Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  “I’ve only got the Mabodas’ number.” She read it out. “I’m sure Tombi’s fine. Don’t worry. She’s probably back home by now. Check there before you get everyone upset.”

  Hoping she was right, Witness thanked her, walked back to his car, and drove home.

  “HELLO. IS THAT MMA Maboda? This is Witness Maleng—­Tombi’s father. Is Tombi there by any chance?”

  Mma Maboda said she wasn’t.

  “Please could you ask Chastity if she saw Tombi this afternoon?”

  He took his cell phone out to the veranda and looked up and down the road. Nobody.

  “Rra Maleng? Chastity said they all played soccer this afternoon. Tombi scored a goal apparently.”

  “When did Chastity get home?”

  “It must’ve been around five-­thirty, I think.”

  “That’s an hour and a half ago! Can you ask Chastity if she knows where Tombi was going after soccer?”

  There were muffled voices on the line.

  “Chastity says she was going home.”

  “Mma Maboda, I’m very worried. Please call me if Tombi comes to your house. Now can I speak to Chastity? I need to get hold of Asakona and Zuni.”

  After speaking to Chastity, Witness hung up. The pain in his stomach was worse.

  The calls to the homes of Asakona and Zuni were similar. Both children had returned home about the same time as Chastity. Both said Tombi was going straight home.

  Witness grabbed a photo of Tombi and drove to the little cluster of shops at the end of his road. He went into the mini-­mart and showed the photo to the woman behind the counter.

  “Have you seen her?”

  The woman shook her head. “I know Tombi. But she didn’t come in today.”

  At the gas station next door, the attendant looked at the photo and shook his head. Finally Witness spoke to a number of minibus taxi drivers who used a vacant area near the school entrance as a parking lot, but none had noticed Tombi.

  IT WAS AFTER NINE when Witness walked into the Broadhurst police station. He explained the situation to the constable on duty.

  “Don’t worry, rra. Kids do this all the time. She’s off with a friend. Probably spending the night. It hasn’t occurred to her that you’d be worried.”

  “She always lets me know.”

  “Fill out this missing-­person’s form.” The constable handed Witness three forms and two sheets of carbon paper. “Press hard.” He smiled. “Maybe she’s with her boyfriend.”

  “She’s not like that.” Witness was having difficulty containing his anger. “She’s a good girl. She doesn’t have a boyfriend. Something’s happened to her. Here’s a photo. Please make copies and have your ­people go out and look for her.”

  The constable took the photo. “Nice-­looking girl,” he said. “I’ll make copies. But you’ll see. She’ll be back in the morning.”

  Witness banged the counter with his fist. “Something’s happened to her. I’m telling you.” Then he lowered his voice. “Please get your ­people out and look,” he pleaded.

  “Sorry, rra,” the constable replied. “I know you’re worried, but it’s too soon to do anything tonight. Besides I don’t have the staff. Wait until tomorrow. Kids always show up.”

  WITNESS HURRIED HOME HOPING desperately that Tombi would be there. But she wasn’t. He didn’t know what to do. He drove back to the school and slowly followed the road Tombi would have used to walk home. There was no sign of her. No sign of anything. Even though it was late, he banged on the doors of several houses. Nobody had seen her.

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be back,” they all said. “Our kids often stay out with friends.”

  “She’s not like that,” he snapped. “She’s a good girl.”

  When Witness eventually returned home, any remaining hope was dashed. Tombi was still not back. He took a beer from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table. What could he do? He popped open the can and drained it without taking it from his lips. He liked the cold fizzing as the liquid slipped down his throat almost as much as he liked the taste. He grabbed another.

  It was too late to go and search the neighborhood. But he couldn’t just sit and do nothing. What could he do?

  He drained the second can.

  I’ll organize a search party in the morning, he decided. Get all my friends to help. He decided he’d better call them right away even though it was late; otherwise he might miss them in the morning.

