It started as an ordinary Friday night in Lusaka, but for Chileshe, it would become a financial nightmare he’d never forget.
Chileshe was a simple guy—an IT professional who lived within his means, prided himself on budgeting, and never spent recklessly. But that was before he stepped foot into Grandaddies.
His best friend, Mwansa, had convinced him to go out. “Just one drink, my guy. You work too much.”
Grandaddies was buzzing. Neon lights danced off polished tables, and the music shook the very bones of everyone inside. Chileshe ordered a whiskey, telling himself it would be just one. That was until he bumped into a group of loud, happy strangers.
“Baba, you look like a big man!” one of them shouted, throwing an arm around Chileshe’s shoulder. “You must bless the boys!”
Something in Chileshe’s brain clicked—whether it was pride, the whiskey, or peer pressure, he’d never know. “Drinks on me!” he declared.
It was like throwing a bucket of chum into shark-infested waters. The crowd erupted. Cheers filled the air. People he had never met, and would never meet again, swarmed the bar like moths to a flame.

The Descent into Madness

A round of Jameson.
A round of Patron.
A round of Hennessy.
Bottles started arriving before he could even count how many hands he was feeding.
He lost track of time. The DJ switched from amapiano to Afrobeat, and Chileshe’s confidence soared with every shot. People were taking pictures with him. They called him “Boss Chileshe.” A group of women laughed at his jokes as if he was the funniest man in Zambia. Life was good.
Until he checked his phone.

But ba Guy Zoona Muma spenda !!!

The Bill of Doom

He saw a message from his bank. He squinted at it, trying to clear his alcohol-fogged brain.
Dear valued customer, a debit of K100,000 has been made to your account.
His soul left his body.
The grand illusion of his wealth shattered like an empty beer bottle on concrete. His hands trembled as he pulled the waiter aside. “Baba, are you sure about this bill?”
The waiter gave him a pitying look. “Boss, you were ordering like Dangote’s nephew.”
Chileshe’s stomach twisted. He did the math in his head—K100,000? That was his rent, his car loan, and three months of groceries combined. He looked around. The crowd was still enjoying the drinks, but nobody even knew his name.
Mwansa? Nowhere to be found.
The laughter, the music, the energy—it all felt like a cruel joke. He stumbled outside, his account bleeding money he could never get back.
As he stood in the cold Lusaka night, reality hit him harder than a hangover ever could.
He had spent K100,000 on people who didn’t even know him.
And worst of all?
He still had to find a way home.