Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  Mabaku looked as though he had just tasted something extremely disagreeable. Why was life always so complicated? He needed a nice clean solution to the murder to get the press off his back, calm down the antigovernment hotheads, and make the commissioner happy. Right now, it was very important for him to make the commissioner happy, if he wanted to be the next deputy commissioner.

  Kubu shifted in his seat. “Let’s take a step back and think this through. None of us have doubts as to whether Maleng murdered Marumo. The problem we have is to find out why. If he was persuaded by someone else, we have to find who that was even if he was working for the government or the BDP. That would be our worst case from a political point of view. The country would erupt in turmoil. Personally, I don’t think that’s a likely scenario, but we can’t dismiss it.” He paused. “The only other possibility is that he did it of his own accord and, as the director says, that could provide the Freedom Party or someone else an opportunity to exploit the situation for their own gain. So how do we prevent that?”

  The others waited and let Kubu think.

  “The answer is the muti.”

  “Marumo’s muti?” Samantha asked with astonishment.

  “Yes, Marumo’s muti. It’s the only way to prevent the situation being exploited. We can’t do that by just announcing that we found muti in his desk. We’ll be accused of planting it—­that it’s also part of the conspiracy. We’ll have to follow the trail of Marumo’s muti. Find out who was the unfortunate person who died to make it. Find out who Marumo got it from and bring that person to trial. And have that person tell the court and the ­people of Botswana that Marumo ordered it, paid for it, and used it. That’s the only way to keep the conspiracy theory ­people quiet.”

  For a few moments nobody said a word. They all looked at Mabaku.

  “You’re right,” he said finally. “If we can’t find a clear motive for Maleng’s actions, we’ll have to show that Marumo wasn’t as clean as he presented himself. He may, in fact, have been an accessory to a muti murder. That will stop the Freedom Party critics in their tracks.” He paused. “Let’s do it. We’ve got to wrap up the Maleng case properly, but let’s see if we can trace this muti back to the witch doctor who made it.”

  He turned to Samantha. “Samantha, we may well be able to tie the murders you are looking into with Marumo’s muti even if neither of the missing girls was used for this muti. It’s not unlikely that the same witch doctor is involved in all of them. This is no longer a cold case. It’s scorching hot. I’m putting Kubu in charge of it. We need his experience.”

  “But—­”

  “This has nothing to do with you or your competence, Samantha. You’ll work closely with Kubu—­he’ll need lots of help. Understood?”

  Samantha didn’t look enthusiastic, but nodded her assent.

  “Okay. Now tell me what we’ve got on these missing-­girl cases.”

  Kubu and Samantha filled Mabaku in on the backgrounds of the two girls and what little they had discovered about their abductions—­Lesego in Mochudi and Tombi in Gaborone.

  “We think the girls knew the person who abducted them,” Kubu said. “But that may not have been the witch doctor. In each case—­according to the ­people who caught glimpses of the cars—­it was very quick, which suggests that the girl got in willingly.”

  “Why don’t you think the witch doctor would do it himself?” Mabaku asked.

  “I think it’s too risky. If someone else is caught, there may be no ties to the witch doctor, and if there are ties, the witch doctor would put a spell on the abductor, which would effectively shut him up.” Samantha shook her head in disgust.

  “Also it seems unlikely that the abductor used his own car, so Samantha’s been trying to come up with other possibilities,” Kubu added.

  “I checked the files of stolen cars but nothing seemed to match,” Samantha said. “I decided to take a look at rental cars, too, so I spoke to all the rental companies in the area. That was over a week ago. They’ve all promised me lists of cars rented on the days of the abductions and the day before with the names of who rented them. I’ll push them again to get them.”

  “Tell them if we don’t have them by Monday morning, I’ll find all sorts of reasons to make life difficult!” Mabaku was getting impatient. “And how do we link all this to Marumo in any case?”

  “Zanele has confirmed that the DNA found in Marumo’s muti is not from Tombi,” Kubu said. “She’s going to Mochudi tomorrow to get some DNA from Lesego’s sister to check whether it’s from Lesego.”

  “And if it is?” Mabaku asked.

  “If it is, we at least have some sort of timeline for when Marumo got it. We can then go back through his records to see if there’s a suspicious payment or a strange meeting. We’ll push hard on his girlfriend to see if she can remember anything. If it’s not from Lesego, we’re no worse off than we are now.”

  Mabaku thought about that for a moment and then nodded. “And no bodies have turned up?”

  Kubu shook his head. “No, and that’s very odd. Usually they’re buried in shallow graves or just dumped once the witch doctors have the parts they want. But there’s been nothing.”

  Mabaku frowned. “Well, what clues do you have to the witch doctor himself?”

  “When we interviewed the Gondo woman, she denied any involvement but said there was a witch doctor in town who deals with body parts. She refused to identify him because she said she was scared. But she did say it was a male. That may help a little.”

  There was a pause. “That’s all you’ve got at the moment?” Mabaku asked.

  Kubu and Samantha nodded.

  Mabaku frowned. “Not much to go on! Still we’ve got something.”

