by Kurt Ellis
‘The muti angle adds a twist to our original theory, but the theory still fits. Mthembu remains our prime suspect,’ Grey added, paging through a new report from Professor Cho. ‘We finally got the blood work back from Sinamane’s autopsy. Muti would explain the high level of endorphins in her blood.’
‘Endorphins?’ Patel looked inquisitive.
‘It tells us she was alive when they cut her,’ Cho explained.
Zwane elaborated further. ‘The muti’s stronger if the person is scared and in pain when they take the parts.’
‘Jislaaik,’ growled Steenkamp. ‘Fucking monsters.’
‘We were given the name of the inyanga from the shop steward.’
‘Umthakathi,’ Zwane corrected Meyer as he checked his notes. ‘Not inyanga but witch.’
Meyer said, ‘Her name is Nomtakhati.’
‘Last name?’ Steenkamp asked.
Meyer shrugged. ‘Unknown.’
Reshmee Patel’s hand shot up as if she was in school.
Grey nodded at her. She stood up, then looked down at her notes. ‘After … after I heard from Detective Meyer yesterday, I did some research, you know. On the name. To see if there’s any mention of this person in the newspapers or anything like that. And I found four references to a person named Nomtakhati in the Daily Sun newspaper regarding witchcraft. One involved the discovery of a body. The body was that of a young boy who was rumoured to have been killed for muti. This occurred in Carletonville two years ago.’
She read from the photocopied article, ‘“He was supposed to start pre-primary in a month’s time. But now, instead of buying a school uniform, Glenda Msipa is picking out funeral clothes for little Josia. The body of four-year-old Josia Msipa was found in the park where he and his friends play soccer. The community is angry and have marched on the Carletonville Police station. ‘This isn’t right,’ Community Member Pinkie Radebe says. ‘How can a little child be hurt like this?’ And what angers the community even more is that they believe they know who is responsible, says Radebe: ‘We told the police that there’s a woman here who is selling muti with human parts and with human blood. But they don’t come.’ Radebe took the Daily Sun to the woman’s shack, but all that was left was a square of blackened earth and ash. The community had apparently congregated at the shack the previous night to confront this witch, known only as Nomtakhati, but her house was abandoned. ‘It’s like nobody ever lived here. She just vanished,’ said Radebe.’”
Reshmee looked up. ‘The other three news reports are similar: three more bodies found with missing body parts and a witch named Nomtakhati blamed for them all.’
Grey nodded. ‘Good work.’
She blushed at the compliment as she took her seat.
‘We need to talk to someone who can tell us more about this practice,’ Grey continued.
‘We have Zwane,’ Meyer offered. ‘He seems to be knowledgeable.’
The young detective shook his head. ‘What I know I was told by my parents or grandparents. I’m not an expert.’
‘I agree,’ Grey added. ‘There’s a lecturer at Wits University that I know of. The Occult Unit uses him sometimes, but I can’t remember his name.’
Meyer flipped through his notepad. ‘Professor Buthelezi. I’ve met him.’
‘Okay,’ Grey said. ‘Find his details and let’s give him a call. Arrange a chat with him. Meyer, go with Steenkamp. Needless to say, this development takes our case in a whole different direction. A direction I would rather not let the media know about. Keep all mention of muti silent.’
He turned to the others in the group. ‘The rest of us will continue to look for Reggie Mthembu.’
59
Tracey Wilson rushed into Felix Sherwood’s office just after ten that morning. She had been awake for almost thirty-six hours, fuelled by caffeine and excitement. Her editor, holding the telephone to his ear, glanced at her, then continued his conversation. He laughed at whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying and that annoyed her. She was bringing him one of the biggest stories of the year and here he was, cackling like a damn schoolgirl.
She knocked hard on his desk, as if it were a door. He frowned at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. She motioned at him to hurry up.
‘Janet, I’ll call you back.’ He placed the receiver on the cradle.
Before he could ask her what it was she wanted, Tracey thrust a piece of paper at him. ‘I want this to run in the afternoon edition.’
