“Sir, I, uh.” I cleared my throat and coughed. “This cough. It’s not a cold. I need something for it.”
“Where did you get this ‘cough’?” the sangoma asked.
Lowther elbowed me. “Tell him,” he mouthed.
“I was at a house. I think I caught something.”
“You were at the white house,” the sangoma said. “And you caught the black peccadillo.”
“The what?” I asked, aghast.
“Black evil,” Lowther said.
“I have what you need,” the sangoma said. He glared at me and with a warning in his voice, he said, “A man was in here asking if you bought the book from my shop. He described you perfectly.”
“Jeffrey,” I said with a nod.
“He said you would be here,” the sangoma said, “looking for muti.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” I asked, agitated. “I don’t have the book anymore, because he took it.”
“He also told me I was not to sell you any muti.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said. “Now what?” I asked Lowther.
“I want seeds,” said the sangoma.
“We have plenty of those,” Lowther said.
I glared at Lowther.
“Here,” Lowther said, handing me a few seeds.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “These are mine.”
“Give them to him. We’ll get more, later. Right now, you need the muti.”
“Fine,” I said, giving away more of my precious seeds.
The sangoma snapped to his ithwasa. The ithwasa responded by walking behind a counter and retrieving a small bundle wrapped in white gauze.
“Make sure it’s the real thing,” I said to Lowther as I slowly peeled open the gauze. An eyeball, still wet and bloody, looked up at me. Sickened, I quickly wrapped it back up.
“It’s the real thing,” Lowther said. He grabbed me by the elbow, and we walked out the door.
“What if he comes after me for more?” I asked. “You said this guy was dangerous.”
“He is,” Lowther said. “And we are going right back to your hotel room. I will make you the drink, you will write a story threatening to expose the sangoma. Post it tonight. This way, he won’t do a thing. Because if he does, you will name him, and other sangomas will know he has seeds, and they will come after him.”
Inside South Africa’s Sangoma Shops
Cures and Curses in One-stop Shopping
Mason Barry Thursday 9 May 2013
Some people call them witch doctors, but sangomas are trusted advisors in medicine, healings, love, and money. They often use muti, medicine used from animal body parts.
Not all sangomas are to be trusted. There are those who deal in the black arts, selling muti made from harvested human body parts. They promise to get you your heart’s desire, no matter the cost.
Sangomas are rampant and often add to the squatter problem. So, in 2001, the city of Johannesburg allotted 300 market spaces to sangomas.
The shop I visited was dark and mysterious, with animal parts hanging from the ceiling, candles and concoctions for every ache, bones, sticks, and magic books. Everything has a price, but not all of it was affordable. The taller the order, the higher the price.
I purchased what he promised was very strong muti for a very strong cough. I don’t know if it will work. But if it does, he and I will be doing business again.
40—Jeffrey Thurmont
I folded the newspaper and slapped it on top of my office desk.
“Interesting,” I murmured under my breath.
Mason’s story ran in Die Burger morning edition after having first appeared online.
Mason hadn’t said in his article which sangoma shop he’d been to, but I had a good notion as to where.
I was disappointed. I thought the sangoma and I had an understanding. If he gave Mason the muti, then … I hated to do it. But I’d have to put the man out of business.
And how to deal with William McPhee. Detestable American. He called under the pretense of law services. I invited him to the office. He reminded me too much of a young, vibrant Edward.
He arrived clutching his cell phone and a briefcase, presumptuous and arrogant. His hair was cut with precision, his clothes crisp. Shoes too shiny. He brought malevolence into the room with him, and I would make sure he left with it sevenfold. What a shame it would be to watch him wither away. Heh, heh, heh.
We made small talk. He commented on my accent. “It’s difficult to place,” he said.
I didn’t bother telling him my origins. No point. I aimed a strict stare at him, shooting him with hatred. The shadows in all the corners of my office thickened.
He became nervous, constantly touching his briefcase in the same spot while it rested on his lap. “I’m a book collector,” he announced, blinking rapidly. “I’ve been lead to believe you are the owner of a volume I’ve been searching for. I’d be willing to pay handsomely,” he said. Almost begging.
He put a hand to his moist forehead. His upper lip trembled. “Something wrong?” I asked, not really caring. I leaned back comfortably in my chair.
The room darkened another shade, and he glanced around, distracted. “It’s cold in here,” he said, shivering. I grinned wickedly. “I have the book you want, and it comes at a price. If you’re willing to pay, then it’s all yours.”
“I am a very rich man,” he said, opening his briefcase. He withdrew a plastic bag. “A man named Mason Barry gave me these.”
His face melted from worry to horror—he sensed my disdain and feared it—as I stood and circled his chair. I snatched the bag. Four seeds.
“Mason nicked these,” I said. “They’re from her garden. They’ll help with ailments. And other things. But Mason did not include the dirt he picked up along with the seeds.” I held up the bag between our faces, and we both examined the seeds. “He did not give you shavings from the stone that litters her ground.”
