Touched by an Angel
Hello! My name is Alexander Torrenegra, and I’m a tech entrepreneur.
For some, entrepreneurship is an end in itself, but for me, entrepreneurship is a means to an end — especially if that end is born of necessity, as it was in my case.
It’s always been my dream to change things, and to change them for what I believe is the better. To my mind, entrepreneurship should be driven by a desire for innovation; I love the idea of making life happen — not just letting it happen.
So, being an incurable tech-head, I’ve managed to co-found more than ten technology companies in pursuit of my dream thus far. Not all of them have been successful but those that are, represent an accomplishment I hold very close to my heart. Of course, one owes one’s achievements to many people; I have a list as long as my arm. Nevertheless, there’s someone in particular to whom I owe more than I could ever repay — and while she’s pretty much at the top of my list, I’ve never known her name. When I was fourteen, she lent me the money to buy my first computer and with it, I started my first company. She dropped out of my life as quickly and as unexpectedly as she popped into it. Because of that, I have a favour to ask of you — but I’ll get to that later. First, let me tell you the whole story.
My passion for technology and entrepreneurship began with my oldest memory: I was four years old and living in Bogota. It was 1982.
Back then, my name was Alex Henríquez. My mother, Katia, had gone back to using her maiden name, Monroy, after her marriage to my father didn’t work out. She and I were visiting my maternal grandfather at his office in town. Carlos Monroy was a stern, unsmiling man — and a bit of a geek. He had recently bought a computer and showed it to us. I was fascinated, so he allowed me to play the one game that had been installed on it. I don’t remember what make or model the computer was; thinking back, it was probably a Commodore 64. What I do remember vividly is the racing game, and the thrill of using my fingers to control what I was seeing on-screen. I especially remember the feeling of despair that all but assaulted me when I was told we were leaving. My granddad’s computer had instantly become my obsession; the idea of being behind a screen and controlling what I could see on it.
Every day after that I asked my mother when she was going to give me my very own computer. They were very, very expensive and we didn’t have enough money to buy one, she replied. Subsequently, all my conversations with adults revolved around their helping me obtain a computer. One of those adults was my father. He didn’t live with us; he’d abandoned us when I was barely twelve months old and my sister was on the way. Occasionally, we’d speak over the phone. I guess I’d become so irritatingly insistent that one day he made a promise: “You’ll soon go to school, right? Well, if you get the best average grades in your whole school, I’ll buy you a computer.”
I accepted the challenge.
Weeks later, I started first grade at Antonio Ricaurte Military School. I tried hard to get the best grades in my class, but Sáenz, one of my classmates, doggedly kept claiming top spot. In second grade though, things changed. Sadly, while I was able to score higher marks than Sáenz, they weren’t the best grades in the whole school. I grit my teeth. The heat was on. It took me half a year to get there; finally, in a school with some 3000 students, I had the best grades. I was even given a certificate to prove it. Breathlessly, I begged my mother to put me in touch with my father, but some weeks passed before she was able to. I never asked her why it took so long, but I remember trembling with a combination of fear and excitement when my mother finally called me to the phone.
“Daddy, I got the best grades in the school — for two whole months,” I blurted out. “Now you can give me my computer!”
I don’t recall his reply. He mumbled something. The truth is, that conversation took place some twenty-eight years ago, and I’m still waiting. What’s more, years after that, he asked me for a computer. I sold him one on credit. He never repaid me.
Because my grandparents were separated too, I never saw my granddad’s computer again. Not that it did anything to lessen my technology addiction; I just had to find other ways to service it. Sometimes I could secretly fiddle on a computer in my mother’s office, or I’d sneak into the school’s computer center. Often there were diskettes lying about, so I’d grab one and insert it into the first computer I could find that had no one in front of it. I enjoyed the challenge of learning to use whatever I was able to lay my hands on. Naturally, I learned to play a lot of games, but I also learned to use Lotus 123, BASIC, and other programs. Given all the hush-hush and secrecy involved, I only had a computer at my disposal for a few hours a week — hardly enough for such an addict! The only solution was to get my own; I wanted one that I could have all to myself 24/7.
Then, when I was fourteen, it occurred to me: I could ask for a loan! Why not? Other people did when they wanted something they couldn’t afford in one go. That way I’d be able to buy a computer, and use it to to make enough money to pay off the loan. The business prospect I had imagined for myself was simple. In 1993, students had access to computers at colleges and universities, but not at home; they were still prohibitively expensive for most families. Despite this, some teachers began demanding that more important homework projects be done on a computer. There was my opportunity: a transcription service for students. Quite a number of students I’d become acquainted with would much rather party than sit in front of a poky, little screen doing their homework. I’d transcribe it for them, no? And for others like them. I had absolutely no doubt countless students would pay for such a convenience!
I asked a friend of mine with the right contacts to get me some signboards printed: Computer Transcript Service, with the address to our house. I pasted the signs on the street poles in my neighborhood. At that time we lived in Villas de Granada, in western Bogotá. People came knocking, but were unimpressed when I told them I’d be doing the transcribing. So I bent the truth a little, saying my mother was the transcriber — she just wasn’t home at the moment; could I be of assistance perhaps?
