Alias is already seated when Buba spots him, grins, and takes the chair.

“Mr. Banker,” Buba says, tapping his cup. “We’ll soon need our names carved into this table.”

Alias nods. “Then let’s make good use of it.”

He leans in slightly. “What if money wasn’t pushed from above, or earned only by those already inside? What if it were redistributed—like a lottery—but fair. Same chance for everyone.”

Buba leans back, weighing the words. “Lotteries? Around here, that word tastes sour. The bike that never existed. The raffle where the cousin always wins. People pay for hope, yes. But when hope is betrayed, it rots into anger. Poverty they forgive. Betrayal, never.”

Alias studies him. “Then tell me. Why do people keep playing, even when the odds are terrible?”

Buba chuckles softly. “Because hope feeds more than the stomach. Sometimes it’s greed, sometimes ambition, sometimes just the dream of something different. In Senegal, we have tontines—everyone puts in money each month. Each time, one person takes the pot. It isn’t just about the payout. It’s the rhythm. The chance. Even losing means you stood with the others.”

He sips his coffee, voice quieter now. “Hope is dangerous, yes. But it is also a kind of food. You starve without it.”

Alias nods. “So the hope itself is worth more than the prize.”

Buba gestures with his hand. “Exactly. That’s why it must be guarded. You ask people to believe the draw is honest? Then it must be honest every time, without exception. If the mouth that promises is wrong, it burns the whole table.”

Alias leans forward, almost whispering. “What if the draw had no mouth? What if it ran itself—rules no one could bend, not me, not anyone?”

Buba tilts his head. “Then the problem shifts. Not the drum, but the story. Who convinces people to sit at the table? Me. And if they lose trust, it’s me they blame.”

The silence stretches. Alias finally slides a thin printed bundle across the table. Plain cover. Stark title.

Buba raises an eyebrow. “Homework?”

“Not persuasion,” Alias says. “Just rules. No cousin, no organizer, no hand in the drum.”

Buba turns it over, slips it inside his jacket. “I’ll read it. And then we talk again.”

He stands, lingering a moment. “Careful, Mr. Banker. Hope feeds, but it also burns.”

Alias watches him leave, the word still turning in his mind. Hope.