He seemed reluctant to take it from her but he did so nonetheless. His eyes swept across each line of text, and slowly his brows dropped lower and lower on his forehead until he was scowling. When he was done, he looked at her, wide eyed.
‘Can you back this up?’
‘I can,’ she smiled.
‘For Christ’s sake, Tracey, we’re not a tabloid publication. We do proper news. If you make these accusations, but can’t back them up, then …’
‘I can back them up, Felix. I’ve got the hospital admission form. I’ve got the Seattle police report on the Rodriguez shooting from my source in Washington.’
‘Who’s your source?’
‘A former journalist who covered the case.’
‘And your source at SAPS?’
She had hoped that he wouldn’t ask. She looked away briefly, trying to hide her face in case her shame was somehow visible. The shame of having snooped through Meyer’s pockets and getting information from his notepad. Meyer had written down everything pertaining to the case, including how anxious he was about using the profile provided by Creed due to his suspected substance abuse.
‘You know I can’t disclose that.’
‘Is it Meyer?’
Silence. Felix dropped the sheet on his desk and groaned. The heavy leather chair creaked as he leaned back. ‘This is going to cause a major shit storm, especially now, with the mine massacre.’
‘I know, but it’s a bloody good story, Felix,’ she responded. ‘And you know it.’
The walrus of the man exhaled hard again. ‘Fine. I’ll run it. But if you’re wrong …’
60
The bite in the air was gone by late morning. The winter sun had warmed Meyer up to such an extent that he was almost tempted to remove his jacket.
‘I miss my school days,’ started Steenkamp with a smile. ‘Lekker days, those. You play rugby in school, Meyer?’
He shook his head.
‘Jislaaik, it was awesome. I was a star wing at high school in Krugersdorp, my boet, back when rugby was a man’s sport, not filled with pretty-boy moffies and quota systems. When rugby was good. Got me into Vaal Tech. And the bokkies!’ Steenkamp slapped Meyer on the shoulder, laughing. ‘They would do anything to be with me. I had so much koekie in the day, I was like a cat’s litter box.’
Meyer was able to pick up the scent of fresh brandy on his breath.
‘Like this one bokkie. Her name was Elna, a regte boeremeisie. And loose. Freckles on the cheeks, and big, big titties. We went into an empty lecture theatre and I …’
‘Didn’t you meet your wife in high school, Steenkamp?’ Meyer interrupted. The last thing he wanted to hear was Steenkamp’s sexual history.
Steenkamp scoffed. ‘Ja, back when she was something to look at. And you, Meyer, how much koekie you got in high school?’
‘I went to an all-boys boarding school.’
‘Oh,’ replied Steenkamp. He laughed, ‘So you only played with each other. Moffies.’
Steenkamp jerked his head back and roared with laughter. He again slapped Meyer’s shoulder.
Meyer didn’t respond. They were walking from a car park at the University of the Witwatersrand, in search of the building called Solomon Mahlangu House.
‘Jislaaik, Meyer. Look at that.’ Steenkamp whistled at the sight of a teenage girl in a short mini skirt and knee-length boots walking towards them. ‘How short is that skirt?’
‘The child looks fifteen, Steenkamp.’
‘So?’ He grinned. ‘I b
et you she has more sex than me and you put together.’
Again, Meyer chose not to answer. Steenkamp threw the girl a wink, and she responded with a look of disgust and a ‘sies’ hissed under her breath.
Meyer smiled. Steenkamp mumbled, ‘Bloody tease.’
They crossed a road that bisected the campus and, after getting further directions from a student, walked up the steps to the Great Hall and through its large wooden doors. Meyer recalled a few years earlier that he had attended a criminology lecture somewhere in this building, delivered by Major Grey himself.
They followed the passage that led them around a corner. After turning a sharp right and passing three lifts, they arrived at Solomon Mahlangu House. From that point on, it was easy to find lecture room SHB201, or Solomon Mahlangu House Basement, room 201. The two policemen slipped into the amphitheatre and stood at the back.
