Halima did not call Mariam again that day. She only sent a short message in the evening: *I have another copy of the diary. Come to my house tomorrow, not the school.*
Mariam read the message twice. She wanted to ask why, but deleted the words she had begun to type. On her phone, Kendi was sending pictures of the backdrop sample and asking whether the copper color was too heavy. Mariam replied that it was fine. Then she saved Halima's message in the evidence folder.
The next morning, she told Kendi to continue with the sample without her.
“Where are you going?” Kendi asked.
“To Halima.”
“Do you still believe she can help?”
“I believe she has information. That is not the same as believing everything.”
Kendi did not stop her. “Babu says the first balance must arrive before eleven.”
“I know.”
Halima's house was in a school estate far from Mwangaza. She opened the door after two knocks. The house was neat, with books arranged on shelves and children's shoes along the wall. Halima welcomed her with a gesture but did not hug her.
“Will you have tea?”
“Later. You said you have another copy of the diary.”
“And some papers I kept.”
Halima led her to the dining table. She opened a plastic box filled with old letters, rent receipts, and notebooks. Mariam felt as though she had entered someone else's life, but inside the box were fragments of both their lives.
Halima took out a second diary, smaller than the school one. “I started this after we moved to Mwangaza. I wrote down the dates of the letters I collected for you.”
Mariam opened it. There were short entries: *Mariam, hostel form; Mariam, bursary letter; Mariam, student finance envelope.* The final date had a star beside it.
“Why did you mark this one?”
“Because you were afraid that day.”
“What did I do?”
“You said you didn't know whether you could afford the next semester. You said someone in finance had given you a loan form, but you didn't know whether you would sign it.”
Mariam searched her memory. She remembered the pressure of fees, but not the form. “What did I tell you?”
“You said not to leave it with the receptionist without a receipt.”
“And you took it?”
“You gave it to me. You were going to a night shift.”
Mariam read the entry. Halima had written that she delivered the envelope to the counter and signed the register.
“Is there anything else?” Mariam asked.
Halima took out a folded photocopy. “I found this in my box. I don't know whether it is a copy of yours or mine.”
It was a student-administration page with Mariam's name, admission number, and the Mwangaza Estate address. The loan type had been marked in pencil, but the amount was not visible. Beneath it was a signature resembling Mariam's.
Mariam placed the page on the table. “Is this my signature?”
“You know that better than I do.”
Mariam examined it. The signature had the same slope in the letter M, but the ending was shorter. Her current signature had changed after years of signing invoices, but the college version had not been steady.
“Did I ever sign a loan form?”
“You said they gave you a form. You wrote that you would think about it.”
“Then perhaps I signed it?”
“You gave me a sealed envelope.”
“And where did you get this copy?”
“I had kept some of your documents with mine. I couldn't return everything when you left.”
Mariam felt anger rise. “Why didn't you tell me you had a copy of my documents?”
“Because I didn't remember. I found it when I moved the box last month.”
“And since last month you never thought to tell me?”
“I thought they were ordinary college papers.”
“Ordinary college papers have become a loan for twenty years.”
Halima closed her eyes. “Don't punish me for not knowing that today's system would use yesterday's paper.”
Mariam stood and walked toward the window. Outside, a child was wheeling a bicycle behind the house. She wanted the page to be the answer, but it had added another question. If the signature resembled hers, had she signed the application? If she had signed, why had she never received the money? If she had not signed, who had made the copy?
“Did you see the envelope being sealed?” Mariam asked.
“You sealed it in front of me.”
“And you had the opportunity to open it?”
“Yes. But I did not.”
“Why should I understand that?”
Halima stood now. “Because I helped you for years without taking even one shilling from you. You left me to cover rent when you were late. You gave me your keys. If I wanted your money, I would not have waited for a student-finance envelope with your name on it.”
Mariam felt the words enter a place of pain. She had not called Halima a thief, but every question was making her defend herself like one.
“I am sorry,” Mariam said, though her voice was not light.
