by Paul Eksteen
I waited until noon and then decided to have a look around the lodge. I went forward, bent double, minimising the shape and silhouette of my head and torso. Even though I was ninety per cent sure that there were no one in the lodge, I was not a hundred per cent certain.
There was an unlocked rear pedestrian gate which I used to gain access. I circled around the house, walking quietly and easy on the balls of my feet. I tested each footfall and had the sensitivity in my toes, through my boots, to find any dead branches or other objects which could give me away.
I was spending most of my time at the rear of the lodge to minimise detection from passers-by on the main road. I familiarised myself with the layout of the ground floor by looking through windows.
Looking at the rear wall of the kitchen furthest away from me, I noticed a concrete wash tub with a concrete slab next to it. It was probably for the washing of large pots and pans, or for gutting and cleaning trout. Next to the wash tub stood two forty-eight-kilogram gas bottles. It looked like the stove and fridges were gas operated.
After half an hour of investigating, I decided to leave for Polokwane. Time well used, I thought. Not like in the army, where you would lie and wait for no reason. What I had learned by working for myself is that the one thing that can’t be recycled is time wasted.
I slowly made my way back to where I had left my sleeping bag and backpack. From here I studied the environment for half an hour. Not observing any intruders in the area, I made my way back to where I had left the bakkie.
I laid down a hundred metres from the vehicle and waited for half an hour to make sure there were no uninvited visitors. I then approached the bakkie and dumped my gear on the passenger seat. I carefully made my way back to the tar road.
As I drove back, I listened to the results of the Super Rugby on the news. I was glad that the Blue Bulls had a loose draw this weekend. At least I didn’t miss another one of their games.
***
The Coetzee Family Farm, Vivo
Kwinzee was having a chat with Selina, Retha’s house girl.
She was engaged to Simon, a worker who was fired six months ago from Jan Steyn’s farm. They were living in on neighbouring farms and were engaged to be married. After the marriage, Selina would have moved to the Steyn’s farm to live with Simon.
Now that Simon was not working for the Steyns, he had to move out of his quarters on the farm. He had moved back to Indermark to stay with family, whilst looking for a job.
Kwinzee had spoken to some of the old workers the previous weekend during his visit, but the old men clamped down and could, or would, not give him any information.
He then decided to talk to Simon and to some of the younger workers on the farm and drove through from Polokwane on Friday afternoon. His plan was to start at the TUT tavern and sports bar in Block C in Indermark on Friday night.
Unlike the old farm workers who were in permanent employ and who lived on the farm with their families, most of the young workers were employed to do contract work. They worked on the farm but resided in Indermark, a few kilometres away.
The TUT tavern was one of the worker’s favourite bars in Indermark, and Kwinzee spotted two of the contract workers at the bar having some beers in no time. He joined them at their table and started with some small talk. After two more beers, he enquired about Simon, but was told that Simon had moved to Louis Trichardt to look for work six weeks ago. Another few beers later, Kwinzee was told to talk to Selina.
It was Saturday afternoon and Selina had an hour’s break from tidying up in the farmhouse. Kwinzee was waiting for her in her servants’ quarters on the farm and as she entered the quarters, he grabbed her and pushed her down on her single cot.
“I know what happened,” was his opening statement whilst standing in front of her.
Selina was shocked and nervous. “I know of nothing,” she exclaimed. She tried to stand up, but Kwinzee pushed her back in a seated position.
“You know what is going on. I have been informed. You tell me now and I will leave, or I will strangle you until you talk.”
Selina was muttering senselessly and turned away from Kwinzee. He grabbed her from the bed and held her by the throat. “You start talking now,” he hissed in her ear.
She started squealing and grabbed his arm with both her hands. Kwinzee lifted her off her feet with his right hand and slammed her back and head into the brick wall.
“Talk!”
This seemed to work better, and Selina started chattering and crying at the same time.
Kwinzee released the grip on her neck slightly and lowered her feet to the floor. She collapsed in a bundle at his feet.
“It was happening because of the sangoma.”
“What sangoma, and why would he do something like this?”
Although Kwinzee was an African, he still sometimes found it impossible to fathom the black man’s mind. He knew most of them were not profound thinkers, and that the primitive side of them was always close to the surface. The black races of Africa believe in magic, which the white man rejects.
“It was the problem with the lobola,” she uttered.
“Your lobola?’ Kwinzee enquired.
“Yes, Simon was chased away from the farm and was having no job.”
Simon was caught stealing firewood from Jan Steyn’s farm and selling it at Indermark, the local settlement five kilometres away.
Simon and Selina already had one child but were not married yet. For Simon to get married to Selina, he had to pay her father the agreed amount of money as lobola. They were both saving money to pay the lobola when he was caught by Jan stealing and selling firewood illegally. Jan fired him with immediate effect, leaving him jobless.
Selina was in tears. “Now we cannot get married.” And Simon not having money to pay the lobola, was putting him in a bad light with her father.
“Did Simon talk to Jan?” Kwinzee enquired.
“Yes, but Baas Jan was very cross. It was the second time that he caught Simon with wood.”
‘So, what did Simon do?”
