Muti Nation

by Monique Snyman

  “This one’s a freebie if you can convince your priest to listen to my confession. Normal priests would have a fit if they hear my sins, but yours might survive the ordeal, considering what he does.”

  I imagine this feral woman confessing her deepest, darkest sins to Father Gabriel and smile. “I’m sure Father Gabriel won’t mind listening to your confession. His times at the church vary but he’s almost always there on a Thursday. I’ll tell him to keep an eye out for you.”

  Feyisola nods. “I appreciate it. Be safe, Esmé.”

  “You too, Feyisola.”

  Once outside the claustrophobic store—where rails of clothing and shelves of shoes, most likely manufactured by little hands in an Asian sweat shop, are on display—my lungs decompress with hot air from the sweltering African afternoon. The hustle and bustle of Marabastad continues unhindered even though the heat of the day seems to intensify with each passing minute. Between me and the main road is a group of people who are in the middle of what seems to be an intense debate. Their body odour invades my olfactory senses as I walk past, the smell pushing me almost to the point of nausea. Various degrees of ripeness cling to their clothes and skin, ranging from a sweet-smelling musk to an oppressive mouldy stench. Their faces glisten with perspiration, their clothes damp with moisture. This heatwave is a nuisance to everyone today.

  Dark faces turn darker as the UV rays wreak havoc. Fair faces, such as my own, turn several shades of red regardless of whatever SPF factor one wears. Blood boil and the merest irritation can turn to full-blown violence, all thanks to the weather. This persistent heat turns humans into animalistic versions of themselves.

  It’s not a day for outdoor undertakings.

  I make it to the main road before my cell phone begins to buzz in my purse. “Esmé speaking,” I answer the call without looking at the caller ID.

  “Where are you?” Howlen’s voice has an edge of urgency to it, giving me pause.

  “Marabastad. What’s wrong?”

  “Could you describe the state in which you found Valentine Sikelo on Friday?”

  “I think everything you need is in my report,” I huff. The traffic light blinks red for pedestrians. My car sits across the street, parked parallel against the curb.

  “I meant the state of the area, not the body itself,” Howlen corrects himself. “Describe it.”

  “The grass was yellowish-green and overgrown. There were a lot of bugs. A cluster of rocks was situated close to the body, and the two teenage lovebirds were sitting on a nearby log.”

  “Okay, well, you need to come down here and explain something to me.”

  “Explain what?” I check for traffic with a glance to the left and a look to the right before I jaywalk. “It’s a veld, Howlen. It looks like every other veld in Pretoria.”

  “I’ll wait for you at the Sasol garage.” He ends the call without further explanation.

  “Do you know how busy I am?” I ask the dead phone, my voice pitches higher than usual. I sigh, drop my cell phone into my purse and find my keys as soon as I’m safely across the street.

  Fifteen minutes later, my car is parked beside Howlen’s at the Sasol garage. Around us taxis flock to fill up their tanks and pedestrians wait for their lifts, chatting and shouting. The unabated cacophony shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.

  Do any of these people even realise what happened not five-hundred metres away? Do they care?

  I spritz more sunscreen onto my face while looking in the rear-view mirror.

  Howlen’s already waiting, more dishevelled than ever with his rolled-up shirt sleeves, loose tie, and uncombed hair. I can’t figure out if his unkempt look is due to frustration or because of the temperature.

  I find a baseball cap in my glove compartment and fit it onto my head. I evacuate the car again, missing the AC.

  “Your report made no mention of ecological anomalies in the area,” Howlen accuses before I’m even properly out of the car. In his hands is Valentine Sikelo’s case file, her name in thick letters against the brown cardboard sleeve. He opens the file to my typed report, pushes his index finger against a paragraph describing the scene I had witnessed first-hand, not three days ago, and glares daggers at me. “Explain.”

  “Ex—” I cut myself off as soon as I hear my own indignation. I take a deep breath and try once more in a more civilised manner, “Howlen, there were no ecological anomalies in the surrounding area. If there were I would have made a note of it.”

  “Come with me.” He closes the file and heads downhill, into the veld.

