Muti Nation

by Monique Snyman

  Esmé’s so close he can smell her perfume, taste her anger and feel her heat.

  She stops in her tracks, a couple of feet away, and turns to look at him.

  When their eyes meet, his heart beats faster, but he cannot look away. He cannot force himself to hide, even if his every nerve shouts for him to run. He steels himself for the confrontation as she takes a step towards him. His lungs protest as he holds his breath, hoping to disappear into the crowd.

  After an agonising moment, Esmé shakes her head and forces a faint apologetic smile before continuing towards the idling car.

  He exhales in relief. He knows this could have easily been the end of his game. Luckily, the ancestors still favour him.

  After a few more minutes of watching the failed ritual site he makes his way back to his van.

  “How had it gone so terribly wrong?” he asks himself, getting in.

  His mind reels through every step he’d taken to procure the organs and limbs on the black market. They were of high quality; he’d made sure of it. Weeks of prayer had ensured him this would be the perfect site for what he had in mind. The planning had taken months. The fiasco had cost a fortune.

  His ancestral magic still runs strong, which means the ritual itself hadn’t been cursed from the get-go. So, why?

  “Esmé shouldn’t have been there,” he answers his own question and kisses his teeth. Her intervention had disrupted what fate had already promised him.

  He directs the van onto the highway and slams his hands against the steering wheel, enraged. “She shouldn’t have been there!”

  He quiets his anger through sheer will and takes a few calming breaths.

  There’s a way to rectify this.

  It will take time, but he can remedy the situation.

  “It’s gonna be fine,” he promises his reflection. “She doesn’t have the upper-hand yet. Everything will be perfectly fine.”

  But first he needs to get rid of a rat before the game tips in Esmé’s favour.

  Chapter 29

  EXCLUSIVE: AMATEUR FOOTAGE OF PRETORIA SLASHER’S RITUAL SITE (NSFW)

  2015-09-29 | 07:22 12 Comments

  Hartbeespoort—The usually serene resort town on the slopes of the Magaliesberg Mountains was disrupted this morning when Pretoria and Hartbeespoort police forces joined together to investigate a heinous ritual site, found at the Crocodile River.

  According to inside sources, the ritual site is possibly the work of the Pretoria Slasher.

  “Hundreds of body parts and organs were found hanging from the trees, over the river,” a News24 source, who wishes to remain anonymous, said to interviewers. “It was quite a shock to see, but it’s painfully obvious that the Pretoria Slasher is taunting police by making this statement.”

  Whether these body parts and organs comes from the killer’s victims or were bought on the black market, nobody knows.

  The Pretoria Slasher has presumably murdered at least three people since the start of September. Known victims include: Valentine Sikelo (27), Carol-Anne Brewis (12), and Abraham Amin (39).

  Police are yet to release official information about the killer, the victims, and the sites.

  Amateur footage of the ritual site was sent in by numerous Hartbeespoort residents this morning before police arrived at the scene of the crime.

  Please note the following footage is not suitable for sensitive viewers. Viewer discretion is advised:

  PLAY VIDEO

  —News24

  COMMENTS:

  PuddinPie – September 29, 2015 at 07:25

  (O_O) That’s… Wow. I’m speechless.

  HelenaC – September 29, 2015 at 07:25

  How the hell is this monster still walking around a free man? Look at the carnage!

  DanTheMan – September 29, 2015 at 07:42

  @HelenaC – Agreed. The police seem too busy picking their noses than wanting to catch killers.

  HelenaC – September 29, 2015 at 07:45

  @DanTheMan – I wouldn’t go that far in putting them down. I’m sure the police are doing everything in their power to catch the Pretoria Slasher, but they’ll need to do more a lot faster. It looks like the guy’s already branching out to the Northern Province.

  DanTheMan – September 29, 2015 at 07:59

  @HelenaC – You have more faith in our judicial system than I do.

  NaeNae92 – September 29, 2015 at 07:32

  WTF did I just watch? Is this a belated April Fools prank?

