Still no paper

THE UMBRELLA IN DRY SEASON

Port Harcourt was dry.

No rain for 47 days. The ground cracked. NEPA cut light for 72 hours. Danfo drivers cursed. Market women fanned themselves with paper.

Today Bank had no fan. No generator. Just the wall, the jars, and heat that sat on your skin like cloth.

Amina’s blouse stuck to her back. Dayo kept water in a plastic cup on the counter. Tolu, 14 now, swept dust that came back the minute she finished.

At 2:13 PM, the door opened.

A man stood there. Late 40s. White shirt, sweat at the collar. He held a folded paper.

“I was sent by Central,” he said. Voice dry. “Auditor 6.”

Dayo stood up.

The man didn’t sit. He put the paper on the counter. Red stamp. Black ink.

“Closure Notice,” he read. “Today Bank, Port Harcourt Branch. Operating without approved currency. Last day: 7 days.”

Amina didn’t touch the paper. She looked at his eyes. Gray. But tired.

“Did you come in the danfo?” she asked.

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s hot,” she said. “Sit.”

He didn’t.

Tolu went to the back. Came back with the black umbrella. The one from Year 1. The one they never used for rain anymore.

She opened it. Inside the office.

No rain. Just shade.

The Auditor stared at it.

“Explain,” he said.

Amina pointed to the shelves. Jars. Hundreds. Groundnuts. Hairpins. Stones. A cassette. A key. A child’s drawing of a bus.

“People paid today,” she said. “Mrs. Boma paid with pepper soup for the next debtor. Musa paid with 1 hour to sit with an old man. A girl paid with a song.”

“That is not currency,” the Auditor said.

Dayo slid the cup of water across the counter.

“Drink first,” he said.

The Auditor looked at the water. Looked at the umbrella. Looked at Tolu, sweating but not moving the umbrella away.

He picked up the cup. Drank.

Silence.

Then he folded the Closure Notice in half. Put it in his pocket.

“I will report,” he said. “That the Bank was… closed for weather.”

“Thank you,” Amina said.

He shook his head. “Don’t thank me. I’m still Auditor 6.”

He turned to leave. Stopped.

Took something from his pocket. A bus ticket. Lagos to Port Harcourt. Used.

He put it on the counter.

“For the jar,” he said. “Account paid.”

Then he walked out into the dry heat.

Tolu wrote on a card: _Bus ticket. Paid by Auditor 6. Weather: Dry. Payment: Shade._

She dropped it in the jar.

Dayo looked at Amina.

“7 days?” he said.

Amina smiled. Tapped the umbrella.

“We have shade,” she said.

Outside, the sky was still clear. But inside, it didn’t feel dry anymore.