A million-naira mistake

Jumoke must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Nothing was going her way this early Friday morning. First, the lunch she had meticulously prepared had spilled in her lunch bag, setting her back by 15 minutes. The palm oil had soiled the entire bag and part of the official polo top that all bank staff like her were required to wear on Fridays. Luckily, the stain was only at the bottom, so she washed that little bit. She would let it dry until she got to the office, and if there were still signs of the stain, she would tuck the shirt in. 

Typically, Jumoke would have made it to the bus stop by 5:45 a.m. The bus stop was still scanty then, and getting a bus was much easier. Today, it was not meant to be. She stared at the massive crowd. 

Just 15 minutes had made that much difference. With her handbag, lunch bag and small frame, the daunting task of squeezing and shoving her way onto a bus was not something she was looking forward to. But the alternative was to leave the lunch bag behind and buy food at the office. 

It was already salary week. Money had been spent, she was broke and she couldn’t survive another week without her salary. So there was no time for splurging. Restaurants and canteens around the office were a tad expensive. She had to sacrifice that extra 15 minutes in exchange for starving until evening. On Fridays, they usually stayed late at the bank to settle accounts. 

She was finally in the bus after two attempts to wrestle her way in. Beside her was a mechanic holding a tool bag who had not bothered to wear clean clothes or put a coat over his oil-stained uniform. On her other side was a woman who must have been a fish seller. The smell of catfish was thick. 

It was rush hour, and the conductor wasn’t going to let the peak period go to waste. He insisted on five people on the bench. Poor Jumoke. They squeezed her in. She frowned and kissed her teeth silently amidst the chaos. It was a good thing she kept her irritation to herself.   

Soon enough, the conductor went about collecting transport fares from the passengers. Jumoke managed to tilt slightly so she could pull out the cash she had stashed in her back pocket. Something was unusual. Her hand went straight in, and she could feel her skin. “What?” she exclaimed. She continued searching frantically. It was a very tight space, so she had little room to move. Her handbag and lunch bag had already taken up her lap. 

“Wey your change kekere?” came the conductor, his palm out, and his face straight. He had no time for nonsense. All eyes were on Jumoke. 

“What is all this, for goodness’ sake? Someone has picked my pocket.” 

During the rush, a petty thief must have targeted her, noticed the notes sticking out of the back of her pocket, used a blade to cut it and pulled the money out. 

“Wooz! Me, I no get time for this nonsense, oh.” 

He turned to the driver. 

“Alaye, park. Make this one come down now now. She dey follow me play.” 

Jumoke was embarrassed. She wanted to cry. Then her phone started ringing. 

It was her line manager. It wasn’t nine yet, but she was used to seeing her team already at their desks. She couldn’t pick the call. As the driver navigated towards the service lane so they could force Jumoke out for failing to pay her fare, the passengers around her motioned for him to continue driving. 

The mechanic dipped his hand into his pocket to pay for her, giving Jumoke a suspicious look. His expression, like that of most of the other passengers, suggested they suspected she was pulling a prank, knowing fully well that no passenger would want to step out of the bus, wait for a passenger deep inside to get out, and then file back in to continue the journey. 

“Na God save you, oh. All this nonsense wey una dey do. That format don cast.” 

Jumoke wished she could disappear into the ground. 

“Thank you, sir,” she murmured to the mechanic. 

As they got off, Jumoke made it a point to show the Good Samaritan her slit back pocket. His face lifted, this time with sympathy. Jumoke did not want him to walk away thinking she had tried to game the conductor.

As Jumoke was trying to settle in, her line manager walked in. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 

“Perfect timing,” she whispered. 

She remembered her calls when she was in that embarrassing debacle. 

“You’re late. And you didn’t see my missed call?” 

She put on a performance, acting shocked as she reached for her phone to check her missed-call log. 

“What’s the status with Ms Adesola Jakande? Sorted yet?” 

Jumoke nodded in the affirmative. 

“So why is she still sending emails to the branch?” 

Jumoke was puzzled. 

“The money has been transferred to her account. I confirmed it before I left the office yesterday, ma.” 

Her line manager walked up to her, dropped a sheet of paper on her desk and walked out. 

“Whatever you get done today, ensure this is one of them.” 

Then she walked out. 

“Bloody hell! This woman is crazy.” Jumoke didn’t yell, but her fellow temps could hear her and stared at her. She immediately cleared the air. “No, not the boss. I’m referring to the customer. She actually sent an email to the branch manager, indicting me in the process.” With that, her colleagues nodded and continued their work. 

It was a case of mistaken identity. She had sent one million naira to an account with identical names. She had argued with the customer several times two days ago and again yesterday, convincing her to wait, that her account would soon be credited. That it was probably “network”. That was their “get out of jail” card, the excuse she and her colleagues usually threw around. But this wasn’t going to work today. The email was scathing. Then she noticed it. The customer was a married woman. Same three names, but she had a Mrs, while the recipient of the money she had wired was a Miss. 

Her heart skipped. She checked her system and realised the lady had withdrawn the money. Jumoke could hear her heartbeat like Sasquatch feet, thundering and shaking the concrete. She had been so confident that she had dismissed the customer, although at the time of the call she had other customers physically in the bank waiting to be attended to. Dismissing her over a transaction she had handled had seemed like the right thing to do. 

She rang the number of the lady she had wired the money to. No answer. 

Then she tried again, and again, then one last time. So she decided to text. After a few minutes, she resumed calling. Only this time, the phone wasn’t ringing anymore. Her heart started racing. Her colleagues noticed her dilemma and suggested that she call the lady’s next of kin. Her mother picked up. Jumoke was super relieved, but it was short-lived. 

“Yes, I’m her mother. What happened?” 

Jumoke explained the whole situation. The mother’s response stopped her in her tracks. 

“Ehn, what do you want me to do, nau? She’s in camp and needs money. So what do you want me to do? Nothing I can do, oh.” 

And she hung up. Jumoke stood there, shell-shocked. If that was her mum, what was she expecting from the lady? She felt like crying. She held back the tears. She thought about how her day had started and where it was headed. Things started playing in her head. 

“Perhaps it’s because I refused to pay my tithes last month. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been keeping a grudge against my housemate.” Random thoughts kept popping up. Jumoke looked up at the ceiling, totally lost and on tenterhooks about how to solve this major problem. Where was she going to get one million naira should this lady remain unreachable and abscond with all the money?