Muti Nation

by Monique Snyman

  My house is a shell. A promising shell, but a shell nonetheless.

  I have no pets. There is no method to my decorating. No sentimental value lingers in the rooms of my house. If I wanted to, I could leave now with only the pyjamas on my back and not care.

  This is not my home.

  The front door inches open.

  I inhale a gust of sour air and my resolve to enter crumbles into nothing. Last night returns in flashes, the fear I experienced of the thing makes me tremble.

  What lies beyond that door? Is it still there, waiting?

  Grandpa pulls me behind him and takes the first step inside.

  I imagine the entity will jump out and devour him whole, and my fear multiplies. I grip his wrist and he looks back at me, concern marring his forehead.

  “Please don’t die,” I whisper to him.

  Pops smiles. “Would it make you feel better if I said I don’t intend on dying today?”

  “I’m not joking. Be careful.”

  He winks and turns to face my living room.

  I let go of his wrist. His bravado seems careless. Who knows what lurks behind the doors and furniture?

  Gramps scans the living room, fearless.

  I follow him inside when he’s out of view and everything in the living room looks the same as when I’d left. I glance into the corridor as he peers into the kitchen.

  “Looks clear,” he says.

  I follow him into the corridor, directing my gaze to the ceiling as I try to find traces of the creature. I don’t know why it would be on the ceiling, but it’s better to be safe. Luckily, there’s nothing there. I didn’t imagine the attack last night. It was here. I’ve got the scratches on my leg to prove it.

  I look to my grandfather where he stands in the passageway of my bedroom, his face unreadable. I move to his side, expecting the worst.

  “There’s nothing here,” he states. “Perhaps—” Gramps stops himself, smiles, and shakes his head. “It appears we’re both in dire need of a holiday.”

  “Seems so,” I lie, looking around my bedroom. Objects have moved from their original positions. Drawers are open, their contents spilled out of their respective places. The closet doors are ajar. Something had clawed at and thrown itself against the bedroom door until the wood cracked. To me, my bedroom is undeniable proof that I’m not going insane.

  “Do you want me to wait for you?” Gramps asks.

  I don’t answer. I walk inside and inspect my room with a quick glance. Something more is off. Something more is still here. But I don’t want to concern Gramps or Father Gabriel with this when I can handle it myself. I’m not a toddler anymore.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I finally say. When I turn around to face him, a smile is already plastered to my face, but it’s fake. “I’ll see you at work?”

  “No, actually,” he says, stern-faced. “We’re going to see Tweedledee and Tweedledum, today. Get dressed.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t pronounce their real names,” Gramps says as though it’s obvious why he calls the unfortunate souls Tweedledee and Tweedledum. “Get on with it, we’ve got a long drive, and we still need to make sure we have a proper case against Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy before we go after him tomorrow. Chop-chop, pop.” He claps his hands together, twice, and walks out of my bedroom to give me privacy.

  I grab a pair of cut-off jeans and a black tank top from my wardrobe, underwear, some cowboy boots (to cover the bandages on my leg), and head to the bathroom for a quick shower. Once I’m under the waterfall, I close my eyes and try to focus on anything except my catastrophic love life. After coming clean to my grandfather the previous night, I can’t help but recount all of my mistakes and the things he still doesn’t know about.

  My first “real” boyfriend was a scrawny, emo IT student at TUKS, named Gareth. I was seventeen. A late bloomer, I know, but I wasn’t going to continue the family tradition of reproducing early in life. I mean, Gramps was twenty when he had my dad, and Dad was sixteen when I came along, so it’s safe to say we’re a rather fertile family if not responsible. Gareth and I had fun for a while until he realised I wasn’t going to be fooled into his bed anytime soon. He broke it off, and honestly I didn’t care too much apart from the fact I didn’t have anyone to take to my high school’s matric dance. Luckily, I had Leila, who gave her date the boot and said we’d go as the school’s first bi-curious couple.

