The Old Boots

Kabudula – a childhood friend - immediately developed an aura of self importance about him when he opened an account with a bank that had just assumed its operations at a nearby town – some two or so kilometres from the village I had lived in since childhood.


He could brag at length about the interest his money was to generate and how the tellers whom he described as exquisite works of nature smiled at him every time he went to deposit his money.


“Seriously, Maleka, just looking at them finely honed cashiers, I’m struck with the painful realisation that I should have taken my time before marrying,” he had confessed one time with virile eloquence and added jokingly: “Dude, those cute tellers have beautiful faces I never tire looking at.”


Though, I had never nursed ambitions of opening a bank account, Kabudula’s endless sentiments began to sway me to be in favour of the notion. Without equivocation, I was someone who had grown up believing that banks were for the learned and rich folks and not for people like me who were not fluent with the pen. I had heard stories about the paper work you had to fill to open a bank account and whenever I mulled over that factor I was disheartened straightaway. Of course I was not such a complete half-wit: I could write my name correctly - even a letter when the need arose, but such a task was frustrating on my part as it literally took me the whole day and usually left me with a hurting hand. So whenever the idea of keeping money at the bank crept into my mind, I just laughed it off.


But come to think of it, Kabudula was no better than me. I was able to write down my name but Kabudula could not even spell his name. The only thing I had never bested him on was chasing women and in all sincerity, he had a tongue that women failed to resist. I still recalled how he had proved handy when my present wife was giving me a pretty hard time when I was chasing her. Now such a person had just opened a bank account and I felt nothing could stop me and I did not waste any time to tell Kabudula that I too wanted to have an account just like him.


My ecstasy was surely a plus the day Kabudula took me to the inside of the bank. There was a certain happiness in me I could not put into words and the smile I had on since I entered the bank never left my lips.


As I relished in this rare moment, I was stunned by the confused facial expression on Kabudula’s face that immediately set a bolt of alarm lighting in my chest. Besides escorting me to open an account, Kabudula had planned also to withdraw some money to sort out a financial mishap he had faced unexpectedly.

“What is it Kabudula,” I asked as I approached him.

“The total money I’ve been depositing since I opened my account is K12500,” he indicated not with the earlier enthusiasm that had enticed me to open an account instead he added with a heart breaking sadness: “But they say I can only take K10000 because some money remains with the bank as book balance and some has been deducted as bank charges. Maleka, I was in the dark about all this stuff. I need K12000 to solve my problems, dude.”

To describe Kabudula’s misfortune as a blessing in disguise would have been an understatement, but it just gave me an authentic reason never to entrust my money with a bank. I went back home and kept the money under my bed in my old worn out gumboots that I had stopped using some years back, however I forgot to tell my wife where I had kept the money.

Days passed and one muggy Saturday afternoon, I decided to check for the money when I realised that the gumboots where not where I had left them. Warning bells began ringing in my ears when I could not find the gumboots. I began sweating profusely and moved about the bedroom like a demented baboon and screamed my wife’s name. She came almost immediately looking bewildered as she could not comprehend what had befallen me.

“What happened to the old boots that were under the bed,” I queried desperately looking at her in the face. Tears had started to form in my eyes.

“I got rid of them,” she indicated uneasily, “I was cleaning this room this morning so I got rid of all stuff we didn’t need. They are in the garbage pit.”

I stomped out of the room like a deranged animal and headed to the garbage pit. I looked inside desperately and with huge anticipation and when my eyes saw one of the gumboots, a huge sigh of relief swept through my body. I stretched my hand and reached out for the old shoes and hurriedly looked inside. I felt like screaming with joy when I saw the money in one of the gumboots.

“Kabudula, what in hell is wrong with you, dear” my wife asked helplessly with her arms akimbo failing to comprehend my display of madness.

I did not respond, instead I grabbed her hand with the boots in my other hand and headed back to the house. Once in the house, I took a seat and clasped my head in both hands and said in resignation: “It was the money dear. I kept it in these gumboots and you got rid of them.”