The Garden of Burning Sand

by Corban Addison

  “I have,” said Jan. “I’ve read every word of it.”

  Sarge handed him the journal. “What is it?”

  “It’s Charity’s diary from her first year in Lusaka.”

  Zoe heard footsteps in the aisle. She turned around and saw Frederick striding toward the bar, his eyes full of loathing. “Your Worship,” he said forcefully, “the document is a forgery. You must inquire how the prosecution obtained it.”

  Luchembe stood up. “I request a recess to confer with my client.”

  Mubita ignored the defense lawyer and focused on Frederick. “Mr. Nyambo,” he said in an even tone. “I appreciate your concern, but this disruption is inappropriate. Please sit down.”

  For a long moment, Frederick locked eyes with the judge. Then he nodded and returned to his seat. Zoe’s heart began to race. Did they just communicate something? She turned around and stared at Frederick. He met her eyes, his face a mask.

  “Please proceed,” said the judge.

  Sarge directed Jan’s attention to the notebook in his hands. “I’ve marked a passage in the diary. Would you read it out loud?”

  Zoe watched as Jan found the prescribed page. His fingers shook as he opened the volume. She closed her eyes and listened to him read the letter that explained so much.

  Dear Jan,

  A few weeks ago I gave birth to a baby. I named her Kuyeya, which is Tonga for memory. My grandmother said that memory is the only power man has over death. When I was pregnant, I was afraid the baby would be Field’s. Frederick thinks the baby is his. I did not think so because the birth came too soon. Then she was born and I saw her face. Her skin is lighter than mine. I am certain she is your child.

  This gives me joy and fear. What will happen if Frederick finds out? I am afraid he will take away my job. I am afraid he will hurt me. I think sometimes I will go back to nursing school. But I cannot return to Livingstone. I would die of disgrace.

  Kuyeya has not been well. Frederick’s nganga said there is a hex on her. I don’t believe it. She is beautiful. I wish you could see her. I wish she could know you. I should stop thinking that way. It is foolish, just as I was foolish to think you would marry me. Kuyeya and I are together. We will survive.

  Zoe opened her eyes and watched as the revelation settled on Mubita’s shoulders.

  “Sarge,” the judge said, “I’d like to ask the doctor a few questions.” He fixed his eyes on Jan. “Who is Field?”

  “Charity’s uncle. I believe he had been raping her.”

  Mubita shook his head reproachfully. “Do you admit the child is yours?”

  Jan shifted in his chair. “I can’t deny it. I’ve seen the proof.”

  “You have proof of paternity?” the judge demanded, taken aback.

  Jan nodded wearily. “Her DNA is mine.”

  At that moment, Sarge stood up, holding a sheaf of papers. “Your Worship, the test was conducted in Johannesburg. I have the report here, together with an affidavit from Officer Kabuta, who transported the blood sample to the lab, and an affidavit from Dr. Chulu certifying the accuracy of the report. The probability that Dr. Kruger is Kuyeya’s father is 99.99 percent.”

  “I object!” Luchembe cried, lurching to his feet. “The defense knew nothing of this.”

  The judge cleared his throat. “Neither did the Court.” He took the paperwork from Sarge. “Everything appears to be in order. Do you have any further questions for this witness?”

  “Two more,” said Sarge. “Dr. Kruger, since Kuyeya is your child, what is her age?”

  Jan gave a straightforward answer. “If she was conceived in March or April of 1996, she was born in January or February of 1997. That means she is fifteen years old.”

  Sarge nodded, barely suppressing a grin. “Finally, do you know what happened to Charity Mizinga after she wrote the letter you read to the Court?”

  Jan looked grave. “I can’t say with certainty. But I know she ended up on the street, working as a prostitute. She died not long ago. From what I understand, she had AIDS.”

  “That’s all I have,” Sarge said, returning to his seat.

