By Shem Onderi
A busy, open room,
where everyone watches everyone else,
suspicion moving quietly
from face to face.
Even the teller is strict,
measuring every transaction,
because here, trust is counted in notes.
The bank manager hovers over each teller—
no errors allowed.
In the queue, everyone is late,
late to transact, late to breathe.
Yet once served, no one is in a hurry.
Inside these walls,
every thought is shaped like money.
No loitering in the hall.
Loan papers are clutched tightly,
creases holding hope and fear together.
Notes lie neatly arranged,
ready to be deposited.
Conversations happen in whispers,
or not at all.
There are no beggars here,
at least none in torn clothes.
Only people begging in forms and figures—
millions requested,
signatures trembling.
Bank beggars rarely look poor.
The teller counts money all day
and leaves it behind at closing time.
The books must balance;
that is success for the bank.
The customer leaves comforted,
believing their savings are safe.
The owners lock up,
hoping for another tomorrow.
And standing quietly at the door,
the currency is guarded—
by a gun.