Halima looked at the copy. “I am afraid too. My signature is on the register. I signed to say I received the envelope. If someone opened it later, they will say I knew.”
“That is why we need a chain.”
“Where is the chain?”
“The archive is looking for the batch page.”
“And when you find it, my name will be there.”
“Perhaps.”
Halima opened another drawer and took out a small paper stamped by student finance. It was an envelope-receipt stub. Mariam's name was written on it, and the date was slightly blurred. In the **received by** section were initials that were not Halima's. In the **delivered by** section was Halima's signature.
Mariam took a photograph. “This is the receipt?”
“I kept it because I was afraid you would need to prove that I delivered it.”
“Why didn't you tell me yesterday?”
“Because yesterday you looked at me as if I were the one who had stolen it.”
Mariam sat down. “I came thinking perhaps you had once seen the money. Now I see that you saw only the envelope.”
“And I saw your signature on that page before it went into the envelope.”
“You saw it?”
“The page was on top before you sealed it. You told me you would sign it at home. But when you sealed it, I did not look again.”
Mariam looked at the photocopy. “This could be my signature.”
“Or someone copied your signature.”
“Don't say that without proof.”
“And don't say I opened it without proof.”
Silence entered the house. On the table, their papers had formed an old route: Mariam had signed or had not signed, Halima had delivered or had not opened it, the receipt had been accepted by unknown initials, and then the record had moved into a system years later.
Mariam took a sheet of paper for an evidence map. She wrote:
1. Mariam had application papers. 2. Halima received a sealed envelope. 3. Halima signed the delivery register. 4. The receipt has the finance officer's initials. 5. There is no evidence of disbursement to Mariam. 6. The address is genuine.
Halima read the list. “The first point does not prove you applied for a loan.”
“It is a fact that there were application papers, not that I completed them.”
“And the fourth?”
“That is the key.”
Halima turned the receipt over. On the back was a small number drawn in blue ink. “I think this is the batch number.”
Mariam compared it with the archive photograph. The first three characters matched 14B, but the last one had been erased.
“The archive batch page is missing,” Mariam said.
“Then find it.”
“They are looking.”
Halima sat down again. “Mariam, I cannot give another statement saying I had nothing to do with any of it. What I did was deliver the envelope. I signed.”
“I don't want you to deny the signature.”
“And I don't want you to use the statement as a weapon against me.”
“I won't use it against you. I will submit it as part of the chain.”
Halima drew a breath. “If you mean that, I will sign a copy of the receipt too. But do not put my school's name in a public complaint.”
“I will include only what is necessary.”
Mariam photographed the diary, the receipt, and the copy of the page. Then she saved them to the business drive and sent one copy to her personal email. She had learned from this experience: every document needed a source, a date, and the person who had provided it.
Halima brought her tea. They drank without speaking for a while.
“Are you keeping the business going?” Halima asked.
“One wedding is on a deadline.”
“And this case?”
“The bank confirmed that no account matched my profile, but they still want the ledger.”
Halima looked at her tea. “Should I go to the archive with you?”
Mariam was startled. “Are you willing?”
“I am not willing to be blamed. But I am willing to say what I did.”
“You could put your job at risk.”
“Our friendship has already been damaged because everyone is afraid of what the paper might say.”
Mariam felt her eyes fill, but did not wipe them. “I don't know whether we will go back to how we were.”
“We should not.”
“Why?”
“Because we were young people signing things without making copies. Now we will set boundaries.”
Mariam's phone rang. Babu wanted an answer about the balance. Mariam stood and picked up her file.
“I have to return to the studio.”
Halima pushed the receipt toward her. “Don't lose this.”
“I will secure it properly.”
“And Mariam?”
“Yes?”
“I did not open the envelope.”
Mariam looked at her. “I wrote that down.”
Halima nodded, but her face showed that writing it down was not the same as being believed.
They left the table with one more copy of evidence and a friendship that had broken in a place tea could not repair.
---