by Sarah Lotz
I was so worried. I knew what this could mean for Lily. All those crazies, led by that real dangerous one, I knew they would jump on this like flies on a turd.
I ran back home and I said to Lily, ‘I never meant to let it out.’
She turned white, and could I blame her? ‘Not again,’ she said. ‘Why won’t they leave us alone?’
Lily never forgave me. She didn’t cut me out of her life, but there was a watchfulness when she was around me after that.
I wonder, I really do, if this wasn’t part of what caused everything else afterwards. May God forgive me.
PART EIGHT
CONSPIRACY
APRIL–JUNE
The following article appeared on makimashup.com on 19 April 2012–a website dedicated to reporting ‘the weird and the wonderful from around the world’.
Japan’s Queen of Weird
The first video clip shows a beautiful Japanese woman kneeling on a tatami mat in the centre of an elegant, dimly lit room. She adjusts her bright red kimono, blinks and then starts reciting from Stolen, a Japanese best-selling memoir written by Aki Kimura, who was sexually assaulted by three US marines on Okinawa Island in the 1990s. In the second clip, she spends twenty minutes talking in explicit detail about an alien abduction. In the third, she lectures on why Sun Air crash survivor Hiro Yanagida is a national treasure, a symbol of Japan’s endurance and identity.
These clips, which first appeared on the Japanese video-sharing platform Nico Nico Douga, have gone viral, attracting more hits than any clip in the history of the site. What makes them so compelling has little to do with the eclectic subject matter of the woman’s monologues, and everything to do with the woman herself. You see, the woman isn’t human. She’s a surrabot–the android doppelgänger of Aikao Uri, a former pop idol who hit it big in the 1990s before retiring to marry politician Masamara Uri. Aikao is no slouch when it comes to notoriety. Rarely out of the news, she started a fashion craze for shaved eyebrows in the early 2000s, is fervently anti-American (this is rumoured to stem from her failure to make it in Hollywood in the mid-nineties), always wears traditional Japanese dress as a rejection of western fashion ideals and most controversially of all, recently shared her belief that she has been abducted by aliens several times since her childhood.
Watching Aikao Uri’s surrabot talk is disconcerting. It takes several seconds before your brain adjusts and you realise there’s something just… wrong about the otherwise eloquent woman. Her cadence is unemotional, her mannerisms just a split second too slow to be convincing. And her eyes are dead.
Aikao freely admits that she commissioned her own surrabot after the news broke that Sun Air crash survivor Hiro Yanagida will only communicate via the android doppelgänger made by his father, a renowned robotics expert. Aikao believes that speaking through surrabots, which are controlled remotely, using state-ofthe art camera and voice-capturing equipment, ‘will bring us closer to a pure way of being’.
And Aikao isn’t the only one who has embraced this ‘pure way of being’. Known worldwide for their ‘out there’ fashion sense, young Japanese trend-setters are also jumping on the surrabot bandwagon. Those who can’t afford their own surrabot (the cheapest android doppelgängers can cost up to 45,000 US dollars) have taken to purchasing realistic mannequins and sex dolls and modifying them. The streets around Harajuku–where cosplayers traditionally congregate to show off their style–is buzzing with fashionistas, both male and female, eager to flaunt their own versions of the surrabot craze, which has been dubbed ‘The Cult of Hiro’.
There’s even talk that girl bands, such as the wildly successful AKB 48 ensemble and the Sunny Juniors, are creating their own all dancing, all lip-synching surrabot line.
In mid-April I flew out to Cape Town, South Africa to meet with Vincent Xhati, a private investigator who was on a full-time retainer to discover the whereabouts of the elusive Kenneth Oduah–the so-called ‘fourth horseman’.
