C1 THE DEAL

The doctor didn't look at me. He looked at the bill.

"Two million, Amara. Deposit before transplant list. Without it, your mother has three months. Three months maximum, if she continues dialysis. Without dialysis, three weeks."

He said it like he was saying "two tomatoes, 50 bob." He was holding a blue file, not looking at my face. Doctors at Kenyatta Hospital are tired. They see 100 people like me daily.

My mother was on that bed, smiling like she didn't hear. Like she didn't hear her own death price. Her legs were swollen like two big yams, water inside. Her eyes yellow like old paper. Last year she was insulting customers at Umoja market, full energy, shouting "Hii nyanya ni mbichi, chukua!" Now she couldn't stand to pee without help. She needed me to hold her.

I held her hand. Her hand was cold.

"Mama, you hear doctor?" I whispered in Swahili. "He says—"

She squeezed my hand, stopped me. "Nimeskia, Amara. Mungu atatusaidia. God will help."

God will help. That's what Mama always says. But God was quiet that day.

I had 3,400 in my M-Pesa. And 200 in cash, for matatu. That was all. 3,600 total. Against 2 million.

My brother Brian was 14, sitting outside ward, in his school uniform with torn shoes. He was sent home from school last week because I didn't pay 4,000 for exam. He was looking at floor, not talking.

I went out and sat outside Kenyatta Hospital in the rain and cried like a child. Not cute crying. No style. Snot running, shoulders shaking, chest pain. Loud. People passing looked then moved fast. A mama mboga who sells boiled maize moved her sack away from me, like poverty is contagious.

It was raining hard, that Nairobi rain that makes everything mud. I was in my old sweater, the one with Gikomba smell that never leaves even after washing. My trousers had patch.

I called everyone. Aunt in Kayole — "Amara, I have my own children, pole." Uncle in Kitengela — "We prayed for you." My father died 5 years ago, no one else.

I opened M-Shwari, I had limit 2,000. I opened Tala, they said I already owe 1,500. I checked my Gikomba business — I sell bras and pants at Gikomba, Tuesdays and Fridays. Last week I made 1,800 profit. This week market was closed because county askaris chased us.

Two million. Where does a 23-year-old Gikomba girl get two million? Sell my body? I thought about it for one minute. I'm not ugly. But even that in Nairobi you get 2K, not 2M.

I was crying so much my eyes swelled, I couldn't see road. My phone buzzed in my wet pocket. Facebook message. From a woman I never met. Profile photo was office lady in suit.

"Hi, I have a job. One year marriage. 3 million. Interested? - Carol"

I thought it was Wash Wash. Conmen. Those guys who tell you "you won 5M, send 500 to claim." I almost deleted. But number 3 million made my hand stop.

3 million is more than 2 million. My mother could live. My brother could go back to school. I could leave that bedsitter in Umoja where landlord knocks at 6am shouting "Amara! Rent!"

I opened her profile, real. Works at King Group, Runda. 500 friends. Photos in office. Not fake. She posted about King Group towers, Eldoret project, tea in boardroom. Real job.

My heart started beating fast, like when you steal small thing and police looks at you.

I called her. My voice still crying, rain loud.

"What do you mean marriage?" I said, shivering.

She was blunt, not wasting time. Like rich people.

"My boss needs a wife for one year to inherit his father's company. His grandfather's will says must be married before 30, otherwise company goes to cousin. He is 29, deadline next month. He doesn't want love, he wants contract. You live in his house in Runda, you go to parties as wife, you smile, after one year you divorce, you take 3M clean. No sex. Lawyers will sign. He won't touch you, he hates poor girls actually."

No sex. That word made me relax small.

"Why me?" I asked. "Why you choose me? You don't know me."

She laughed. "We have many girls applying, but my boss mother wants a 'humble girl from humble background' for newspaper photo, to show he is changed. Vanessa, his ex, is too... socialite. Press hates her. You... I saw your Facebook. You sell mitumba at Gikomba, you take care of sick mother, you have brother. You look honest, you look like you need money and you will not fall in love with boss and cause drama. And you are beautiful when you smile, even if you are crying now in hospital, I can see your photo."

I wiped rain and snot, looked at my Facebook photo — me in yellow Gikomba apron, tired.

"My mother needs 2M now. Now. Today. Can you give advance?" I asked, bold because desperate.

Silence. Then Carol: "I can talk to boss. He is cold but not bad. If you come now to Runda office for interview, he might give 1M advance today. But you must sign first that you will not run."

Runda. From Kenyatta Hospital to Runda is 500 bob Uber. I had 200. I would walk if needed.

I looked through window — my mother sleeping, mouth open, breathing hard. Brian outside, hungry, no lunch.

"Mama, I will come back," I whispered to window. "I will find money."

I told Carol, "I am coming. Give me one hour. I am in Kenyatta, I will come."

"Come to King Group Tower, 10th floor. Ask for Carol. Don't wear Gikomba clothes, borrow something decent. Boss hates mitumba smell."

I looked at my sweater. Mitumba smell. I had no other. But I removed apron, combed hair with fingers, washed face in hospital bathroom. My eyes red from crying.

I took matatu 46, squeezed, standing, rain on window. My phone had 12% battery. I typed to Brian: "Stay with mama, I go look for money, I will come tonight."

Brian replied: "Sawa sis. Don't cry."

When matatu reached Westlands, I had 5% battery. I walked from Westlands to Runda because I had no money for boda. Rain stopped, sun came small. My shoes were wet, _pach pach_ sound.

King Group Tower was big, glass, guards with guns. I had never entered such building. My Gikomba slippers made me ashamed. The watchman looked at me like I came to beg.

"I'm here for Carol, King Group," I said, voice small.

He laughed. "Gikomba interview here? Haha, go."

But I stood. "Please call Carol. She is expecting Amara."

He called, annoyed. Carol came down, lady in red suit, heels, perfume that smelled like money. She looked at me — wet sweater, torn shoes, red eyes — and didn't laugh. She said, "You came fast. Boss will like your desperation. Come."

And that's how a Gikomba girl selling bras size 42 entered a billionaire's tower, with 3,400 in M-Pesa, a dying mother in Kenyatta, and a marriage contract worth 3M waiting upstairs.