The district counter had a queue that curved from the service window to the second wall. People held files, envelopes, and numbered slips. Daniel arrived at half past nine with Madam Nansubuga’s memo, a copy of the transfer letter, and a written request for verification of the document number.
The guard at the door looked him over.
“Where are you going?”
“Transfer registry.”
“Counter three. Take a number.”
Daniel took number 118. The screen was showing 76.
He stood to one side and began reading Madam Nansubuga’s memo. Whenever someone passed him and told a clerk that their matter was urgent, Daniel remembered Moses’s advice: do not make noise; preserve the steps.
After an hour, a woman carrying a child stopped in front of him.
“Sir, what number do you have?”
“118.”
“Could you give it to me? I have come from far away.”
Daniel looked at the child asleep against the woman’s kanga. He wanted to help, but he knew that if he moved to the back, the whole day would disappear.
“I will ask whether they can receive you at the family desk.”
The woman walked away without answering. Daniel did not feel heroic. He felt held in place by the queue like everyone else.
When number 118 appeared, the clerk at counter three was a man with thick glasses.
“Documents?”
Daniel pushed the memo forward. “I need to verify a transfer number.”
“Name?”
“Daniel Kato.”
The clerk wrote. “This is not the appeals section.”
“I am not filing an appeal. I am requesting a certified response about the document number.”
“Everyone wants a certified response. You can apply online.”
“I tried. The system shows that a request exists, but the attachment was copied from my personnel file.”
The clerk watched him for a long moment.
“Do you have proof that it was not you?”
“Hospital records and a school memo.”
“A hospital record cannot prove who entered the system.”
“That is why I want the number traced.”
The clerk pushed a form toward him.
“Fill it in.”
Daniel sat on a bench to the side. The form asked for the applicant’s name, the request date, the receiving office, and the reason for requesting verification. He wrote carefully. In the space for the reason, he wrote: “The transfer application bears my name and signature but was submitted on a date when I was admitted at Kisenyi Hospital. I have not requested transfer.”
He returned to the counter. The clerk stamped the form to acknowledge receipt of the application, but not the section containing the response.
“I want a copy of the receipt,” Daniel said.
“This is the receipt.”
“I want the date and your initials to be legible.”
The clerk narrowed his eyes.
“Are you teaching me my job?”
“I want the record to be readable.”
The person behind Daniel began to mutter. Daniel stepped aside instead of answering. The clerk wrote his initials and placed the copy in a tray.
“Wait five days.”
“Can I have a reference number?”
“It is on the stamp.”
Daniel looked at it. The number was 24/09/117, although his transfer letter also carried 24/09/117. That was the reason he had come. He wanted to know whether the number had ever been used for another request.
“That number appears on my document,” he said.
“Yes. It is the one I entered.”
“Is it a case number or an application number?”
The clerk did not answer. He called someone else to the window.
Daniel left the counter and went to the consultation area. He found an older officer examining a large ledger. Daniel explained the matter briefly. The officer asked him to show the number.
“24/09/117?” he said.
“Yes.”
The officer opened the transfer-intake ledger and ran a finger down the lines for that month.
“This number was used.”
“For my application?”
“It was not recorded under your name.”
Daniel moved closer. “Under whose name?”
The officer covered part of the ledger with his hand.
“You cannot look at another person’s record.”
“I do not need the full name. I need to know whether it is a duplicate.”
The officer read the line.
“This number was entered for a teacher from Kibuye. The receiving school was Nyamweru.”
Daniel felt the blood rise into his face.
“And my letter also has 24/09/117?”
“Do you have a copy?”
Daniel handed it over. The officer compared the two documents. The stamp, number, and date were identical. The difference was the applicant’s name and the destination school.
“Then there is a duplicate.”
“Do not use that word in your report until you have a certified response.”
“That is why I requested one.”
The officer took a pen and wrote a small reference on the side of Daniel’s memo.
“Request a ledger extract through the counter. Do not take photographs here.”
Daniel copied the number into his notebook.
“Did the teacher from Kibuye apply to go to Nyamweru?”
“And the request was closed.”
“Did he ever reach Mwangaza?”
The officer looked at him.
“Ask the school.”
Daniel returned to the clerk at counter three. The queue had grown. He waited again until the person at the window finished.
“I need to add the ledger reference to my request,” he said.
The clerk took the form.
“Who gave it to you?”
“The consultation desk.”
“His name?”
Daniel gave it.
The clerk’s expression hardened.
“This may delay the matter.”
“Without it, I will receive an answer saying only that the number exists. I need an answer saying where it came from.”
The clerk wrote in the margin but refused to stamp it. Daniel pushed the paper gently toward him.
“I need a receipt stamp for the addition.”
“It is not necessary.”
“It is a new request for evidence.”
The clerk stared at him, then stamped it.
Daniel placed the two receipts together in the file. As he was leaving, his phone rang. Peter had sent a message:
“I looked for the facilitator. He says all the numbers pass through the district system and there is no reason to worry. But he has stopped replying.”
Daniel answered: “Do not follow him alone. Keep the messages. I found that this number was used for another teacher.”
Peter replied after a minute: “That teacher never went to Mwangaza.”
Daniel stopped on the steps of the district office. He had never met the teacher from Kibuye, but the school’s name had now entered his file. The number was not a typing error. It had been used twice.
When he opened the file, he saw a small pencil line in the corner of the transfer letter: “copy to receiving school — Nyamweru.”
Someone had left another school inside his document.
He placed the paper in the inner pocket of the file, not because it was already an answer, but because it was the first mark showing him that the system carried traces of another school. Tomorrow he would need to request the ledger copy, ask why the number had been closed, and tell Madam that this transfer was not one person’s problem. He left without a victory. He left with a question that now had an address.
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