  SkyrimKyle – September 29, 2015 at 07:33

  FAKE! This footage is so fake, it’s not even funny!

  ParaNorman – September 29, 2015 at 07:37

  @SkyrimKyle – I don’t think so. Decomposing flesh is difficult to fake.

  SkyrimKyle – September 29, 2015 at 07:42

  @ParaNorman – I bet you’re one of those conspiracy theorist dudes. Hahahaha! Do you see little green men in the sky too? Or wait. Does Bigfoot actually exist?

  ParaNorman – September 29, 2015 at 07: 43

  @SkyrimKyle – Your response was unnecessary. I’m giving my opinion on the matter as everyone else is doing. And yes, I am a conspiracy theorist, although we like to call ourselves something less derogatory. Asshole.

  ThatStationaryGuy – September 29, 2015 at 07: 33

  Whether it’s real or not, this is f@#*ing disturbing.

  Twerkarina – September 29, 2015 at 07:52

  Are you kidding me @News24.

  Valentine Sikelo was reported, by you, to be 28 years old in a previous article! Are you too lazy to check the facts by using your OWN published articles?

  Ugh. The journalism in this country is going to be the end of me.

  Chapter 30

  We’re so close to a break in the case, I can almost taste it.

  Not being able to enter the quarantined area makes it harder to find clues, obviously, but there are quite a few things Gramps and I can study from afar. For example, the perimeter itself is remarkable. One side teems with life—green grass and insect activity is found in abundance, fish alive and swimming, birds chirping—whereas the other side is a complete void. Neither of us can come up with a reasonable explanation of how life had been siphoned out of the “Dead-Zone,” but it’s undeniably the most interesting evidence of esotericism we’ve ever encountered.

  I pick up the borrowed binoculars from Detective Mosepi’s equipment bag and stare at the trees. From afar they look as if they’ve been decorated with cadaverous Christmas ornaments. Dead fish and birds dot the water’s surface, floating yet lifeless. It’s an eerie sight.

  “If anybody believes this is the result of a chemical spill, there’s no hope for the human race.” I lower the binoculars, and look to where Gramps is hunched over in his striped pyjamas, taking samples of the earth.

  “It’s not impossible. Isn’t there a nuclear research centre nearby?” he asks.

  “Pelindaba? Yeah, I guess. It just feels like a stretch.”

  His shoulder twitches into a shrug as he stands. “The tales they weave is none of our concern. We have a killer to catch. But I’m starting to think we might not be suitable for the task.”

  “Oh?” I ask. “Who else is there if not us?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s be honest; we’re out of our depth.” Gramps says.

  Thinking about it is one thing, hearing it said out loud by my grandfather of all people is different. I’m afraid he might be right, but we cannot make assumptions if we haven’t assessed all the facts. Besides, I still have to make my way over to the Pretoria Central police station to interrogate Rochester Ramphele. Who knows what titillating facts I can scare out of him?

  “This aberration is beyond our expertise,” Gramps says. “I feel we simply need a while to ponder the facts without interruption, in order to find a viable solution.”

  “We don’t have time to ponder this stuff. Him is out there, killing for sport, and people are anxious.”

  “Anxious… yes,” he sighs.

&nbs
p; “Are you ready?” Detective Mosepi’s voice comes from behind us. Gramps and I turn around to face the burly detective as he checks his wristwatch. “If we don’t leave now, we won’t make it in time for Ramphele’s interrogation.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I say.

  He grumbles something unintelligible, pivots and walks away.

  “That one will never change,” Gramps says, shaking his head as he picks up his equipment bag.

  I drop the binoculars in the open bag for him when he holds it out to me.

  “I’ll see you back at the office,” he says. “Hopefully I can consult with Howlen and Father Gabriel about what’s going on here when I get there. That’s if Howlen’s decided to come into the office in the first place. What’s the date?”

  “It’s the twenty-ninth of September.”

