But tonight, tonight her ship wasn’t just going to sink. Her ship was already blown to pieces.
She held the card tight. The ten dollars in her wallet weren’t enough for anything. But maybe—maybe—the rest of her father’s money would be enough to buy a bus ticket back to Alabama.
A small hope, as thin as a thread, began to light up in her tight chest.
Zelica didn’t sleep all night. She took shelter under the awning of a closed shop, hugging her duffel bag tight, waiting for morning to come. She was dirty, hungry, and scared. But the faded card felt warm in her hand.
At 8:00 a.m., she was already standing in front of the branch of Heritage Trust of the South on a side street in downtown Atlanta.
The place was exactly as she remembered from her childhood visits—an old stone building that seemed anchored in the past, far from the impression of the modern glass and steel banks where Quacy kept his money.
Inside, the atmosphere was quiet. There were only two tellers and a customer service desk. The smell of old paper and dust dominated the room.
Zelica took a number. She was the only customer.
She was called to the customer service desk manned by a young man in a white shirt. His name tag read: Kofi.
“Good morning, ma’am. How can I help you?”
Kofi was polite, though his eyes showed a bit of confusion seeing Zelica’s somewhat disheveled appearance.
“Good morning,” Zelica said. Her voice was hoarse. “I’d like to check the balance, but the card is very old. I’ve also forgotten the PIN.”
She handed over the faded blue card.
Kofi took it, turned the card over, frowning.
“Wow, ma’am, this card is ancient. This is our old logo.”
“Can it still be used?” Zelica asked anxiously.
“I’ll check, ma’am.”
Kofi took Zelica’s ID, matching the name: Zelica Okafor. He started typing on his computer. The system seemed slow. Kofi typed, clicked, and then frowned again.
“Huh. That’s strange,” he murmured.
“What’s wrong?”
Zelica’s heart beat wildly.
“The data isn’t coming up directly, ma’am. Our legacy system is sometimes a little slow. It seems this account is in an inactive or dormant state. How long has it been since there were transactions?”
“Maybe… twenty years,” Zelica replied hesitantly.
Kofi’s eyes went wide.
“Twenty years. One moment, ma’am. I’m going to try accessing the manual server.”
His fingers danced over the keyboard again. His computer screen flickered, showing rows of green code that Zelica didn’t understand.
Silence. Only the sound of the keyboard and the noisy air conditioning could be heard.
Zelica bit her lip.
It’s over, she thought. Surely the account has been closed, the money lost.
Kofi scratched his head.
“How odd. The balance isn’t reading, ma’am. But there is a sort of flag, an alert on this account. A high-level alert.”
“Alert? Does that mean I have debt?” Zelica panicked.
“No, no, not debt. I’ve never seen a code like this. One moment, ma’am.”
Kofi typed a series of commands. The computer seemed to think for a moment. Then on Kofi’s screen, something appeared.
Kofi’s face, which was relaxed before, suddenly changed. He went pale. His eyes opened wide, glued to the monitor.
“Mr. Kofi?” Zelica called out.
Kofi didn’t answer. He seemed frozen. He reread what was on the screen, his mouth slightly open.
Kofi swallowed hard. Suddenly, he stood up from his chair so fast that the chair flew backward, making a loud screech.
“Mr. Zuberi! Mr. Director!”
Kofi’s voice was shrill, breaking the silence of the small bank. He didn’t care about Zelica anymore. His eyes were still glued with horror to the screen.
A middle-aged Black man with a stern look—Mr. Zuberi, the branch manager—stepped out of his office.
“What is it, Kofi? Don’t shout like that. There are customers,” Mr. Zuberi scolded, his tone flat.
“I’m sorry, sir, but… but you have to see this. Account in the name of Zelica Okafor, inheritance from her father, Tendai Okafor.”
Mr. Zuberi sighed, annoyed at being interrupted, and walked toward Kofi’s desk, preparing to lecture his young employee.
He glanced at the screen—then he froze.
His professional, rigid face crumbled in an instant. His expression changed from annoyance to confusion and then to a deathly pallor. He looked at the screen, then looked at Zelica, and then back at the screen.
“Ma’am… Mrs. Zelica Okafor?” Mr. Zuberi asked, his voice, previously firm, now trembling.
“Yes, sir,” Zelica whispered, scared. “What’s wrong? Was my father a criminal?”
“Kofi,” Mr. Zuberi ordered, “close your window quickly. Put up the CLOSED sign. Take Mrs. Zelica to my office right now. Don’t let anyone see this screen.”