  I follow without argument though I’m burning for a fight.

  Beads of sweat roll down Howlen’s temple while a vein furiously throbs in his forehead. His knuckles are white from clutching the file in one hand, setting my own nerves on edge. I’ve seen him angry before but I’ve never seen him angry because of something as insignificant as an overlooked note. An ecological anomaly might’ve been a gross oversight on my part but unless such an abnormality would directly influence the outcome of a case I could easily overlook it. Therefore, I conclude he must have stumbled on something that wasn’t noticeable in the first place, making it inconsequential.

  As we venture closer to where Valentine Sikelo’s body was found, the scenery—as I remember it—changes considerably. Where healthy blades of yellow-tinged grass once grew tall, wilted patches of brownish-grey grass were there instead. Where nature once played a song of chirruping crickets, a void now replaces all the sounds. Even the air tastes sour the nearer we get. The irregularities are hair-raising to say the least.

  “You failed to mention the whole area seems to have its life force sucked out of it,” Howlen breaks the silence in an I-told-you-so manner, derogatory to my frayed patience.

  “Maybe the grass died from natural causes? The heatwave has been unbearable, and—”

  I stop talking when he crouches down in front of me and point to a dead crown plover in front of its nest. It looks to have had everything sucked out of it before it died; blood, organs, anything remotely life sustaining. There is no decomposition but it looks like it’s been dead a while, which doesn’t make sense whatsoever.

  “Oh,” I whisper.

  He picks up one of the bone white eggs in the nest, carefully cracks it open and holds it up to show me the inside.

  I crouch by his side, studying the purplish fossilized goo within, until, “What the hell is that?” I stand and take a step back, as though whatever’s happening is contagious.

  “That used to be a crown plover chick.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I have no idea. Whatever it was affected everything to its core in a three-hundred metre radius,” he says, standing. “I’ve already collected samples, but I’d like to know why this didn’t make it into your report.”

  “Probably because this wasn’t how the area looked when I was here on Friday,” I say.

  “So, you’re saying this whole area died in three days’ time?”

  “It seems like it.” I turn in a full circle, trying to get a better perspective on the perimeter. The vacuum of life, not only visible in the fauna and flora, is apparent in the air and soil too. This whole place feels evil. Such superstitious nonsense shouldn’t even enter my mind, and yet I cannot describe it as being anything other than evil. “Did you find something else worthwhile?”

  Howlen grunts an affirmative and sets off towards where Valentine’s body was found.

  Even the sky has a greyish tint to it as if the sun cannot penetrate the layer of morbidity in the veld. As an investigator, it’s imperative to be objective in every regard, especially when throwing around words like “evil,” “ritualistic murder” or “muti,” but tiptoeing around the obvious when something wicked lurks beyond the veil of normality is just plain stupid.

  Howlen stops in the clearing, points towards the exact spot that Valentine Sikelo last occupied.

  I stifle a surprised gasp.

  The crimson life force w
hich seeped out of the victim’s body post-mortem hadn’t been absorbed into the earth. In fact, the blood hadn’t coagulated at all. Aside from the thin jellying top layer, the blood is as runny as though it had spilled a minute ago.

  “There must be a scientific explanation for this,” I say.

  “I’m not aware of scientific explanations for anything I’ve seen at this site,” Howlen says, worry entering his voice. “This is your jurisdiction.”

  Yes, this is my jurisdiction, but I’m at a loss for relative plausibility. “I don’t know how to start figuring out what can cause this type of destruction. How do we debunk any of it?”

  He shrugs. “I’ll do my part by coming up with some sort of logical explanation for the police, but the rest is up to you, May.”

  “Maybe it’s time to bring Father Gabriel in on the case, too?” I mean it as a statement, but it comes out as a question.

  Howlen turns to me and I see my doubts reflect in his eyes.

  He says, “Well, if anyone’s going to bring up the controversial issues we’re pussy-footing around, it’s Father Gabriel.”

