The next morning, Salim reached Kona Tech Arcade before most of the shops had opened.
He wasn't early because he had found new energy. He was early because the second supplier had given him until nine the previous night to send a deposit for the screen, and Salim had spent almost an hour staring at his phone without making a decision.
In the end, he sent the money.
Not from the shop's cash.
From the account he and Nuru simply called **the household reserve**.
It didn't belong to either of them alone. It was their buffer for the days Nuru's salary came late, Alya got sick, Mama Rahma suddenly needed help, or Salim's kiosk had to stay closed for several days.
Salim told himself he would replace the money as soon as the customer paid the balance.
He hadn't stolen anything.
He had borrowed from his own household.
The distinction helped him sleep.
A little.
When he raised the shutter, Kassim was already in his stall arranging reams of A4 paper.
“You beat my neighbor's rooster today,” Kassim said.
“I have yesterday's work.”
“You got the screen?”
“It's coming.”
“With what money?”
Salim looked at him.
Kassim laughed. “Fine. Not a fellow technician's question.”
The screen arrived at eight-thirty. Salim installed it in the customer's phone, tested it three times, then called him.
The customer arrived ten minutes before ten.
Salim handed over the finished phone.
“You said ten,” the man said, switching it on.
“And it isn't ten yet.”
“This is the service I want.”
The customer paid the full balance.
For a few minutes, the pressure in Salim's chest loosened.
He looked at the cash drawer and almost believed the trouble had begun to end.
Then his phone rang.
Another customer, who had left two business phones with him the previous week, said he wouldn't collect them until the end of the week.
“But I already bought the parts,” Salim said.
“I'll pay when I come.”
“We agreed on today.”
“Salim, don't act like you don't know me. I've been your customer for years.”
When the call ended, the money Salim had received minutes earlier looked small again.
Kassim appeared in the doorway.
“Let's get tea.”
“I don't have time.”
“You have ten minutes. If you stay here, you'll keep staring at the drawer until the money grows out of embarrassment.”
Salim wanted to chase him away. Instead, he closed the counter and asked the boy at the accessories stall to keep an eye on the door.
They walked to a small café near the bus stage. Minibuses blasted their horns, conductors shouted destinations, and the smell of oily mandazi mixed with exhaust fumes.
Kassim ordered two teas.
“I didn't want tea,” Salim said.
“Then look at it.”
They sat on a wooden bench.
For a while Kassim said nothing.
That irritated Salim more than advice would have.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“To get you out of your shop for ten minutes.”
“You did. Now what?”
Kassim pulled his cup closer.
“My business once got to the point where I opened every morning praying the printers wouldn't break, because one repair bill would have finished me.”
Salim frowned. “Your photocopy shop got that bad?”
“Worse.”
“You never said.”
“Why would I? People in the arcade want to hear that you bought another machine, not that you're hiding a rent notice in a drawer.”
Salim looked at him sharply.
“You saw it?”
“Hamisi didn't come to sell you sweets yesterday.”
Salim drank the tea even though he hadn't wanted it.
Kassim continued. “I owed money for toner, one printer was dead, and two children needed school fees. I started opening late because I was afraid of meeting the supplier.”
“How did you get out?”
Kassim smiled faintly.
“I found someone who helped me calm down and see a way forward.”
Salim waited.
Kassim said nothing more.
“An accountant?” Salim asked.
“Not an accountant.”
“A new supplier?”
“No.”
“Then say it.”
Kassim glanced at the next table and lowered his voice.
“His name is Bwana Tunu.”
Salim laughed immediately.
“Bwana who?”
“Tunu.”
“And what does he do? Print money?”
“If you're going to start like that, I know you don't want to hear it.”
“You told me someone got you out of debt. I'm asking what he did.”
Kassim turned his cup slowly. “He can't run your business for you. He helps you see whether something is blocking you, whether you're on a path where everything you touch keeps refusing to work.”
Salim stared at him, then laughed again.
“Kassim. You?”
“Yes. Me.”
“You can repair a photocopier with a screwdriver and a charger wire, and you went to a man to tell you you're blocked?”
“I went because I'd already tried the things I knew.”
“And what did he do?”
“He talked to me. Gave me steps.”
“What steps?”