The Arrivals area at the Cape Town International Airport is teeming with wannabe tour guides, all shouting, ‘Taxi, lady?’ and waving fliers for ‘all-inclusive Khayelitsha tours’ in my face. Despite the chaos, it’s easy to spot Vincent Xhati, the private investigator who’s agreed to escort me around Cape Town for a couple of days. At six foot four and weighing in at three hundred pounds, he towers over the taxi drivers and tour operators. He greets me with a wide grin, and immediately takes charge of my luggage. We make small talk as we push through the throng towards the parking lot. A couple of jaded male cops in blue uniforms saunter around, eyeing everyone with suspicion, but neither they, nor the signs warning new arrivals not to ‘go off with strangers’, appear to be deterring the tour hawkers. Vincent bats a couple of the more tenacious away with a snapped ‘Voetsek.’
Exhausted after the sixteen-hour flight, I’m dying for a coffee and a shower, but when Vincent asks me if I’d like to go straight to the Dalu Air crash site before checking into my hotel, I say yes. He nods in approval and ushers me towards his car, a slick black BMW with tinted windows. ‘No one will mess with us in this,’ he says. ‘We will look like a politician.’ He pauses, glances at me, and then roars with laughter.
I sink into the passenger seat, noting that there’s a copy of the grainy photograph of Kenneth Oduah–taken when he was four years old–mounted on the dashboard.
As we leave the airport behind and glide onto a slip road, I spot Table Mountain in the far distance, cloud dribbling over its edge. It’s heading into winter, but the sky is a perfect, eggshell blue. Vincent sweeps onto the highway, and I’m immediately struck by the obvious signs of poverty around us. The airport facilities may have been state-of-the-art, but the road is flanked by sagging shacks and Vincent is forced to brake sharply as a small child dragging a dog on a rope lead zigzags through the traffic.
‘It is not far,’ Vincent says, clicking his tongue as he’s forced to undertake a rusty mini-bus packed full of commuters that’s hogging the fast lane.
I ask him who has hired him to search for Kenneth and he smiles and shakes his head. The journalist who gave me Vincent’s details assured me that Vincent could be trusted, but I can’t help feeling a stab of unease. I ask him about the reports of the Kenneth hunters who have been mugged.
He sighs. ‘The press have exaggerated this. Only the ones who behaved in a stupid manner have had trouble.’
I ask him if he believes Kenneth is actually out there somewhere.
‘It doesn’t matter what I believe. Maybe the child is here somewhere, maybe he isn’t. If he can be found, I will find him.’
We pull off the highway, and on our right I make out the edges of a vast area crammed with small brick houses, tin and wood shacks, and row after row of outhouses that look like sentry boxes.
‘Is that Khayelitsha?’
‘Ja.’
‘How long have you been looking for him?’
‘Since the beginning. It has not been an easy ride. There was some trouble at first from the Muslim community who tried to stop people talking to those of us who were searching for him.’
‘Why?’
‘You did not have that in America? Ah. The troublemakers assumed that Kenneth was a Muslim boy, and they objected to the Americans coming here and claiming that he was one of their messengers. Then it was made public that he is from a Christian family, and now they don’t care!’ Another roar of laughter.
‘I take it you are not religious?’
He sobers up. ‘No. I have seen too much.’
He turns right, and within minutes we’re in the heart of the township. The dirt roads that weave through the endless rows of shacks are unmarked. There’s a proliferation of Coke signs, most attached to old shipping containers that I realise are makeshift shops. A group of small children dressed in dirty shorts wave and grin at the car, then whoop and chase after it. Vincent pulls to the side of the road, hands one of the children ten rand and instructs him to watch the BMW. The kid puffs out his chest and nods.
‘We’ll walk from here,’ Vincent says. ‘Stay close to me and don’t make eye contact with any of the locals.’
‘Okay.’
Another laugh. ‘Don’t worry, you’re fine here.’
‘Do you live here?’
‘No. I live in Gugs. Gugulethu.’
I’ve seen the aerial footage of the place where the plane went down, tearing a jagged passage through the landscape, but the people here are clearly tenacious, and already there is little sign of the devastation. Construction is starting on a new church and shacks have already grown up all over the sites where the fires raged. A gleaming black glass pyramid, engraved with the names of those who lost their lives (including that of Kenneth Oduah), sits incongruously in the centre.
