“Let’s go to the bank early tomorrow,” Rehema said.
Juma had spread the deposit papers across the sitting-room table, trying to arrange the numbers in a way that would make their house seem closer than it really was. Inside the blue folder were cost estimates, a pre-approval letter, and the agent’s sheet for the three-bedroom house they had gone to see in Mbezi.
“He said three o’clock,” Rehema continued. “If we arrive early, we can get through the pre-check before the place fills up.”
Juma nodded. “We’ll go.”
The phone beneath the table lit up.
He saw the message without opening it fully: COLLECTION NOTICE — ACCOUNT 7841 — 92 DAYS OVERDUE.
The company name appeared above the message. Beneath it was a sentence saying that payment had to begin tomorrow or legal action and credit reporting would continue. Juma slipped the phone into his pocket before Rehema looked up.
“What did you say?”
“I said we’ll go.”
Rehema opened the folder and began counting. “The deposit is here. This is for the solicitor. This is for the valuation. This is the moving fund. If the bank accepts our ratio, we only need to add a little.”
Juma watched her hand. Rehema was wearing the thin silver ring they had bought after their second wedding ceremony, when their income had begun to settle. She spoke about the house like someone who had checked every calculation three times.
The phone lit up again.
Juma turned the screen face down.
Rehema stood. “Who is it?”
“Just a normal notification.”
“What kind of notification makes you put it face down?”
“It’s work.”
“Amina?” she asked.
Juma felt his stomach tighten. Amina’s name had appeared in the notification area for one second before the collection message covered it. Amina was the person who had given him Charles Bwire’s number four months earlier. Juma had told Rehema that Amina had recommended an overseas employment advisory service. He had not told her that he had paid that broker. He had not told her that the promise of work had changed twice. He had not told her that the processing fee had come from part of their deposit.
“What does Amina have to do with a work notification?” Rehema asked.
“It isn’t Amina’s notification.”
“Then why did her name appear?”
Juma unlocked the phone. The collection message was still there, and Amina’s name was attached to the earlier message thread.
“She may have sent me something before.”
“Have you spoken to her today?”
“Not yet.”
Rehema did not sit down. “Juma, when we go to the bank tomorrow, I will ask you everything for the first time in front of an officer. I don’t want that.”
“I only have an ordinary debt.”
“What debt?”
Juma opened his mouth. The word nothing was almost out, but it stopped. He thought of the statement hidden in his email, the balance that had grown with penalties, and the date on which he had first received a warning. He had given himself one week, then another, then convinced himself that the broker would refund the money before Rehema discovered anything.
“It isn’t a big debt,” he said.
Rehema laughed without amusement. “No small debt sends a collection notice at night.”
Juma took the phone and carried it to the bathroom. He closed the door, sat on the toilet lid, and opened the link in the SMS. The portal asked for a reference number and date of birth. He entered them. The screen displayed a balance larger than he wanted to see: principal, penalties, late fees, and the amount due immediately.
Below it was a button marked “explore payment solutions.”
Juma opened it.
The lender’s application showed him a top-up loan offer. The old payments would be combined, a little cash would be added, and collection calls would be paused for ten days. He knew it was only a way to move the hole from one place to another. He also knew that if he received a small amount, he could pay part of the deposit and postpone the truth.
He entered his phone number. At the final step, the system requested consent for a credit check.
His finger rested above the screen.
He pictured Rehema opening the blue folder and placing their deposit on the line of their future. Then he pictured a bank officer saying “overdue facility,” and Rehema’s eyes turning toward him in front of someone who knew nothing about their marriage.
He deleted every number before submitting.
He left the bathroom still holding the phone.
Rehema had closed the folder.
“What did you do?” she asked.
“I was looking for the statement.”
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“Will you show it to me?”
Juma sat across from her. The sitting room was quiet except for the refrigerator. He wanted to say everything—the broker, the money, Amina, the warning, and the months he had spent living inside a small lie that had grown with interest.
Instead he said, “We’re going to the bank tomorrow. Before then, I’ll send you the statement.”
Rehema was not satisfied. “The statement for what?”
Juma looked at her. “For the debt I took without telling you.”
Rehema sat down slowly. She did not raise her voice. That frightened Juma more.
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain.”
“Don’t explain it like a story. Give me the date and the amount.”
Juma opened the email, but did not read it. “I’ll put everything together tonight.”
Rehema took a pen and wrote on a small piece of paper: “loan date, principal, current balance, recipient, Amina.”
She pushed it toward him.
“Don’t make me wait until the bank.”
Juma placed the paper beside the phone. What he had deleted from the top-up application was still visible in the portal history.
Rehema rose to get a glass of water. Before she walked away, she said, “If the bank asks me about Amina tomorrow, I don’t want to hear the answer for the first time in front of an officer.”
Juma looked at the blue folder. Their names were written together on its cover in Rehema’s black ink. Beneath them, the deposit amount had been circled twice.
He knew the night had ended, even though they were still sitting in the same room.
When he put the phone on the table, he also wrote tomorrow’s date on the last page of his notebook. He no longer wanted to remember the amount by heart or depend on a message remaining silent. The debt now had a date, a name, and a door through which it could enter.
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