In an age of boundless technological trust, one glaring contradiction continues to mock our dignity from behind every bank counter: the tethered pen. Yes, the humble ballpoint, chained like a medieval prisoner to a sticky plastic base, stares back at us with quiet accusation.

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Banks happily entrust us with our life savings, those hard-earned thousands that represent our children’s education, our retirement dreams, and our emergency funds, yet they cannot bring themselves to trust us with a $1 pen.

One must admire the sheer audacity of this arrangement.

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You walk into the bank, a responsible adult with a mortgage, a job, and perhaps even a fat account balance, and proceed to fill out a deposit slip. The moment your hand reaches for the pen, the cold reality hits. This instrument of literacy is on a short leash. You can write, certainly. You can even flourish your signature with the dramatic swoop of an artist. But attempt to wander more than eighteen inches away and the pen snaps back with the righteous indignation of a betrayed lover. It is a daily theatre of the absurd. I watched a dignified gentleman wrestle the pen like a stubborn goat on a rope. His deposit completed, he instinctively reached to slip the pen into his shirt pocket, only for the chain to yank it violently from his fingers. The pen recoiled with a metallic clink that seemed to say: "Not today, brother. Not on my watch.”

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This, we are told, is necessary. Without these chains, pens would vanish into the ether, spirited away by absent-minded citizens. Never mind that the same institution lets us transfer millions via an app with a four-digit PIN. But hand us an uncuffed Bic and we become untrustworthy savages.

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If they cannot trust us with a pen, no wonder banks cannot give you a pen without collateral. That’s why they do not fund ideas. That’s why they obsess over financials and collateral instead. Now I know their mentality. I forgive them. Their worldview is shaped by the primal fear that anything unattached, a cheap ballpoint or a business loan, will vanish into the chaotic void of human nature. They view every aspiring entrepreneur as a potential pen thief in disguise. Collateral isn’t caution; it’s therapy for their deep-seated pen trauma. Understanding this has brought me peace. I will longer grudge with loan officers demanding my firstborn as security. I know now about the pens.

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The bank manager offers the standard liturgy: "It’s not about you, it’s about everyone else.” Ah, the classic "other people” defence. We are one rogue pen-user away from a full-scale writing instrument apocalypse.

One begins to wonder what else should be chained. Supermarket baskets? Restaurant cutlery? The possibilities for extending this profound distrust are endless.

Perhaps it is time we turned the tables. Next visit, pat the chained pen and say loudly, "Thank you for your service. I would have trusted you with my savings, but clearly that trust is not mutual.”

In the final analysis, the tethered pen is a profound philosophical statement. We are trusted with everything that matters until it doesn’t matter to them. Our money? Yes. Our data? Absolutely. Our dignity as pen-wielding adults? Absolutely not.

Until banks extend the same faith to a humble ballpoint that they demand with our life savings, the chain will remain, a jingling symbol of conditional trust in a paperless world. We deserve better. We deserve pens that roam free.

The writer is an ideator and alternative development financing strategist.