The Debt Collector's Wife
"Her husband collects debts for Mombasa's moneylenders. When a young man can't pay, she offers a different kind of collection. Some debts are settled in flesh."
Her husband comes for the money.
Bwana Musa is the most feared debt collector on the coast—two hundred kilos of enforcement, known for breaking fingers when payments are late. He works for the old moneylenders, the ones who don't use banks or courts.
I owe fifty thousand shillings.
I have nothing.
"The deadline was yesterday," Musa says. He's in my doorway, blocking the light. "You're late."
"I can explain—"
"Explanations don't pay debts." He cracks his knuckles. "My employers are losing patience."
"Give me more time—"
"Time is money. You don't have either." He looks around my sparse room. "Unless you have something else to offer."
"I have nothing—"
"My wife might disagree."
Mama Zuwena appears behind him.
She comes on collections sometimes—the soft approach to her husband's hard one. Fifty-five years old, two-fifty of calculation beneath her modest dress. Where he threatens, she negotiates.
"Leave us," she tells her husband.
"The debt—"
"Will be handled." She enters my room, closes the door behind her. "Wait outside."
We're alone.
She studies me—young, desperate, frightened. Her eyes are not cruel, but they're not kind either. They're practical.
"You owe fifty thousand," she says. "You have nothing. My husband will break something if you can't pay."
"I know."
"There are other ways to settle debts." She sits on my bed—uninvited, but who would stop her? "Interest can be paid in different currencies."
"What currencies?"
"Service." She lets the word hang. "My husband is gone most nights. Collecting. Threatening. He's good at his job, but—" She pauses. "He's not good at other things."
I understand.
"You want me to—"
"I want what the debt allows." She begins unwrapping her clothes. "Weekly payments. Until the fifty thousand is cleared. Or I can let my husband handle it his way."
"That's—"
"Business." She lies back on my bed. "The same business that put you in debt. Now. Let's discuss terms."
I accept her terms.
What choice do I have? Broken fingers or broken taboos—the math is simple. I climb onto my own bed and begin paying my debt.
She's heavy and demanding, a woman who knows exactly what she's owed. Her husband collects money; she collects something else.
"Harder," she instructs. "My husband is gentle. Too gentle. I need more."
I give her more.
The payments continue.
Weekly. Her husband thinks she's negotiating extended terms. In a way, she is—just not with money. Every Thursday, she comes to my room while Musa collects elsewhere.
"Your balance is decreasing," she tells me one night. "Twenty thousand left."
"How long until it's clear?"
"That depends." She pulls me down. "On how well you pay tonight."
The debt clears in six months.
The ledger is balanced. I owe nothing to the moneylenders or their collectors. Musa even shakes my hand.
"You paid every shilling," he says. "Not many do. You're a good man."
"Thank you."
His wife stands behind him. Her face is neutral, but her eyes tell a different story.
Next month, they say. New terms.
I borrow again.
Not because I need the money—because I need the debt. The arrangement. The weekly visits from the collector's wife.
"You're becoming a regular customer," Musa laughs when I sign the new loan papers. "Good for business."
"Good for everyone."
His wife counts the money, hiding her smile.
Mkopaji.
Debtor.
Owing everything.
Paying in kind.
Forever in arrears.