The Garden of Burning Sand

by Corban Addison

  When they pulled into the parking lot, Zoe saw a ZNBC television crew waiting on the courthouse steps along with an army of pad-wielding journalists. They entered the judicial complex by a side door, bypassing the horde that had descended upon Sarge and Niza. They walked the length of the arcade and took their seats in Courtroom 10. Darious was already present in the dock. He gave Zoe a confident smirk. It was the first time he had acknowledged her directly. She looked away, enraged.

  Before long, the lawyers took their places at counsel table—Sarge and Niza on the right and Benson Luchembe on the left. Luchembe’s entourage sat on the bench beside Zoe, and the press crowded noisily into the rear of the gallery. Frederick and Patricia Nyambo made their appearance at the last minute. They took seats immediately behind Zoe and Joseph, ignoring the swirl of hushed gossip among the journalists. Zoe glanced over her shoulder and saw the smugness on Frederick’s face. Patricia, by contrast, was a model of neutrality.

  Moments later, Flexon Mubita took the bench. He peered over his glasses at the packed courtroom. “In the matter of Darious Nyambo,” he began, “I have reviewed the evidence presented at trial and recorded my findings and conclusions in a written judgment. Copies will be furnished to counsel and any interested third parties.” As he said this, he looked toward the press. “Are there any preliminary issues that I must address before I pronounce my judgment?”

  Sarge and Luchembe both shook their heads.

  “Very well,” said the judge, folding his hands on the bench. “This case troubles me deeply. As the father of two daughters, I am horrified by the crime of defilement. As a judge, I am angered by the violence that has attended these proceedings. Yet the law is not about my morality or feelings. It is about the conscience of our society. And society in its collective wisdom has placed a high burden on the state to establish the guilt of any man accused of raping a child. It is not enough for a victim to be found in a state of defilement. It is not enough that the accused knows the victim, not enough that he wishes her ill. The state is obligated to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the accused in fact defiled a victim under the age of sixteen.”

  Reasonable doubt, Zoe thought, her heart sinking into the mire. He’s going to hand the case to the Nyambos and look Solomonic while he does it.

  The judge glanced at Darious. “After reviewing the evidence, I find that Kuyeya Mizinga was raped on the night of August 20, 2011. I find, moreover, that she was underage. I had hoped that DNA would establish the identity of the perpetrator with the same degree of certainty. Alas, we must wait for another case to bring Zambia into the modern age. In the absence of scientific evidence, this case boils down to the credibility of witnesses and the burden of proof.”

  Mubita took a breath. “The prosecution presented a great deal of evidence about historical relationships between Darious Nyambo and the victim’s mother, Charity Mizinga, and between Ms. Mizinga and the accused’s father, Frederick Nyambo. This evidence was offered to establish the motive of the accused in committing this particular crime. While I find the prosecution’s theory highly intriguing, it is irrelevant to the question before the Court. Defilement is a strict liability crime. The thoughts in the head of the accused are immaterial. It only matters whether the evidence shows he committed the act alleged.

  On that ground, I have excluded from consideration the following evidence: the journals of Charity Mizinga, the testimony of Dr. Amos, the testimony of Dr. Kruger, except as it pertains to the paternity of the victim, the testimony of Officer Kabuta about the accused’s state of health, and the testimony of Priscilla Kuwema, also known as Doris, except as to her observations of the accused shortly before the incident in question.”

  He just eviscerated our case, Zoe thought, horrified. I can’t believe I’m listening to this.

  “Concerning the eyewitness accounts,” the judge went on, “I see no reason to doubt that the children saw a silver SUV and a man who resembled the accused. I also find no reason to quibble with the testimony of the women from Kanyama. They saw and heard what they saw and heard. The question is whether this evidence is sufficient to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Darious Nyambo defiled Kuyeya Mizinga on August 20 of last year. I find that it is not.”