  Luchembe’s cross-examination was brief and formalistic. He forced Jan to concede that he knew nothing of Kuyeya’s defilement and—again—that he had no idea what happened to Charity after she realized the paternity of her daughter. But the damage had been done. Jan had shored up Amos’s recorded testimony and established Kuyeya’s age beyond doubt.

  When Luchembe sat down again, Sarge spoke: “Your Worship, the prosecution rests.”

  “In that case,” said the judge, “we will take an early recess for lunch and begin again at half past twelve with the defense witnesses.”

  Zoe met Jan at the bar and walked with him to the arcade. He looked spent from the ordeal, but he carried himself with dignity.

  “Thank you,” she said, offering him a smile.

  He shrugged. “I said what I came to say.”

  She watched Frederick Nyambo stroll toward the lobby, talking on his mobile phone. “Are you leaving today?” she asked.

  “This afternoon,” he said, looking away.

  “Have you thought about her future?”

  “Yes,” he replied guardedly. “I don’t see how it makes sense for me to be a part of it.”

  Zoe bristled. “You’re her father. How can you say that?”

  “Fatherhood requires a relationship. My only connection to her is genetic.” He backtracked, as if realizing how selfish he sounded. “Look, I don’t mean to deny my responsibility. I’d like to help with her care. It’s just that …”

  “You don’t want to deal with the messiness of her life,” Zoe said.

  He inhaled sharply. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “How would you put it?”

  “Look, I knew Charity fifteen years ago. Kuyeya has never met me before. I’m not what she needs. She needs someone to care for her. To her I’m just a muzungu.”

  Zoe shook her head. “I’m not talking about taking her home with you. I’m talking about being present in her world. Kids like her need two things: consistency and love. You can’t give her consistency, but you sure as hell can give her love.”

  He flinched. “I’ll think about it.”

  With that he turned and walked away.

  The defense’s case was blunt and unambiguous. Benson Luchembe kept his witnesses within the family, calling Frederick first and then Darious. Much more irritating—and suspicious—to Zoe was the abbreviated nature of their testimony. Leaving whole swaths of the prosecution’s theory unchallenged, the Nyambos told a story about a dinner at the Intercontinental on the night of the rape, a dinner Frederick had proposed and Darious had accepted. Trading on the burden of proof, they offered Mubita nothing more than a technical basis for reasonable doubt.

  Luchembe’s approach gave the defense a tactical advantage. Since the rules of procedure limited the scope of cross-examination to the scope of direct examination, Sarge was unable to interrogate the Nyambos about Charity, about Darious’s affection for prostitutes, or about Amos and HIV. In the two hours it took Luchembe to build Darious’s alibi, Zoe sat stewing in the gallery, thinking of all the questions Sarge couldn’t ask. One question, in particular, drove her mad: how had Darious discovered that Bella had been Frederick’s mistress? Zoe thought she knew the answer—that Kuyeya’s name had been the clue—but she had no way to be certain.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon, Mubita dismissed Darious from the stand.

  “The defense rests,” Benson Luchembe intoned.

  “Argument?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Worship,” Sarge said, standing again. As he had done with his opening, his closing statement was a model of succinctness. He ticked off the requisites for defilement—the age of the victim, the fact of penetration, and the identity of the perpetrator—and spent the majority of the time connecting the dots of the past, emphasizing Darious’s motive.

  “Our burden is clear,” he said, “
and we are convinced that we have met it. Listen to the testimony of our witnesses, read the diary of Kuyeya’s mother, remember the words Kuyeya herself spoke when confronted with the accused, and watch as Darious Nyambo takes shape before you. This was not a random crime. This was a premeditated act of wickedness. Kuyeya deserves justice. I trust that you will deliver it.”

  When Sarge sat down, Mubita regarded Luchembe over his glasses. “Benson?”

  The defense lawyer stood and adjusted his tie. “Your Worship, the prosecution has spun a grand illusion for this Court—the illusion of Darious Nyambo, the monster. In fact, my client is a television producer in Lusaka and the son of esteemed parents. His father is a former cabinet minister. His mother is a High Court judge. We don’t deny that the child was defiled. But by whom? Her caretaker—Doris—doesn’t know what happened to her after she wandered out of the flat. It could have been anyone who picked her up—a neighbor, a friend, a stranger. And it was. It was anyone but the accused. Frederick Nyambo has corroborated his alibi.”