  “Hmmm. It’s a bit early in the year for his self-destruction streak to shine through. Something must’ve happened to tick him off.”

  I don’t respond as we walk back to the clubhouse.

  “Keep close to Mosepi, okay?” says Gramps. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone.”

  “I’m as safe as I always am, Pops.”

  “If only,” he mutters, stopping before we could make it to the parking lot. “Look, pack an overnight bag and come sleep in your old room for a while. I’ll make you breakfast in bed every morning; those strawberry crumpets you like so much?” Gramps’ dazzling smile catches me off guard. “I’ll even serve them with ice cream.”

  “I love you, but—”

  “Fine,” he cuts my placating excuse short. “But could you at least come to dinner tonight? Snyders International needs to brainstorm the hell out of this case. We should have done it sooner, actually. Oh well.” Gramps directs his attention past me. “You better leave before Mosepi has a stroke.”

  “Drive safely.”

  I run to catch up with Detective Mosepi and slip into the passenger seat of his car as he gets into the driver’s seat.

  He lights a new cigarette, the smoke clouding up the inside of his car.

  “You need to quit your smoking, Detective,” I say.

  “And you need to not sleep with my partner, Miss Snyders,” he retorts.

  My eyes widen, but I don’t turn to face him.

  “Judging from your expression in the side-mirror, my assumptions are accurate. Shame on you, Esmé!”

  “Don’t start with that bullshit, Mosepi,” I snap back, not bothering to hide my face anymore.

  He backs his vehicle out of the parking spot and makes a U-turn on the dirt road.

  “It’s not like I sleep with every guy I meet, you know.”

  “You should be focused on the case, not on men,” he grumbles.

  “Well, if Rynhardt and I weren’t focused on each other last night, neither of us would have figured out what Him was planning on next.” I blow a stray red curl out of my face and cross my arms over my chest. “So you can be pissy about this or you can be grateful we’ve made headway.”

  “Of course I’m grateful for that. I’m pissy because you can’t stop bitching about my smoking,” he says, ending with a throaty growl. “If you knew how much shit’s been blown down my neck since Him killed the kid, you’d be smoking too.”

  “You’re only hurting yourself with your excuses,” I say, closing my eyes. “Besides, you’re not the only one who’s had to deal with backlash.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I need to close my eyes for a while.” Yawning, I shift to be more comfortable in the passenger seat. “Wake me when we get there, please? I’m running on fumes.”

  Whatever Detective Mosepi says afterwards goes right over my head. Not only because he’s bitching in his native tongue, but because my exhaustion sweeps me away into a well-deserved, dreamless nap.

  A short while later, Detective Mosepi gently prods me awake.

  We’re in his car, parked in the underground lot of the Pretoria Central police station. My energy levels are much improved from the nap.

  With a quick glance in the mirror, I fix my hair as much as possible, shake away the sleep that remains and follow him out of the car and into the police station. Once inside, and once our credentials have been verified, we’re led to the place where Rochester Ramphele awaits our arrival.

  The interrogation room is nothing as fancy as what you see on television. Here you’re in a square little room, sitting on an old metal chair in front of an older metal table. There isn’t a one-way mirror for anyone to watch through—just stained walls and scratched metal furniture, with the culprit handcuffed to the table. At our request a video camera has been set up in the corner, but this isn’t the norm in most interrogations.

  Rochester Ramphele has seen better days, but his bruises have started to fade and his skin is knitting over cuts.

  When he sees me he goes into a frenzy. He tugs at his tight handcuffs, trying to free himself, spitting curses that would make demons blush.

  I don’t have to quiet him down, though. Detective Mosepi quickly puts him in his place and Ramphele shuts up.

  I make sure the video camera is in focus, aiming it at Rochester Ramphele. His eyes are vague and distant on-screen. I press the recording button and pull my chair over to sit beside him instead of across from him.

  “Rochester,” I start.

  Too fast for me to react, Ramphele’s hands shoot out and take mine.