  After high school there was Martinus, Jason, Marc, and Rudolph, all university students who ran for the hills as soon as it was apparent I didn’t put out. Again, I didn’t care too much.

  When I graduated, things changed.

  I met Pierre, a handsome clinical psychologist, seven years my senior, at the gym. His wavy brown hair and deep green eyes made me melt whenever he glanced my way. His smile lit up his whole face, drawing me in like a moth to an electric bug zapper. That’s a nice analogy, really, considering I was the moth and he the electric bug zapper who broke my heart. As insensitive as it sounds, if I’d known Pierre was crazier than his patients, things might have worked out differently, but he was and probably still is a lunatic. His crazy didn’t show immediately, of course. No, he bided his time and wooed me like a gentleman for months.

  He was truly everything I wanted in a guy: kind, sweet, supportive, understanding, intelligent… The illusion was pretty fantastic, especially to a naïve girl in love for the first time. It didn’t last, obviously.

  After we moved in together, his personality changed so quickly I suffered from whiplash. He hit me once, only nine months into our relationship. Stunned, I didn’t know what to say or do at that moment, but when the shock wore off, I left Pierre and I pressed charges against the bastard.

  I have too much respect for myself to let a man threaten, let alone, hit me.

  Gramps doesn’t know about Pierre. Neither does my father. If they did, Pierre would probably be dead by now. Detective Mosepi, on the other hand, is all too aware of him. God bless him for keeping my countless secrets.

  After Pierre, I didn’t actively seek out another boyfriend, but I found one anyway. It happened sooner than I expected, too. Barely broken up for two months, John stepped into my life. He was nice, in a brutish kind of way, and though he wasn’t necessarily the smartest man in the world, he was hopelessly sweet. The rugby player had the nicest smile (among other things).

  Unfortunately, John didn’t reserve his smile just for me.

  I found him in bed with another woman after coming home early from a trip to Uganda.

  Breaking up had never been easier.

  After John I threw my emotions, desires and dreams to the wind. When loneliness threatened to consume me, I had a casual fling here or a one-night-stand there. I didn’t get serious with any of my lovers. I was careful. It worked for years.

  I was happy, because I didn’t have to tie myself down. I didn’t need to tell anyone about what I did for a living.

  It worked until Howlen and I spent our first night together.

  My personal life changed in a blink of an eye due to one drunken night. Gone was my handful of lovers, tossed to the sky without a drop of remorse. Hope leeched into my heart, the vault of “maybes and what-ifs” opening for the first time since John. Yes, I never felt for Howlen the same illogical love I’d felt for Pierre or John, you know, the type of love that starts in the pit of your stomach and bubbles into your heart and soul. But, it would’ve been easier to date someone who knew the ins and outs of the job, opposed to going out with a “civilian.” Yes, we argued often, we still do, in a professional capacity about science vs. pseudo-science, about what is real and what is not, about whether the pantheon exists, about everything.

  Such a pity he had to ruin a good thing with a prostitute.

  “Move it, Esmé!” Gramps shouts, snapping me back to reality. “Stop daydreaming in there and get dressed!”

  “I’m coming!” I shout back. I rinse off the soap and get out of the shower.

  When I
’m dressed, Gramps rushes me out of my house, and into his car.

  I’m not sure why he’s in such a hurry, but I’ve stopped asking questions he chooses not to answer. As soon as we’re driving though, his reasons in having me in a confined space, with little to no chance of escape, become clear.

  “We might as well talk a bit. Here’s a topic: Tell me about Detective Louw.”

  Chapter 34

  Life isn’t fair.

  It’s the hardest lesson a person will have to come to terms with in their lifetime.

  Some are gracious in their acceptance of this inexorable fact, as difficult as it is at times. Others are prone to search for workarounds, regardless of who gets hurt in their pursuit for advantage. Lie, cheat, steal, kill—it doesn’t matter what it takes to make their lives easier, in the end they think it’s a small price to pay.

  Him, like most children who lose the only person who gives a crap about them, learned this lesson the hard way, and at a young age.