  Zoe closed her eyes and felt the pain down deep. How much she had risked for Kuyeya. How much they all had risked. They had built a persuasive case out of fragments buried in the past. They had defied their fears and spoken truth to power. And now a corrupt judge was dismantling their handiwork, piece by piece. She imagined Darious’s smile, the warmth in Frederick’s stomach. Check and checkmate, she thought. It’s all over.

  And then she heard a single word and her heart stopped in mid-beat: “However—” She opened her eyes and stared at Mubita. His countenance had transformed. No longer was his expression matter-of-fact. He glowered at Darious like an avenging angel.

  “However,” he said, “there is a witness whose testimony I found compelling. The child herself confronted the accused. She did not equivocate. ‘He touched me,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t supposed to touch.’ The truth could not be spoken any plainer. Taken together with corroborative evidence from the children and old women and the medical evidence offered by Dr. Chulu, and setting aside the unbelievable alibi offered by the accused, I find that Darious Nyambo in fact defiled Kuyeya Mizinga, a child under the age of sixteen, on August 20, 2011.”

  Zoe watched in shock as Mubita delivered the coup de grâce to a terrified Darious. “Let this be clear: no one is above the law, not even the son of a former cabinet minister. In accordance with the power vested in me by the Republic of Zambia, I commit your case to the High Court where you will be sentenced to no less than fifteen years in prison. The evil you have committed will not be tolerated by this nation.”

  As soon as the judge departed the bench, the gallery erupted with noise. Zoe, however, sat in silence, incapable of believing what she had just witnessed. Nothing made sense. She had seen Mubita with Patricia Nyambo and the Deputy Minister of Justice. His behavior at trial had been inexplicable. He had mollified Frederick at the bar. He had delayed his decision until the Nyambos secured him an appointment to the High Court. Could it be that he had taken the bribe and walked away from the deal? Could he have defeated them at their own game?

  She stood up slowly and accepted Joseph’s stunned embrace. She looked for Frederick and Patricia but didn’t see them. The press surrounded the legal team when they left the courtroom, every reporter asking a different question. Sarge and Niza offered rapid-fire answers, enjoying the limelight, but Zoe took Joseph’s hand and whispered: “Let’s go.”

  They made their escape through the side exit, scurrying across the parking lot and keeping their heads down to avoid attracting the television crew. Joseph climbed into the Land Rover and started the engine, but Zoe looked back. She saw Frederick and Patricia leave the courthouse by the main doors. They forced their way through the cameras and walked quickly in her direction. With a start, Zoe realized that Frederick’s Jaguar was only two cars away.

  The Nyambos didn’t notice her at first, but Zoe continued to stare at them, and the moment when it came seemed inevitable. Her eyes met Frederick’s across a distance of twenty feet. He looked startled, as if the sight of her carried an electric charge. For a split second, Zoe didn’t react. Then her expression caught the wind of her feelings, and she grinned.

  The Rule of Achilles. We win.

  What happened next turned the world on its head. Instead of following Frederick into the Jaguar, Patricia hesitated, her hand on the door. She met Zoe’s eyes and her lips curled into a smile. It was a vanishing thing, swallowed quickly by the sorrow that had preceded it, but its meaning was transparent—it was a smile that carried a secret, a smile of complicity. When she followed it with a nod, like a grace note, Zoe realized the truth.

  Sliding into the Land Rover, she began to laugh and cry at the same time, as all the doubt and frustration of the past nine months rushed out of her on the
current of vindication. The conspiracy of corruption had been thwarted by a conspiracy of mercy. Frederick had betrayed Patricia with Charity, and Patricia had betrayed him back, salvaging the institution to which she had committed her life, even at the expense of her son’s freedom. She had executed the deception perfectly, leading her husband to believe that she had set up the exchange with Mubita, making the necessary connections and delivering the High Court appointment. But she had neglected to tell him one thing: the Principal Resident Magistrate had no intention of selling out.