McPhee wrinkled his brow.
“The seeds included in her book are mixed with shavings from the philosopher’s stone,” I said. I folded my arms behind my back, the bag wadded in my fist. “The legendary stone has been reduced to pebbles, shavings, and dust. It covers the ground in her garden. When Mason stole the seeds, he inadvertently took the dirt, too. So, for Mason, the alchemy worked, to a degree. You knew he needed the book, but you didn’t know about the dirt.”
McPhee’s face turned red.
“To be honest,” I said, “Mason has not realized the importance of the dirt. It was on his fingers, his pants. He didn’t think to include them in this sample, because he doesn’t know better.”
“He promised more,” McPhee said, swallowing hard. “If I were to produce the book from you.” McPhee snapped his briefcase shut. “I have powerful friends, too, you should know. If anything were to happen to me …”
“I don’t think they’d miss you,” I said. “Did you know the author is my daughter? No? I’m surprised Mr. Barry did not share that bit of information with you.”
“Someone on the Internet sent me a seed packet,” McPhee said. “I used them all, and I produced fool’s gold. I need the book to complete the process. I came to South Africa for that book. I’m not leaving without it.”
“If you are willing to transfer every American dime you have into a specified account—right now—then I will give you the book. If you are willing to give me the life of your wife and children, then I will give you access to as many seeds and shavings as you can carry.”
“Are you insane?” McPhee asked, scowling. He pushed back his chair and stood tall enough to meet my eyes. He held up his cell phone as a form of protection. A number was being dialed.
“Trying to call someone?” I asked.
His screen went black. His face turned white.
“Sit back down before you fall,” I said.
McPhee dropped into the chair. His briefcase clattered to the floor along with the phone.
“You were the one who came to me
,” I said. “This is my office. My book. My deal. Take it or leave it,” I said, rustling the bag between my fingers, obnoxiously as possible.
“Come, now. Think like a business man,” I said, rustling the seed bag. “How much money do you have in your accounts right now? You would be exchanging copper Lincolns for green Franklins. And your family? Why, you hardly see them as it is. Am I right? A man in your position would be too busy. Your wife is probably bored. Lonely. I’ll bet she’s already found someone to take your place every time you leave.”
“No,” he said.
However, that’s not what he meant.
William McPhee was scared, but with assurance, I could say he saw his family’s weight in gold. He pictured a prettier wife and better behaved children. He placed himself in my position, standing before other wannabes, making similar offers.
I pocketed the seed bag. “Think about my offer some more,” I said, heading toward my office door. “Call my office by midnight.” I opened the door for him. “Otherwise, you and I will never speak again.”
McPhee gathered his things and shuffled out of my office. I had already decided no matter what his answer, he would not step foot on her property and live another day.
Mason and McPhee’s Internet contact was no mystery to me. As far as those two Americans were concerned, it could have been a sangoma. But I doubted anyone who knew better would part with seeds. My daughter could have sent the e-mails and the seeds. But that wasn’t her style. Postal workers did not come to the house; she would not have left the property to mail a package. She did not own a computer.
Which left one person. Not a person. It. Mr. Granger, a fly in the swarm, had lied. Of course. Granger had spoken truthfully when saying the girl without a name had no authority over the supernatural. Yet, if she had no authority, then she had no power to imprison Granger. The demon didn’t need me to open a hole in the wall for release. Tricky, slimy Granger had been free to come and go, unbound by her.
“The power of distraction is most effective when it comes to infiltrating the enemy’s mind, stifling distrust.
“Noise is the easiest. Does he hear our hum? Is the pitch high enough when you whine in his ears? If you find he is becoming deadened to these tactics, then employ human devices: the television, the computer, the windows. Tempt him to leave the television on at all times. Point out the usefulness of the computer. Draw his attention to the goings on outside his window. But be careful. Use these devices only when necessary. We can’t read minds, but if you know your man-maggot as you should, then you will know exactly what he is thinking and what he wants by the look on his face. You do know him well, don’t you?”
“Yes, master. I do. I will carry out your instructions, master.”
41—Mason, the Reporter
Lowther formed the muti into a ball. He scraped off a sliver and then mixed it into a plastic cup, stirring with a plastic spoon. Keeping his position in the corner of the room, he reached out from the dark shadow and handed me the cup.
“I can’t believe how well this stuff works,” I said, throwing the contents back in one swig. “I should never have doubted you.”
“There’s been a few missing kids lately,” Lowther said.
“Did you hear about missing kids on the news?” I asked, leaning toward the TV, paying closer attention to the current topic. The news had moved on to the weather. Hot. Always hot.
“It hasn’t made the news,” Lowther said. “Yet.”
I turned to Lowther. “Why?”
“There are those who do not want the story exposed to the public. You’d be writing breaking news.”
