Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  After about half an hour the undertaker arrived, driving a black pickup truck with the coffin, covered by a black cloth, strapped down on the back. The undertaker parked as close to the grave as possible—­still about a hundred yards away—­and climbed out of the cab. His white shirt was sweat-­stained, and he mopped his face with a handkerchief. While he straightened his tie and struggled to put on his jacket, he shouted for some strong men to come to help him.

  At the sight of the coffin, the women gathered around the grave and started to cry out and ululate. Some wept.

  Kubu watched as four fit-­looking men headed for the truck. The undertaker untied the coffin, carefully folded the black shroud, and slid the cheap pinewood box toward the volunteers. The men struggled to lift the coffin to their shoulders and carried it along the sandy path to the graveside. By the time they rested it on the waiting ropes slung across the hole, they were breathing hard. The wailing rose to a crescendo as they braced the ropes and lowered the box into the ground. Kubu glanced at Tumi, but she seemed intrigued, rather than frightened. He could just imagine the questions ahead.

  Most of the mourners threw a handful of soil into the grave, and then they all waited while the men filled the grave and topped it with stones. The wailing died down, and ­people started to talk again. Joy went off with Tumi to comfort Nono.

  Kubu found himself standing next to the undertaker, who was watching the final stage of the burial with proprietary interest.

  Kubu said, “I suppose you have a lot of funerals for young ­people these days.”

  The man nodded. “I’m sorry to say we do. It’s the plague. AIDS. The government should do something to stop it.”

  Kubu was irritated. Why was it always the government that had to take action? Why couldn’t ­people help themselves and each other? But he just nodded.

  The undertaker introduced himself. “I am Kopano Rampa, rra. Professional undertaker and director of Funerals of Distinction.”

  Kubu turned to the pompous little man and replied with the same formality, “I am Assistant Superintendent David Bengu of the Criminal Investigation Department.”

  Rampa took a step backward. “The police? Is there a problem?”

  Kubu relented. “Not at all. My wife is a friend of the deceased. The funeral went quite well, I thought.”

  “Yes, thank you, rra.” But Rampa seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “Well, I’d better finish things up here. Please excuse me. It was good to meet you.” He moved off and started loading the truck.

  Kubu shrugged, then went to find Joy. It was time to take Tumi and Nono home.

  FIVE

  DETECTIVE SAMANTHA KHAMA CLIMBED the steps to the third floor of the Social Sciences building at the University of Botswana. The staff offices were on the upper floors, but she wasn’t sure she was in the right place. Spotting a receptionist, she asked for help.

  “I’m looking for Professor van der Meer. He’s an anthropologist. He’s writing a book . . .” Her voice trailed off because the secretary was nodding.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she said. “Professor van der Meer is very busy.” She obviously took the casually dressed policewoman for a student.

  “Yes. I’m Detective Khama of the Botswana CID. Tell him, please.”

  The woman’s attitude changed, and she guided Samantha to the professor’s office. He rose to greet her and extended his hand. She shook it, touching her right forearm with her left hand in respect. He did the same unselfconsciously. He must have been in Africa for some time, she thought. He had frizzy red hair and a light complexion that was freckled by the Botswana sun. A half-­buttoned shirt and khaki shorts completed a casual image.

  He looked at Samantha appraisingly and offered a friendly smile, which the policewoman did not return.

  “Dumela, Detective. Kees van der Meer. I am very pleased to meet you. I want to help you,” he said in labored Setswana.

  Samantha replied in English. “Thank you for seeing me, Professor. It’s good to meet you, too.”

  Relieved, Van der Meer switched languages. “Actually, I hope I can help. I’m not sure what it is you want. You weren’t very specific on the phone.” He smiled again and waved her to a comfortable chair. His English had a strong accent; Dutch, she guessed.

  “I’m sorry, Professor, I wanted to explain it to you in person. I’m investigating the disappearance of a young girl. She’s been missing for about four months. I believe she was abducted.”

  Van der Meer saw the point at once. “You think she was taken by a witch doctor? For muti?”

  Samantha nodded. “That’s possible. It could also be a sex crime, but then I think we would have found her by now, though perhaps not alive.”

  The professor paused. “A lot of African children are taken and sold overseas as prostitutes or sex slaves. You’d never hear about what happened to them.” He shrugged. “Anyway, just what do you want to know from me, Detective? I study traditional healers and why their remedies and spells are often more effective than Westerners would expect. That’s what my book is about. Healers, not witch doctors.”

  “But you must know about them, too, if you’re studying that part of our culture.”

  He sighed. “Yes, of course the two blur. It’s the border between black magic and white magic, as a Westerner would say. What do you want to know?”

  Samantha hesitated, then decided to start at the beginning. “The trail is cold now. Months have passed, and the police in Mochudi found no clues to what happened. If I’m right, the girl’s been dead for a long time. I’m going to investigate the crime again, but I’ll be surprised if I find anything new. I’m hoping you can help me understand the motive. If I can find out who is most likely to have benefited, perhaps I can find some connection, some insights.” She hesitated, realizing that her idea was pretty tenuous. But the professor just nodded.