Vincent sinks to his haunches and runs his fingers through the soil. ‘They still find bits. Bones and pieces of metal. They worm their way up out of the earth. You know like when you have a wound? A splinter? The earth is rejecting them.’
The mood is subdued as we retrace our steps and head back onto the highway. More mini-buses whiz past, packed full of people heading into the city. Table Mountain races towards us, the cloud now obscuring its trademark flat top.
‘I will take you to your hotel and then we will go hunting tonight, okay?’
Cape Town’s Waterfront area, where my glass and steel-skeletoned hotel sits, couldn’t be more of a contrast to where I’ve just been. It’s almost like being in a different country. Hard to believe that the designer stores and five-star restaurants are just a short taxi ride away from the poverty of the township.
I shower, then head down to the bar and make some calls while I wait for Vincent. There are several middle-aged men hanging around in small groups, and I do my best to eavesdrop. Many are American.
I’ve been trying to secure an interview with the South African Civil Aviation Authority’s head investigator, but her office has declined to talk to the press. I dial the number anyway. The secretary I speak to sounds weary. ‘It is all in the report. There were no survivors.’ I am also stonewalled in my efforts to talk to the aid workers who were first on the scene after the crash.
Vincent breezes into the hotel as if he owns the place; equally at home in this extravagant luxury as he is in the heart of Khayelitsha.
I tell him about my strike-outs with the CAA.
‘You can forget them. But I will see what I can do about getting others to talk to you.’
He gets a call on his cell. The conversation is brief and in Xhosa.
‘My associate has rounded up tonight’s boys.’ He sighs. ‘It will come to nothing. But I must follow them up. My boss wants a full report every day.’
We head down towards the docks, slowing when we reach an underpass. The area is gloomy and ill-lit and I feel another stirring of unease.
Vincent’s associate, a small wiry man called Eric Malenga, is waiting for us under a partially completed flyover. He’s surrounded by three scruffy boys, all of whom appear to be unsteady on their feet. I learn later that many street kids are addicted to sniffing glue, and the solvent they inhale makes them uncoordinated. Vincent tells me that these children scratch a living begging and hustling in the town centre. ‘Sometimes they get tourists to buy them cereal and milk, and then they sell it to the backpackers,’ he says. ‘Others sell their bodies.’
As we approach, I notice a fourth child sitting apart from them on an overturned crate. He’s shivering, but I can’t tell if this is from fear or the bite in the air.
The tallest of the kids–a skinny boy with a runny nose–perks up when he sees us approach and points to the child on the crate. ‘There he is, boss. That’s Kenneth. Do I get my reward now, boss?’
Vincent tells me that the latest ‘Kenneth’ isn’t even Nigerian. He’s the racial classification known as ‘coloured’, a word that makes me wince.
Vincent nods wearily at Eric, who ushers the small child towards his car.
‘Where is Eric taking him?’ I ask.
‘One of the shelters,’ Vincent says. ‘Away from this bunch of skebengas.’
‘But he said he was Kenneth, boss,’ the boy with the runny nose whines. ‘He told us, I swear.’
‘You know why everyone is looking for Kenneth?’ I ask.
‘Ja, lady. They think he is the devil.’
‘That’s not true,’ says another boy. ‘He needs to go to a sangoma; he’s possessed by the spirit of a witch. If you meet him, then you don’t have long to live.’
‘He only comes out at night,’ the third one chimes in. ‘If he touches you, the part of the body he touches will die. He can spread Aids even.’
‘Ja. I heard that too,’ the tall boy–clearly the ringleader–says. ‘I know someone who has seen him, lady. If you give me a hundred, I’ll take you.’
‘These boys don’t know anything,’ Vincent says, but he hands them each twenty rand, and sends them on their way. They whoop and run off unsteadily into the night. ‘This is what it is like all the time. But I have to be thorough, make my report every day. Most days I check the morgue in case he shows up there, but I won’t take you there.’
