Destroyers by Dave Mckay (novels to improve english TXT) 📖

a hotel employee came over to assist him.

"What is your room number?" she asked.

Moses remembered, because there had been a joke about it being unlucky when they checked in. "Thirteen," he said.

"You may leave these," she explained sweetly. "I'll dispose of them. Just help yourself to whatever you like over at the buffet."

"But who will eat this?" Moses asked.

"No one. I'll throw it out."

"Then I will eat it. This food is delicious!" he said with enthusiasm. "It must not be wasted."

"But you're entitled to fresh food. Someone else has been eating here," the waitress continued, turning her nose up a bit at Moses' resistance.

"This food is perfectly fabulous," Moses replied. "Why did they leave it? Surely, we cannot throw it away!"

"But you could become sick. Others have been eating it."

Moses struggled to keep from laughing. How could anyone become sick from eating such perfect food in such a clean restaurant. "If you like, I will not eat that toast... the one with a bite out of it. But look at this egg. It is totally untasted. Waste not. Want not. I will eat it."

Moses' demeanour was friendly but firm. The young waitress backed away, in search of a supervisor to assist her in dragging the boy away from the leftovers. Before she returned, however, Moses had finished off what was on the table and was on his way back to his room.

 

Table of contents

 

 

 

Chapter 8 A Scanner Phone

Chapter 8. A Scanner Phone

His victory in the restaurant gave Moses more confidence when he was back in his room. While he waited for Mr. Townsend to wake up, he checked the water in the shower. It was cold now, and so it was safe to turn it off. Then he tried the television once more.

Again he got one of those channels where people phone in and order things at special prices.

"This is just the thing for small businesses," said a heavily made-up woman, holding up what appeared to be a mobile phone. "You've seen them advertised for prices up to a thousand dollars, but today we're offering them to the first 100 callers for just $199."

"Tell us what's so special about it," said the woman's sidekick, a man in his thirties who was doing his best to convince the audience that he had never seen such a thing before in his life.

"It's not just a cell phone. See here," and the camera zoomed in on the tiny piece of hardware that the woman was holding, "It has a built-in scanner, so you can do microchip transactions wherever you happen to be. And the phone itself has an RFID chip so that if it's lost or stolen, you can track it... even if the sim card is switched."

People everywhere had been getting tiny microchip implants injected under the skin on theback of their hands. Moses knew several even in Shinyalu who had the implants. By typing costs into a scanner, these people could complete a business transaction with just a wave of their microchipped hand in front of a scanner. Funds would instantly jump from one person's account to the other's.

Most of the big shops in Kakamega had scanners at the checkout now, and even some of the little ones in the village had them. Moses had heard of one matatu driver who had a pocket scanner, but he doubted that any boda-boda drivers in all of Kenya had one yet; they were far too expensive. But $199 was less than half the price that they sold for in Kenya. With one of these, Moses would have less fear of being robbed when taking on passengers late at night, because at least a portion of his takings would be in theft-proof electronic money.

But that wasn't his primary interest. Moses was more interested in what the phone could do for his business. People with microchip implants still needed to carry some cash if they travelled by boda-boda. But if he had a scanner, Moses could offer his customers a cashless boda-boda service... possibly the first one in Kenya.

When Mr.Townsend knocked on the door for breakfast, all the boy wanted to talk about was the scanner.

"Would the bank give me a loan to get one? If I buy one here, will it work in Kenya? How do I get one like the one on TV? It will increase business, won't it?"

Mr. Townsend was impressed, and assured Moses that there was no need to buy through the television promoters. He would be able to get Moses a better price through the bank itself. Just leave it with him.

At breakfast, Mr. Townsend was surprised that Moses ate so little, but he put it down to the boy's excitement about being in a new country. Over the meal they discussed plans for the week.

There would be a limousine tour of Chicago right after breakfast, and a meeting with some bank executives for lunch. That evening, after an afternoon rest at the hotel, they would be attending a dinner, where the winner in the competition for customer of the year would be announced. The rest of the week would be taken up with filming for all three contestants, since the bank planned to use all of them in their promotions, even though one would be singled out as the primary symbol for their work. Then there would be two more days of sightseeing and entertainment before they all returned to their home countries.

The other two contestants were staying at the same hotel, and so they all met up in the lobby as they waited for the limousine. When the limo arrived, and they stepped outside the hotel, Moses was almost swept away by the strongest wind he had ever experienced. His horror at being in a such a strange environment returned for just a moment; but when they were all seated inside the limousine, and Mr. Townsend was passing around iced soft drinks, he quickly forgot his fears. All three visitors were blown away by the VIP treatment they were receiving. It more than compensated for the winds for which Chicago was famous.