  As he stands at his workbench, slicing through the soft organ he’d purchased for a hefty price, he thinks back to his humble beginnings. He thinks about what he’s sacrificed simply to survive another day, how he whored himself out for a piece of bread. Those weren’t good times. Not at all.

  Him shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the bad memories threatening to consume his focus, but the seed had already taken root in the folds of his brain. There is no running away from the horrible experiences he’d endured.

  He looks over to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman huddling on the pallet, chained fast against the wall. Her buxom chest rises with each fearful breath she takes, falling every time she looses a shaky exhale. Whimpers escape her gag while her body shudders with such vigour the clothes she wears shiver in tandem. Her cosmetics streak her face as tears roll from her eyes. She is scared, with good reason.

  And Him bets she has never known what real hunger and fear and cold feel like. Even now, chained up like a dog, she wouldn’t be able to begin to understand the hardships he’s had to face for more than half his life.

  Him gets back to work, slicing and dicing, eager to shake the memories from his mind. He doesn’t succeed. Flashbacks of his time on the streets pry his attention away from the work he wants to do. The hunger pangs, the crying, the filth, and the hatred. Every nightmarish moment cast in black and white, reels across his mind in staccato. Him stops slicing. His hands tremble from the fear of returning to such a state.

  His ancestors aren’t making matters better with their constant yapping.

  “Want, want, want! Need, need, need!” Him shouts, dropping the knife on the counter to clutch his head.

  The woman screams a muffled scream, making matters so much worse. She screams again. And again.

  A migraine is in its infant stages situated behind his right eye, but quickly growing into a potential problem. Memories and voices overlap in his mind, blurring his vision and making him nauseous. Him slides down the wall until he’s seated with his cradled head between his knees. He rocks back and forth in anguish.

  If the magical attacks don’t let up soon, he’ll be incapacitated when he can least afford to be. He’d sent so many things after Esmé this past week; controlling the car she was in, killing Rochester before he could rat Him out, threatening her through the dead man’s vocal cords, and the tokoloshe—all in the hopes of grabbing her attention. And he needs to make sure she’s finally gotten the wake-up call.

  If Esmé doesn’t get the message, he has to prepare himself for her next move: to dispose of her.

  Simple.

  But with the bad stuff flashing through his mind, every kak moment he’s lived through, and the buzz of voices telling him to do this and do that and to stop being such a pussy, he can barely breathe. Him presses his fingertips hard against his skull, leaving imprints and possible bruises on his skin, trying to relieve himself from reliving horrors and nightmares.

  It’s not enough, though.

  Not this time.

  He rocks more violently as though the action might soothe the pain blossoming in his head.

  Him screams: “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” His voice cracks halfway through the mantra, but it doesn’t help. Screaming and rocking never helps.

  He’s being tested by the ancestors again and there’s nothing he can do about it until they decide he’s had enough, that he’s still worthy.

  They won’t hurt him permanently, he knows. Not while he is still useful to them. Who else will be so generous in their sacrifices? Who else aspires to be great, to be a god, in their names?

  It’ll let up soon.

  Him’s sure.

  Chapter 35

  Tweedledee and Tweedledum, as Gramps calls them, are actually named Thembekile and Thembelihle, respectively.

  They are two ancient women, almost indistinguishable from one another due to their traditional clothing and deep wrinkles, and they don’t seem to mind being called Tweedledee and Tweedledum. I think this is because of what they call Gramps: Mnumzane Hlanya. One of them explained to me (in giggles, I might add) it meant “Mister Crazy.” I couldn’t argue with the nickname.

  Considering the third degree I’d received on the way over, about my sex life of all things, I’m inclined to adopt the nickname for him, too.

  Then one of them explains it’s for the best if I call them Tweedledee and Tweedledum, as well, because they get annoyed when people mix them up with one another. I’m not sure how logical their reasoning is, but then again, they are friends of my grandfather so it’s probably best not to question logistics anyway.

