Juma opened the auto-parts shop earlier than usual. When the metal shutters rolled up, the familiar smell of oil, rubber and dust steadied him. Parts had no twenty-year friendships. A bearing was a bearing, an invoice was an invoice, and missing stock showed itself in an empty space on a shelf.
He printed Hassan’s screenshot and placed his phone beside it. He did not want Asha turned into the family investigator. Still, she had given him a clean business question: if the time did not match, what else did not match?
Mariam arrived with two teas. “Today we look. We don’t judge.”
They arranged three months of Hassan’s messages by date. Some screenshots had clocks cropped out. Some showed figures without an account name. One had a small logo that could have belonged to any trading app. None showed Juma’s name, account number, broker or custodian.
“I kept seeing the numbers,” Juma said. “I didn’t see what was missing.”
“Now don’t make the opposite mistake and turn what’s missing into proof of guilt. We need something verifiable.”
They checked the metadata that remained. Asha had been right about the previous night. Two other images appeared to have been saved on dates different from the dates Hassan said they were captured. But files could be moved, edited or resaved. That was not enough.
“What do we actually have?” Mariam asked.
“That screenshots aren’t enough.”
“We knew that last night.”
“Then we need a withdrawal.”
Before calling, Mariam wrote five questions on the back of an invoice: institution name, account holder, withdrawal reference, initiation date, exact amount. “Don’t ask twenty questions. Twenty questions let a person choose the ones they like.”
A customer came in for brake pads. Juma found the correct part, printed an invoice, confirmed payment, issued a receipt. After the customer left he looked at Mariam. “Someone spending a few thousand shillings here leaves with the business name, the item and a receipt.”
“Don’t use that to convict Hassan,” she said. “Use it to define the standard you want.”
Juma called.
“Old parts man,” Hassan answered cheerfully. “You’re awake early.”
“I want to withdraw a small amount.”
A pause. “Why now? The market is positioned well. If you pull out in the middle—”
“I’m not asking for trading advice. I want a withdrawal.”
His tone changed. “Juma, you sound like a stranger. I’ve managed this for months without trouble.”
“That’s why the request is simple. Send a small amount from the account holding my money to my bank. Send the broker name and the withdrawal reference.”
Hassan laughed once. “You’ve started listening to children? One screenshot has a different clock and suddenly I’m a fraud?”
“I haven’t called you anything. I asked for a withdrawal.”
“You know my account is omnibus.”
“Whose omnibus account? Under which company? Who is the custodian?”
“These things aren’t for a phone call. You can damage positions if you start asking people randomly.”
“My shop has supplier accounts. If I place customer money somewhere, I can show invoice, receipt and reconciliation. An investment cannot be secret from the owner of the money.”
“You’re comparing markets to shock absorbers?”
“I’m comparing proof to proof.”
Mariam wrote: *Don’t argue about the market. Repeat the request.*
“I want a small withdrawal. Today.”
Hassan softened. He reminded Juma of the warehouse fire, the night at the police station, all the times they had stood beside one another. Juma remembered every one.
“That is exactly why I don’t want friendship to become the answer to an account question. Send the withdrawal.”
“Fine. I’ll send it.”
“And the broker?”
“I’ll explain in person. I’m not sending all the details over WhatsApp.”
After the call, Mariam asked, “Was that yes or no?”
“Yes to money. No to the account.”
“Then don’t fill the no with our imagination.”
By noon Hassan messaged: *Transfer is set. You’ll see it today. Don’t stress over technical things.* Later he added, *Broker details face to face. Not in chat.*
The money was supposedly on its way. The account remained behind a closed door.
#