Sacrificed

by Chanette Paul

  Forty-one

  Tuesday, October 21

  Caz

  Overberg

  For the second time in less than a week a courier service delivered a parcel. It was a different courier. The parcel was about the same size as the first, and not much lighter.

  Sunday was a nerve-wracking day, but luckily Ellen had been there on Monday. What her poor char could do if Njiwa appeared was a question best left unanswered, but just the presence of another living being helped calm Caz’s nerves. At least they could talk about normal subjects. Lilah and their few days together. Ellen’s children and grandchildren. The weather. What had happened around there while Caz had been away.

  Caz unpacked the multitude of brightly colored blocks on the kitchen table. Neon green, bright pink, turquoise, purple, bright blue, sunflower yellow. A few in other colors too. Half a dozen in reddish-brown. At the bottom were two large gray blocks the size of bricks.

  The tools and other accessories she had ordered, as well as a book of projects, had also arrived. She had bought the pasta machine in Hermanus on Saturday afternoon.

  With all the unforeseen expenses of the past month her finances looked dire. Her nest egg had been dealt a serious blow. To tell the truth, a flimsy quail egg was all that remained. The surrounding nest was gone.

  Still. A brand-new hobby, was how she should view it.

  At least she had something to occupy her hands and her thoughts. To steer them away from birth mothers who left their children to their own devices and wished they had been aborted. Who fled across the African plains with potbellied ancestral spirits instead, and all the consequences of that flight.

  Wednesday, October 22

  Luc

  Ghent

  Luc looked at De Brabander, astounded. “Deportation?”

  “It’s the best option, according to the investigative judge. Like last year, there will be the usual protesters who will rant and rave because we’re deporting a man to the DRC, but it’s his native land, no matter how dangerous and corrupt it may be. He came here with a visa that was valid for four months, not to ask for asylum. As far as we know, but can’t prove, he assaulted and robbed a woman while he was here. Possibly played a role in the killing of another woman. If there’s a trial and he’s found guilty and sent to prison, the Belgian taxpayer foots the bill. If he’s released, he’ll walk the streets until his visa expires. So Erevu Matari is being deported.”

  “From Belgium. But no one can prevent him from going to South Africa from the DRC.” Caz. She might not be at the top of his prayer list at present, but it was unthinkable that she might become Matari’s target yet again.

  “If he can get a visa, no. But there’s a rumor that he belongs to a rebel group that has been trying for some time to undermine President Kabila. Chances are that he’ll be thrown in jail for a long time.” De Brabander seemed to be weighing his next words. “It seems cruel to extradite him in these circumstances, but there’s another reason for deporting him. He’s a dangerous man. He’s not afraid of prison. Somehow he commands respect from the other prisoners. One night there was a helluva brawl in which a prisoner lost a testicle. No one was willing to talk. The man who lost the testicle is known for ... let’s say ‘initiating’ the new prisoners.”

  Luc’s mouth went dry. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know more about Matari. “Heard anything about Njiwa?”

  “Nothing. The partial fingerprint we found on the staircase railing either didn’t belong to him or else he’s a first offender. In Europe anyway. Forensics didn’t come up with anything usable. Neither did Matari’s luggage. And there were no usable fingerprints on anything Ms. Colijn had in her backpack.

  “All the blood samples belonged to Tieneke Colijn. The injury at the back of her head probably occurred when she hit her head against the headboard of the bed. A luminol test revealed the presence of blood on the headboard, as well as blood spatters on the wall that had been cleaned.”

  “Have you notified Caz Colijn? Of the deportation?”

  The commissioner shook his head. “Not yet, but she’ll be informed in due course. It will take a while for all the paperwork to be completed. I’ll see to it that she’s brought up to speed. Possibly by the Stanford police. When I tried to phone her last Wednesday on her South African cell number, I was told that the number didn’t exist. I find it odd. Also that she hasn’t contacted us to hear whether there are any new developments. Or at least sent us a new contact number. If Matari is tried over here, she’ll be a witness. Her Belgian phone is dead, of course.”

