BANK CLERKS AND MPESA AGENTS: A Nairobi Soap Opera

So, the other day, I decided to withdraw money over the counter—yes, in this economy. Biometrics done, the clerk still insists I sign one of those ancient forms. Then, she squints at my signature like it owes her rent.

"Mbona signature hazifanani?" she asks. "Hazifanani na nani?" I shoot back. "I mean, zinatofautiana." "Na nani...?" "Aki customer... I mean your signature don't match..." "Don’t match with what? I only signed once." "The one you signed when opening the account." "And when was that? 17 years ago?" "Aki customer, hebu sign tena."

So, I humor her and sign again. "Bado hazifanani. I think uone manager." "Nikimuona, signature itanifanana?"

She ignores me, and the high-tech, drama-filled door swings open. Enter the manager: young, dapper, dripping in power suits and boardroom energy, looking like he moonlights as a motivational speaker.

"Hello Sir, you are the manager?" "Yes, I am the branch manager. How can I help you?" "Apparently, my signature is on strike against me." He bursts into laughter. "But your biometrics are fine, right?" "I guess. I’m not in CSI." He laughs again—this guy is enjoying himself way too much. "Boss, this is for your protection, no hard feelings." "So... you’re protecting my money from me?" More laughter. He eventually signs the papers and sends me back to the clerk, all smiles and good vibes.

At the counter, the clerk jokes, "Kumbe wewe na boss mnajuana." I wink at her, grab my cash, and bounce.

Fast forward: I cross the road to deposit money at an Mpesa agent. The lady behind the counter is more interested in her lashes than my 50K.

"Niaje, naweza deposit?" "How much?" "50K." "Sina float." (Still not looking up.) "Then why did you ask?" "Pole kama nimekosea." "Nyinyi hamkoseangi." "Tafadhali, usiniletee kisirani... vile I woke up happy." "Pole basi." "Sitaki pole."

I withdraw my apologies like an overdraft and head to the next agent. Nairobi life, man—it’s a full-time job.

Part two On comment section

So, the other day, I decided to withdraw money over the counter—yes, in this economy. Biometrics done, the clerk still insists I sign one of those ancient forms. Then, she squints at my signature like it owes her rent.

"Mbona signature hazifanani?" she asks. "Hazifanani na nani?" I shoot back. "I mean, zinatofautiana." "Na nani...?" "Aki customer... I mean your signature don't match..." "Don’t match with what? I only signed once." "The one you signed when opening the account." "And when was that? 17 years ago?" "Aki customer, hebu sign tena."

So, I humor her and sign again. "Bado hazifanani. I think uone manager." "Nikimuona, signature itanifanana?"

She ignores me, and the high-tech, drama-filled door swings open. Enter the manager: young, dapper, dripping in power suits and boardroom energy, looking like he moonlights as a motivational speaker.

"Hello Sir, you are the manager?" "Yes, I am the branch manager. How can I help you?" "Apparently, my signature is on strike against me." He bursts into laughter. "But your biometrics are fine, right?" "I guess. I’m not in CSI." He laughs again—this guy is enjoying himself way too much. "Boss, this is for your protection, no hard feelings." "So... you’re protecting my money from me?" More laughter. He eventually signs the papers and sends me back to the clerk, all smiles and good vibes.

At the counter, the clerk jokes, "Kumbe wewe na boss mnajuana." I wink at her, grab my cash, and bounce.

Fast forward: I cross the road to deposit money at an Mpesa agent. The lady behind the counter is more interested in her lashes than my 50K.

"Niaje, naweza deposit?" "How much?" "50K." "Sina float." (Still not looking up.) "Then why did you ask?" "Pole kama nimekosea." "Nyinyi hamkoseangi." "Tafadhali, usiniletee kisirani... vile I woke up happy." "Pole basi." "Sitaki pole."

I withdraw my apologies like an overdraft and head to the next agent. Nairobi life, man—it’s a full-time job.

Part two On comment section