Muti Nation

by Monique Snyman

  “In Pretoria, though?” Howlen grimaces.

  “Yes, in Pretoria,” I say. “We do have dams around here, you know. There’s Hartbeespoort Dam, Bronkhorstspruit Dam, Roodeplaat Dam—”

  “I never thought you’d enjoy fishing,” Howlen interrupts me.

  “You never asked.”

  “The last thing we need is a creative muti-killer,” Gramps says.

  “And on that note,” Precious says, standing. “I think it’s time for us to go home before we embark on catching this sick individual.”

  “But—” Gramps is cut off by one of Precious’ infamous murderous glares.

  He sighs. “Fine, but I’m not happy about it.”

  “We’ll work on your pursuit of happiness in the morning, Chris.” Precious heads to the door and switches off the light of the conference room without further discussion. “Out.”

  Howlen groans in unison with grandpa’s breathy cusses. The three of us drag ourselves into the hallway and Precious locks the conference room’s door behind us.

  By now, we know not to argue with our loyal secretary, because she always wins.

  From Gramps’ office the incessant clangs of the annoying cymbal monkey start. It is indeed time to leave.

  We all part ways when the office building is locked up. Precious drives Grandpa homewards, while Howlen and I fumble around our cars in the parking lot. I’m deep in thought and silent as the dead.

  When it is clear Precious won’t turn back to check on us, or the office, Howlen walks over to me.

  “Where have you been tonight?” he asks as I slip out of the driver’s seat and lean against the back door. He’s admiring my dress, shamelessly tracing my body with his gaze.

  I ignore him, feeling my own wants and needs multiply under his stare. I know he wants to touch me, but hesitates for some reason. I take his hand in mine, tenderly brushing my fingertips against his palm, before I place it on my hip. I step closer, set my own hand on his cheek and draw his face closer to mine.

  “May.” His voice is pained. “Where have you been?” he repeats, frustration evident in his tone. His hand moves down my hip and toward my upper-leg, scrunching up the crimson fabric in his fist.

  I grin, brushing my nose against his, our lips almost touching at times, but never quite reaching. “I was working a possible lead, like I told you when I left.”

  He backs me up against my car, my dress becoming shorter with every breath we take. Hot wind licks my bare legs. The sound of late-night traffic on the other side of the wall drones in the background. It’s exhilarating, whatever this is.

  “You said you had an appointment with a dominatrix at a residential swinger’s club.” Howlen’s free hand glides down my neck. He cups one breast through my dress a bit harder than he’d usually dare before moving down my side.

  I close my eyes and try to control my laboured breathing.

  “Were you joking?”

  “No,” I whisper, opening my eyes.

  A mischievous smile plays in the corner of my lips. My hands move down to his belt, loosening it with the precision of a pickpocket.

  He barely registers my quick movements. Instead, the same hand that’s been groping me through my dress snakes its way into my hair.

  Howlen pulls my locks backward until I’m forced to look into his eyes. It doesn’t hurt, though secretly I think I might like a bit of pain served with my pleasure.

  He kisses me hard enough to bruise my lips, wedging my mouth apart with his tongue. However long his domineering kiss lasts I can’t be sure, but when he pulls away I’m breathless with lust.

  Howlen lets go of me and steps away. “Goodnight.”

  “Wha—?” I snap out of my wanton delirium and watch him walk to his car with purpose. “Are you fucking kidding me?” The screech of disbelief was undeliberate, yet not entirely undignified. “Howlen?”

  “Go home, Esmé,” he says, closing his car door. “Go home, before we do or say things we’ll both regret tomorrow.”

  I stare, dumbfounded, as he drives away.

  Chapter 14

  MISSING PERSON

  ABRAHAM AMIN

  Description:

  SAPS Case Number: OB07/09/15

  Age: 39 Years

  Gender: Male

  Eyes: Brown

  Hair: Black

  Build: Average

  Weight: 98 kg

  Height: 1.81 m

  Last Seen: Monday, 07/09/2015

  Last Contact: Monday, 07/09/2015

  Last Seen Wearing: Pinstripe suit, white shirt, purple and blue paisley tie, black dress shoes platinum Rolex, and white gold cufflinks with diamonds.