  “Sit, sit.” One of the Tweedles practically forces me into a low seat.

  We’re outside of a dung and peach pit hut, on a privately owned agriculture holding near Hammanskraal. I decide she’s Tweedledee, for the sake of keeping my head on straight.

  She looks me over with her beady eyes, calls something over her shoulder, before the other Tweedle (here forth known as Tweedledum) shuffles closer. She also studies me with narrowed eyes, and then the two of them have a conversation in isiZulu.

  “You are in big trouble,” Tweedledee says to me in English.

  “We can fix it,” Tweedledum says, sounding slightly unsure of her proclamation. “We’re old, so it’ll take time.”

  “Old? Ha!” Gramps barks a laugh, sitting down on one of the empty low seats. “You two don’t look a day over fifty.”

  “Tsk.” Tweedledee smiles a toothless smile.

  “Always trying to honey us up, huh?” Tweedledum scolds.

  I feel like I should have a bowl of popcorn to fully appreciate these three together.

  “You’re being a shameless flirt, while there’s a bad man trying to hurt your little one,” she continues.

  “Very bad.” Tweedledee goes into the hut.

  “Powerful, too,” Tweedledum says, puckering her lips up as though she’s sucked on an especially sour lemon.

  “Powerful, but foolish.” Tweedledee returns from the hut with a rusty Ricoffy coffee can in her hands. “Possibly insane.”

  “It happens to the best of us.” Tweedledum shrugs.

  Tweedledee looks at her and nods. “Ancestral magic is dangerous if you don’t know how to wield it properly. This man was never trained. His magic is raw, which makes him powerful, but ruthless. It’s very dangerous.”

  “Very dangerous,” Tweedledee agrees. “And he takes his ancestors to a bad place.”

  “It’s slowly driving him cuckoo.”

  “And he seems to have directed all of his magic onto you.” Tweedledee sits down on her knees on the leather mat in the middle of the cleanly swept courtyard, and opens the coffee can.

  “I don’t think so,” I say and earn a reproachful look from Gramps. “The places where the bodies are found are sucked dry of everything. We call them “Dead Zones” because everything dies in the area. Even the air seems to turn sour. I think he uses his magic to do it, to leave a trace of himself behind.”

 
“No.” Tweedledee shakes her head and throws the contents of the coffee can onto the mat in front of her. Old, discoloured bones scatter across it. “That’s the darkness his ancestors are forced to invoke, acting as sieves. They draw the power from the body, the land, the sky, and the creatures. Then they push the raw, purified magic into him. In turn, he uses it on you. It’s a vicious cycle.”

  “Vicious,” Tweedledum echoes, sitting down beside her sister. “Good thing you have us.”

  “Twin sangomas are rare,” Gramps explains.

  “We are two halves of one soul,” Tweedledee says. “But our half souls are big enough to sustain one body.”

  “It means we’re more powerful than this boy trying to hurt you,” Tweedledum continues.

  Tweedledee interrupts in her native tongue, speaking to her sister.

  They go back and forth, until Tweedledum rolls her eyes. “He’s not trying to hurt you yet,” she says, looking at the bandage around my leg. “That’s because he lost control of his tokoloshe.”

  “Well, now it makes sense why you couldn’t see what attacked you last night. Tokoloshes can become invisible when they drink water,” Gramps says, seemingly more excited about this magical intervention than I am. “So, what are we going to do?”

  “Why are you so excited about this?” I ask my grandfather “It’s deeply disturbing.”

  “We’ll purify your granddaughter.” Tweedledee looks intently at the bones. “And then we’re going to have to counter his upcoming attacks, which won’t be easy.”

  “Not easy,” Tweedledum says, shaking her head. “But doable.”

  “You going to concoct something special for Little Red, here?” Tweedledee asks her sister.

  “Mhmmm,” Tweedledum hums, standing up slowly. Her body creaks and cracks from age but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m thinking we’ll have to delve into our Khoi shelf: Waterblommetjies, sieketroos, hottentotsvy—”