Over the Counter

While I may not pass as the happiest person by any standard, it would be unfair for anyone to accuse of me of denying mankind this invaluable possession which paradoxically is bereft in me. Narcissism does not allow me to glorify myself so I will go slowly on this. Somehow even on dejected gloomy periods, the niceness in me partly fuelled my brokenness ensures that I put smiles on bank cashiers and mpesa agents. Am not contracted to walk around banks making silly jokes to this bunch of nation builders; rather, it happens that at this time, am reminded of the dregs and remnants in my bank accounts. Masking a no nonsense face, I walk to the banking hall and line up to collect whatever meagre balance had been forgotten there.

This is an episode that has played out a couple of times in the past. Amidst failed promises and brokenness, my patience wears off as soon as I remember a couple of hundred shillings sitting in my account. This is the situation I found myself in a few days ago. The money had been in that particular account from some times last year and procrastination had ensured I never topped it up to an amount that won’t sound shameful to line up to the teller and demand to withdraw. This particular account happens to be a savings account and as such there is no ATM as a deterrent to impulse withdrawals. 

The decision to make this withdrawal was not an easy one; I contemplated outsourcing for loan from a pal so that I can go deposit it the account then move to the next branch or may be the next teller where I could make the withdrawal without feeling ashamed. The more I weighed the idea the more stupid it sounded so I eventually concluded that it was after all my money and the bank had no restrictions that I can’t withdraw such an amount.

So am standing in the queue I.D and debit card in hand. In front of me there is this gentleman man who seems uneasy occasionally glancing over his shoulders. His restlessness is overt making him conspicuously suspicious. He observes the activities at the banking hall with detailed attention and a couple of times our eyes meet. He withdrew his gaze with an amazing alacrity, perhaps fearing that I could be some kind of a crook. Soon his time at the teller arrives and he saunter to the teller and pulls two fat brown envelopes which he hands over to the teller. At this juncture I can tell that his paranoia was due to the amount of money he carried with himself. Could be the difference between us was so obvious to him could tell of my shallow pocket and thin bank account. 

I will be next in line after this guy and when I approach the teller and hands overt the id and my card, momentarily my voice fails me. I clear my throat and feebly repeat the instructions. The teller raises her gaze plant it on my and sceptically confirm” …hundred?” I nod and she reverts to typing the details from my card into her computer. I could read something of a smug in her lips. While still hunched over her computer she kept on glancing over her glasses perhaps to get stock of the broke chap. This made me quite uneasy.

Behind me there was this beautiful lady whom I think, wow, if she has had heard what I was withdrawing over the counter, certainly could be she knows am not even worth looking at her. Honestly I don’t feel that worth so I keep my glance away.

As if to torture me, the lady teller will go ahead to require me repeat my signature a couple of times by claiming that it doesn’t match. I mean from this very account I have previously withdrawn much larger figure but only on the occasion when I had to withdraw literally nothing will I stand the embarrassment and suspicion of stealing? Eventually when she satisfied with torturing me, she pulled a bunch of fifty shillings notes and leisurely started counting them. I was tempted to resist but I had overstayed on the counter and wanted to get out of there soonest so I just sulked and reluctantly took the notes and walked out.

It was the longest five minutes I have had to endure a bank and it was a relief to storm out of the hall. I could; however, feel the eyes of the customers lining in the queue glued on me. I just couldn’t look back, I couldn’t. My misery had turned out to someone’s amusements and I am proud to provide entertainment even in the banks.  If that teller keeps a diary, am certain she had a story to write.