“He did nothing. He went to Louis Trichardt to look for work. No one will give him a job in Vivo. The Makgowa talk to each other all the time. Everyone in the area knows that Simon was chased away from the farm.
“But I had to do something. So I went to the sangoma near Mara. He looked at the bones and told me that he will take the spell away that Baas Jan has put on Simon. He will be able to find a good job soon.”
“How much did he charge you?”
“He charges two point five.”
“Two and a half thousand rand?”
“Yes. He said that he must put a spell on Baas Jan to be able to break the one on Simon. Only afterwards Simon will be free to work again.”
“So you paid the money?”
“Yes.”
“Almost a whole month’s salary?’
“Yes,” Selina replied with tears streaming from her eyes.
“Did you tell Simon about this?”
“No,” she exclaimed. “Please, he must not know. He will be very cross. I took the money from our savings to pay the lobola. And then nothing happened. Simon did not get work.”
Kwinzee was getting confused.
“When did you talk to the sangoma?”
“Three months ago. And Simon is still jobless. That was when I was contacted.”
“Contacted by who?”
“I don’t know his name. A man phoned me and put money in my bank account. I was supposed to pay the money to people to kill Baas Tom.”
“To kill Baas Tom?” Kwinzee exclaimed. Things were getting more and more confusing.
Selina was staring ahead, not saying anything. Her eyes were very big, and her lips were trembling. Kwinzee could see that she was very scared.
Kwinzee pulled her to her feet and slapped her. She landed on her back on her cot, her head hitting the wall. Blood was trickling from her nose and a busted lip.
She shrieked again, begging hi
m to stop.
“Selina, I’m losing my patience. What the fuck is going on here? Why would anyone want to kill Baas Tom?”
“I don’t know. This man phoned me on my mobile. I don’t know how he got the number. He said that he will put six thousand in my bank account. One thousand was for me. He then gave me the name of two zimbos that I must contact in Indermark”.
It was still not clear to Kwinzee what exactly happened.
“But you say that the man wanted Baas Tom killed. Did these people kill the wrong person by accident?”
Kwinzee moved closer to Selina again. She was mumbling and sobbing, smearing blood and snot all over her bedcover.
Kwinzee dropped his voice. “Selina, you must listen carefully now. Do not fuck with me. You are going to tell me what happened. Now.”
“I wanted Baas Jan dead. To break the spell on Simon. I want to marry him and move away from here. But he needs a job. Now Baas Jan is dead, and he can get a job.”
Kwinzee was shaking his head. So much for bush logic.
“And what about Baas Tom?”
“The man is very cross about Baas Tom. He wants the money back. But I will not pay him. How will he find me, anyway?”
“Okay, Selina. So, let’s be clear about this killing. You were supposed to have Baas Tom killed. But you decided to use the money and kill Baas Jan. Is that right?”
Selina was staring into the distance. Kwinzee had to fight with his emotions not to slap her again.
“Who are the people that killed Baas Jan?” Kwinzee enquired.
“They are from Zimbabwe. They sometimes stay in Seshego in Polokwane, and other times they stay in Indermark. They hide away at Indermark when it gets too hot in Seshego. Or when they have work here.”
“And their names?”
Selina again was staring in front of her, biting on a trembling lower lip.
Kwinzee slammed her back against the bricks again. “You talk now, or you will never see Simon again. What are their names, Selina?” Kwinzee had his hand around her throat and started to squeeze.
“They are known as Zvombo and Chatunga,” she whispered.
“I will look for them. You keep quiet. Or I will be back. What is the name of the sangoma?”
“Dr Tizzo.”
Kwinzee had to force himself not to smile when he heard the name. There are posters on fence posts, trees and even on walls at the filling station in and around Vivo advertising the special healing powers of Dr Tizzo.
According to the posters, Dr Tizzo could heal or cure almost anything. Love matters, AIDS, business matters, lost items, stop wives from cheating, cancer, and many more were his specialties. The services of a traditional healer were indispensable.
As Kwinzee walked out of Selina’s quarters, he thought how often it is the skinny ones who are the most devious. A fat girl might steal sugar in the house, but the skinny ones are more often revengeful.
Selina was still working on the farm next to the Steyn’s. Even though she orchestrated the assassination of Jan. But she didn’t see it that way. It was the way of Africa.
Kwinzee was also not so sure about the five thousand rand. These guys would want more. They stole Jan’s rifle after the killing, and they know that Mercia was a soft target now. They might try something again. Anything could happen. And to stop it from happening, some of the players in this board game had to disappear.
And who was this man who wanted Tom dead? He must call Tom urgently and warn him. The murder of Jan was just the beginning.
***
Near Roedtan
I stopped in Roedtan to refuel and looked around for a place to buy something to eat. I found a roadside diner with the name stencilled on the main window in letters that looked older than me. Inside there was a long counter with swivel seats topped in cracked yellow vinyl.
Through a serving window connecting the front to the kitchen, I could see racks of wire cooking baskets ready to be dropped into vats of hot, bubbly oil.