Lack of sleep overnight took much of the edge off the morning's activities. The drive around Chicago, and the luncheon were little more than a blur, and Moses was ready to do some serious sleeping long before the scheduled rest period in the afternoon. He had to force himself awake at 6pm when Mr. Townsend came to help with preparations for the evening.

"Here, drink this. It'll help you stay awake," he said as he offered Moses an iced tea drink from the machine in the hall. Moses did not have to be asked twice. He was becoming hooked on icy cold drinks.

"Will I be saying anything tonight?" he asked.

"Only if you win, and then you just need to thank the people who brought you here," said Mr.Townsend. "Why? Are you worried?"

"No. What you said is what I strongly want to say," Moses smiled, as he splashed cold water from the sink onto his face, "Me, I want to thank someone. Can I thank you?"

"I'm just one of the little people," Mr. Townsend said humbly. "No, the people to thank are the ones who run the bank, like the people you met at lunch today."

That night, at the banquet, Moses was seated at a table to the right of the head table, along with some prominent shareholders.

Moses instinctively picked up his chicken with his left hand, then noticed that he was the only one doing it. He put it back on the plate and contemplated how to cut it the way the others were doing. It was nearly impossible with only one hand. But then the man sitting on his left picked his chicken up with his hands too. He smiled and nodded for Moses to do the same.

"Is the food different to what you eat in Kenya?" asked the man, who said his name was Ray. Ray was tall and handsome, and wore a white dinner jacket.

"Mmm... a little," said Moses. "We mostly eat ugali."

"What's ugali?" asked Ray.

"Ugali is..." He paused. "It is food made from maize. It is just ugali."

"Tell me about Kenya. What do you like most about living there?" Ray asked.

Moses could not speak for a moment. How could he know what he liked about Kenya when he had nothing with which to compare it? Then he came up with this:

"Me, I like that the people like me in Kenya," he said. "Lots of people. And I know them, too," he added.

"I think people will like you here, Moses, when you get to know us," Ray answered.

Ray was about fifty years old, and Moses liked him already.

"Do you work for the bank?" Moses asked.

"No, I'm one of the people who puts money in the bank," Ray answered. "What can you tell me about the bank in Kenya?"

Again Moses had to struggle for an answer.

"The bank... it helped me," he said. "But I don't know other people. Oh, I know Mr. Barasa! He has a new car and a new computer from the bank. In Kenya, all people want to work for NGOs, because then you get a new car and they pay you big money. One day, I want to work for an NGO."

"But the bank and other non-government organisations are not there just to give away cars, Moses. They go there to help the people of Kenya help themselves."

"Then can you give me a computer like Mr. Barasa has?" Moses asked unashamedly.

Ray blushed as he spoke. "The microbank does not give things away, Moses. People must work for what they get... like you have done with your bicycle."

"Who paid for Mr. Barasa's car and for his computer?" the boy asked.

"That comes from the money that people pay back to the bank," Ray explained. "I guess you paid for Mr. Barasa's car, Moses. You and many other Kenyans whom the bank has helped."

"Oh, so the bank is not helping us; we are helping the bank. Is that right?"

Ray chuckled softly. "You could put it that way. Maybe we are each helping the other."

"And this food... the hotel... the big long car... Did we pay for that too?"

"Moses, please understand that we don't live like this all the time. This is something special that we put on for you and for the other contestants."

"But we did pay for it, didn't we? We and the other people from our countries? Don't we pay for it by giving you back more than you give us? Isn't that how your business works."

"Well, yes, that is how business works, isn't it? But all of these people here," and he waved his arm around the room, "could make more money by investing in other banks... the ones that will not give loans to people like yourself. We make a little bit of money from you, but we do not make as much money as we could make from other investments."

"That's good," Moses said with little enthusiasm; and then he suddenly lost interest in the conversation.

After a short pause, Ray tried again to say something that would foster friendship between the two cultures. "I have heard that there are many orphans in Kenya. Do you know any other orphans?"

Moses laughed as though Ray had told a joke.

"They are all over my village," he said, "hundreds of them. Most live with grandparents, but some do like Rosy and me. We live on the land that our father owned, and we do it independently."

"Did your father die from AIDS?" Ray asked.

"Me, I don't want to talk about it," Moses replied calmly. He preferred to be seen as an orphan than to go into details about his parents.

"Okay, I understand." (But, of course, he did not.) "What would you like to talk about?"

Moses thought for a moment, as he pushed the remnants of his meal around his plate. Then he spoke:

"Me, I want to talk about why do Americans drink so much tea?"

"I don't know why we drink so much tea," Ray said with surprise. "I guess we just like it."

"But in Western Kenya we do not have enough land to grow food for ourselves. Big tea companies buy our land to grow tea. And then they bring it