The next morning, Tunu did not go straight to the municipal service centre. She first went to the loading bay on Mavuno Street because the supplier had said the cartons would be unloaded at nine. She carried the old green registration folder in her bag, although she did not expect to use it in front of the driver. The folder held renewal receipts, a lease copy, tax slips and folded papers that looked important because they had survived so many years.
The loading bay was narrow between two veranda units. Small vans arrived, sounded their horns twice, and left before anyone could ask what they had brought. Tunu saw Amina opening Kalamu Stationery across the way. Faraji stood in the corner talking to a supplier’s man who had climbed out of the van.
“Tunu,” the driver called. “I have put your cartons here.”
“I have come for them.”
The driver did not move toward the tailgate. “There has been a change on the account.”
Tunu took out her phone. “Last week’s invoice said fourteen days.”
“It is cash before release now.”
“When did you say that?”
“A message was sent to every account on the review list.”
“Review list for what?”
The driver scratched his cheek. “I deliver boxes. Do not pull me into office language.”
Tunu showed him the invoice on her phone. “I am not asking you to explain the office. I am asking you to show me the changed terms.”
He turned his screen toward her. One line was bold: *CASH BEFORE RELEASE — UNTIL STATUS CLEARS.* Beneath it were Tunu’s account name and yesterday’s date.
Beka arrived while Tunu was still staring at the line. “How much cash do we have?”
“If we take out rent, your wages and the deposit for repair parts, we cannot pay for all the cartons.”
“What if we take cables and chargers only?”
Tunu opened the order on the invoice. Screen-protector sets could be sold slowly. The new-model cables were in demand, but expensive. Small chargers could produce two days of cash. Earphones had sat too long the previous month.
“Reduce the protectors,” Tunu said. “Take ten cables and ten chargers. Cancel the earphones.”
The driver opened his calculator. “The cash price for this batch is four hundred and eighty thousand.”
Tunu opened the shop cash envelope. It held two hundred and sixty thousand before the payroll portion was separated. She did not want to empty it. She called the supplier clerk, but the line was busy.
Faraji came closer. “I heard you say you need cash.”
“We all need cash.”
“I can take your whole order. I will pay today, at yesterday’s wholesale price, not today’s.”
Tunu looked at him. “Why take accessories you do not need?”
“I need frontage. When people see more stock, they come.”
“That is not an answer to my question.”
Faraji smiled without pleasure. “If you move out for a while, units get filled quickly. Do not take it badly. Business has no feelings.”
“I learned that the day I paid you for my first cable.”
Faraji held her gaze. “Tunu, rumors do not wait for receipts. If you sell today, you have cash. If you keep the cartons, you have boxes and a question.”
Tunu turned toward the van. She could not deny that the offer might help pay that week’s bills. But selling all the stock to a man measuring her space meant accepting that the rumor had set the value of eleven years.
“If you know the rule, bring me a notice,” Tunu said. “If you know the stock price, bring me an offer.”
Faraji gave a short laugh. “That is the language of someone who has time.”
“I have one day. That is what I am using.”
Amina had heard part of the exchange and came over. “We can count repair jobs without new stock,” she said. “Yesterday two people asked about screen replacements, so I told them to come to you.”
“Do not send people before you know we have parts,” Tunu said.
“Then let us see what you have.”
They went inside. Amina stood at the doorway while Tunu opened one drawer after another. There were seven connectors, one screen ordered against a deposit, two cameras for old phones and four kinds of screws. Beka opened the previous week’s repair tickets and sorted them by the chance of completion without a new order.
“This Tecno can be done,” Beka said. “This other one needs a battery.”
“We can buy one battery for cash,” Tunu replied. “We cannot buy everything because we are afraid of running out.”
Amina asked, “Do you have an official closure notice?”
“No one has shown one.”
“Then go to the service centre. I will stay with Beka and write the repair list.”
Tunu returned to the loading bay with a decision. She paid cash for a small part of the order: five cables and six chargers. The driver agreed to leave those and return the rest to the van. Tunu photographed the receipt and asked the supplier to put the changed terms on her account, not in a corridor voice note.
As the driver closed the tailgate, he seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. “I do not know what is happening,” he said. “I was only told not to release on credit.”
“That answer helps me,” Tunu said. “Do not pretend you know more.”
Faraji was still in the corner. He passed without speaking, carrying one carton in his hand. Tunu knew his offer was not finished; it had entered the market like the smell of fuel.
At midday, Tunu and Amina arranged the repair tickets. They chose three screen jobs, two charging ports and one speaker. Beka called customers and gave them different parts timelines. One customer refused to wait and took his phone to Faraji. Another said he would return in the evening.
Tunu opened the old green folder and placed the supplier message beside a receipt from the shop’s seventh year. The papers did not answer whether the rumor was true. They showed only that today’s decision had changed because of the rumor.
When Tunu left for the service centre, Beka asked, “Will we open tomorrow?”
“We will open this evening after I return.”
The supplier’s phone message arrived inside her bag. The last line read: **CASH BEFORE RELEASE — UNTIL STATUS CLEARS.**
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