On that night in Kaoma Bwalya asked me for money, a "loan payable" he called it. I gave him the 100,000K (about $24) but found the request awkward and strange. After all, he was carrying most of the money for the trip. We went out and I forgot all about it, until the next day on the road to our last job in Itezhi-tezhi.
Along the way a group of young men flagged us down, asking for help to transport for their sacks of maize for sale in town. They were offering 3500K a bag, and with 16 bags and an almost-empty truck the opportunity seemed fine, until Bwalya pocketed the money.
By the time we arrived at the billboard I was seething. Inconsistencies that I had dismissed began to pile up, and I felt a bitter taste in my mouth as we unloaded the materials and Bwalya drove off to get the paperwork done, leaving Brian and I to work on the sign.
I had been doing the math and was now deeply suspicious of Bwalya's request for cash. In Lusaka we were issued plenty of money for the trip, money for diesel, labour, materials, contingency, and a decent per diem. I was handed a million kwacha ($235 approx) for my expenses, and Bwalya held two million, one for himself and the other for Brian. The money was to cover our daily food and lodgings, though each night Brian slept in the truck.
As I did the math my mind reeled. With the lion's share of the money why should Bwalya be asking me for a "loan". It wasn't so much the money but the disappointment. I was being taken advantage of by the man in whom I'd placed so much trust and respect. I felt sick as I added up the loose ends of my naivete.
There was the first trip to North-Western Province, when I'd shared with Bwalya half of my remaining per-diem (a modest 100,000K), a gesture of thanks and respect. I have my own money, I thought, and he needs it more than I do.
But then there was the return from Northern and Luapula provinces, when he'd asked me for 100,000K, ostensibly for diesel. This was after my dad had wired us money for fuel, and after I'd already bought him two massive sacks of charcoal and a jug of honey to compliment the same I'd bought for the house. I thought I was doing him a favour and was happy to do it.
But on this trip I'd sat in on the office conversation about money, and knew now that we were accorded per diems for each person on the trip; Bwalya, Brian and myself. If I was almost out of money after six days on the road surely Bwalya should have had reserves of cash, especially since we took money from ferrying hitchhikers and saved much of our labour costs by doing the jobs ourselves.
Though the roof of the truck was filled with the expensive dried fish, rice and peanuts he'd bought in Mongu, Bwalya should still have had a wad of money. The only explanation was that he'd stashed the third per diem money at home and was now looking to me to cover the shortfall.
At the job site I stood shaking with anger waiting for Bwalya to return. Only a few kilometres down the road Lake Itezhi-tezhi spread out blue and pale from a dam around the bend, but for once I wasn't interested in the scenery. Bwalya returned with scones and cold Cokes but I touched neither as we hit the road again.
How could I have been so naive? I'd spent the last three road trips chipping in cash for drinks, food, water, beer, always careful to pay my own way. And all this time he'd had more money than I'd known about, and even carried the extra money I did know about (at one point when he offered to share the labour money we saved I told him to hold on to it "just in case").
I was played the fool and as I thought about this the rank taste in my mouth grew. The sign in Itezhi-tezhi was the last job of the last road trip, the 68th billboard, 45 of which I'd worked on. Finishing that sign should have been a cause of celebration. Instead it was of bitter disappointment as we drove away on the long road home.
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