  Chapter 9

  Father Gabriel picks up a stick in the newly dubbed “Dead-Zone” while Howlen and I stand aside eagerly awaiting his assessment. The priest straightens after what feels like a lifetime, scratches at his salt and pepper beard and looks to the heavens. He grunts, his harrumph sounding indifferent.

  He steps around a few randomly strewn rocks to reach the crown plover nest and investigates it in silence. He then uses the stick to push the bird onto its side, careful not to touch it. Father Gabriel peers underneath the crown plover, gently replaces it on the ground, and turns his attention to the nest.

  The egg Howlen had cracked for my perusal lies amongst the others. The priest examines it at length.

  He straightens and looks toward the sun before making his way to where Valentine’s unabsorbed blood is still visible. Father Gabriel tugs at his collarino shirt, turns toward us and reveals his disgust in a grimace.

  I’m about to ask what his thoughts are when Howlen nudges me with an elbows in my ribs.

  Father Gabriel walks toward the log where the traumatised teenagers sat during my initial investigation.

  Howlen’s hand brushes against mine, a calming gesture, and the tip of his pinkie traces shapes in my cupped hand. The naughty smile hidden in the corner of Howlen’s mouth is disconcerting.

  I appreciate his change in demeanour, but I cannot allow my focus to stray towards guilty indulgences.

  Howlen crosses his arms and takes a pre-emptive step away before Father Gabriel can witness our minor flirtation.

  When the priest turns around to face us, however, it’s clear we are the least of his worries.

  He seems to have aged in the moments it takes to return to us. His shoulders sag as though he carries a heavy burden of bad news and the corners of his lips are downturned. This is not normal.

  “We are amidst the remnants of an ancient evil trying to pass into our world,” Father Gabriel says. He waves a hand behind him before he swiftly crosses himself. “Whoever is responsible for channelling this dark power is either a complete idiot or an incredible sorcerer.”

  “Are we in any danger by being here?” I ask.

  Father Gabriel surveys our surroundings and pulls his shoulders up to his ears. “I bet you’ve been in danger since you got involved with this case. Fortunately, whatever was here got what it came for and left,” he says.

  “The residual wickedness will persist for days,” says the priest, “if not weeks, but I’m going to bless the area and pray for nature’s speedy recovery anyway.”

  My cell phone buzzes at the same time Howlen’s rings, loud enough to wake Mount Olympus’ sleeping gods.

  Father Gabriel dismisses us both with a singular nod and turns away to do whatever he needs to do.

  “Howlen speaking.” He takes a few steps in the direction of the Sasol garage.

  “Hello,” I say following a few steps behind him.

  “Esmé, Mosepi here.” Detective Mosepi’s voice is scratchy. It might be a bad connection or he’s spent the whole morning chain-smoking his Marlboro cigarettes, either way he sounds different. “Something strange is going on at the van Rooyen house.”

  “Clarify what you mean with strange?”

  “Have you ever spent a night alone in a coroner’s office?” Detective Mosepi asks, but continues before I can utter an answer. “It feels like every horrible memory, each bad experience, and all of your worst nightmares combined into one terrifying, corporeal emotion. And it is draped over the site. The air even tastes sour! You need to come as soon as you can.”

  “I—”

  “I swear it’s not normal,” he cuts me off, scratchy voice turning scratchier with panic. “Even the ecologists are stumped.”

  “You called in ecologists?” I shake my head, unsure as to whether I should be surprised, insulted or chuffed. No, I feel all three emotions at once. I’m surprised this isn’t an isolated incident, insulted because Detective Mosepi didn’t call me immediately, and chuffed because the ecologists can’t do our job. “Listen, we’ve come across something similar in the veld where Valentine Sikelo’s body was found. I suggest you clear out the area until we can get there and grab some samples. Also, I’ll bring Father Gabriel along.”

  “Please do. I have a neighbourhood full of freaked out residents who could use an explanation for…” He pauses. “Oh, just get here, damn it.” The call ends abruptly.

  Father Gabriel pops out of nowhere and gives me a look, while he rolls a blade of dead grass between his forefinger and thumb.

