The Auto-Teller Machine

Esther Liwonde

I was tired, hungry and sweating profusely. The three hours I had cycled from Chamama to Kasungu Boma had drained every ounce of energy I had in my body. I felt weak. My throat was literally dry; my breathing was rapid and laboured.

Kasungu Boma, it being a month end, was abuzz with activity. Vendors, minibus call boys, pick-pockets et al were all making hay. I beckoned a vendor to bring me water packed in small plastic bags and gestured with my finger I needed one.

“K20 each,” he said. I fumbled into my pocket and gave it to him.

“This K20 note is so raddled,” the vendor protested adding: “Give me another one. Just the colour shows it’s a K20. No one will accept this from me.”

“Just shut up man. The water is not even cold.” I said rudely while guzzling the water ravenously. “Actually it tastes like you have fetched it from a borehole,” I added. The vendor, shocked with my response, uttered no word. He simply walked back to where his merchandise was and sat down, looking at me scornfully. 

I did not mind him. Besides, that was the only money I had left in my pocket. I immediately shifted my attention to what had brought me to the Boma.

I had come to the Boma to withdraw money from the Auto–Teller Machine (ATM). ATMs were unfamiliar territory to me, a path l had never trodden.  A technology I had only been exposed to by the stories I had heard; how you insert a card into a machine, punch a secret number and then it vomits some cash. Thinking of all this, I began feeling butterflies in my stomach. Uneasiness engulfed me and I took a long deep breath.

The new Managing Director was to blame for all this. For seven years, I had been receiving my monthly salary by hand, delivered to me and my workmates in a khaki envelope by our lady accountant. But this new boss had come with his own ideas demanding every worker of Chamama Groundnuts Products to open a bank account. All this hassle and bustle, he was to blame.

 

Nervously, I felt for my ATM card and the dozen other ATM cards belonging to my workmates I had taken with me to withdraw their money too. This had been the arrangement from the time the new boss imposed the bank account issue that only one person would travel to the Boma to withdraw his money but also that of his colleagues. This time it was my turn. Their pin codes were written on a piece of paper and it was in my breast pocket.

I reached the bank. The ATM queue was long and moving at a snail’s pace. There were about forty people ahead of me. A well-built man in a dark blue suit before me was talking on his phone telling the other person on the other end of the line that he was in Blantyre. I just grimaced. A moment later, a woman passing by, putting on an outfit that accentuated her curves attracted the attention of every male on the queue who in turn looked at her lasciviously. Especially her wriggling behind made me forget that I was on a queue until someone behind me tapped me on the shoulder to move forward.

After about an hour or so, my turn finally came. My legs felt heavy as I walked to the ATM. My heart was pounding heavily and my hands were shaking slightly as I fetched the ATM cards from my pocket. I also took the piece of paper with pin codes from my breast pocket

As my turn to withdraw money from the ATM approached, a thousand panicky questions were buzzing in my head. I continuously wiped sweat from my brow and kept assuring myself that I could do it

As my turn to the ATM approached, I could not stop worrying. Each time I neared it something melted in me and I kept sweating even more. I tried to boost my confidence by telling myself I could do it but my confidence kept wavering to an extent that when my turn finally arrived, my hands were trembling slightly as I approached the ATM.

I stood facing the ATM not knowing what to do. I was blank. I looked desperately for a slot where I could insert my card but I did not see it.

“Do you need some help?” the dude who was beside me and now waiting for his turn asked. I nodded yes and he came hurriedly. He told me where to insert the card and then instructed me to punch in my PIN, which I did. He asked me the amount I wanted to withdraw and I said: “Everything that is there.”

He smiled, punched some buttons again and money came out. I collected it and deposited it in my back pocket.

However, the Good Samaritan looked astonished when I produced a bunch of ATMs from my pocket. I ignored his look and hurriedly took the paper with PINs from my breast pocket.

“Can you give me a chance to withdraw first?” he asked. There was a trace of annoyance in his voice.

I refused. He politely walked back to the queue a clear indicator that he was no longer willing to help me with the rest of the ATMs. I felt helpless but then I assured myself I could do it. I had seen and followed the steps he had taken me through.

The piece of paper with PINs was dump with my sweat. I noted to my dismay that some PINS had become barely visible. I still gathered courage and inserted one of my workmate’s cards. It refused. I attempted to insert if by force, it still refused.

“You are inserting it the wrong way,” a voice from the queue said. This confused me even more. I changed the card’s position and inserted again. I succeeded. I punched in the pin but the ATM said it was a wrong one. I punched again and again and at the third attempt, the card was eaten up.

“It has swallowed the card,” I said to nobody in particular but facing the direction of the queue.

“It has eaten the card,” I said again almost on the verge of tears. The dude who had helped me before came and assisted me with the remaining ATMs. He instructed me to go inside the bank to inform them of the card. What I was told displeased me. The lady I found at the enquiries said only the owner of the card could come to collect it. I tried explaining to her the arrangement with my workmates but she refused.

As I cycled back home, I was unclear how my workmate whose card had been eaten would take the news. It had been an unpleasant experience.