The next day Mariam did not go to the housing office.
She went to Makazi ya Tumaini itself.
A thin layer of dust clung to the road leading to the construction site and gathered around the edges of her shoes. On one side stood a corrugated-metal fence printed with glossy images of finished apartments. On the other, minibuses rattled toward the new terminal. Jonas had offered to come with her, but Mariam told him to stay at the printing shop and finish the comparison table.
She did not want this to become a trip by two people looking for a mistake. She wanted to see only what any member of the public was allowed to see.
She reached the perimeter gate shortly before ten.
A security guard stopped her before she crossed the visitor line.
“Appointment?”
“No. I want the public viewing board.”
He pointed to the right, where a large panel listed block numbers, construction status, and partial handover schedules.
“Do not cross the yellow cones.”
“I won’t.”
Mariam took out her phone and notebook. She photographed the board, not the people around it.
BLOCK A — COMPLETE.
BLOCK B — COMPLETE / HANDOVER IN PROGRESS.
BLOCK C — INTERNAL FINISHING.
Below that, unit numbers were arranged in rows. Some carried green stickers marked HANDED OVER. Others had blue stickers marked RESERVED. A few had no sticker at all.
Mariam wrote down numbers instead of conclusions.
B-201 — green.
B-203 — green.
B-208 — blue.
B-214 — no visible color.
She moved two steps for a clearer angle.
“Madam, that is the boundary,” the guard called.
“I’m staying here.”
From where she stood, she could see a narrow slice of the Block B corridor. The doors were shut. Through some balconies she could see new curtains. Others looked completely bare. A cleaner pushed a trolley down the corridor and entered B-209.
Mariam opened Rukia’s note on her phone.
Payment confirmed; allocation not found.
Then she opened Beno’s quotation.
New phase. Higher price. Reservation expiry.
Her eyes returned to the completed doors.
She did not say, These are our houses.
She did not know that. She had learned how quickly pain could turn an observation into a claim.
Another woman entered the viewing area with a contractor representative wearing a helmet. They discussed C-104. The man said the unit still needed finishing. The woman asked about water pressure.
Mariam stopped listening and wrote her own question instead:
If sold out, what does sold out mean—allocated, reserved, handed over, or unavailable only to the old queue?
A worker with a clipboard came through a small side gate. Mariam called to him politely.
“Excuse me. Is this status board updated every day?”
“Depends on the site office.”
“And a handed-over sticker means the key has been issued?”
“Usually.”
“Reserved?”
“Assignment pending handover or some payment condition.”
“And no sticker?”
The worker shrugged. “Could mean the board has not been updated. Could be a snag. Could be a site hold. I am not allocation.”
Mariam wrote his answer exactly as he gave it.
No sticker = unknown.
“Can the public see the site log?”
“No. Internal.”
“Completion list?”
“The board is what is public.”
“Good.”
He walked away.
Mariam followed the public footpath around the perimeter. She did not climb a fence, slip behind a gate, or ask anyone to show her a private register. She compared the visible block numbers with the brochure Beno had given her.
Block B belonged to the old phase, or at least part of it did.
That mattered because the sales kiosk had pushed her toward the new phase as if the old one had become a closed fact.
At the second corner was a delivery gate. A small truck stopped and workers unloaded sinks and boxes of locks. Mariam could see unit labels printed on several cartons from the public road.
B-211.
B-212.
B-214.
She did not photograph the delivery note in the worker’s hand. That document was not public to her. She photographed only the visible boxes.
Her heartbeat quickened at the number.
B-214.
She forced herself to write a careful sentence:
Lock hardware delivery visible; does not prove allocation status.
It annoyed her that she had to discipline even her own excitement, but she knew why. The mind loved to run ahead of evidence, especially when it was tired of waiting.
Near noon she called Jonas.
“I’m at the site.”
“You went inside?”
“No. Public perimeter.”
“What did you find?”
“Block B complete. Handover in progress. B-214 has no sticker on the board, but I saw a lock box marked with that number.”
Jonas was quiet for a moment.
“Do not say the unit is free.”
“I didn’t.”
“Good.”
“What about you?”
“Four more letters came in with consent. The wording is not consistent.”
“Do not combine them yet. We sort tomorrow.”
She ended the call and sat on a cement bench outside the perimeter. Salma had packed lunch for her. Mariam opened it but had little appetite.
She thought about Tunu coming home from school and asking whether there was news.
What kind of news could she give her?
That doors existed?
That some completed units had statuses the portal did not explain?
She was not ready to let her daughter believe their home was sitting behind a fence waiting for them.
She ate a few bites and returned to the viewing board.
This time a site-office employee was changing one of the stickers. He removed the blue label from B-208 and replaced it with green.
“Handover happened?” Mariam asked from behind the visitor line.
“Yes.”
“Does the board show the date?”
“No. The internal register does.”
“If someone has an allocation dispute, can they request an audit of that register?”
The employee studied her. “Ask housing office, not site.”
“What is the record called?”
“Unit handover register.”
Mariam wrote the phrase down.
That was when the trip stopped being curiosity and became a question that could be asked formally.
Not: I saw an empty house.
Instead: Compare the allocation table, reservation status, and unit handover register.
Before leaving, she walked once more to the corner where the Block B corridor was easiest to see. The sun had shifted, throwing more light across the doors.
B-214 stood near the far end of the second corridor.
Its door was closed with a fresh contractor seal, the narrow type placed after final cleaning. Mariam zoomed in with her phone without stepping past the line. The tag contained spaces for the unit number, inspection status, and handover date.
The unit number was clear: B-214.
Inspection: checked.
Mariam enlarged the photograph with two fingers.
On the door of B-214 there is a new seal, but the space marked `handover date` is blank.
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