  He sighed and turned to Zanele. “Zanele, please wrap up the forensics as quickly as possible. In the meantime, I must inform the commissioner, and I’ll call a press conference for five o’clock to announce we have Marumo’s killer.”

  He waved at his three subordinates, dismissing them.

  As they walked out, Mabaku said under his breath, “Let’s pray this doesn’t stir up a nest of puff adders.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  MABULO OWIDO SAT ALONE at a table outside the BIG MAMA KNOWS ALL shebeen, a cold St. Louis beer in hand. He didn’t feel like going inside, where most of the action was. The stares made him feel uncomfortable, even after all these years. Of course, he wanted to make small talk to the Batswana girls who leaned provocatively against the counter, but he knew he would be brushed off. He wouldn’t like that.

  As if by magic, Big Mama walked out just as he drained the bottle.

  “Another one?” she asked in English. He nodded.

  A few minutes later, she walked out with two bottles in her hand. “Here, have one on me.” She put them down in front of him.

  “You don’t have to feel sorry for me!”

  “That’s not the reason. I want everyone to enjoy being here. The regulars aren’t very friendly tonight.” She smiled broadly. “And I want you to come back.”

  “Thanks,” he said, returning her smile.

  “Do you live around here?”

  “Yes, near Broadhurst Mall. Been there for about four months.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Tanzania. Left there just after New Year. There’s been too much trouble for ­people like me.”

  “Aaii.” Big Mama rolled her eyes. She’d heard about the awful problems for ­people like Owido in east Africa and knew that prejudice might follow him wherever he went.

  Owido looked down. ­“People hate us,” he whispered. “And yet we’re just the same as them. Except for this.” He held up a pinkish arm.

  Big Mama shook her head. “You don’t have to worry. Botswana is very tolerant. Our first president married a white woman, and some of the elders were very upset, but they got used to it
and got to love her like they loved him.”

  “I like it here. Some of the ­people I work with are very kind.”

  Big Mama leaned over and whispered in his ear, “We’ll find you a nice girl. It’s bad to be far from home and have no company.”

  Owido didn’t respond immediately as he was distracted by the huge cleavage just in front of his face.

  “Um. Yes. That would be nice,” he stammered eventually.

  “Next time you come, I’ll introduce you to someone. I know just the girl. You’ll see.” She winked at him, flashed her infectious smile, and returned to the patrons inside.

  He leaned back in his chair, put a bottle to his lips, and enjoyed the cold fizz as the beer slid down his throat. Not bad beer, he thought. Not as good as a Serengeti or a Ndovu. But pretty good.

  Two men walked into the shebeen, glanced at him, and sat at a nearby table.

  “Hi!” Owido said as they passed, but they ignored him.

  It’ll never change, he thought. He sighed and took another deep swig.

  FOR THE NEXT HOUR, Owido sipped more beers and chatted to Big Mama when she delivered them. She was interested in all sorts of things: what it was like in Tanzania, what he thought of Gaborone, where he worked, and how he liked it there. Also, she seemed intent on matchmaking, and kept mentioning a girl called Lemme. Someone she thought he would like. He was nervous of possible embarrassment, but Big Mama assured him that the young woman was not prejudiced, and promised to tell her in advance that Owido was an albino.

  Eventually he decided it was time to leave. He had about a twenty-­minute walk home. He said goodbye to Big Mama, grateful for her attention, and promised that he would return the following Saturday to meet Lemme. By then the beer had given him the courage. He even accepted her farewell hug, but couldn’t completely ignore the disapproving looks of some of the other patrons.

  Once he was in the open, he shivered. He wasn’t used to how quickly Gaborone’s temperature dropped now that winter was approaching. Where he came from, on the equator, the seasons hardly fluctuated.

  He turned into a narrow path that would take him to Segoditshane Way. He’d found the shortcut earlier in the evening, when he saw several ­people turn off the main sidewalk. It saved at least five minutes. Suddenly he had the impression that he was being followed. He glanced back and saw two men some way off. He picked up his pace, trying to distance himself from the men. At the same time he felt a little guilty of suspecting them—­after all, he was in Botswana now.

  Then he heard running footsteps. As he turned to look, a body crashed into him, sending him sprawling. Winded, he gasped for air. “Take my wallet,” he croaked. “There’s a little money in it.”

  One of the men pulled a knife, the other a heavy stick.

  “Take my watch, too.” Owido started to feel desperate.

  The man with the stick clubbed him on the side of the head. Owido could feel blood dripping down his face.

  “Please . . . ,” he pleaded. “Take everything.”

  Another blow on the head. The pain was terrible.

  “Careful! We don’t get paid, if he’s dead.”

  “Shit! All albinos should be dead.”

  A third blow. And Owido lost consciousness.

  “Quick. Let’s get him to the car.”

  The two men dragged Owido back along the path.

  “Makes me nervous; touching someone like this.”

  “He’s just a man like you and me. He just looks different.”

  “I’m told they have powerful spirits. I’m sure that’s why they want us to find one.”

  “Come on get on with it.”

  “Why do they want him alive?”

