Mwangaza Estate had changed enough to make Mariam stop at the entrance and look twice. The old building had been painted a faded yellow, the two shops below had become a salon and a battery store, and the dirt path at the back now had stone paving. But the crooked stairs were still there, along with the small window of room number seven overlooking the road.
She arrived in the evening after trying twice to call Halima without an answer. Halima had seen her message but had not replied. Mariam told herself that perhaps she was at work, perhaps her phone was on silent, perhaps the person whose name had appeared in the bureau file had nothing to do with the silence. She gave herself many explanations because one explanation frightened her more than the rest: Halima knew something.
Mariam found an old man sitting in front of the battery shop. He was not the former landlord, but his face reminded her of someone who had lived on the other side of the building.
“Excuse me,” Mariam said. “Did you know the former landlord? Old man Karanja?”
The old man raised his eyes. “Karanja moved to Nakuru many years ago. Which room were you in?”
“I was in room seven. During college.”
He looked at her for a moment, then laughed softly. “The girls upstairs? You used to wash dishes and fight.”
“There were three of us.”
“I knew two. One of them sang a lot.”
“I wasn't the singer.”
“Then you were the one who closed the window.”
Mariam smiled for the first time that day. “Do you remember the rent ledger?”
“Karanja's ledger was taken by his son. Why?”
“I am looking for proof of the dates I lived here.”
The old man called to a woman from the salon. She came out holding a hand towel.
“She is looking for an old ledger,” the old man said. “Do you know Karanja's house?”
The woman looked closely at Mariam. “Were you the one with the short-haired friend?”
“Halima?”
“Yes. She used to come and collect mail often.”
Mariam felt the muscles in her neck tighten. “My mail?”
“I can't say it was all yours. In those days people left letters with the caretaker. Halima used to pass by before going to class.”
“Did she ever collect a college envelope?”
The woman folded the towel. “That was a long time ago, sister.”
“I am trying to trace an education record.”
The battery-shop elder leaned forward. “If you are looking for Karanja, his son has a stall for hardware at the back of the market. His name is Nuru. Ask him.”
Mariam thanked them and entered the back passage. The wall was covered with advertisements for new rooms, but she could still identify the part where room number seven's window had been. In those days the window had a blue curtain they had sewn from cheap fabric. Mariam remembered returning from work sewing decorations at a hotel. Halima would open the door for her even if she had been asleep.
Nuru remembered his father and allowed her to look through two boxes of documents. The rent ledger was tied with a strip of dried-out ribbon. Many of the pages were covered with faded names and dates. When Mariam gave him the year, Nuru turned the pages carefully.
“Room seven,” he said. “Here. Mariam Said. Halima Noor. The third person was called Rehema.”
Mariam placed a finger on the line. There was the start date of the tenancy, the deposit, and Halima's phone number written as the emergency contact. Her name appeared beside the same address that was on the bureau report.
“And this is the original copy?” Mariam asked.
“The house ledger. Why?”
“The college address has appeared on a loan record.”
Nuru looked at her, now without a smile. “Did someone borrow money in your name?”
“I still don't know.”
“Did Halima use this address for her mail?”
“Yes. We lived together.”
“Then perhaps there are people who knew it.”
Mariam closed the ledger. “I need a photograph of this page.”
Nuru allowed it. She took pictures from two angles, making sure the date and names were visible. She then asked for Nuru's number in case she needed a statement that the ledger belonged to the house. Nuru wrote the number on a small piece of paper and told her that Karanja had some old copies in a box.
“Don't leave this address standing by itself,” Nuru said. “The address proves that you lived here, but it does not answer who submitted what.”
“That is what I am trying to find.”
When she left the stall, her phone vibrated. A message from Kendi said: *The lighting supplier will accept half the deposit until eleven tomorrow. Babu says the fabric price has gone up. We have started cutting the nonessentials.*
Mariam replied: *Continue with the essentials. Don't use the reserve without telling me.*
She started walking toward the matatu station, but stopped when she reached an old sign still fixed to the wall: **ROOMS TO LET — ASK THE CARETAKER.** Room number seven was behind her, without the blue curtain, but her memories had opened like a drawer shoved too hard.
Halima had been the first person to know that Mariam worked nights. When Mariam returned, Halima would be sitting with several letters on the table.
“Your letters came,” Halima would say.
“Did you open them?”
“You know me.”
Mariam would laugh and take the envelopes. At the time there had been no reason to ask more. They had relied on each other for small things: tea, notes, letters, rent. Their trust had never been written down, which was why it had no receipt now.
Her phone rang. It was Halima.
“Mariam?”
Her voice was low, and there was the noise of students in the background. Mariam moved closer to the building's wall.
“I sent you a message.”
“I saw it.”
“I wanted to ask you about those college days.”
Halima fell silent.
“It is about student finance,” Mariam added.
The noise on the other end faded, as if Halima had gone somewhere private.
“Where did you get that information?”
“The bureau has an education-loan record under my name. It says it was issued in 1997.”
“1997?” Halima repeated. Her surprise sounded genuine, but Mariam did not want to decide too quickly.
“You used to deliver some of my forms. And my mail.”
“Yes, but…”
“Halima, I did not call to accuse you.”
“I haven't thought that.”
“Then let's talk. I found Karanja's ledger. It shows the address and our names.”
Mariam heard Halima's breathing change. “Don't send me anything by message.”
“Why?”
“I can't talk now.”
“I have a business deadline and a bureau dispute. I need the timeline.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is the supplier deadline.”
“I said tomorrow, Mariam.”
Halima ended the call before Mariam could answer. She lowered the phone and looked at the street as its lights began to come on. In her hand was a photograph of the ledger page: her name, Halima's name, room number seven.
There was no word about a loan.
But Halima had seen the message and had not replied.
---