  Suddenly, Zoe understood the last piece of the puzzle. Flexon Mubita. His behavior on the bench hadn’t been erratic. It had been purposeful. While giving Frederick and Darious the impressions they expected, he had built a blemishless evidentiary record and grounded his judgment on the surest foundation—the accusation of the victim, corroborated by eyewitness testimony and medical evidence. Far from subverting justice, the judge had given them a sublime gift: a ruling the High Court would never reverse.

  “What?” Joseph said, giving her a peculiar look. “Something happened.”

  She laughed again. “I’ll tell you on the drive.”

  Two days later, Zoe awoke to the sound of vervet monkeys chattering outside her guest room at the Royal Livingstone Hotel. Joseph lay beside her on his back, snoring softly. She kissed his cheek and slipped out of bed, dressing in capris and a white cotton shirt. She grabbed her backpack off the floor and stole out of the room into the coolness of the morning. The monkeys scattered when they saw her, and she watched them go, laughing at the sight of a baby hanging onto its mother for dear life.

  She crossed the wide lawn and took a seat on the deck overlooking the Zambezi. In the distance, the mist of Victoria Falls hovered like a cloud on the horizon. She took out the envelope that Monica Kingsley had given her in New York. She had hesitated to open it before now, preserving it on the intuition that she would find a more appropriate moment. Now, studying her mother’s graceful penmanship, she knew she had been right to wait.

  She breached the seal of the envelope and extracted two sheets of yellowed paper. She looked toward the falls again and took a deep breath. Then she read her mother’s words.

  Dearest Zoe,

  I hope this letter never reaches you. I hope I am with you when you enter womanhood and realize the strength and beauty that dwells in you. But our lives are not in our hands. I am writing you because my work is dangerous and because what I have to say cannot be left unsaid.

  I have many regrets as a mother. If you are reading this, I imagine you can name them as well as I can. I’ve never been great at motherhood—at least the conventional kind. I have long struggled to harmonize my passions with my devotion to you and Trevor. So before I go any further, let me offer you an apology. For the days when I was gone and you needed me, for the times when I was there and my mind was in another place, for allowing others to raise you in your early years, I am sorry. I tried to make it up to you by taking you with me when I could. It hasn’t been enough, I know, but it’s the best I’ve known how to give.

  I remember the first time I took you to Victoria Falls. I saw the spark in your eyes, and the way it quickly grew into a flame. I knew then that our hearts carry the same beat. I never told you about the beginning of my love affair with Africa. It was a Kenyan poet who convinced me that the stories we tell ourselves about the “Dark Continent” are deeply flawed. Wesley had a better name for Africa. He called it “The Garden of Burning Sand”—a land of splendor and severity, a land that gives and takes away. I loved him for a memorable season, and then life called me home. The rest you know.

  If you are reading this, you are thirty and I am gone. I’m not certain where life has taken you, but I know that the spark I saw in your ten-year-old eyes was not a lie. I am writing to offer you a proposition. Please feel completely free to decline it if you have chosen a different path. But if your future is still open, I ask that you consider it.

  Buried in the charter of my foundation is a clause that names my successor upon my death. I chose Monica Kingsley to serve as Executive Director. I trust her implicitly, and that is a rare thing. What you do not know is that the charter allows for the appointment of a Special Envoy who would operate outside the sphere of Monica’s control and exercise a discretion that otherwise I have reserved for myself. This position is available to only two people. I offered it to Trevor first, but I asked him to consider leaving it to you. I suspect he did. His passions are elsewhere. I offer it now to you.

  Perhaps you have wondered why I left you with a charitable trust. Perhaps you have questioned my judgment in naming Atticus Spelling as trustee. I created the trust for a reason—to train you to think of your life as an instrument of good. Even Atticus I chose for a purpose, though I never told him why. I wanted you to learn the traditional rules of philanthropy so that when you have gleaned their wisdom and been frustrated by their rigidity you will know exactly how and when to break them. Human problems must be met with human compassion. The person, not the system, must be preeminent.