61
The lecturer had the entire room hanging on his words. Even if they had wanted to sit, there wasn’t a single empty chair in the lecture hall. Professor Mgwazeni Buthelezi stood tall in front of the theatre with glasses resting at the tip of his broad nose.
Three things stood out to Meyer. The first was his colourful green-and-yellow Madiba shirt. The second was his kinetic energy. The stick-thin man reminded him of a praying mantis as he prowled the front of the room while speaking. He didn’t move particularly quickly, but there seemed to be a great energy and enthusiasm radiating from him. The final aspect was his voice. It was deep and booming, rich and passionate. It reverberated off the walls and hit the ears from all angles. It was a voice full of possibilities, demanding your undivided attention while its timbre put you at ease. Such a voice, for such a skinny man …
‘… In the aftermath of this,’ he continued, ‘the population of what people called British Kaffraria dropped from over 100 000 to only 20 000, all because of the resulting famine she caused.’
A student raised his hand. ‘Prof, are you telling me that because of one teenage girl, the entire Gcaleka tribe killed all their cattle?’ The student’s European tongue struggled to pronounce the click in ‘Gcaleka’.
‘No, Jason,’ Professor Buthelezi smiled warmly, ‘not only the Gcaleka but most, if not all, of the Xhosa people. They killed as many as 400 000 head of cattle. All because of this little girl named Nongqawuse, who said that she had met three of her spiritual ancestors at the river; because she told the people that these ancestors had told her that all their cattle must be killed. And that if they did that, then all the white people would be driven back into the ocean. But I see many white faces here today,’ Buthelezi continued, ‘so I guess it didn’t work after all.’ The class laughed. ‘But this is the question I’d like to pose to you. Who’s to say it wouldn’t have worked if all the people had obeyed? Nongqawuse told her people that they must all kill their cattle and burn their crops. The majority of the people believed her and did what she said. But there were a handful of those who didn’t. They didn’t kill their cattle or burn their crops. So, when the prophecy didn’t come true on February 18th, 1857, was it really Nongqawuse’s fault?’
He paused, letting his words seep in. ‘In 1425, a French peasant girl claimed that angels had come to her and said she was to lead the French army to victory over the English. But she didn’t manage to do that. She failed. She was wrong, but now she is regarded worldwide as a saint. This girl, who I’m sure you all recognise, was Joan of Arc. Now, let’s compare the two cases. In one, the girl’s prophecy is proven wrong and she is ridiculed. In the other, the girl’s prophecy is proven wrong yet she is venerated. Nonqqawuse and Joan of Arc. Tell me, why are they treated differently?’ Hands shot up throughout the room. Professor Buthelezi smiled. ‘Tell me, but in a 5 000-word assignment due next week Friday.’
The classroom hummed with groans. ‘You will find the full scope of the assignment posted outside my office after lunch. That’s all for today. Hambani kahle.’
62
When the class had filed out in a cacophony of chatter, Meyer and Steenkamp made their way down the stairs towards Professor Buthelezi. He met them with a grin and an extended hand.
‘Detective Meyer,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘You too, Professor.’ Meyer shook his warm hand. ‘This is Captain Steenkamp.’
The two men greeted each other. ‘Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.’
‘It’s my pleasure,’ the man smiled. ‘How can I help you?’
‘We were hoping to get your expertise on a case of ours.’
‘Of course. I’ll be happy to help.’
‘Great.’ Meyer pulled his notepad from his jacket. ‘Professor, before we get started, can you please confirm what course do you teach here at Wits and what your qualifications are?’
Buthelezi slid his notes into a well-worn leather satchel. ‘I have doctorates in Anthropology and Sociology. I teach numerous courses on both subjects, but I specialise in African culture, orality and African traditions.’
‘And does that include the practice and use of muti?’
He smiled. ‘You do recall our previous encounter at the mortuary, don’t you, Detective? It does indeed. Traditional medicines and customs fall within the scope of my courses and expertise.’ He led them to the front row of the auditorium where they sat on folding chairs, the Professor sandwiched in the middle.
‘Well, Prof, we have a murder in which we believe parts of the body were removed for muti.’