  De Brabander got to his feet. “Thanks for looking in. I’ll keep you informed about the deportation.”

  Luc went out, deep in thought. Winter was making itself felt, but it wasn’t the only reason he felt chilled to the bone.

  Ammie had still not fully recovered and, yes, he was annoyed with Caz for not even asking, but she was all alone in a crime mecca. Njiwa’s whereabouts were unknown. Matari was going to be deported and once he was back in the Congo, if he managed to stay out of prison, he could go about his business as usual.

  Caz would have to keep looking over her shoulder. The mere thought that she might fall victim to Matari and Njiwa’s evil machinations drove the breath from his body.

  Tuesday, October 28

  Caz

  Overberg

  “I beg your pardon?” Caz shielded her eyes with her hand. Of course she had heard what Dlamini had said but she was hoping she had got it wrong.

  “I said, David Verstraeten didn’t check in this morning. He’s not at the address where he’s supposed to be. He’s missing. I’m sorry, Ms. Colijn. These things happen.”

  “Have you let De Brabander know?” Panic choked her.

  “Who?”

  “The detective in Ghent. The one I asked you to contact.”

  “Ms. Colijn, do you have any idea how many cases I have? I can’t remember everything. I am up to my ears in murder and rape cases that demand more urgent attention than a stolen handbag. And according to your statement, that’s what this case is about.”

  Caz stood motionless after bidding him a curt farewell. She’d been so bloody stupid. She should have contacted De Brabander herself. Told him everything, despite the possible consequences. Even if it meant that he would regard her as the instigator, who had denied Matari and Njiwa the reward she had promised them—the contents of the strongbox. Now it was too late.

  She could call Captain Dlamini back and tell him where David Verstraeten would surface shortly. She could phone the Stanford police and try to explain, even if the case wasn’t theirs. And then? Even if they sent someone to wait here for Njiwa, which was unlikely, even if they caught him, it would be the same old story all over again. Even if he was caught red-handed, he’d be charged with breaking and entering, or attempted burglary, probably be brought to book for breaking his bail conditions, but he’d soon be released again. Come and find her again. Whether it was in a few months or a few years.

  Besides, Erevu Matari wouldn’t be in prison long. There was also the unidentified third person. The one who had her old laptop in his or her possession. There were probably others involved too, with or without reAfrikanization tattoos.

  There was no point in fleeing either. This had to end. She and Njiwa had to end it. The sooner, the better.

  She was at the end of her tether. She barely slept at night. Every sound woke her. A dog barking in the distance, the donkey braying on the neighboring farm, the brakes of a big truck on the bypass, a creaking branch, Catya jumping off a chair.

  Caz picked up the mask and gazed at the image that vaguely resembled her own features.

  “You’ll have to help me, old girl,” she muttered aloud.

  She went to the mirror in the hallway, held the mask in front of her face. Through the shards of glass that formed the eyes it looked as if she was wearing a death
mask. As if she was looking at her deceased form.

  Shuddering, she yanked the mask away from her face.

  During one of her internet searches she had read that the wearer of a ritual mask loses his human identity and becomes one with the spirit represented by the mask. What did this mask represent? Why did Aron Matari create Ammie’s image and give it to her?

  Caz studied the mask carefully. The outer surface supplied no clues. It was when she scrutinized the smoothly finished inside that she noticed the inscription in the corner.

  She put on her reading glasses and tried to make out what it said. Three words. The last one might be “Ami.” She sat down at the kitchen table and reached for pen and paper. One by one she deciphered the letters and wrote them down. Nalingi yo Ami.

  In her study, Caz typed the words in the search box. The first entry was something about a graffiti project. A few links led to a singer and a song in which the words na lingi yo appeared. There was a reference to the Lingala Institute—learn Lingala.