  “May,” Howlen calls over his shoulder, pocketing the cell phone before turning to face me. “Your grandfather’s been incarcerated at O.R. Tambo International Airport.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week. Wait. What?”

  Howlen wipes a film of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Customs locked him up in an office because he refused to declare his newly acquired hand of glory, whatever that is, and he doesn’t have the right importing permits.”

  “Sweet heavens, why now?” I trek back to my car. Leave it to Christiaan Snyders to be untimely with his eccentricities. “Call Detective Mosepi and get the details of the van Rooyen house situation,” I call to Howlen. “And tell Precious she needs to refill our anxiety prescriptions today—before we both follow Gramps’ descend into madness!”

  ~

  The most pleasant time to visit Pretoria is in September and October when the old jacaranda trees are in full bloom and the whole city turns into one large purple-coloured, fragrant sea of blossoms. The beautiful trees lining the thoroughfares—with their slender trunks, delicate leaves, and clusters of rich lilac blossoms—lend an unprecedented attractiveness to Pretoria. And pedestrians are provided with shady retreats throughout the warm, albeit usually agreeable, spring months.

  The same cannot be said for Johannesburg.

  I’m positive Johannesburg’s residents will disagree with my absolute loathing of South Africa’s renowned metropolis, but I’ve never noticed a single good thing about it. The streets are too narrow and the skyscrapers are too high. If shop owners didn’t hose down the sidewalks in front of their stores every morning, pedestrians would walk through urine and faeces. Winter means a blanket of smog capable of giving a person lung cancer by staring at it for too long. Navigating through traffic is another horrendous part of Jo’burg living which I don’t care for.

  Most tourists don’t see these negativities because Sandton and Rosebank are far enough from the hell commonly referred to as: The City of Gold.

  First impressions are important, which is possibly why the O.R. Tambo International Airport sits comfortably on the edge of Johannesburg, near the suburban Kempton Park region. Here, it’s relatively clean and the streets are in good shape. Here, you don’t get to see the crime and ugliness giving the whole country a bad name. Here, you start your Proudly So
uth African adventure—usually heading away from the metropolis and towards Sun City, the Kruger National Park, or Jo’burg’s sister-city, Pretoria.

  As I walk through the almost clinical, distinctly impersonal airport to talk some sense into my grandfather, I’m reminded of a Douglas Adams quote in one of his lesser known works: It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression, “As pretty as an airport.” The O.R. Tambo, even with its shiny surfaces and top-of-the-range technology, doesn’t come close to being described as “pretty.” I’ve seen worse in better-off countries, sure, but an airport is an airport is an airport. Each one looks identical to me. Even the customs officers, wearing their spotless uniforms and feeling oh-so protected in their bubble of self-importance looks the same as any other country’s custom officers.

  Déjà vu.

  I know the drill by now.

  Find the supervisor. Beg for a few minutes alone with my grandfather. Convince Gramps I will somehow retrieve whatever it is he tried to smuggle into or out of the country. Then pay the fine. Sometimes fluttering my eyelashes helps lessen the fine. Other times a bit of cleavage does the trick. This time I see customs officers glare and sneer as I’m led to the holding room. One has a recently broken nose and droplets of blood still stain his collared shirt. Another one sporting a scar across his upper lip has been scratched viciously on his forearms.

  My usual wiles won’t work.

  I hear Gramps long before I see him. The sea couldn’t wash him clean from the obscenities he spits to no one and everyone. The supervisor clucks his tongue as he unlocks the door but otherwise he’s quiet.

  When I enter the office I say nothing.

  What can I possibly say to explain my grandfather’s actions? Should I tell them how Christiaan Snyders is a brilliant man? How he’s a self-made millionaire (in British pounds instead of South African rands)? Should I explain how he’s a beloved eccentric, respected by academics and police across the world? Or would it be better to say he’s a collector of weird and wonderful items which gives the Warrens Occult Museum in Virginia a run for its money? I could divulge how he’s the best in the business where the occult is concerned. I can even go so far as to announce how Christiaan Snyders is the best grandfather a girl could ever want. This violent maniac is not who he really is.