The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1)

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  Mr. Gejo bit his lower lip. He was proud of his hands.

  “By the time he arrived at the clinic, his daughter was in a coma. The nurses gave her a transfusion using her father’s blood. It made no difference. She died. That is why Abel Muranda is obsessed with a job that provides free health care. If any member of his remaining family falls sick, all he has to do is take a bus that he can pay for, to an accessible clinic where they can see a doctor who will not charge him. He likes to think that his trauma has clarified his perspective, but it has only blurred his judgment. Now you know the full story. I hope you feel better about yourself.”

  Mr. Kuripa had laid the trap, and yet he was afraid he would succeed in capturing that repulsive creature called Truth.

  “Mr. Kuripa, I am aware of Abel Muranda’s past. That is exactly why we chose him,” replied Mr. Gejo casually. “He is perfect. The man and the job share a magnetic attraction. They need each other. Why stand in the way of a fateful union?”

  Mr. Kuripa squeezed his eyes shut. There were so many things he wanted to say. So many things he could say. But no words would hurt Mr. Gejo to the extent that Mr. Kuripa desired. Sadly, men like Mr. Gejo existed. They were an unfortunate fact of life. Like hemorrhoids.

  “Listen, Kuripa. I am sure you know what would have happened if we made the wrong choice.”

  “Many people would have died dramatic deaths.”

  “There you go. And what was supposed to happen if the right hangman was chosen?”

  “Only one person would die in that manner.”

  “And what happened when Abel Muranda opened that envelope?”

  “Someone was killed by bad weather … while hiding in his basement.”

  “Exactly. ‘Someone’. Not ‘some people’. Savour the singular. Mr. Mheni was the only target of this vindictive disease.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Kuripa. My job often involves following the trail of death across this country.”

  “Or creating it,” interrupted Mr. Kuripa without thinking. His outrage had unleashed a candour that had been restrained for too long. Once it was loose, it was difficult to discipline. Mr. Gejo tapped his massive fingers on his desk. He cleared his throat and continued his thought from where he had left off.

  “If there were similar incidents, I would have heard about them. I did not. So who do you trust? Me or your bureaucrat’s instincts?”

  Mr. Kuripa did not provide an answer. None was expected.

  “This was no ordinary case of bad weather. A man was abducted from his locked basement by a bolt of lightning. It lifted him to the clouds before vaporizing most of his body. However, it was polite enough to spare his lower abdomen. His manhood was left dangling from it.”

  Mr. Kuripa cringed as a jolt of sympathy pain struck him in the groin. Mr. Gejo paused to let him absorb the experience. Before the image could fade, he continued to drive the point home.

  “Kuripa, the enemy is too malicious to kill with less flamboyance. If you have to speculate whether a similar death may have happened elsewhere, you already know that it did not.”

  “Maybe it happened in a faraway place. I am sure the trail of death extends beyond the borders you patrol.”

  “You mean Barbados?”

  “Yes. Harrison’s Cave. A certain Zimbabwean died with a theatrical flair in that place.”

  “That incident had nothing to do with the hangman’s replacement, or the disease he will help us to contain.”

  “Really, Gejo? If I remember correctly, the man was impaled from ‘brain to butt’ by two limestone spikes. He was also hunting for a house that was removed from the water, and which did not have a road running along the property. And yes, he was investigating plants that eat other plants. In my opinion, the only force that can combine all these facts into a coincidence is denial.”

  “Or logic. You did cite many facts, Kuripa. But you drew the wrong conclusion. Even if the infection could travel abroad, it was not responsible for the death in Barbados. The explanation is much simpler than that. The man was a common thief. He was proud of it. A few years ago, he even asked one of his bodyguards to film him while he stole candy from a baby at the Mbare bus depot. The baby’s mother was a poor woman. For her, buying that candy was the height of decadence. She only spoiled her child when she had a good day selling vegetables at her market stall. When her baby started crying after the theft, there was nothing the mother could do but watch the thief walk away. The man shared this story with me several times. His eyes glittered proudly with each retelling. He was a thrill-seeker. Unusual conquests excited him. That’s what drew him to the stalactite. Thankfully, he died an idiot’s death.”

  “But –”

  “But nothing, Kuripa. Those spikes met in his T10 vertebrae. It doesn’t matter which end of his spine you start counting from. The number ‘18.5’ was not implicated. So sure, he died with flair. But his own actions triggered his death. The spiritual infection we are fighting is too proud and confident. It would never take advantage of its victims’ suicidal foolishness. Forget the Barbados incident. It does not undermine our decision. Abel Muranda is the hangman’s replacement.”

  Mr. Kuripa combed desperately through his brain for a retort that was not there. Mr. Gejo interrupted the futility.

  “Some of us have long known that Abel Muranda was the right choice. We knew this when we ordered the gallows. The lever handle was tailor-made for the unique pattern of his palms. Such a degree of personalization is not coincidental; it is destiny. Remember, destiny is driven by a necessity that always wins over misguided righteousness. More importantly for you, tragedy awaits those who try to fight it.”

  Mr. Gejo paused to give his caller another message-absorption break.