Kassim shook his head. “It's not something you explain at a table like a recipe.”
“Then what is it?”
“Salim, don't go if you don't want to. I'm telling you because I've watched you for two weeks. You don't eat lunch. You get angry at every unpaid balance. Yesterday you got bad screens and your rent went up. I know that face.”
“And after you saw Tunu, your printer repaired itself?”
“No.”
“Your debt disappeared?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Kassim sat quietly for a moment.
“Two days after I saw him, I got an order to print seminar books. A job I hadn't expected.”
Salim made a dismissive sound.
“The order helped you. Not the man.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. That's how business works.”
“I used to think so too.”
“You stopped thinking?”
Kassim didn't get angry.
“No. I stopped assuming that everything I know is everything that exists.”
Salim stood.
“Ten minutes are over.”
Kassim took out his phone.
“I'm not forcing you. I have his number.”
“I don't need it.”
“Fine.”
Kassim put the phone away.
They returned to the arcade without mentioning Tunu again.
All afternoon, Salim tried to push the conversation out of his head.
He repaired two charging ports. Took a deposit on a speaker. Called the supplier about the defective box and was told the claim was still “being reviewed.”
At three, Nuru messaged him.
**Don't forget the ledger today. Alya is sleeping early, so we'll look at it.**
Salim's stomach tightened.
He typed:
**Okay.**
Then the customer who owed him for the two repaired phones called.
Salim answered hopefully.
“I'm coming tomorrow,” the man said.
“You said today.”
“I'm stuck.”
“Brother, I bought those parts with my own money.”
“I understand. Tomorrow.”
“What time tomorrow?”
“I'll call you.”
The line went dead.
Salim looked at the shelf. The two phones sat there like money trapped inside glass.
Another supplier sent a reminder about an outstanding balance.
The landlord still hadn't answered Salim's message about the rent.
Nuru was waiting for the ledger.
For the first time that day, Salim didn't open the calculator.
He walked over to Kassim.
“What did you say that man's name was?”
Kassim didn't look up immediately. He was pulling jammed paper from a printer.
“Tunu.”
“Bwana Tunu.”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
Now Kassim looked at him.
“I thought I was the one who'd stopped thinking.”
“Don't start.”
Kassim wiped toner from his fingers.
“Above Mwangaza Stationery, behind the old bus stage. But you don't just walk upstairs.”
“Why not?”
“You call first.”
“And he charges?”
“Yes.”
Salim gave a bitter laugh. “Of course.”
“The first session isn't expensive.”
“How much?”
Kassim told him.
Salim disliked the fact that the amount was small enough to look harmless, yet large enough to become an expense he would hide from Nuru.
“And you paid only once?”
Kassim hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second.
Small enough for someone else to miss.
Salim didn't.
“Kassim?”
“Go and hear him for yourself first.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“What I'm telling you is nobody forces you. You go, and if you think it's nonsense, you leave.”
“And that's what you did?”
Kassim turned back to the printer.
“I got the help I needed at the time.”
The answer irritated Salim.
But he didn't leave.
“Give me the number.”
Kassim showed him on his phone. Salim copied it without saving a name. He entered only the letter **T**.
Back in his kiosk, he didn't call for almost an hour.
He worked. Closed up. Counted the money. Messaged Nuru that he'd be twenty minutes late.
Then, while he stood outside the arcade, his phone rang.
Another customer.
Salim smiled before answering, thinking perhaps the man was coming to collect his repair.
“Brother Salim,” the voice said, “don't start on my speaker yet. There's a problem at home. I'll tell you next week.”
“But I already bought the part.”
“I can't do anything today.”
After the call ended, Salim remained standing while people streamed past him toward the bus stage.
He opened his contacts.
The letter **T** sat near the bottom of his recent entries.
He pressed it.
The phone rang twice.
A calm male voice answered.
“Yes?”
Salim wanted to say he had the wrong number.
Instead he said, “Kassim Doto gave me your number.”
There was a brief silence.
“Kassim from the printer shop?”
“Yes.”
“All right. What do you need?”
Salim looked at the closed shutter of his kiosk.
“I don't know.”
The man didn't laugh.
“Most people who call me the first time don't know,” he said. “Come tomorrow evening. We'll talk.”
Salim swallowed.
---