  Luchembe paused. “Crimes like this are a dark spot on Zambian society. But the horror we feel is no justification for putting an innocent man in prison. The prosecution has not met its burden. Justice demands an acquittal.”

  Once again, silence enveloped the courtroom.

  “This is an important case,” the judge said after a time. “I have much to consider. I will issue a written judgment after I complete my deliberations. Thank you all for your participation. I know it has been a trying experience. This Court is adjourned.”

  When Mubita retreated to chambers, Zoe spent a moment in reflective silence. Around her conversations broke out among the lawyers. Sarge shook hands with Benson Luchembe. The courtroom deputy escorted Darious out of the dock. Niza filled her briefcase with documents. Zoe stared at the empty bench, feeling a turbulent mixture of emotions. They had moved heaven and earth to put on a compelling case. But would any of it matter in the end?

  “I need some air,” she said, touching Joseph’s hand.

  She led him out of the courthouse into the bright sunshine of the parking lot. She took a deep breath, allowing her lungs to fill to capacity, and then exhaled slowly. “This is the part I hate—the waiting game.”

  Joseph gave her an empathetic look. “You have to let it go. It’s out of your control.”

  “I know,” she said but felt the tension just the same. She saw the gray Prado on the far side of the lot, Dunstan Sisilu behind the wheel. “Are we ever going to be able to do something about the asshole in sunglasses?”

  Joseph shrugged. “Not without evidence.”

  She allowed her frustration to show. “I can’t believe he’s going to get away with all of this: two break-ins—three, actually, counting the one at the office—the theft of evidence, a murdered witness. At times like this I wish we didn’t have to play by the rules.”

  Joseph glanced at her. “I feel that way almost every day.”

  She laughed drily. “Did I ever tell you what he said to me on the Zambezi?”

  Joseph shook his head.

  “He told me to be careful who I offend. What he didn’t realize is that I couldn’t care less.”

  As she watched, Joseph’s frown turned into a smile. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  PART FIVE

  That which is good is never finished.

  —African proverb

  Darious

  Lusaka, Zambia

  August, 2011

  The spirits of the ancestors had smiled on him. Kuyeya had left Doris’s flat alone and wandered down the street into a deserted alley. It was as if the stars had aligned to ensure his success. He closed the hatch over the girl and scanned the buildings around him. No one was watching from the windows. No one was paying attention on the street. The neighbors wouldn’t remember anything.

  He climbed into the Mercedes and headed east on Chilimbulu Road, thinking back to the beginning of all of this. It was a school day and he had come home early, entering the house by the back door, as he always did. The sound of the argument had shocked him. He had never heard his mother yell at his father before. He had crept down the hall and seen them in the living room: Patricia holding the notebook aloft like a weapon; Frederick sitting silently on the couch. Years later, he could still hear his mother’s allegation, still feel his father’s shame. To fall for a girl with a mongrel child? Frederick’s mukwala was legendary. How was it possible?

  Darious had waited until the middle of the night to search for the notebook. He thought his mother might have thrown it away, but there it was, in her closet. He stole back to his bedroom and read for hours. The letters filled him with rage. The Frederick Nyambo described in the pages bore no resemblance to the man Darious had admired for sixteen years. According to the girl—Charity Mizinga—his father was a petulant cad obsessed with sex, a hapless fool who believed he had fathered her child when she had been sleeping with another man. It was the grossest kind of fiction. Yet a doubt persisted: what if some of it was true?

  That night had changed Darious’s life. Within a month he had purchased sex from a prostitute. Within a year he was soliciting twice a week. He had girls on the side. He loved to surprise them with his intellect, to lavish them with gifts. He never considered violence until one of his girls cheated on him. It was rage that drove him to rape her. But the act awakened something in him. Rape gave him power. Its mukwala was absolute.

