“Buy some sugar,” said Tjikuu, rustling an empty packet into the trash can. Immediately, Mbapeua grabbed two notes, but the edges pricked her finger. Afterwards, she rolled a blue dice towards the creased bill.

Soon, blocks of broken windows moved backwards as she played cat-and-mouse with the ankle-twisting potholes. Seconds later, she skipped over the cracked tiles and jingled coins into Tjikuu’s trembling hands.

“Where’s the keepsake money?” shouted Tjikuu, putting on a sky-blue dress that matches her shoes. The grey-haired woman drew z-shaped footprints on the footpath, while the dogs woof, woof, woof! at her blue bead necklace.

“The ten dollars,” said Tjikuu, stuttering about how the money had escaped Ou Lokasie.

“Where’s the brown sugar?” said the teller, blowing chewing gum. Instantly, Tjikuu spanked her with words and reminded her to chew girlishly.

By the time Tjikuu accidentally unscrewed the door, Mbapeua had poured the sugar into an enamel container.

In response, Tjikuu clipped blue pegs on the girl’s ears and pulled her up to the store. “It’s on the way to the bank,” said the teller, pointing at a bicycle squeaking out of the skirts-pinching gate. An hour later, Tjikuu showed up at the bank, but the glass door clicked in front of her.

This time, she fished a rusty pocket watch from her baggy breasts and curled up in front of the glass door.

The next morning, the door slid open after the banker magically strolled towards it. Immediately, Tjikuu shouted at the red hair teller to find a wrinkled 10 dollars. “That bill is as old as the hot springs,” said Tjikuu, schooling the queue about the smoke that used to sting the eyes of Otjomuise’s pensioners. The manager shuffled bundles of 10 dollars; he removed the paper clips while tapping his wristwatch for the crocodile-skin hands lady to pinpoint her 10 dollars.

“Do you know the code on the bill?” said the manager, biting his bottom lip. “It’s like asking me to remember all the names in the cemetery,” Tjikuu answered the question with the wisdom of old age. In a blink, a Kodak photograph of Tjikuu’s copycat girl posing with a blue bill fell out of the old lady’s shoulder bag. Respectfully, the blue bowtie manager sank to his knees and smacked kisses on the black and white photo before wiping his crocodile tears.

Meanwhile, a security guard shouted that the queue had shaped a train-like chain of stiffened legs outside the bank.

“I pray for old age to skip me,” said the manager, rubbing his chin. “I miss the days of stashing money into ostrich-feathered pillows,” said Tjikuu.

Suddenly, the tag labelled “Senior Citizens” dropped at her feet. “The machine had ironed the banknotes,” said the manager, begging Tjikuu to choose from the deck of 10-dollar notes. First, Tjikuu shook her head from side to side and stormed towards the door.

“There’s a blue paper jammed inside the machine,” shouted a teller. -Mungambue@gmail.com

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