  “Kuripa, you are not the only person who has been fighting against Abel Muranda’s recruitment. From that group of gallant souls, you are probably the luckiest one. You should thank some good friends you made during the war. If they had not stepped in, you would not be whining into my ear right now. You would not be hearing me advise you to avoid every place that I know you could be in the next nine days.”

  Mr. Kuripa sat up in his chair and clenched his teeth.

  “You know where to find me, Mr. Gejo. I won’t go into hiding.”

  “Maybe you should be hiding from a danger that is greater than the injury I intend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “During the interview, you asked Abel Muranda whether he was followed on his journey from his village to Harare.”

  “Of course I did. You asked me to pose the question.”

  “What was his answer?”

  “He said he was not followed.”

  “No, he did not say that. Try to remember what he actually said. I never forget anything, and certainly not an answer that was phrased so carefully at such short notice. Maybe there is more to the rural simpleton you were trying to protect.”

  Mr. Gejo hung up.

  Mr. Kuripa put the phone down. What on earth was that hippo talking about? All he could remember about the interview was his near-death experience at the hands of a man who was dying to get a job as a killer. Mr. Kuripa quickly dismissed all thoughts of the confrontation. The fight to save Abel Muranda had cost him a lot of money. Five thousand dollars to be exact. Worse, it had killed a young father who had risked his life to warn Abel Muranda about the danger he was in. A man who had tried to make sure that a good person would not be saddled with the weight of forces he would never understand. Mr. Kuripa pulled at his hair and clenched his teeth. How could he look the man’s widow in the eye and pretend he had no idea how her husband’s face was erased by acid?

  * * *

  Consolidated 5. File: CH3COOH-H2O – Client / Chokwadi – Extract – Newspaper SED02GRIFF.ELECT – Zizi

  ZUVA REDU: Zimbabwean Man Impaled by Stalactite in Barbados

  By Earnest Chokwadi

  Death rarely provides an occasion for laughter. Last week, your columnist found
himself in the exceptional situation where another man’s demise was the subject of humour. It all started when my editor sent me to report on the death of a Zimbabwean man in Barbados. As a native of our landlocked country, the prospect of white coral beaches, palm trees, and the world’s best rum was too exciting to be spoilt by the peculiar tragedy.

  The deceased met his fate at one of Barbados’ most popular attractions. Harrison’s Cave is a geographical marvel. The underground cave system is comprised of enormous chambers, limestone filtered water (95% pure according to the guide), and of course, thousands of stalactites and stalagmites. This strange story involves the latter two features.

  Stalactites are long, rocky “swords” that hang from the ceilings of caves. These natural formations are created over thousands of years by the steady accumulation of calcium deposits. Stalagmites are the same as the stalactites. The only difference is that they grow upwards from the floor of the cave. Each year, these structures grow no more than the thickness of a single sheet of paper. Therefore, when nature takes the time to grow them to the height of a man, such patience must be respected. The victim’s irreverence towards this magnificence cost him his life.

  The man arrived at Harrison’s Cave for the last tour of the day. When the tour was over, the staff noticed that a member of the group was missing. Two employees were sent to find him. When they came to a natural bridge overlooking a large cathedral-like chamber, they were met by a horrific, yet comedic, sight.

  The victim was standing to the right of the bridge. Sticking out from his skull was a massive stalactite. It had fallen point-first onto the centre of his skull. The downward force had pushed his rear-end onto a stalagmite that was jutting up from the floor of the cave. The two spikes tunnelled through his spine from opposite directions and met in the middle of his “T10 vertebrae”.

  Despite the violent nature of the misfortune, the victim’s face was frozen in the most hideous of grins. Even in death, he appreciated the humour in his sudden demise. The coroner thought differently. In her “medical opinion” the smirk was not an expression of amusement. It was the likely result of trauma-induced “risus sardonicus”. The condition causes involuntary muscle contractions which can contort the face into a pseudo-smile.

  “The facial expression does not match the victim’s experience. In this case it is unlikely that the man felt anything at all. The sudden impact of the stalactite probably killed him before he knew he was dead; before he could appreciate the hilarity of his double impalement.”

  The coroner conceded that her theory was speculative. After all, risus sardonicus is more commonly associated with tetanus infections and not a sudden impalement by ancient calcium spikes.

  Barbadian authorities are confident that the incident was not an accident. The police found a long, hooked pole beside the dead man’s body. It appears that the victim was killed while trying to pry the stalactite from the cave ceiling. Had he lived, he would have been prosecuted for destroying a national treasure. Despite the damage, the officer in charge of the investigation was still sympathetic, though less guarded than the coroner.

  “No man deserves to be impaled from brain to butt like that. Poor fella. I hope the stalactite shut off his nerves before the stalagmites made its point from below.”

  You got to love these island folk.

  Though the mechanics of the victim’s death are vivid, the reasons behind his trip to Barbados are rather murky. The mystery Zimbabwean is reported to have arrived in the island nation a month ago. According to local sources, he had no intention of leaving. He deposited fifteen million dollars in a private Bridgetown bank and retained a local law firm to help him with the immigration process.