  He started with the parents of Tombi’s friends.

  “I’m sorry to call so late. But Tombi still isn’t back. I need help looking in the fields along the road. Anywhere she may have walked. Can you meet me at the school at eight tomorrow morning? Please come and help. And bring as many other ­people as you can. And long sticks to poke under bushes. Please help me.”

  Then he called all his friends and acquaintances and even some of his colleagues at work. Most said they would come.

  When he finished calling, he collapsed on the sofa with another beer. How was he going to get through the night? He’d never sleep.

  He put his head in his hands. His body shook, and tears dripped from his eyes. He was desperately afraid.

  SEVEN

  WITNESS TOSSED AND TURNED all night. His mind played out the worst of scenarios, and the pain in his belly intensified. When the first streaks of light crept through the torn curtains, he climbed out of bed and pulled on his clothes. It was time to renew his search for Tombi.

  He had nearly two hours before meeting his helpers at the school. In the meantime he’d go out on his own. He made himself a cup of strong tea, added milk and lots of sugar, and cut himself a thick slice of bread.

  He was terrified. Over the past few years, several young girls had disappeared without a trace. Some said the girls were kidnapped for sex, but most whispered that it was for muti. Witness shuddered. The thought of his little girl being cut up . . . He cried out in anguish. What sort of man could do that to an innocent girl?

  And what would he do if he lost her? What had he done to deserve this? First his wife, and now his beautiful daughter.

  “No!” he shouted. “No, no!” He wasn’t going to give up. He was going to find her.

  WITNESS WALKED TOMBI’S LIKELY route to the school. He looked for any hint of what had happened, but to no avail. The sandy shoulder had many tire tracks and many more footprints. There was no way he could know which were Tombi’s—­if, in fact, she had been there. Then he walked back on the other side of the road with the same futile results.

  When he reached his house, he called the police station to ask if they had any information.

  “No, rra,” was the reply. “But I’ll send a constable over this afternoon to take a detailed statement. As we told you last night, we’ll only start searching tomorrow if we have enough men. It will probably have to wait until Monday.”

  “But she may be dead by then!” he shouted. “You need to start looking today!”

  “Sorry, rra. That’s impossible. I suggest you phone the hospitals in case she’s had an accident that hasn’t been reported to us. Goodbye, rra.” The line went dead.

  Witness felt like throwing his phone at the wall.

  He still had nearly an hour before the search party was going to gather at the school, so he decided to drive to the Princess Marina Hospital. The nurse at Admissions checked the records, but no one matching Tombi’s description had been admitted. She suggested that he call the two private hospitals in Gaborone and gave him their numbers. He called both, but neither had any information.

  With a few minutes remaining, he stopped at a shop near his home, where he knew the owner. When he understood the situation, the owner sympathetically made a pile of copies of Tombi’s photograph. Witness thanked him and scribbled his phone number on one of the copies. “If you see her, please call me.”

/>   WHEN WITNESS ARRIVED AT the school, he was grateful to see about twenty ­people waiting. Most of the helpers had brought sticks of some sort, either broomsticks or cut from a tree. Two women came up as soon as he climbed out of the car. He recognized them as the mothers of Chastity and Asakona.

  “Oh, Rra Maleng. I hope Tombi is okay. We’re all praying for her.” Mma Ramotwa touched him on the arm.

  “She’s such a lovely girl. Chastity doesn’t know what could’ve happened. They all left for home at the same time,” Mma Maboda said. “I’ve brought my husband and one of my neighbors to help. I also went to all the teachers’ houses, and some of them have come, too.”

  Witness fought back his tears.

  “Thank you.”

  A large man with a bright shirt, shorts, and sandals walked over.

  “Dumela, Rra Maleng,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Charlton Tsimako, Zumi’s father. My wife cannot be here, so I have come in her place.”

  They shook hands in the traditional manner.