  She looked up Lingala. Wikipedia cleared up the mystery: Lingala (Ngala) is a Bantu language spoken throughout the northwestern part of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

  Bantu? Didn’t Wiki know about pejoratives?

  Caz typed nalingi yo again, omitting Ami. The first link gave her Nalingi yo—translation—Lingala-English Dictionary—Glosbe.

  She clicked on it.

  Translation and definition “Nalingi yo,” Lingala-English Dictionary online.

  Translations into English: I love you.

  I love you, Ami.

  But Aron had been ten years younger than Ammie. Ammie had been married, pregnant and fleeing from her evil husband. It was a doomed love right from the start.

  “Aron, wherever you are,” Caz whispered as she looked at the words on the mask, “your spirit will have to help me. You’re the one who made sure that Ammie survived while she was pregnant with me. It’s thanks to you that I was born. Now you must keep me from dying. Njiwa is on his way.”

  Caz lowered her head into her hands. She was losing her marbles.

  Erevu

  Ghent

  Erevu lay with his eyes closed. In the bunk above him a cellmate was snoring. Someone else farted and yet another one groaned. Probably from the stench spreading through the cell.

  It barely registered with Erevu. He was back in Lubumbashi. The night after Noko Aron had joined the ancestral spirits. Two years ago.

  He and Arondji were sitting at the fire—the funeral food heavy in their bellies, the beer light in their heads.

  “I want to know about the nkísi, Arondji. The nkísi Noko Aron made for the white woman Mama Tabia told me about. The woman who was married to the Belgian who fathered me.”

  “It is strong nkísi.” Arondji drew on a hand-rolled cigarette. “Very strong.”

  “How can it be so strong? It’s not nkísi nkondi.”

  “The ancestral spirits, they listen not only to iron. They are in stone too. The right stone. The stone that the iron cannot penetrate.”

  “What stone? Almasi?”

  “I say nothing.”

  “I know there are fifty-three almasi in the two nkísi. Mama Tabia’s years were twenty-five and the white woman’s years twenty-eight. Mama Tabia told me so just before she died. I asked Noko Aron. He said he took her to the city of purple flowers.”

  “That was long ago. After that she lived in the city of almasi. Across the sea. That’s where I saw her.”

  “You saw her there?”

  “A very long time ago. Tata Aron took his statues there and sold them for a lot of money. I went with him. She came. She said the nkísi are in a safe place.”

  “Why did your father put the almasi in the nkísi? Mama Tabia gave her enough.” Erevu filled Arondji’s mug and pretended to pour himself another beer as well.

  Arondji took a few sips. “Tata Aron’s heart beat for her. She bewitched him.”

  Erevu almost dropped his mug. “A white woman? A land-grabber? Your tata was mad.”

  “He was, but his heart beat only for that white woman. Not for others. There were a lot of almasi. Your mama gave the white woman some of her share and tata Aron too. A lot more than your mama. Tata Aron’s heart was stupid but his head was smart. Smarter than your mama’s. He didn’t sell here. He went to the city of almasi.” Arondji drank deep, then filled both their glasses.

  “Where is the money now if he was so clever?” Erevu motioned at the modest home behind them. Next to the house stood a rusty pick-up.

  “I have it. It’s not smart to show what you’ve got. Like tata Aron I look after many people. People who fight against Kabila.”

  “You gave Kony money?” Erevu held his breath.

  “La! Just our people. Kony is Ugandan. Rwandan. He is mad. Kill, kill, kill is all he knows. Killing doesn’t make things right.”

  “I want to fight against Kabila. Against Kony. The others who are making the Congo a bad place. Will you help me?” Erevu pretended to drink deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “La! Your daughter is a black white. Your grandson is a black white. Their hearts do not beat for Africa, not for the Congo. They live in other countries.”

  “I’m here. My heart beats for Africa. My heart beats for the Congo. Very strongly. Deep inside of me there is just Congo.”

  Arondji tossed another log on the fire. Green firewood. The smoke made Erevu’s eyes burn.