  If you are interested in my offer, let Monica know. She will explain it in more detail. Suffice it to say that you will be endowed with all the powers and privileges that I have, and you will ride on my reputation as you build your own. In the midst of politicians and bureaucrats and institutional players, you will be that rare person with allegiance to none but the truth and vast resources at your disposal. Truth and resources alone cannot change the world. But the world cannot change without them. If I have trained you well, you will know exactly what to do with them, and change you shall see.

  The thought of you reading this breaks my heart. But if I am gone, know that I am never far away. Go to Cape Point and watch the breakers of the circumpolar current, stand in the rainforest at Victoria Falls, and I will whisper to you. The spirit of love that binds us in life is indestructible in death. Give yourself as a gift to others, and you will know a joy that never fails.

  Never doubt that I love you.

  Below Catherine’s signature was a date: July 20, 1996. She had written the letter less than two weeks before she died. Zoe carefully folded the pages and placed them back in the envelope. Her face was a mess; it seemed she had an endless reservoir of tears. She saw Joseph walking toward her across the grass, clad in a long-sleeve shirt and jeans.

  “Hey,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I was wondering when you were going to get up.”

  “I’m on vacation,” he replied with a lilt that died quickly. “What’s the matter?”

  She hesitated and then handed him her mother’s letter. She watched as he read it, worrying that he would judge her for considering Catherine’s offer.

  When he reached the end, he regarded her reflectively. “What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. What should I be thinking?”

  He gave her a serious look. “That you’d be a fool not to say yes.”

  Her eyes went wide. “What about us? I love you. I don’t want to let this go.”

  “Then don’t,” he said softly.

  She was incredulous. “You’d come with me to the United States?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t be Inspector General in America.”

  “What are you saying?”

  A smile rose upon his lips. “How often did your mother visit Africa?”

  That night, Zoe asked Joseph if he wanted to go for a swim. He declined with a laugh, saying it was too cold. So she went alone. She threw on pants and a shirt over her one-piece suit, slid her iPhone into her pocket, and strolled barefoot across the grass to the pool. The hotel was lit warmly by lamplight, but the grounds around the pool lay in shadow.

  No one was about when she dived into the frigid water. She stroked to the far side and back again, doing ten laps. Afterward, she climbed out of the pool and wrapped her shivering body in a towel. In time, she found her iPhone in her pants. She typed two emails beneath the canopy of stars. The first she sent to Monica Kingsley:

&nb
sp; I read my mother’s letter. I’ve decided to accept her offer. Let me know what needs to happen next.

  The second she sent to her father:

  Dad, I’ve been thinking about what you said. If you’re really serious about using the presidency as Mom imagined, then I will support you as your daughter, politics aside. Send a plane, and I’ll join you on the stage at the convention. As for forgiveness, it is a journey. But I promise to try.

  She dressed again and followed the short path that led to the river. The sand was cold on her bare feet, and the boat launch was deserted. She knelt down at the water’s edge and placed her fingers in the gentle current of the Zambezi. Words came to her then, and she spoke them to the night and the river and the land beneath her.

  “I’m going home for a while. But I’ll be back.”

  Acknowledgements

  I could not have written The Garden of Burning Sand without the help of many people around the world. My wife deserves the greatest credit—both for infusing the concept with her own sense of inspiration and for enduring (once again) the seemingly endless litany of days when I was absent either in body or in spirit during the research, writing, and editing of the book. With small children in the home, this was no easy task. Marcy, without your love, encouragement and faith, many of the best things in my life—including this novel—would not exist.

  Just as most of the narrative is located in southern Africa, so are the majority of people to whom I owe gratitude. In Zambia, I wish to thank the amazing team of lawyers and social workers at the International Justice Mission (www.ijm.org) for giving me a tutorial of the law of child sexual assault and for your gracious hospitality during my time in the office. I continue to be inspired by your devotion to the work of justice and your commitment to care for the needs of the poorest victims of violence, young and old.