  The Zimbabwean also found a real estate agent to look for homes on the island. The agent claims that he was a demanding customer with specific needs. For starters, he refused to consider any properties that were less than two kilometres from the coast. He also insisted on a lot that was surrounded by neighbours on all sides. Properties next to open spaces or along paved roads were out of the question.

  The man was willing to spare no expense to secure the right property. He refused to rush his decision though he was paying a king’s ransom for every day of his stay at the exclusive Sandy Lane Resort. Apparently, he paid for a two month stay in advance, and was willing to extend his stay if he did not find the right property in that time.

  Though the stranger viewed many ready-built residences, he preferred to secure a piece of land where he could build a house to his own specifications. A local resident shared her account of meeting him when he came to view the plot she was selling in Bannatyne Gardens.

  “At first, he seemed like a nice man. Normal. Things got strange when he started interrogating me about my background in the floral business. Then he started asking about the flowers in my garden. He said they were beautiful but refused to go anywhere near them. Then he asked me whether any of the plants in my garden ‘demonstrated intra-specific predation’. I asked him what that meant. This time, he was blunt. He wanted to know whether I grew any plants that feasted on other plants. If I did, he would pay twice my asking price if I agreed to grow the cannibalistic plants on the lot. As an avid gardener, I told him I would never grow a plant that preyed on others. He simply frowned and left. The whole episode was rather bizarre.”

  I never learned why the man made such a strange request. I visited Harrison’s Cave to view the scene of his impalement. The damp sensation of death was still clinging to the air. I felt no guilt about my lack of sympathy, though. It is hard to pity a man who is skewered from “brain to butt” by the objects he was trying to steal.

  * * *

  TAMPERED INGREDIENTS: MR. CHIDOMA ESQUIRE

  “A man who stands astride a barbed wire fence will eventually have his testicles ripped off.”

  Consolidated 6. File: H2SO4 – xgx – Client / Chokwadi Extract – Newspaper SED24567 – Zizi

  ZUVA REDU: Prisoner Escapes from Mazambuko Death Row

  By Earnest Chokwadi

  One of Zimbabwe's most notorious criminals has escaped from the nation’s most secure prison. Figaro G. Magaka was last seen in his cell just before midnight on Tuesday. According to our sources, the last person to see him was a guard carrying out a routine check in Block D3, which houses the death-row inmates.

  When another guard on the morning shift came by for a scheduled cell inspection, Figaro was nowhere to be seen. It did not take the guard long to figure out how the fugitive had escaped. He had fled through a gaping hole in the southern wall of his underground cell. The hole was no larger than a bathroom mirror, but it was wide enough for the notorious Figaro to make his escape.

  Prison officials are baffled by how the metre-thick wall was breached. It appears that the root system of a large tree had been growing under the foundation of the cell over many years. Gradually it caused a system of cracks that went unnoticed until a brittle portion of the wall suddenly collapsed.

  Figaro G. Magaka is a notorious bandit who was active in Mashonaland East. Zimbabweans know him better as FatFace, a nickname he got because of his slender body and obese face. He was finally captured during a robbery near Kadoma twelve years ago.

  FatFace stole a million dollars’ worth of bounty during his five-year crime spree. However, he became famous for his signature habit of gluing goat-hair moustaches onto the faces of those he killed during his robberies.

  FatFace was known for stockpiling dead rodents in his prison cell. His other eccentricities included a strong aversion to meat. The irony of a plant breaking a vegetarian out of prison was lost on the officials in the warden’s office. When Zuva Redu called to ask some questions, an ill-tempered woman told your columnist to “eat his microphone”. As a print journalist, I do not usually use a microphone, but I offered to eat my pen instead. If she found my retort humorous, she hid it well.

  Zuva Redu did make progress on other fronts. Several former prison guards were willing to shed light on the matter.
All cast doubt on the official “tree theory”. One former guard was forthright in his assessment.

  “Everyone knows that trees and prison walls don’t mix. Construction protocols dictate that no tree can stand within a hundred metres of a prison wall. There was no tree growing anywhere near that cell when I worked there. If it’s true that the wall was breached, there must be another explanation.”

  This assessment was verified by all former prison guards we spoke to. Zuva Redu also consulted Mr. Vakai Chitokisi of the Harare architectural firm Chitokisi and Gondo.

  “I have designed and refurbished several prisons in Zimbabwe, South Africa and Botswana. I always make sure the construction workers remove all trees and root systems within a wide radius.

  “Trees and buildings have been enemies ever since humans started constructing permanent structures. If you do not plan properly, trees can burrow into your foundation and compromise the integrity of your building. They can also fall onto your roof and cause serious injuries. Of course this is always unfortunate, especially when you have no insurance. Prisons do not enjoy an exception to this wisdom. In fact, these construction principles are even more critical for custodial institutions. It’s common sense, really.”

  Zuva Redu was denied permission to enter the prison grounds. However, an anonymous source told us that by the late morning, the root system had invaded up to a third of FatFace’s cell. If the guard who last saw the bandit is telling the truth, the only explanation is that the roots grew their entire length overnight, or, at least the parts that made it into the cell did.