MY FLOW IS YOUR FLOW

There is no above or below, only the present in different dimensions that make us all connect. If I was a physicist that’s what I would say string theory is. But if I was a physicist I would be too busy being rich to have time for simple theories. I would be travelling the world sharing my discoveries as opposed to being stuck in dusty Chalala peeved at all the people that owe me money.

Money makes the world go round. I don’t have to be a physicist to know that. When the gears that grind the economy come to a halt, it is because there isn’t enough money exchanging hands. Money is dirty because we all use it. Burying 2.1 billion kwacha isn’t a crime because of the dubious means that obtained the money. It is a crime because it brings the economic engine to a halt. As the engine halts, debt is the cover up but debt accumulates and then it trickles down, leaving everyone broke, borrowing and running. Perhaps people owe me because Zambia owes some countries and organisations huge amounts.

I have Mangala’s K2 in my purse. A K2 that I acquired because she paid the conductor and he grabbed it and handed it to me because he had no other notes to give me as change. I didn’t notice it was her until I was off the bus and she waved at me from the window. Mangala is this sweet girl with cheeks like a cherub, I used to know her when I was in high school. Life has stretched between us and I don’t know her anymore. You know what I know? Her K2 is in my purse.

I go home and her two kwacha spends the night in our house. Early the next morning my mother and I head to the fish market. The strange smells welcome us and my mother warns me about people we decide to call our ‘friends’. You can hear the inverted commas in how we giggle after we say it. The ‘friends’ are the people that sneak up on you when you are elbows deep in a basket of fish, they lean into you in a familiar fashion that leads you to believe they are the person you went to the market with and when you are absent minded, they take your purse the way a friend does when they want to ease you of any burden that can distract you from selecting the best fish. This happened to mother once, she handed over her purse only to look up and find that it wasn’t me she gave it to but one of the ‘friends’.

With that memory fresh on my mind I tuck my purse in my armpit and free my hands for fish selection. I like the ones with a red belly and bright eyes. I choose five that I picture swimming in chili gravy later and five that I will smear with garlic and then deep fry, I choose five more to make the scale hit a rounded off 10kg. Satisfied, my mother and I pay and map our way back. The fish market is unglamorous. I feel protective of my pedicured feet as they search for a clear space to step on.  A shady looking man comes to sell us a plastic and initially my thought is to send him on his way. My fish is already in a plastic. It is still very early in the day and he is a grown man selling plastic bags with Rambo on them. The fish market has created a spot where money flows. So perhaps the shady looking man isn’t a tycoon, but he is playing his part, he is getting up bright and early to sell plastics to those that need them. I open my purse, pull out Mangala’s K2 and I send it on its next adventure. He opens the plastic wider for me as I put my fish inside it. Mother looks on, ensuring that I don’t lose anything.

Life is a steady flowing river and we never know where we end up. Like the shiny fish in my plastic bag we start off at one end of the river and end up somewhere else. The waves that carry us all are the same, taking us up and down through the dimensions that make us all connect. We all have a responsibility in the flow no matter how small.

So, if you owe me money, please pay back. You are standing in between me and my Rambo plastics business.