Radical

D-Day

Kagiso walked the kilometre or so to the closest ATM. Although tall and broad-shouldered, his geeky glasses, narrow waist and friendly smile made him seem skinny and approachable. Kagiso was not in the least intimidating. Dressed in his favourite jeans and even more favourite manky flip-flops, he was starting to sweat in the heat of the September morning.

No reason to dress up. There hadn't been for five months now. His two good suits were at home, neatly pressed and stashed in plastic covers, in the RDP house he and Tshidi had inherited from their mother when she passed last year.

Mama had been very specific about taking care of what you have. She had also encouraged and supported him in achieving his certifications. She didn't quite follow how he was able to get his qualifications by buying data and sitting in front of a computer for months, but had nodded enthusiastically every time he showed her his results.

He had been lucky enough to get a basic from a company that wanted him to complete his MCSD. He had done that, with flying colours, before being told that they were restructuring, and, unfortunately, last-in-first-out. So that was the end of his internship. If it wasn't for Mama's house and the money left over from the funeral policy, Kagiso and Tshidi would have stopped eating months ago.

Today was D-day, the day the new president had promised that the first Citizen's Dividend would be paid.

His sister and most of his friends had not believed that such a promise could be delivered, but some of them had voted with him just on the off-chance. The process, since her inauguration in April, had been explained across all media platforms, even community radio stations, but money talks and bullshit walks and Kagiso was going to see if he really had two thousand rand in his account. He hadn't worked for it. He felt very guilty about that, but the president had explained again, just last night on SABC, that all citizens were shareholders in the company called the Republic of South Africa and the Dividend was just that – their dividend. Except that, in Kagiso's experience, the world didn't work that way.

Somehow enough people like Kagiso had believed her, and voted for her. But what the ATM said in a few minutes would show whether he had cast an idiot vote, for just another thief, who would stay in power for at least five years.

He got into line at the machine. The manicured mom currently busy at it seemed to be paying a hundred bills. Looking at her glittery, uncomfortable shoes, and imagining their price, made him wonder why she wasn't doing the payments via internet transfers at home.

But some people just didn't like the internet or mobile apps. Some people, like Kagiso's own Gogo Marjorie, didn't like anything to do with money that didn't involve speaking to an actual person.

Kagiso had tried, in vain, to convince her or any of the other elders to open PostBank accounts. He'd offered to drive them to an internet café in town to make copies, and then on to the closest branch. Because what if MmaPrez was for real? What if her plan for a universal basic income did come to fruition this year as she'd said?

You had to have a PostBank account. If you did, you would get the Dividend from the month you turned sixteen, with no affidavits or proof of income or answering embarrassing questions about your struggles to find a job.

Kagiso waited his turn. The manicured mom walked away, almost tripping over one of her heels as she simultaneously tried to put her bag's handles over her shoulder, and tuck her transaction slips and card into an inside pocket.

Kagiso inserted his card, punched in his pin, and selected 'Balance Enquiry'. Kind of hoping. Mostly already prepared for disappointment.

Balance: R2 079.42, said the screen. Kagiso stared.