Although the place smelled of decades-old grease, it looked clean enough to order something. I ordered a hamburger and chips and collected a bottle of Coke from an ancient metal slide fridge.
My burger and fries arrived five minutes later on a clean plate. I should be home before dark, I thought to myself.
Which was not to be.
At Immerpan, between Roedtan and Zebediela, I drove through a stretch of potholes in the tar road and burst the rear left tyre of the bakkie.
I was busy listening to a CD of Rodriguez with ‘Establishment Blues’ playing as I got the spare wheel out from under the bakkie. Luckily, there was a spare wheel. Sometimes the thing got stolen without you realising it.
It took me thirty minutes to fit the spare wheel whilst Rodriguez entertained me with:
This system’s gonna fall soon, to an angry young tune and that’s a concrete cold fact.
My dad used to say that once Africa was a united continent like North America, the pothole should be the United States of Africa’s national emblem. The true sign of a Third World country.
I got in back behind the steering wheel of the bakkie just as my phone started ringing. It was Kwinzee. He didn’t take the time to exchange greetings.
“DC, this here farm murder in Vivo is a royal fuck-up.”
Before I could say anything, he carried on. “You were the target, DC. You. Not Jan Steyn.”
That got my immediate attention. “What do you mean, Kwinz? I do not even live there.”
“I know, DC, but there is a contract out on you. You were to be killed when visiting your family on the farm. Seems like they know you often visit there.”
“Are you sure, Kwinz? Why not just kill me at home?”
“I don’t know, DC. But there is a contract out. Be careful. Where are you?”
I told him where I was. “Is there anything urgent I need to know, Kwinz?”
“Yes, DC. It seems that some man phoned Selina and has put a contract out on you. We must meet early tomorrow morning.”
We said our goodbyes and, driving very cautiously through patches of potholes towards Polokwane, my mind was trying to sort something out of the chaos of thoughts in my head.
Even though Kwinzee was my partner at Papillon, I did not inform him about all of my work at the SSA. I’d told him that I was going to Dullstroom for an SSA briefing this weekend. He did not know about Lillynn and the breach of security at the SSA.
I did not have enough information to implicate Lillynn with Jan Steyn’s murder. Yet. Kwinzee said that a man placed a contract on my head. Why? Things were not making sense.
Was it this Lillynn lady? And why would she want me dead?
That I had to be careful was a fact. But I wasn’t sure about the farm murder on Jan Steyn. There were easier ways to kill someone than to get the whole community up in arms. It just didn’t make sense.
I arrived at Karlien’s home at seven in the evening with Danielle waiting for me in anticipation. She went to Karlien’s town house in Polokwane after playing in a hockey tournament at school during the day. They had played against Piet Potgieter from Mokopane, a town sixty kilometres away and they had won.
I congratulated Danielle and decided to treat her to Chinese takeaway to celebrate. Chinese takeaways were our special treat. I didn’t have the energy to cook for us tonight anyway, and both of us were starving. I also needed time to think. And maybe to stay away from my house might also be a good idea.
In the short period that Danielle was in secondary school, I had blinked once, twice, and my daughter had grown into a woman. I tried to protect her as much as I could, but I could only hope that she would survive on her own.
I had phoned Kwinzee and asked him to check my house to see if everything looked okay. I told him to switch on some lights and to make sure that Danielle’s two spaniels were up and about. I didn’t want to arrive at a dark house with Danielle and be surprised. Danielle begged me to buy her the two dogs when she turned thirteen, and couldn’t wait
to spend time with them over the week-ends when at home.
We arrived at Chan’s, an old-fashioned Chinese restaurant in a strip mall, where Danielle convinced me to eat in instead of having takeaway. Her argument was that we always forget to order something and only realised it when opening the paper bags at home, ten kilometres away. The food would also need reheating at home which spoilt the taste, she argued.
I had a similar idea, but my reason was different from hers. I needed to give Kwinzee time to check out my house before we got there.
So we sat in the restaurant in a sticky red and black vinyl booth, with a grumpy old Chinese woman at the front counter watching us as if fearing that we might steal the salt and pepper pots.
As Danielle kept chatting away, I realised with a shock how much she suddenly looked like her mother. She had inherited her mother’s silky chestnut hair, and strong, regular features with emerald green eyes.
The old Chinese woman serving the food jerked me out of my trance.
The food was greasy, but that was as it should be. If they rated restaurants according to how many times the same cooking oil was used, this one would not be very high up the ladder.
The place was licensed, so I treated myself to a well-deserved ice-cold Black Label beer.
Kwinzee phoned just as I had finished my beer. “Everything ten four, DC.”
We left a few minutes later after Danielle cleaned up all the plates and ordered some bow ties for takeaway dessert.
We were booked for Sunday lunch with Karlien and Corlea the next day. Danielle fell asleep on the way home but woke up as I stopped the car. She gathered her two spaniels and insisted that the four of us watch the late-night Saturday movie together, where she almost immediately fell into an exhausted sleep again. I was just as exhausted, but my mind refused to shut down. My thoughts jumped between the news that I had got from Kwinzee and Karlien.
I had been dating for almost two years now and I could sense that she was expecting something from me.
