The landlord's Ledger

The bright red X painted on my door was still wet.

In Roysambu, that red paint was the ultimate mark of shame, meaning Baba Njuguna agents were coming for your padlock, your gas cylinder, and your dignity.

Two months, Tricia. Thirty-six thousand shillings, a cold, smooth voice said from behind me.I turned around, clutching my laptop bag like a shield. Standing there was Silas, Baba Njuguna UK-educated son who had recently taken over management of TRM View Apartments. He looked completely out of place in his tailored navy suit, stepping carefully around a puddle of soapy water on the balcony walkway.Silas, please.

My client in Kilimani delayed the payment for the rebranding gig, I lied smoothly, trying to sound confident. By Friday, itakuwapo.Friday was last week, Silas replied, clicking an expensive matte-black pen. He looked down at a massive, battered leather book in his hands, the infamous landlord ledger.

The pages were bursting with loose receipts, scribbled notes in Swahili, and coffee stains. My dad ran this place like a charity.

I don't. Pack your things by six PM.Panic flared in my chest. Wait. Look at that book in your hands. It looks like a scrapbook from 1994. You are trying to modernize this estate, right? Let me digitize it for you.Silas paused, his pen hovering over his clipboard. Excuse me?You heard me, I said, stepping closer, sensing a gamble.

I am a graphic designer and data stylist.

I can migrate this entire chaotic mess into a clean, automated dashboard. You will track rent, water bills, and defaulters with one click. Do it in-house, and it...