Tunu spent the morning of the ninth day in the storage room behind Duka la Kesho. The room was so small that one person had to turn carefully. It held empty charger boxes, old posters, a generator belt and a locked cabinet whose key was attached to the cash-drawer ring.
She opened the cabinet because the old green folder did not contain everything. The folder held later renewals, but Pili’s transfer required records from the time they began sharing the shop. Tunu took out an invoice folded four times. At the top were two names: **TUNU SENGO / PILI SAVA**.
She put the invoice beside the current registration copy. Pili’s name looked like something Tunu had pushed aside for years. She remembered the day Pili left: heavy rain, a supplier demanding payment and Pili saying she needed to try a grain business inland. Tunu had told her she would follow up the transfer at the office. Days passed, renewals arrived, and each time Tunu thought, “Next month.”
Hamadi entered from his route, still wearing a shirt dusty from the bus stand.
“Have you been here since seven?”
“I found something.”
Tunu showed him the invoice. Hamadi did not touch it.
“Is that the last stock order?”
“I do not know. There are two dates.”
They arranged three invoices by date. The first was an order for cables and screen protectors. The second was an adjustment after Pili took some cartons. The third was a statement with a line reading *balance pending*. Tunu remembered that they had planned instalments, but not who had taken the final receipt.
“Do not write that Pili ran away with a debt,” Hamadi said.
“I have not written that.”
“I am warning you because you are hurt. When memory begins with anger, it builds a villain for you.”
Tunu sat under the cabinet. “I told her I would follow the transfer. I did not.”
“That is what you know.”
“And I used the stock she left to keep selling.”
“That is also what you know. What you do not know is whether the debt was cleared.”
Tunu found an old supplier phone number on an account card whose ink had faded. She called the current supplier and asked to speak to the clerk who had handled the account seven years before. After being transferred twice, a man answered.
“Who are you looking for?”
“I am Tunu from Duka la Kesho. I am looking for the old Tunu Sengo and Pili Sava account.”
“I cannot release information by phone.”
“I do not need a confidential amount. I need to know whether that year’s statement still exists and the process for requesting a copy.”
The clerk asked for the account date. Tunu read it from the invoice. The man said, “I remember the last order. Part of the balance was never closed. I cannot say who paid it.”
“Can you put my request on the account?”
“Send a copy of the invoice and authorization from the current owner.”
“I am the person running the shop.”
“That is not the same as the co-owner’s record.”
Tunu wrote an email request without adding an argument. She attached the invoice with the two names, the current case receipt and a note that she was looking for the prior trader for a transfer. Hamadi said, “You started by asking an outsider before asking the person herself.”
“I do not have her number.”
They searched the backup of an old phone kept on the laptop. Tunu opened the messages folder and searched for “Pili”. One message from seven years earlier was short: *I arrived safely. We will talk about the transfer.* Another was from Tunu: *Do not forget to sign the last pages.* There was no reply.
The contact list held a number saved as **PILI - INLAND**. Tunu saved it on her new phone without changing the name. She called. One ring. Two. Three. She put it on speaker, but Hamadi shook his head and told her not to play someone’s voice without permission. Tunu removed the speaker.
On the fourth ring, the line cut out. Tunu sent a short message: *This is Tunu from Duka la Kesho. I am looking for our old transfer conversation. It matters for the record, not blame. Please reply when you can.*
At midday, Tunu went to the bus stand to ask a driver who ran the inland route. Pili’s name was not secret, but people’s information had gaps. One driver said a woman by that name had sold grain in another town. Another said she had moved near the lake. Tunu did not take either as fact; she wrote down who said what and the date of the question.
As she left the bus stand, she met an old customer who had seen Tunu and Pili open the shop years ago. He remembered Pili carrying a blue notebook and taking photocopies of invoices when she left. He did not remember why. Tunu wrote his number with permission and asked him only to tell her if he recalled a contact, not to announce that Pili had a debt.
“You opened together,” the customer said. “I thought everything was fine.”
“So did we.”
“There are things a person learns after needing a paper.”
Tunu returned to the storage room and looked where a blue notebook might have been left. She did not find it. Instead she found a supplier card written in pencil: *call before changing account*. The words added a question; they did not answer one.
When she returned to the shop, Beka had sorted invoices into plastic sleeves and put them in a box marked *prior trader*. “I labelled them,” he said. “Do not mix them with current receipts.”
Tunu showed him the message from Pili’s number. There was still no reply.
“When you reach her,” Beka said, “what will you tell her?”
“That I should have looked for her earlier.”
“And if she is angry?”
“She will have a reason.”
As evening approached, Tunu looked at her screen without expecting anything. The number had called. She called back. After the fifth ring, a woman’s voice said, “Tunu? You found me after all these years.”
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