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Lesego.” She was glad he cared enough to ask.

  The professor shook his head. “It’s not a good name.”

  “It means Lucky. A nice name, I think.”

  Van der Meer paused. “How much do you understand about how witch doctors operate, Detective? Do you believe in some of these things yourself? And please don’t be embarrassed; it may actually help if you do.”

  Samantha shook her head angrily. “It’s nonsense. It’s only for ignorant ­people and children!”

  Van der Meer’s eyebrows rose. “I’ve heard stories—­and experienced things myself—­that make me wonder whether the world is as rational as we like to think. May I tell you a story? When I came to Gaborone I rented an apartment near here. At first I was comfortable there, but after a while I started to develop a bad cough and allergies, like hay fever. I thought it might be dust. The apartment wasn’t very clean, and I felt better when I went out. My doctor prescribed antihistamines and for a while I was okay, but then it started up again. My maid said it was a curse—­that a witch doctor had put a spell on the apartment. I thought it was nonsense, but as you say, I’m interested in such things. So partly just to observe what he’d do, I contacted someone who had a reputation for detecting spells. He came to the apartment and walked around for a while, sometimes stopping as if he were hearing something in the distance. Eventually he got a kitchen chair and lifted one of the ceiling panels. He took out a packet of something wrapped in cloth. After he’d removed it, I started feeling better. Now I have no problems.”

  Samantha shrugged. “He could’ve hidden it there himself.”

  “Yes, of course. But the point is that I had no idea it was there. I still have no idea why anyone would put a curse on the apartment. I hadn’t offended anyone. Perhaps someone else wanted to rent it, and the idea was to drive me out.”

  “Maybe.” Samantha shrugged again. “What I want to know is how these things are supposed to work.
”

  “Well, let me try to explain the basic principle they use. It’s not all that complicated. The idea is to transfer a desired property exhibited by one organism to another through some medium. Let’s say you admire the strength and courage of a lion. So you kill it and eat its heart. You believe you ingest its strength and courage with the organ. This concept of transference is widespread in a variety of cultures, especially African and Eastern. But don’t think it’s restricted to them. I myself take a homeopathic remedy that consists of tiny, tiny amounts of a material that causes the symptom I want to cure. The amounts used are far too small to have a measurable biochemical effect. Why does it work?” He shrugged. “Maybe only because I believe that it does.”

  Samantha said nothing, and the professor could see that she was completely lost.

  “Let me give you a concrete example. Let’s say Tau is a man who is rich and powerful, but is not successful sexually. As you know, in the culture here it’s very important to a man’s self-­esteem to have great sexual prowess and many offspring.”

  Samantha nodded. “And to a woman’s also.”

  “Yes. So Tau goes to a witch doctor for help. Tau’s a rich man and goes to a powerful witch doctor. It’ll cost him a lot, but he doesn’t care—­that just shows how successful he is and how powerful the medicine will be. The witch doctor tells him what he needs. He must take the sexual power from another man—­a young virile man, maybe a boy, who hasn’t spent any of his sexual power yet.”

  “So Tau gets that boy’s sexual organs?”

  “Yes. Exactly. Made into a potion in a special way, of course. That potion is very powerful muti.”

  “It’s all complete nonsense!”

  The professor shrugged. “Physiologically it’s nonsense, of course. But think of the effect in Tau’s head. He believes he’s obtained great power from the medicine. What’s more, power that he’s caused to be taken from another man by force. That makes it even more potent. Sex is driven by the mind in any case.”

  Samantha disliked the story but could believe it. Men always seemed to be looking for power and sex. This was just another example.

  “However, this was a young girl.”

  Van der Meer thought for a moment. “A woman who can’t make milk may get muti made from the nipples or the breasts of a healthy young woman. If a woman can’t conceive, the muti must be made from a womb. Someone with a weak heart needs the heart of a healthy person. Young. Fresh.”

  Samantha felt a bit queasy. These are my ­people he’s talking about, she thought. I’m ashamed for them.

  The professor continued, “But I think this case may be different. Sometimes there is something very unusual about the individual, which suggests strong spirit power. For example, it could be a special birthmark on the face. And albinos are thought to have enormous power. Do you see the connection with Lesego?”

  Samantha shook her head. “Lesego wasn’t an albino.”

  “But her name. Lucky. That’s why I said it was a bad name. Not many children are called that. The name gives them a power that others want badly, perhaps badly enough to steal. Potions for luck usually involve animals thought of as fortunate for a special reason: the scaly anteater—­safe from attack with its armor plating, the klipspringer—­escapes easily by jumping between rocks on hooves that seem to hold like Velcro. But in this case . . .”

  Samantha absorbed this new idea. “So it could be for fertility, young organs to fix unhealthy ones, or even just for luck.” She felt more nauseous. And she was uncomfortable with this white European, who seemed to find all of this reasonable. She stood up.

  “You’ve been a big help, Professor. I need to think about how all this fits with my case. Can I come back if I have more questions?”