  Abraham Amin was last seen at an ambassadorial mansion in Moreleta Park, Pretoria, on the 7th of September 2015, at approximately 19:00. Witnesses stated that an unknown person evaded security personnel on the premises and knocked several attendees unconscious with a club before abducting Abraham from the embassy.

  Abraham Amin suffers from diabetes and is in need of immediate medical attention. His vehicle, a black Mercedes Benz CLA-Class Edition 1, was found abandoned on the N1 Southbound, before Lynnwood. His cell phone was found in the glove compartment, along with his wallet.

  If you know of Abraham’s whereabouts, or know of someone who may be able to assist us in finding him, please contact your nearest police station immediately.

  Alternatively, please call: 0800-1177-1416 or email: findabraham@gmail.com with any details concerning his location.

  REWARD OFFERED

  Chapter 15

  These days the Internet is widely available in South Africa and this gives people the opportunity to explore other religions to their heart’s content. Whether this is due to curiosity or from a valid quest for spiritual enlightenment, I cannot say. What I can say is that although it is a constitutional right to enquire and/or practice whatever faith you wish, it is your responsibility to adhere to the laws set forth in the Constitution of the Republic of South Africa (1996). Unfortunately, the notable increase in so-called vampirism, spiritual intimidation, voodoo, and a variety of other harmful religious practices—especially in schools—has many uneducated persons making wild accusations about things they don’t understand. And they don’t understand, because they are too scared to climb out of the comfortable holes they’ve dug for themselves.

  I should know. I work with these brainiacs more often than I’d like.

  They mostly show their faces in and around schools when the media reports on some or other “religious” crime committed by teenagers. With a catchy headline like: “TEENAGERS KILL IN THE NAME OF SATAN” or “SATANIST TEENAGERS KILL GIRL (16) AS SACRIFICE,” how can one not take notice? This draws together “concerned” government officials, which includes the South African Police Service (SAPS), the National Prosecuting Authority (NPA), the departments of basic education, social development and health, as well as teachers, pupils, parents and faith-based speakers. Sadly, these people are as ignorant as they are idiotic, and the only things they know are what the Satanic Panic instigators of old forces down everyone’s throats. This includes, but is not limited to, trying to discern the so-called “warning signs of possible occult-related discourse,” because obviously the Biblical Devil isn’t smart enough to blend in with the times.

  It’s backwards thinking, in every sense of the phrase.

  In the Harmful Religious Practice pamphlet, released by the Department of Justice and the Department of Constitutional Development in 2014, the ignorance and propaganda is slathered on so thick it’s amazing we don’t burn women at the stake for menstruating. This pamphlet neatly outlines every possible symptom of “being influenced by a harmful or dangerous belief or practice.” It covers everything from teenage hormonal changes, including unusual aggression, being quiet, or becoming secretive, to warning against gothic culture, and condemning hematolagnia (anyone who shows a fascination with blood, especially human blood). That’s simply the beginning of the nonsense these backstreet “
occultists” teach kids. At best people are labelled as being weird. At worst, people get killed in the name of God.

  For years, academics have tried to prompt intelligent approaches to occult-related problems but the possibility of a modern witch-hunt makes it impossible for them to be heard over the incessant bloodlust of ignorance. That’s why I tend to avoid those who are unwilling to learn even the basics of occult-related matters, much to my grandfather’s dismay. The truth is I don’t have the patience. Gramps can try to deprogram the country until he’s blue in the face but while the government backs “God’s Warriors” or whatever the media calls them now, he won’t get through to anybody.

  Dealing with the media is another peeve. They want sensationalism, not facts. They want the “SATANIC YOUTH BLAMES HEAVY METAL MUSIC FOR MURDER” headline, not the mediocre “ATTENTION SEEKING TEENAGER KILLS” truth. They are a large part of the problem, which is why I give those vultures a wide berth every time I encounter them. Howlen can handle the reporters if he feels so inclined, he has a face for television.