  “Get the nkísi back from the white woman. Then we can talk.”

  “But she must have used all the almasi by now?”

  Arondji laughed. “She does not know about the almasi counting her years. When I saw her where my tata sold his statues in the city of almasi, I saw she did not know where the nkísi were. Tata Aron gave his heart to her when he gave her the nkísi. She stepped on it. He saved her life but she left him behind. She did not give him work when he wanted to be close to her, wanted to look after her. The people where she stayed chased him away. He hid, stayed until the baby come. He wanted to help her. What did she do?

  “She left her child too. Just like that. She does not have a heart. Your mama hated the man who fathered you but did she leave you? No. She raised you. She took almasi when you were in prison, got you out, and sent you away. But she sent you away because she wanted the best for you. Not because she did not want you. Her heart was full of sadness during the years you were away.”

  “Were there more almasi? Other than the ones that counted the years?”

  “That time in the city of diamonds ...” Arondji poured more beer. “Tata Aron was too shy for her to see him. He wanted to give his heart to her again. He wanted to say to her: come with me, I have a lot of money. I can be your Elijah. Then I saw she did not know where the nkísi were. Then I knew her heart will never beat for him. Now he is dead. Now the nkísi must come back.”

  “I asked ...”

  “I know what you asked. Bring the nkísi, and we can talk more. Then we can talk about president Erevu Matari. You know the white world. We need you. You can be the big man. We are behind the mask. You are our mask. We do it for Congo. For Motetela who must come back. For reAfrikanization.”

  “Who are ‘we’?”

  “Kembo and me and Kembo’s son.”

  “Kembo?”

  “The other child the white woman left behind. You remember your mama always went to the kimisionari? It’s he she went to see. She took food. Later she gave him money. Tata Aron did the same after he come back from the city of purple blossoms. Kembo is like my brother, though he grew up with the kimisionari. Kembo is clever, though he did not go to school in a white country.”

  “Why don’t you get the nkísi back yourselves?”

  “Kembo tried. Someone told him where his white mother was. Someone who wanted her dead. Kembo went there, wanted to
get the nkísi, wanted to kill her, but other people were there. The white woman said the nkísi were still in the city of the purple blossoms, but the people she left her child with were gone when Kembo went to look.

  “You are the white mask, Erevu, though your face is black. You speak white languages. You are the sly one. You can go where we cannot go. I have money. Kembo and I have power here. You can be our power out there and share the money. But the test is for you to bring us the nkísi.”

  Erevu rolled over on his side. Two years ago he had been filled with hope. He had told Arondji about Alice Auma, about his dream. It was soon clear that he and Arondji spoke the same language. But Arondji didn’t know that Motetela’s blood flowed in Erevu Matari’s veins. Arondji could believe he would only be their mask. But once he had the nkísi, Arondji would have to bow before him.

  Since that night, his life had revolved around the nkísi.

  Little by little, with Jela’s help, he had made progress. With Njiwa’s help, he had come closer and closer to the nkísi.

  And then he was foiled by a white woman and betrayed by his family. This could not go unpunished.

  Today he heard that he would be deported. His name was not Erevu for nothing. Sly and crafty. He would find the nkísi, but he would make sure he had the upper hand.

  Erevu began to laugh. Out loud. Someone protested but was soon silenced.

  Good. They knew who they were dealing with here in prison. Njiwa and Jela would also find out. As would Cassandra Colijn.

  Forty-two

  Friday, October 31

  Luc

  Damme

  Here he was on All Saints’ Eve, on the bloody internet, getting nowhere.

  He had just left Caz a message on LinkedIn, asking for a contact number, but the message didn’t deliver. How dare she just vanish into thin air after creating such havoc? He would love to give her a piece of his mind. At the same time warn her that Erevu was going to be deported.

  When Lieve called, he had to take care that he didn’t sound as peeved as he felt.

  “Professor, a miracle has happened.”