  “Of course, Detective.” Van der Meer stared at her without smiling. “I just want you to understand something important. Many, many, ­people believe in witchcraft. Not just ignorant ­people and children, but business­people, ­people in the government.” He paused. “And many in the police also believe. That’s why so few cases are solved. They’re scared the witch doctor will put a spell on them if they get too close.” Samantha didn’t react. “Most of these ­people would never dream of using muti themselves,” he continued, “but they’re scared to death of it. And the few who would use it are powerful ­people, and they use powerful witch doctors. They’ve a lot to lose.” He paused. “I think you should be careful with this investigation, very careful.”

  Samantha clenched her jaw. Another man telling her to go slowly, fit in, be careful.

  “Thank you for your time, Professor,” she said and left abruptly.

  Part Two

  FELL SWOOP

  “What all my pretty chickens and their dam

  At one fell swoop?”

  MACBETH, ACT 4, SCENE 3

  SIX

  SHE HOPPED AND SKIPPED over the sand alongside the road. It had been such a happy afternoon, and she had the whole weekend ahead of her. For the first time since her mother had died ten months ago, she hadn’t felt pangs of grief. Playtime had been nothing but fun—­she and her friends kicking a soccer ball all over the grassless playing field, shouting incessantly for a pass and screaming with excitement when someone neared the goal.

  She knew her father would be angry that her school uniform was covered in sand and her shoes scuffed, but she couldn’t wait to tell him that she’d scored a goal—­her first—­a shot from twenty yards that sped past the fingertips of the goalkeeper. Her father had played soccer when he was young, so he’d understand her excitement and be proud of her. She looked forward to that.

  She heard a crunching behind her. She turned and saw a white Toyota pulling off the road onto the sand. It slowed down and stopped next to her. As the window opened slowly, she saw a man leaning over, struggling with the handle.

  “Hello, Tombi.”

  It took a few moments for her eyes to recognize him in the dark interior.

  “Oh! Dumela, rra. I didn’t think it was you.”

  “My car’s at the garage, Tombi. They loaned me this one while mine’s being fixed.”

  It must be nice to have a car, she thought.

  “Can I give you a lift home? You live near here, don’t you?”

  “Yes, rra. Not far from those shops down there.”

  “Jump in. I’ll buy you a milk shake on the way.”

  A grin split Tombi’s dusty face as she clambered into the car. “Oh, thank you, rra. I haven’t had one for a long time.”

  He smiled back, put the car into gear, and moved off. There was a click as he engaged the door locks. Tombi took no notice. A milk shake would be the perfect way to end the afternoon.

  WITNESS STIRRED THE POT of pap. It would be done soon. The tomato and onion sauce was ready, simmering on the back burner.

  Where was Tombi? he wondered. She should’ve been home more than half an hour ago. Maybe she was still playing soccer with her friends. He shook his head. Girls playing soccer! When he was in school, boys played soccer. Girls played . . . He stopped stirring. What had girls done after school? He couldn’t remember. He wasn’t interested in girls then. It was only when he met Tombi’s mother when he was nineteen that he started paying attention. That was fifteen years ago. Now she was gone.

  He started stirring again. Still, he was lucky. Tombi was a good girl. Naughty from time to time—­she was a teenager, after all—­but never anything serious. More important, she studied hard at school, had three or four close friends, and wasn’t distracted by boys. So far.

  He dreaded that moment. He wasn’t sure how he’d cope. His friends with daughters didn’t know what to do. None of them seemed to understand their kids. But he knew what he would do—­he’d forbid her from having sex even though it seemed that all schoolchildren were doing it. For them, it was as natural as shaking hands. But he knew what A
IDS could do to a family. He would have to talk to her soon—­remind her of what had happened to her mother.

  TOMBI WAS NOW MORE than an hour late, and Witness was worried. He drove to her school in his dilapidated Volkswagen and saw a few boys kicking a ball around.

  “My daughter’s name is Tombi. Tombi Maleng. Do you know her?”

  The one boy looked at the others. They shook their heads.

  “We don’t know any of their names.”

  “There were some girls playing soccer, but they all left a long time ago,” another interjected.

  “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know. A long time! An hour? Maybe two?”

  “No,” another said. “It was only half an hour.”

  “You’re sure you don’t know her?”

  They all shook their heads.

  Witness thanked them and walked over to the school buildings, hoping to find someone working late. His stomach began to ache. Other girls had disappeared . . .

  He was in luck. A teacher was still there, grading tests. She knew Tombi but hadn’t seen her that afternoon.

  “She probably went home with a friend and has lost track of the time.”

  “She’s never this late. Her best friends are Chastity, Zuni, and Asakona, but I’ve no idea where they live. I don’t even know their last names. Do you know any of them?”

  “Yes, I teach them all. It’s Chastity Maboda, Zuni Tsimako, and Asakona Ramotwa.”

  Witness borrowed pencil and paper and wrote the names down. “Do you know where they live?”

  The teacher shook her head. “You can find out at the office. But it’ll only be open on Monday.”

  “I can’t wait until then. Perhaps you have their phone numbers?” The teacher took a notebook from her desk and flipped the pages.