  Oh, and don’t even get me started on social media. Thanks to Google everyone’s an expert on everything, especially when it comes to delegating how I should do my job. Well, fuck you very much for the comments, folks, but until you’ve overturned a bucket only to find a child’s severed head arranged in their intestines, you don’t know anything.

  There is evil in this world, yes, but believe me when I say evil cannot be pigeonholed.

  Take Jencko Graça for instance.

  Jencko Graça is a doctor, a gynaecologist to be exact, who works at a free-clinic in Pretoria West. Jencko wakes up three days a week and drags himself to the free-clinic where he provides a service to women who cannot afford gynaecological care elsewhere. The rest of the time he works at an abortion clinic in Pretoria CBD. Now, don’t get me wrong, just because he performs abortions doesn’t mean he’s evil. In fact, in South Africa—where the rape statistics continue to climb and where victims range from a few months old to well into their golden years—clinics where safe abortions are conducted are, without a doubt, essential. After all, a twelve-year-old girl, raped by her uncle, is in no position to care for a baby. From an economic perspective, children cannot survive on air and water alone. As for religious standpoints, well, even if most people in South Africa don’t condone abortion, I’ve never seen anyone picketing at their local Mary Stopes Clinic.

  Jencko Graça isn’t evil for doing his job.

  The janitor at his clinic, however, is an evil son of a bitch.

  Amorphous clouds of smoke accompany Rochester Rhalapele as he stands on the fire-escape’s landing, staring into the alley behind the abortion clinic. He’s in his uniform, sucking greedily on a cigarette, scratching his head. Nothing about the man screams criminal, and yet there’s always something off about people in the human-muti business. I can’t explain it exactly but I get a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach, as though a boot has lodged itself in my gut. Detective Mosepi and I sit quietly in an empty apartment looking out on the alleyway watching our suspect’s every move. We’re far enough to observe him without Rochester being able to observe us. When his break ends Rochester opens the back door and slips inside again, unaware of being watched.

  I turn to the scowling detective who scribbles ferociously on his notepad as he places the binoculars on the dusty windowsill.

  “I don’t understand why I’m here,” I tell him, glancing at my wristwatch. It’s still early, 10:14 a.m. I should be in my office catching up on some paperwork, not sitting on a plastic chair to keep tabs on a cleaner with criminal intent. Besides, I have a bone to pick with Howlen. “Does this have anything to do with my current cases?”

  “Maybe,” Detective Mosepi says under his breath.

  “But maybe not, right?”

  “Maybe not.”

  I groan. “I hate stakeouts, especially if I don’t know why we’re going after small fry.”

  “Small fry can be used to bait big fish,” Detective Mosepi says, looking up from his notepad. “You’re never this antsy. Even as a child you weren’t jittery. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” I mumble and force my leg to stop jumping up and down.

  “Okay, don’t tell me, but I’m inclined to assume the worst then.” Detective Mosepi goes back to doodling on his notepad. “Is it drugs?”

  “What?”

  “You need a fix, don’t you?” He’s only half serious, but it’s enough to make me swear. “I told you I’d assume the worst.”

  “So you think the worst I can do is drugs? You don’t know me very well,” I say. “And no, it’s not drugs. It’s personal.”

  “Ah,” he tries to hide the amusement in his voice, but fails. “I wondered how long you and Howlen Walcott Ph.D. would be able to have this in-office romance without it affecting your work.”

  “It’s not—”

  “I’m not a B.E.E. employee, Esmé. I earned my position the old fashioned way, by being a fantastic detective.” He glances at the landing where Rochester earlier stood. “I’ve known about the two of you for, what’s it been now, two years?”

  “I hate it when you do that.”

  “Unlike your father I can’t turn this,” he pushes his pencil to his temple, “off.” Detective Mosepi closes his notepad and lays it down on his lap. “Rochester Ramphele sells medical waste from this facility on the black market at high prices. He’s an intelligent businessman, a go-between for those who don’t want to get their hands dirty, but he made one fatal mistake.”

