The next morning, Juma entered the cooperative yard with his route ledger under one arm and the debit notice folded inside his shirt pocket.
Halima, the cashier, sat behind the metal-grilled window counting milk receipts. When she saw him, she did not give him her usual smile.
“I was looking for you.”
“I know.”
He handed her the same notice he had received the week before.
The deadline for the water-tank loan was printed at the top.
Friday.
Juma read it again as if staring might move the date.
“This is the full balance?”
Halima opened the cooperative ledger. “Yes. You were late on the last installment. If this one passes, the account goes into default review.”
“And the grace period?”
“You used it in June.”
He knew.
Outside, the milk truck was loading crates. Two farmers argued over litres. The yard looked ordinary, but every number in Juma’s head now connected back to three missing goats.
“What’s my milk payout for this week?”
Halima told him.
He wrote it down.
“And the feed invoice?”
“Mosi is outside. He says no new order until you pay.”
Juma found Mosi beside the feed store, standing in front of stacked sacks.
“Don’t tell me tomorrow again,” Mosi said.
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
“I’ll take half the order.”
Mosi frowned. “Half?”
“Yes.”
“Your two cattle are still on the same ration?”
“I’ll reduce it for a few days.”
“Why?”
News had already travelled, so Juma did not bother hiding all of it.
“My aunt lost three goats. There are other costs now.”
“Then you need more feed, not less.”
“I need cash to survive today.”
Mosi nudged a sack with his shoe. “This is business, Juma. I also owe people.”
“I didn’t ask for free feed.”
“Then take half and pay half.”
Back in the yard, three young cooperative members stood around Balozi. One held a small black tin with no label.
“Juma,” Balozi called. “Come here.”
He tapped the tin.
“This is today’s solution. We collect money and finish the problem before another night.”
“What is it?” Juma asked.
“Something to leave on a carcass.”
“Poison?”
One of the young men lowered his voice. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Why not?”
Balozi leaned closer. “This is an emergency. If the animal comes back, who pays?”
“And if you kill something that had nothing to do with the attack?”
“You want to go back to footprints again?”
Juma opened his route ledger.
“I want to go back to money.”
They looked at him.
“How much emergency cash does the cooperative have?”
“That’s not for this discussion,” Balozi said.
“It is if you want to spend it.”
Halima called from her window. “The emergency fund is not for retaliation purchases.”
“It is for emergencies.”
“Policy says livestock health, route breakdowns and verified household shocks. Not unknown chemical bought off-record.”
Juma pointed at the tin. “And even if we spend the money, what are we buying? For what target?”
“The thing killing our livestock,” one of the men said.
“Which thing?”
“The predator.”
“There were two track patterns.”
Balozi shook his head. “This is your problem. Every action needs a form.”
Juma kept his voice level.
“When a predator eats one goat, debt can eat the whole enclosure. If we spend emergency money on something with an unknown target, then tomorrow the water tank, feed and school fees are still waiting. We will have bought revenge with household money.”
Halima nodded. “Exactly.”
Balozi folded his arms. “So what do you suggest?”
“Two solar lamps. Wire repairs. A logged night patrol. First.”
The young men laughed.
“You want to shine a light at it?” one asked.
“I want to see before I kill.”
Balozi pointed at him. “If you’re wrong and there’s another attack tonight, people will remember who stopped action.”
“Let them remember.”
The meeting broke without agreement. Balozi put the black tin into his bag, but Juma knew that did not mean the idea was gone.
He returned to Halima.
“Give me all the figures.”
“For what?”
“Household cash through Friday.”
She gave him two weeks of milk statements, the loan balance and cooperative deductions. Juma sat on a bench under the corrugated roof and calculated.
Milk income could cover most of the installment, but not all. The missing goats had been the family’s emergency buffer. One could have been sold for school fees, another for food, another if the water loan tightened.
Now that buffer was gone.
He wrote four lines:
LOAN. FEED. HOME. PREVENTION.
He added the price of two solar lamps and a small roll of wire. The money left for feed shrank.
Mosi passed behind him and looked down.
“You’re doing government accounting now?”
“I’m doing enclosure accounting.”
“How much feed?”
“Two-thirds of the normal order.”
“Your cattle won’t care about your ledger.”
“If milk drops, the loan gets worse. I know.”
That was the trap. Every cut that saved cash today could reduce income tomorrow.
Juma bought two cheap solar lamps in Bandari Ndogo, along with wire and clips. The shopkeeper warned that the batteries would not last as long as the expensive brand. Juma did not have expensive-brand money.
When he returned, Halima handed him the remaining milk payout after deductions.
The number was lower than he expected.
“Last month’s feed advance posted today,” she said.
Juma closed his eyes for one second.
“So my Friday gap…”
She turned the page toward him.
The gap was now unmistakable.
Four days.
There were no goats to sell without shrinking Tunu’s herd even further. He did not want an app loan. He did not want to sell the water tank whose loan had created the deadline.
“You could ask Balozi for a cooperative bridge,” Halima said.
“And tomorrow, if I oppose the poison vote, where does that bridge go?”
She said nothing.
Juma folded the notice and returned it to his pocket. He picked up the lamps and the reduced feed order.
Halima called after him.
“Juma.”
He turned.
She tapped the date on the notice.
“Friday, Juma. After that, the system will not wait for you.”
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