“No one keeps that kind of information under their pillow. A kid goes missing, and it makes the news immediately.”
“Oh, really?” Lowther asked. “You sit here all day long watching this idiot box and have you seen one story on a missing child?”
I turned to the TV. True, I had not seen anything about missing children. But I hadn’t been paying much attention either. “Back home in America, the story would be a headliner. Amber alert.”
“No Amber alert here,” Lowther said. “You are far, far away from home.” Lowther smiled. He only smiled when he stated something that made my stomach fall. However, I found myself returning Lowther’s grin. I was far away from home in another country, turning fiction into fact.
Lowther was saying something else. His lips moved, but I couldn’t distinguish Lowther from the other voices. I turned off the TV. The sound emanating from it became a nuisance along with the other noise in the air, agitating me.
“I was watching that,” Lowther said. “Turn it back on or we’ll miss the segment on the townships. You haven’t visited any of the local townships, have you?”
“The shantytowns? I’ve seen them. There’s one not too far from here.” I envisioned the slums, the congested, garbage-strewn wasteland areas I had seen from the road while driving through Cape Town. Dilapidated huts were erected like houses of cards, ready to collapse at any moment. Corrugated, iron sheets covered the plywood structures that looked like they had been slapped together overnight. Plastic bags littered the roofs and the garbage heaps. Disorganized electrical lines stretched above the huts from one pole to another. Hung laundry drooped to the ground. An occasional tree or bush popped into the scenery, entirely out of place. A gang of kids could be seen in the distance running in and out through the pathways amongst the huts.
The colorful structures were the ones I stopped to look at as my car idled along the roadside. Red, yellow, and blue of the South African flag was painted on the crooked doors. Sides of the huts were painted in green, bright blue, and red. Some metal roofs were green, some red.
“The townships are the perfect place to start asking questions,” Lowther said. “They are populated with the poor. Those people are ignored by the police and the government. They would love to talk to someone like you.”
“And what would they be able to tell me?”
“In the shanties, secrets are meant to be shared. When a child goes missing and the police will not investigate, a form of vigilantism arises. The government doesn’t rule there, the mob does. And if it’s mysticism and ghost stories you are after, if you want to see magic, then the townships are where you need to go. I will tell you our sangoma has been getting his muti somewhere, from someone.”
“My muti has come from a child?”
“Powerful muti comes from the innocent, the ones who scream the loudest, whose souls call out for revenge.”
“Fuck.”
“Don’t worry. Report only what you discover there, what you are told. He’ll get caught, I promise.”
“I’m going right now. Will there be police?”
“Eh, they show up, act like they care, to keep the people calm.”
“Will they talk to me?”
“You will be the first and only reporter there. You will take the police by surprise. I’m sure they will answer a question or two.”
I changed into shorts and a tee shirt, pulled off my socks, and slid on flip-flops. “You’re coming with me, right?” I asked.
South Africa’s Embarrassment—
Witchcraft And Murder
Torso Found; Body Parts Believed to be
Harvested for Magic
Mason Barry Monday 13 May 2013
The Unit—the only police force in the world dedicated to supernatural crimes (located in Pretoria, South Africa)—has stumbled upon a gruesome murder scene. A male torso was discovered in a township shanty outside of Johannesburg, South Africa.
According to Inspector Tseme Dusu, a significant portion of murders and mutilations in South Africa are a result of muti ritual murders. Witchcraft is a predominant and growing religion in South Africa, and the Unit has investigated thousands of witchcraft related killings since the force opened about thirty-three years ago.
Muti is the isiZulu word for medicine. A muti-murder involves a sacrificial killing where the body parts and limbs are harvested fo
r use in magical medicines. “These murders are violent and are committed while the victim is cognizant,” Inspector Dusu said. “Sangomas, often referred to as witch doctors, will hold their victim down, and the more the person screams, the stronger the magic becomes in the medicine.” Besides murders, suicides are the most sought-after victims from which to harvest body parts due to the suffering involved in taking one’s own life.
The police do not think the torso will ever be identified. The teeth and fingers used to identify a body are missing from the victim and the torso has been drained of blood. Many people are reported missing on a daily basis. Most are never found. Inspector Dusu said, “There are about sixty-eight murders a day committed in South Africa. While not all of them are muti-murders, all of them are a tragedy, and the muti motive is an embarrassment to our country.”
Missing Children May Be Muti Victims
Child’s Skull and Bones Found
Outside Cape Town
Mason Barry Wednesday 15 May 2013
The skull and rib bones from a small child have been found outside a shanty near Cape Town. Forensic tests on the bones have concluded the body underwent severe trauma. Police have called the findings inconclusive, but the initial report on the death has the Cape Town locals fearing this may have been yet another muti-murder, a sacrificial killing. One local, who wished to remain anonymous, said, “This has come too close to home. And a child? I don’t understand why people do such things.”
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