  Darious drove north to the Lusaka Golf Club, then east toward Kabulonga. Fortune was on his side. His father was on a business trip and his mother had gone to visit relatives. The house was empty except for Anna, and she lived in a cottage at the back of the property. The sedative would last an hour, then Kuyeya would wake up. He would wait. He wanted her to feel the pain. It didn’t matter if she saw him. She didn’t know who he was. He would drive her into Kanyama at midnight and dump her. If his luck held, she would disappear without a trace.

  He waved to the night guard and pulled into the driveway, parking in the garage. He shut off the engine and sat unmoving, surrounded by darkness and silence. He thought of Bella as she was on the night he first saw her—the red dress, the sultry moves she made on the dance floor. He hated her for her deception, for the madness she had evoked in his father, and the rift she had driven between his parents. He hated her for the disease she had given him, for the shame he never ceased to feel.

  He left the SUV and walked quietly across the grounds, entering the house by the side door. Down the hall and across the living room he went, turning on no lights. His parents’ bedroom was in the far wing, forbidden territory, at least officially. As a teenager, he had cased the bedroom in the night, watching his parents sleep. A few times he had been there when his mother had awakened to use the bathroom. He had stood utterly still, a shadow among shadows, and she had never seen him.

  He found the notebook in the closet exactly where Patricia had left it years before. He opened it in the darkness. He didn’t understand how Bella’s medicine could have been stronger than his father’s. But he didn’t need to understand. He needed to harness it, to turn the curse back upon itself. Holding the notebook he felt invincible. With it he had exposed Bella’s identity, connecting her child in life with the child in the letters, by way of her name.

  He put the notebook back in its place and stifled the urge to cough. He walked back the way he came, steeling himself against the sickness that consumed so much of his energy now. He glanced at Anna’s cottage beneath the stinkwood tree. A light was on in the window. Had she seen him? For the first time that night, he felt a tremor of doubt. He shook his head quickly, banishing the weakness.

  Kuyeya. Memory. It was time to settle the score.

  Chapter 29

  Lusaka, Zambia

  April, 2012

  A week after the trial concluded, the New Yorker published Zoe’s article under the title “The Future of Generosity.” It had taken Zoe three extensive revisions to satisfy Naomi Potter, but in the end he
r persistence paid off. The piece was sharp, edgy and humane, and it quickly attracted the attention of readers, generating over two thousand shares on social-networking websites within forty-eight hours. By the third day, other outlets in the American media had picked up on it, as had Jack Fleming’s campaign. Zoe received three emails in rapid succession. She read them at the office. The first was from Trevor.

  Sis, I saw your article. It was brilliant, of course. I loved the stories about Mom, and I admire the way you talked about Dad. Ironically, you might have even won him some points with independents. But you should have told me about it in advance. Dad interpreted it as a challenge to his candidacy. I’d be prepared for a bumpy ride.

  Zoe closed her eyes and confronted her instinctive guilt. I wrote about him as charitably as I could. But the truth needed to be spoken. If he gets his way, real people will die.

  She braced herself and opened the second message. Her father had written:

  Zoe, I don’t know what to say. I was under the impression that I had instilled in you a basic sense of loyalty. Hold your views, express them freely, but don’t take them public in the middle of a campaign without talking to me first. I’ve been getting calls nonstop. I have to make a statement.

  Her father’s words stole the wind from her lungs. She wasn’t surprised by his feelings, but she hadn’t anticipated how much they would affect her. She stood up abruptly and fled the office for the sanctuary of the bottlebrush tree. Was I wrong? Did I make a mistake? She thought of Kuyeya and the corruption-riddled African justice system; of Joseph and Charity and AIDS treatment among the poor; of the women and girls across Zambia whose rapists were exonerated because prosecutors lacked affordable access to DNA technology. She found a measure of solace in her indignation, but peace eluded her.

  She wandered back to her desk and read the third email—a breathless missive from Naomi Potter.