  “Which is?”

  “Nobody can fool the taxman.” Detective Mosepi steals a glance at me. “The South African Revenue Services got sniff in the nose when the numbers didn’t add up in Rochester Ramphele’s bank account. Call it dumb luck, but I know the woman who did the audit and she said something wasn’t right. So, I’ve been looking into the guy.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t a homicide detective typically investigate murders? The title is kind of self-explanatory.”

  “I had a hunch,” he shrugs his broad shoulders. “Turns out, my hunch paid off. Rochester is one of the brains behind a human body part smuggling ring. He and a few cleaners at other medical facilities steal small quantities of medical waste to sell on the black market. His reach is as far as it is wide, considering the janitor at the city morgue is also involved in the scheme.”

  “And you got all this from your informant at SARS?”

  “No, I got it from tailing the guy for the past two months,” Detective Mosepi says. “The reason you’re here is because I suspect Rochester Ramphele may know who our killer is. I’d like to have you here in case we find something sinister.”

  “Is it the only reason?”

  “Yes,” he answers simply, leaving no room for me to think otherwise.

  I stand to stretch my legs. The apartment, a bachelor flat with barely enough room for a single bed, is as unappealing as it is small. The smell of mildew and dust does nothing to mute the tang of old piss that has seeped into the fibres of the threadbare carpet. Concrete peeks through the dark brown carpeting, though the squelch underfoot makes me wonder if the carpets were brown to begin with. A rusty old sink in the corner of the matchbox flat acts as both the kitchen sink and bathroom basin in the event of occupation. The only other door leads away from the equally rundown hallway of the complex, probably to the toilet. No amount of money would convince me to open that door. God knows what’s swimming around in that porcelain bowl. An array of stains decorates the yellowing walls—the remnants of a long-ago oil fire which had licked its way to the ceiling. There’s a splash of what could’ve been Fanta Grape, and another brownish splatter of what might have been blood.

  “Was somebody killed here?” I ask.

  The plastic chair groans under Detective Mosepi’s weight. “I suspect a great many people have been killed in this place over the years.”

  I take my seat again. “I meant recently.”

&nbs
p; He responds with a stiff shrug, and scribbles more in his notebook.

  I look back to the landing. Rochester wheels a red plastic bin out the back door. “We have movement, Detective.”

  Rochester studies the alley before he rolls the bin to the stairs. Each step down is accompanied by a hollow thump as he carefully pushes the bin towards the allocated fenced-off dumping zone. I count thirty-four thumps. He disappears from my sight.

  “Suspicious for a janitor,” the detective murmurs, the binoculars pressed against his face.

  Rochester Ramphele is out of my line of vision. “What is?” I ask.

  “He’s sifting through the rubbish bags in the bin,” he answers. “And…”

  “And?”

  “There seems to be a cooler box hidden behind the dumpster. Probably to transport the medical waste,” Detective Mosepi explains. “It’s an unpleasant sight.”

  I can only imagine.

  Detective Mosepi and I don’t speak much after that. He’s always been a man of few words and I’ve always been incapable of engaging in small talk. The quiet doesn’t seem to bother either of us.

  The hours drag by. Now and then the crackling of Detective Mosepi’s radio breaks the silence with static-filled voices. Updates from other officers surrounding the building fill the room for brief moments. This operation is much larger than I thought. It doesn’t make sense for Mosepi to go all out to reprimand a nobody criminal, but I’m not about to question his intentions.

  Throughout the day my phone vibrates with messages: Grandpa inviting me to dinner the next night, Precious with an update on the cases I’m working on, Dad asking me how I am. Howlen, however, doesn’t contact me.

  I read an e-book I’d downloaded ages ago. When I tire of reading, I play a zombie game on my phone. Every once in a while I get up and walk around the apartment to get my blood flowing again. I’m not exactly bored but being cooped up in tight spaces for long periods always gives me a mild case of cabin fever.