The next day Vincent meets me at my hotel to say that he’s heading out to the West Coast to ‘follow a lead’. He puts me in touch with a cop at a Khayelitsha police station who he says will talk to me, gives me the name of a paramedic who arrived at the scene minutes after the crash, and passes on the cellphone number of a woman who had lost her home in the devastation. ‘She knows something,’ he says. ‘Maybe she will talk to you. A foreigner.’ Then, with another wide grin and a complicated handshake, he leaves.
(Ten days later, I’m at home in Manhattan, when I receive a text message from Vincent. All it says is:
The following statement was taken at the Buitenkant Police Station in Cape Town on 2 May 2012.
SOUTH AFRICAN POLICE SERVICE
EK / I: Brian van der Merwe
OUDERDOM / AGE: 37
WOONAGTIG / RESIDING: 16 Eucalyptus Street, Bellville, Cape Town
TELEPHONE: 021 911 6789
WERKSAAM TE / EMPLOYED AT: Kugel Insurance Brokers, Pinelands
TELEPHONE 021 531 8976
VERKLAAR IN AFRIKAANS ONDER EED:
STATES IN ENGLISH UNDER OATH:
On the night of 2 May 2012 at approximately 10.30 p.m., I was aprehended (sic) at the bottom of Long Street, Cape Town CBD outside the Beares Furniture Store. I had stopped to give a child a lift in my car when I realised that police officers had pulled up in their vehicle next to me.
I told the officers that the reason I stopped was because I was worried for the child’s safety. The boy, who was aged eight or nine, shouldn’t have been out there at that time of night and I had pulled over to offer him a lift.
I deny that I solicited the boy for sex, and when officers found me in the car, I deny that my jeans were undone and that the boy was performing a sexual act on my person.
Sergeant Manjit Kumar pulled me out of the car and gave me a smack across my face, which I insist be recorded here. Then he asked the boy his name. The boy did not answer. One of the other officers, Constable Lucy Pistorius, said to the boy, Are you Kenneth? The boy said yes.
I did not resist arrest.
BvdMerwe
HANDTEKENING / SIGNATURE
Andiswa Matebele (not her real name) is the head carer at a place of safety for abandoned and abused children in Cape Town (the exact location cannot be disclosed for obvious reasons). Andiswa agreed to talk to me via phone on the condition that I not reveal her name or the location of the place of safety.
Shame, when the boy was first brought to us he was very undernourished, and even before I gave him a bath, I made sure that he had a large bowl of putu and lamb stew. I was very worried about him, and not just
because the sores on his legs and arms were infected. He had seen a doctor, who prescribed antibiotics, and he was given a course of ARVs as there were signs that he may have been working as a sex worker. This is not uncommon for street children. Many of them have been abused by their parents, and they know of no other way to survive.
What can I tell you about the boy? He did not have a Nigerian accent as far as I could tell, but it was difficult to be sure as he so rarely spoke. He seemed to be older than seven years, which is the age of Kenneth Oduah. As he ate, I asked him, ‘Is your name Kenneth?’
‘Yes, my name is Kenneth,’ he said. But then, later on, I found that I could ask him anything and he would agree with me.
The next day, a forensics team came to the shelter and took a saliva swab from him so that they could run a DNA test. I was informed that the boy would be staying here until they could be sure that he was indeed Kenneth. I felt very strongly that if the boy did in fact turn out to be this child, then he should be reunited with his aunt and family as soon as possible.
I am not from Khayelitsha, but I have been to the memorial site and seen where that plane went down. I do find it hard to believe that anyone could have survived such a thing, but it was the same with the crash in America and the ones in Asia and Europe, so I did not know what to think. Little by little, by asking him direct questions, I managed to extract the boy’s story. He said that he had lived for a while on the beach in Blouberg, then in Kalk Bay and then he had decided to make his way back to the CBD.
I kept a close eye on him to ensure that the other children did not bully him–this can happen–but most of them gave him a wide berth. I did not tell them who he might be. I was the only person who had that knowledge. Some of the other staff are superstitious and already there was talk that if a boy had survived the crashes, then it was certain he was a witch of some type.