  I flinch. With relief I see the emotion in his eyes change from anger to fear.

  “You have to help me. He’s coming,” Rochester says, urgency in that American accent of his, the look in his eyes changing to acute desperation.

  “I know, but we need to talk some things over before I can help you. I need to know what you know about—”

  “No,” he says. “You have to help me now. Before he hears, before he knows where I am. He’ll find a way to… to put an end to me.”

  I throw a look towards Detective Mosepi. There is unease in the detective’s face, an infectious feeling, I regret to admit.

  I nod slowly. “I understand,” I say. “We have already implemented extra security measures to keep you safe, but you have to work with us in return. Do you understand?”

  Rochester nods, squeezing my hand until it becomes uncomfortable, looking straight in my eyes. “Okay, all right. Ask what you came to ask.” He releases my hand, and I’m able to pull Him’s journal and the distorted photographs I’d received from The Rabbi from my purse.

  I place the photographs on the table, keeping the journal in my lap. “That’s Him,” Rochester says, pointing to the distorted face on the nearest picture.

  “I figured as much,” I say. “We need a better description of Him, though. Will you be able to work with a sketch artist for us?”

  He shakes his head. “It won’t matter if you got Picasso to do an identikit of Him. He is utterly mediocre where his appearance is concerned. Figuratively speaking, Him is able to slip into a crowd and become invisible.”

  I bite the inside of my bottom lip. The Rabbi said something similar about Him’s appearance.

  “What business did you and Him have?” Detective Mosepi asks.

  “He wanted organs and limbs for muti, obviously. Not the stuff I normally deal in, but I have connections in Nigeria, Kenya, and a few other African countries. South Africa is sometimes difficult when it comes to human muti, especially since most hospitals have those things incinerated faster than the doctor can call a time of death,” he explains. “Killing is not my game; I simply buy and sell for profit.”

  “How’d you two meet?” I ask.

  “He came to me. I don’t know where he got my name. There was something about Him… I knew from the start I shouldn’t cross him or deny his requests. The fucker cost me money at the end of the day.” Rochester looks at the journal in my hands. “How’d you get your hands on that thing? He never went anywhere without it.”

  I clutch the notebook tighter, thinking it might be best not to
make Rochester panicky again. “This is my notebook, not his. Does he have one?”

  “Looks identical actually.” He reclines in his seat, as far as he can go given his restraints. “I saw it in the glovebox of his van.”

  “His van?” Detective Mosepi and I say in unison.

  “Yeah. It’s a regular black van. Registration num—” He sucks breath through his teeth, creating a hissing sound. He sits upright and studies a cut on his thumb. A drop of blood swells the length of the superficial wound. He bends forward enough to stick his thumb into his mouth and sucks it.

  “You were saying?”

  He takes his thumb out of his mouth and starts: “Registration num—”

  Before he can say more, he jumps up from his seat as though a jolt of electricity had surged through him. The chair clatters to the floor, metal clangs against linoleum.

  Detective Mosepi tries to talk him back into his seat but without luck. Things are going south quickly.

  More crimson blooms on the back of Rochester’s hand, but something else seizes his attention, something neither Detective Mosepi nor I can see.

  “Help me!” The desperation in his voice is enough to tell me things are terribly awry.

  I stand and step away, searching for whatever is setting Rochester into a flat spin.

  “Help me!” Rochester shouts. Another cut spontaneously bursts through his skin, this time across his cheek. His hand flies to the new wound, but can’t staunch the cut.

  “Call for an ambulance,” I urge Detective Mosepi.

  The detective moves to the door and disappears into the corridor, leaving me to deal with this by myself.

  Rochester flinches forward as though he’d been struck by a whip across his back.

  “Talk to me, Rochester! What’s happening?” I search the interrogation room for anything remotely muti-related: a pouch of something, a sprinkle or dash of a suspicious substance, anything to explain the attack.

  His shouts grow louder and his pleading more intense. The sounds can only be described as profound anguish.