Someone dropped coins at the bank today. Lots of them. It was silent, that silence that is found only in banks. You could only hear the din of the money machine, *krrr* *krrrr*, as someone’s money was being counted. And the occasional shuffle of someone walking to the paper place to fill a form and join the queue we had formed. A seemingly mute queue that was now staring ahead awkwardly as the coins landed on the granite floor.
polite girl helped collect the coins. I assumed she was because the rest of us just stared into space and played with our phones, even the guy whose coins had dropped. Nobody seems to like coins nowadays, even the high-currency ones, they are shameful, sort of like the people who don’t say “excuse me”, after they burp, and nobody invites them to parties anymore. The polite girl kept picking up the coins, even when it was obvious our man didn’t want them back. He forced out a grim-faced “thank you” as every one-shilling coin was pressed onto his palm. We could collectively feel his pain, and if it wasn’t for my number being called up, (btw, what’s up with the naming system of the banking halls? You’d expect to be number 2076, after they call out 2075, only to hear 89, and be like ) I’d have told her, “there, there Miss Sunshine, it’s okay, you don’t have to collect them anymore”.
Reminded me of my own cringe worthy story, at the kibanda I love so much. Nowadays, because I am trying to gain weight, I eat a lot of proteins and lots of food in general. That means fish, meat, milk, yoghurt and the occasional chicken. Lunch time is crowded at the kibanda, with suits, uniforms, jeans and overalls all congregated at the wooden planks, emptying plates of green grams, chapatis, beans, greens, meat, rice and water faster than America delivering ‘democracy’ to an oil-rich country.
I ordered stewed fish and ugali, can’t stand the dry one. I was busy destroying it, thinking of how many months until I would be having two plates for lunch, to feed my bulging body. I was mentally buying new clothes to fit the new body, and I had almost finished the food and turned to get salt for the soup, and the waiter was carrying the plate away. My plate. With soup on it. Soup I had removed bones, and those hurriedly cut remnants of tomatoes from. Soup I had saved to drink when everything was eaten. I looked at them stupefied, “why would you take away the most nutritious part of the meal??” my eyes asked the waiter, but he didn’t give the plate back to me, probably because I played it down, didn’t want to look like I was fighting for soup. Too scared to look like I drink soup from my plate.
I realized today that if I want to be buff, I have to let go of the shame that is tied to demanding for my soup, or else I can’t question why someone who wants to be rich, is ashamed to collect coins, coins that make up the big amounts that bring riches. I will drink my soup from today, and I won’t be apologetic about it!! 😀