  “I’m a security guard at a bank,” Charlton continued. “I’ve had some training in searches. Let me help you.”

  “Thank you,” Witness responded. “I have no experience. But I have something that will help.” He held out the packet containing copies of Tombi’s photograph. “I was able to make these this morning.”

  The big man turned and shouted: “Dumela, everyone. Please come here so we can get started.” The group walked over to him.

  “Thank you for coming to help. We all know how Witness must be feeling. So let’s get started.” He took the copies from Witness. “We’re going to break into groups. Some are going to go to every house between here and Witness’s home on Dutela Crescent. Show them Tombi’s photo and see if they saw her or saw anything unusual last night around five-­thirty. Also ask at the tuck shops. There are several on the way. And see if any of the taxi drivers saw anything.”

  He made four groups of two ­people each and gave them each a set of roads to cover. They took their copies and set off. “We’ll meet back here in an hour!” he shouted after them.

  “The rest of us will search all the bush areas around here. We’ll start outside the school gates and check the big vacant area along Segoditshane Way. When we get there, we’ll form a line with about three or four yards between us. Use your poles to check under bushes or in long grass. We’ll keep doing that until we’ve covered all the areas around there. Then we’ll check along the railway line, even though that’s in the opposite direction.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s go!”

  “Why aren’t the police here?” one of the men shouted.

  “They say they’ll send a constable this afternoon,” Witness answered. “They don’t seem interested. They say kids often disappear for a few days.”

  “Aaii,” one woman exclaimed. “The police never do anything. They’re useless. All they’re interested in is their paycheck. We can do a better job than them.”

  They picked up their sticks and set off to start the search.

  THE SEARCHERS KEPT A ragged line as they walked in the soft sand, sharing gossip and shouting encouragement. They poked clumps of long grass or crouched to peer under bushes. Even when they used their poles to move branches aside, thorns often managed to scratch their arms. Most difficult were the wag-­’n-­bietjie (wait-­a-­bit) bushes, with their thorns curved toward the center.

  It took about twenty sweaty minutes for the line to reach the end of the first section of bush. After a few minutes’ rest, they moved to the next section and slowly worked their way back.

  When they reached the school, several of the other groups had already returned and were standing in the shade of an acacia tree.

  “Did you find anything?” Witness asked as he walked up.

  Nobody had anything positive to report. No one had seen Tombi the previous evening, and no one had seen anyone or anything suspicious.

  BIG MAN CHARLTON TOOK control again. He widened the area for the groups to go house-­to-­house and asked one of the men, who ran a small business, to make fifty posters with a photo of Tombi and Witness’s phone number. “When you’ve made them, staple them to trees and lampposts in the area. Maybe somebody will recognize her or remember something.”

  Then he led the rest of the group to the next area where they would beat the bushes for any sign of the missing girl.

  As Witness worked his way through the bushes, he became increasingly despondent. I’m never going to find her, he said to himself. She’s gone. What have I done to deserve this? He lifted his pole and smashed it against the nearest bush. And again, and again.

  Charlton walked over and put his arm around Witness’s shoulders. “Have faith, my friend. If she’s alive, we’ll find her. And if she’s not, she’s in a better place.”

  For just a moment Witness buried his face against Charlton’s chest. Then he pulled away.

  “Let’s keep looking,” he said as he went back to his place in line. “Let’s keep looking.”

  IT WAS NEARLY NOON when the remaining searchers assembled back at the school. There wasn’t a single lead, not a scrap of information that could help Witness find Tombi. She had disappeared without a trace.

  “Thank you for your help, my friends,” Witness said to the group. “You did everything you could. I fear the worst. Someone has taken her. For what, I don’t know. Please pray for her; pray that she’s alive.” He wanted to add that otherwise they should pray that her death was quick and without pain. But he knew he’d choke on the words if he tried to say that. “And take care of your own children. Look after them. Protect them.”

