By the time I arrived, there was already a medley number of people including some vendors I knew by sight gathered behind Zororo Bar.
The offer was too good to be true. I had not expected to see so many people.
I was quite surprised to see Fatso in the crowd. I had not told him about this opportunity. The less people knew about it, the better were the prospects.
“I did not expect to see you here,” said Fatso as he joined me.
“I thought you would not be interested.”
I could see that he was uncomfortable with my presence.
“Do you think they can give us the loans for the projects?” Fatso asked.
“Anything is possible,” I said.
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I was not particularly happy with Fatso ever since he had stolen my business idea and established a car wash.
I still had a bitter taste of his betrayal. He had gone and set up his car wash exactly at the site I had identified.
Only last week, I had received a tip from Mukoma Ezra. He had a position in the Youth ministry.
He had said candidly, “Bring your project proposal. We are giving loans to deserving young people so that they can start their own businesses.” I had thanked him profusely, gone home and dug out my business project proposal which I already had.
I wanted to establish a brick making business. What stood between me and that dream was capital. I am sure I was not the only one in this predicament.
The banks were not entertaining the likes of us as their requirements were a big hindrance to small guys like me.
There were many people living in the ghetto who had good business proposals but were shut out from the mainstream economy for lack of funding. This brings me to the sad story of Zindoga.
He was the first to buy a minibus in our community that plied the city route. Unfortunately, the minibus was involved in an accident and was a complete write-off.
Although insured, the insurance company underpaid him.
The banks shut the door in his face.
He did not survive the ordeal. The loss of his business affected his health and he died shortly afterwards.
This is only a part of the ghetto stories, dreams shattered and lack of opportunities.
And yet the success stories are there and I wanted to be counted a ghetto success story even though the odds were staked high.
I was ready to do anything to get myself out of the sewer hole of deprivation. And just at that moment, I saw Rasta approaching. I was not surprised anymore.
People were more than willing to share useless things on social media but the things that really mattered were not really shared for the greater good.
Rasta was quite excited like everyone else.
“Whoever came up with this idea deserves my support,” he said.
“What are you trying to say?” I asked.
“The current Member of Parliament is behind this,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I said.
“Of course, he wants another five years in office, he will do anything for your vote, it’s crucial,” he said.
I began to have serious doubts at the back of my mind. The election season was upon us. Did I have much choice anyway? There was no other source of funding. At least there was hope here.
Just about that moment, two cars arrived raising a cloud of dust and screeched to a sudden halt just in front of us. Doors opened, and three or four men came out.
Mukoma Ezra was among the new arrivals. My eyes were transfixed on the big man. He was called Bongozozo, the local current Member of Parliament.
He struggled to walk as he was carrying a lot of weight in his belly. His face bristled with sweat. He was not even from the Youth ministry. But one thing he had in great store was confidence, a trademark of politicians.
We were all quiet and sat on the ground.
After the usual formalities of greetings and sloganeering, he started. “I am making donations to young people who want to grow their businesses.” He was shrewd.
“My money is not for those who want to experiment. I want those who are already in business and want a boost to stand on this side,” he said waving his right hand. My heart sank, hope was disappearing. Only one person stood up and that was Fatso.
“What is your line of business?” Asked the MP, Bongozozo.
“I run a car wash business,” said Fatso. I swore under my breath. He had stolen the business idea from me.
“So you need a borehole and other equipment, I will assist you,” said Bongozozo.
Then he started counting the money. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zvazviri, the freelance photographer take pictures with his itel phone.
I knew that those pictures were going to circulate shortly in the residential social group.
Bongozozo smiled for the cameras as he handed quite a tidy sum of money to Fatso who was smiling from ear to ear.
I must admit that all seemed to be going well for him since he had started the car wash. His skin even glowed. I could not help thinking that his rise was at my expense. There was nothing ln it for me.
I could see that the other people were not happy as well and started to walk away.
“Don't go away, there is something for everyone. Mukoma Ezra is going to buy you all beer, but remember to vote me as your Member of Parliament,” he said finally.
At the mention of beer, there was a near stampede and even those who had started to walk away came back.
There was no mention of development plans for the next five years if the aspiring MP was elected into office. The future looked bleak.
The only winner was Fatso. I was green with envy.
* Onie Ndoro is an educationist, IELTS tutor, storyteller and ghostwriter. For feedback: cell 0773007173/Twitter @Onie90396982, Email:oniendoroh@gmail.com