‘Are you sure it was for muti?’ He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. ‘I cannot tell you how many murders in this country get falsely linked to muti. Even the Occult Unit that I help from time to time gets it wrong, and they’re supposed to be experts.’
‘This isn’t a false link, Professor,’ Meyer stated. ‘We have in our custody the muti that was made. It tested positive for human DNA.’
‘Plus, there’s a fucking hand in it,’ Steenkamp added.
The Professor sighed. ‘This really upsets me, gentlemen. People already have negative connotations with the word “muti”. All it is, officers, is medicine. Just like that medicine you get from your Clicks Pharmacy or Dis-Chem. Where do you think those pills and capsules come from? They come from the same roots, herbs and bark that traditional healers have been using for millennia. All the pharmaceutical companies do is synthesise it, put it in a pretty box, then charge you a hundred times more for it. Capitalism at its finest.’ He took in a deep, slow breath. ‘Muti is medicine, designed to heal.’
‘But sometimes it can be used to harm.’
A slow nod. ‘But … yes, there are those who try to use muti to do harm. That’s correct.’
‘So,’ asked Meyer, looking up from his scribbled notes. ‘Are you saying muti works? That you can put a curse on someone?’
‘If you ingest anything, Detective, there’ll be a physical reaction between the chemicals in the substance and your body. If it’s poisonous, you will die. If it’s healthy, you will get better. But as far as curses go, that’s a little murky.’
‘Murky how, Professor?’
‘There is no scientific evidence either way. If a person believes he’s cursed, there’s no way of proving him right or wrong. It’s his belief. Perception is reality in this world, gentlemen. Look, it’s like Christianity or any other major organised religion. Whether you’re a believer or not, there are those out there who believe and will attest to feeling God in their lives helping them. And there are those preachers who are truly trying to do good through their ministry. But then there are those preachers who are looking to use the word of God to enrich themselves. I mean, televangelism is a multibillion-rand-a-year industry. Nobody seems to notice or care about the hypocrisy of people becoming millionaires from preaching about a man who taught humility and charity. The same can be said about African traditional practices. Many inyanga are truly trying to help and believe in their abilities. But then there are those charlatans who’re after a quick buck – those people wh
o promise to make you win the Lotto, or bring back a lost love, or increase the size of your penis.’
Meyer was reminded of the street poles in Johannesburg covered in adverts from such individuals, some even offering cheap abortions.
‘The people they’re targeting are already desperate,’ Buthelezi continued. ‘They’re cold, hungry and scared, and they believe the world has turned against them for some reason, and they don’t know why. So, when an inyanga explains to the person that he’s cursed, why things are going wrong in his life, the person is eager to believe. That’s the only thing that makes sense. And they’re willing to pay anything to get this curse lifted. They have no other option but to believe them. So to answer your question … the only person who can answer that is the person who believes he or she is cursed.’
Steenkamp cleared his throat. ‘Speaking of curses, have you heard of a umth … a … er … un…’
He struggled to remember the word. Meyer consulted his notes. ‘Umthakathi.’
Professor Buthelezi smiled. ‘Well done, Detective. Umthakathi. It literally means a witch. It’s an inyanga who deals only in muti designed to harm.’
‘So, not all inyangas are witches?’ Steenkamp confirmed.
‘Captain, inyanga and traditional healers are upstanding members of the health provider’s community. They’re registered and recognised medical practitioners in South Africa. They have a governing body.’ He turned to Meyer and said slowly, so he could write his words down. ‘Visit Traditionalhealth.org.za. It’s an organisation set up to oversee their activities.’
‘But of course,’ Meyer added, ‘not all traditional healers will be members.’
‘That’s correct, Detective. Some are not.’ The Professor paused. ‘You must remember, though, that in African cultures and traditions, facts are often hidden in myths. Like umthakathi. Sometimes, just because someone is an inyanga, they immediately get accused of being umthakathi should the community encounter a tragedy or some sort of a natural disaster. Many times, innocent practitioners are assaulted and even killed because unemployment in an area increases, or a river floods, or a child goes missing. They’re accused of using Tokoloshe and Imfene for evil deeds. And …’
