW THE BUYER, NOT JUMA’S WORDS.**
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