It worked.
I started offering estimates and multiple prices depending on need. My potential customers were eager. There was only one problem. I still didn’t have a computer. Fortunately, I learned something very valuable from my amateur bash at market research: information is power. I found out what prices I could charge, the cost of paper and ink, and how to calculate profit margins. In the end, the conclusion I came to was that I’d be able to pay off a loan if I worked every day after school for two years.
Ours was a modest life: we didn’t have a car, we didn’t have cable TV, but my grandmother (who lived with us) was a master-bargainer. She’d always manage to save a couple of pesos here and there. The vendors knew her well. Not that there weren’t occasional treats. Once a month or so we’d go to Unicentro, the most famous shopping center in Bogotá back then, to have ice cream at a place called Crepes & Waffles, where my personal favorite was the Alaska. On one particular Saturday morning while we were stuck in the long queue awaiting our turn to make our purchases, I slipped away…
Next to Crepes & Waffles was a bank: Banco de Bogotá. Years before I’d opened a children’s savings account there. I hadn’t been able to save much, but my account was still active. I marched up to the cashier and shamelessly requested a loan. He looked perplexed for a moment, whispered something to a colleague, and started laughing. “Children don’t get loans,” he told me.
I was upset. “I’m not a child, I’m a client — and I’ve been one for many years,” I retorted loudly. “You should treat your clients better.”
As I was leaving, someone stopped me. It was a very well-dressed woman. “I couldn’t help hearing you want a loan,” she said, with the hint of a smile tugging the corners of her mouth. “If you’re that serious, come with me.”
I followed her to a big office on the second floor where she sat me down. She was the bank manager, she informed me, and started asking a lot of questions. Where are your parents? What do you want the loan for? How do you plan to pay? Why don’t your parents buy the computer for you? Etc. I answered as well as I could. Without realizing it, there I was, pitching my business for the first time in my life. I had to fill out some papers and bring them back to her. I got to the queue at Crepes & Waffles just before my mother started to panic. At home, I told her what had happened and she agreed to help.
I went back to the bank on the following Tuesday to hand over the papers. The bank manager asked me to wait outside her office. It felt like hours before she called me back in. “I can only offer you a one-year loan, not two years like you asked. Will that be in order?”
I was overjoyed. It just meant I’d have to work harder, and I was perfectly okay with that. A little while later she gave me the cash and four receipts to pay off the loan in four quarterly installments. I left the bank with 820,000 pesos in my pocket, scared half to death that a waiting thief would know they were there and try to snatch them away from me. I walked straight to the store to buy my computer.
When it arrived at our home on the Friday, I founded my first company. Although I was the only employee and only worked part time, Apache A-X Cybernetic Enterprises, Limitada had just opened its doors for business. It sounded super-cool and I was super-amped. I was now an entrepreneur!
Of course, making the business succeed was no easy task. I had to work much harder than I ever imagined; nights, Saturdays, Sundays. To keep up with my payments, my mother and grandmother helped me. My grandmother, at eighty-two, insisted that I teach her WordPerfect so she could continue transcribing after I’d gone to bed. I never succeeded in teaching her how to save files, but it didn’t matter. I just instructed her to leave the computer on and the first thing I did after waking up in the mornings was to rush over and hit Ctrl + S to save all the work she’d done while I was asleep. Her name, by the way, was Maria Emma Torrenegra. As an adult, I chose to bear her surname rather than the one I’d been given at birth. I do so with pride — and in her honour. After all, she’d proved to be a far better dad than my father.
I made all the loan repayments on time, except for the last one. It took two days longer than expected to get the money together. When I tried to make payment, the cashier refused it, saying the bill had the wrong date on it. He also noticed the receipt was defective, since the account number didn’t match an account in my name. They tried locating information on the loan, but couldn’t find any. The only account in my name was my savings account and no loans were attached to it. I asked to speak with the bank manager but she’d gone to another branch, and was now replaced by someone else. In the end, I wrote out a new receipt with the same account number as the original and added the correct date.
I had paid off my first loan.
Nowadays, I understand how banks work. I understand financial risk management. I understand why banks require you to mortgage your home when you want a loan. I understand why banks ask for co-debtors. I understand why banks review your credit history. I understand why a bank would not lend money to a fourteen year old boy.
That’s why — and I admit only quite recently — it struck me: that first loan given me at the Banco de Bogotá in 1993 was probably not provided by the bank at all. I now firmly believe it was that smartly-dressed bank manager who provided me with a loan drawn from her own personal savings.
My life had been touched by an angel.
I’d love to take her out for an ice cream and thank her; I doubt she’d accept anything more.
So here’s the favor I have to ask of you:
Would you help me find her?
Thanks to Carel Frans, Carlos Rodríguez, Javier Mesa, Katia Monroy, Mesi Rendón, and Tania Zapata for reading and providing comments on the draft of this article.
Lee este artículo en español aquí.