  “Shut up. You ask too many questions. Here, tie his hands and feet, and tape this rag in his mouth. I’ll fetch the car and bring it over there.” He pointed to the road running parallel to the path and just visible through the bushes. “Get him off the path and out of sight, then wait for me. Think you can manage that? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Ten minutes later they dragged Owido to the road, waited until no one was around, then lifted him into the trunk and slammed it shut. The leader of the two pulled out his cell phone and sent a text message.

  “I said we’d drop him off in half an hour.”

  WHEN OWIDO CAME TO his senses, he was being dragged behind the trunk of a large tree.

  “Aaah. Aaah.” Owido tried to shout for help. He thrashed around, pulling at the ties that bound him, causing them to cut into his skin.

  “Shut up, leswafe!” one of the men hissed and kicked him in the head.

  Owido winced and lay still. The rag in his mouth kept making him gag.

  This can’t be just a mugging, he thought. They would’ve left me where they attacked me. Did they take my wallet and watch? he wondered. The way he was tied, he couldn’t tell. Then he had a thought that frightened him. The men hadn’t worn masks; they weren’t worried about being seen. Did that mean they were careless, or did they know that it wasn’t important? He shivered, his mind going back to the atrocities that had happened at home in Tanzania.

  OWIDO WAS DESPERATE. HE was convinced that it hadn’t been a simple robbery. But why dump him in the middle of nowhere? Maybe it was just a bad joke—­leave him and let him suffer until somebody found him. That calmed him a little since no other explanation made sense.

  He lay there, wrists hurting from the struggles against the sharp plastic ties. Every now and again, he’d try to push himself closer to the road so he could be seen, but a steep bank prevented him. The problem was that he couldn’t align himself to go straight up. With his feet tied, he was able to go forward, but not change direction.

  After what seemed like a ­couple of hours, he heard a car driving slowly down the road. Maybe the men had returned to end the joke. He tried to shout again, but all that resulted was a muffled sound that would not be heard more than a few yards away.

  The car came closer, and he could see a torch beam shining in the ditch where he lay. As the car passed, the beam shone on him, passed, then returned. The car stopped. He heard a door open, but not shut. A few seconds later a man walked over to him, like a shadow in the night. He could barely see him, it was so dark. A beam of light shone in his face, blinding him.

  The figure leaned over and felt his neck. Then he pulled something from his pocket. The man grabbed Owido’s head and slid a bag over it. Owido could feel a drawstring being tightened at his neck. He struggled again, to no avail. All he succeeded in doing was adding to the pain in his wrists. He felt himself being dragged by the feet up the bank, lifted, and dumped in what he thought was the trunk of a car. There was a loud bang as the trunk was closed. Moments later the car drove off.

  It wasn’t long before the car stopped, then continued slowly. By the bumpiness, Owido thought they must be on a dirt road. A short while later, the car stopped again, and the engine was switched off. Again Owido heard a door open and close, followed by what he assumed was the lid of the trunk. Someone grabbed him under the arms and lifted him.

  He was carried and dragged for a few seconds. Then he was dumped on the floor.

  The drawstring around his neck was loosened and the bag pulled off. He glanced fearfully at the person above him, but there wasn’t enough light to see the face clearly.

  The figure stood up and walked out of sight. Seconds later a door closed and was locked, and Owido was left alone.

  THE ROOM SMELLED AS though it had just been cleaned with an antiseptic cleaner. Owido lay on his side for several hours wondering what was going on. Lying on his back was extremely uncomfortable due to his tethered wrists. Every now and again he’d push himself around the room to see if he could discover something about it. All he found was that it had some furniture in it—­a ­couple of pieces against a wall and another in the center of the room.

>   Then he heard a key turn in the lock. The door opened and a man walked in without turning on the light.

  “Get up! You can go to the toilet.”

  The man pulled him to his feet.

  Suddenly his arms were free.

  “Don’t try anything. Your feet are still tied.”

  Owido massaged his wrists. He felt the deep cuts from his struggles.

  “Take off your shoes and socks.”

  Owido bent over and undid his laces, but he fell over when he tried to lift one leg to take off the shoes. The man pulled off the shoes and socks.

  “Now your shirt.” Owido complied quickly, difficult as it was on the floor.

  “Stick your hands out. Put them together”

  The man put another tether on and pulled it tight. Then he bent over and cut the ties around Owido’s ankles. He unzipped the trousers and pulled them off, followed by the underpants.

  “Stand up!”

  Owido contorted his way to his feet.

  “The toilet’s down the hall. First door on the right.”

  Owido walked down a dark passage, looking for some way to escape. The door at the other end was closed. And locked, Owido thought.

  He turned into a small bathroom.

  “Do it!”

  Owido sat down while the man watched.

  When Owido was finished the man led him back to the room.

  “Lie down on that.”

  In the gloom Owido saw the man pointing at what looked like a table in the middle of the room. Owido first sat down and swiveled his legs onto the table. Then he lay down, feeling very vulnerable in his nakedness.

  He felt his legs being strapped to the table. Then his hands were free again, but immediately one was tied to something under the table. The same happened to the other arm. Owido couldn’t move. Finally he felt something across his throat. It was pulled quite tightly—­but not enough to make him choke.

  The man left the room without saying another word and locked the door.