  When the others had left, Witness sat down under a tree outside the school gate and leaned against its trunk. He thought back to his wife, and the familiar feeling of sadness came over him. And anger. When had it happened? Who was it?

  He thought they’d built a good marriage. They’d laughed and played together, and he’d loved watching Tombi grow from a little black ball, squirming in his hands, to a happy teenager, well on her way to becoming a woman.

  Then came the shock—­the night his wife told him that she was HIV positive. That he should get tested, too. He’d been devastated. And she refused to answer any questions, which made him furious. He had a right to know. She was his wife.

  She was different after that night. The sparkle was gone, as were the energy and laughter. And a year later she died, a wasted shadow. He hadn’t known whether to be relieved or sad.

  So he transferred all his love to Tombi. She’d filled the void. And hadn’t disappointed him.

  But now she was gone.

  He sobbed. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t fair.

  He continued to lean against the tree, head down, until he became aware that someone was watching him. He looked up and saw Gordon Thembe. He dropped his eyes again. Gordon was not one of his friends. He did odd jobs when he needed money, and otherwise hung around the shebeens drinking and chatting with his friends and women. Witness thought him lazy and unreliable. He wished the man would go away and leave him in peace. But Gordon flopped down next to him. “Courage, my friend,” he said. “Somehow she will be found.”

  Witness grunted.

  “You must try and relax, man. Keep calm. You’re no use to Tombi this way. Here, share this with me.” The man pulled a plastic packet from his jacket, removed a crinkled cigarette paper, and poured out some dried plant material. Witness guessed it was dagga, the local name for marijuana. He wanted to be angry with Gordon, to tell him to leave. But after all, the man had risen early to help search for Tombi. He shrugged. Gordon rolled the dagga in the paper and neatly sealed it by licking along the edge.

  When the pungent smoke started to rise, Witness took the joint and inhaled deeply a few times. He coughed a little, but after a while felt the tension ease. As Gordon babbled about nothing in particular, Witness listened qui
etly, taking a drag from time to time, letting his brain unwind.

  “They’re probably right,” he said at last. “Tombi will come home. I’ll be very cross with her!” That struck him as funny, and he giggled. Gordon chuckled, too, while he rolled another joint.

  Suddenly Witness grabbed Gordon, almost pulling him over. “Look at that man!” He pointed toward the road, his hand shaking. “You can see he’s a witch doctor!”

  Gordon looked at the shabbily dressed man walking along the road, perhaps looking for work. There seemed nothing unusual about him. He started to chuckle again.

  Witness turned to him angrily. “Can’t you see? He’s changed himself into a man but he still has hyena fur! He’s a witch doctor. He has Tombi!” Witness clambered to his feet, but Gordon grabbed his arm.

  “Witness, my friend, it’s just a man. He has torn clothes, not fur. No one is with him. Come, sit down again.”

  Tense, Witness watched the man until he was out of sight. Then he collapsed back under the tree and smoked more dagga. He started to count the branches of the tree, but they kept moving, confusing him. He laughed aloud. He tried to explain the joke to Gordon, but he was laughing, too. Witness closed his eyes. It was much easier to count the branches that way. Gordon watched him for a few minutes while he finished the joint. Then he climbed to his feet.

  “Witness will be all right here,” he said to himself. “He’ll sleep in the sun with good dreams.” He shook his head. “But he’ll wake again to his pain.” He rose to his feet and shambled away.

  “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, rra?” The young female voice seeped into Witness’s mind.

  “Tombi!” He jumped up. “Tombi, where have you . . .” He stared at the young woman, dressed in a T-­shirt and jeans, and the smiling man next to her.

  “You’re not Tombi! You’re not my daughter.” His temper flared. “I’ve lost my daughter. How dare you pretend to be her!” He gave her a shove but was so unsteady that he nearly fell over and had to grab the tree for support. He glanced at the man and shouted, “You’re old enough to be her father! Leave her alone!”