Senior Counsel Shabalala went on. “Ms Shabalala was a promising young actress who was attacked and kidnapped by accused numbers one through four, and taken, barely alive, to accused number five – a fraudster with a criminal record going by the name of Pastor Goodman Thobejane. There, at Mout-Aux-Sources, the residence of a sacred white snake and accused number five’s ritual site, the victim was sacrificed, murdered and her parts turned to muti.”
Quite an imagination, this one has, Bandile mused to himself, intrigued by the performance despite the pain and absurdity of it all. So far he had no idea what any of this had to do with him.
“It is our contention, may it please the court,” SC Shabalala continued, “that, urged on by accused number six, a one Kulani Moyaba, the accused before us today, Bandile Ndala, accused number seven, did partake in this muti. He consumed a mixture that was made of human body parts, Ms Shabalala’s body parts. He did so knowingly and out of raw ambition, thinking of no one else but himself and his own life, hoping that what he consumed would bring him the glory he felt he deserved.”
“What?” Bandile said. He caught himself. “I mean … Justice Shabalala, Your Majesty or whatever you want to be called, I never used any muti made from human sacrifices in my life.”
He looked her up and down, ignoring her distinctly displeased expression. “Besides,” he added, “how can you be dead when you are here today? These charges are ridiculous.”
Indeed, apart from looking a little powdered and apparently being a lot crazy, Molly Shabalala seemed very much alive. She was alive and vital, more alluring than a magazine cover girl.
“Mr Ndala,” Justice Shabalala said. “You will control yourself and your hormones, or I will hold you in contempt and have the bailiff remove you.”
“Do your worst,” Bandile said, now tired of this silly game.
“Bailiff,” Justice Shabalala said.
The young woman stretched out one hand and drew a circle over her head with the index finger of the other. Bandile’s body began to jerk unnaturally. An invisible tide from within rose and started to suffocate him. He felt his veins bulge, muscles stretch and bones bend.
Molly waved her hand and both of Bandile’s arms twisted to the left and then to the right before being brought back down. He tried to resist but could not control even a single limb. The woman then came rushing towards Bandile to press a finger to his chest, the part that always ached. The pain was dizzying, radiating to every part of his body. He let out a guttural scream, the kind a goat makes when the knife starts cutting away at its neck when it is slaughtered.
“Aaai,” he managed to say, before continuing to scream.
But, bailiff Shabalala did not stop. Amid the feeling of being eaten alive from the inside he managed to remember.
“OK, Justice Shabalala, yes,” he said, between gritted teeth.
Molly spun away, graceful, like a ballerina.
Immediately the pain began to fade away. Bandile was soaked in sweat.
“Very well,” Justice Shabalala said, her stoicism returning. “Why has the State only brought Mr Ndala, accused number seven, to appear today? Where are accused numbers one through six?”
“May it please the Court,” Molly said, responding in character as the Senior Counsel. “I would like to call the Justice’s attention to page six of the docket. The other accused were tried separately, each found guilty and sentenced to death.”
“Have the sentences been carried out?”
“Yes, Justice Shabalala. Swiftly.”
“The one going by Pastor Thobejane, his accomplices, Kulani Moyaba – all of them?”
“Yes, Justice Shabalala.”
“Good. Very good,” she clucked.
Turning to Bandile, Justice Shabalala said, “How do you plead, Mr Ndala?”
“Not guilty,” he croaked. The words flew out of his mouth, as he again massaged his chest. The pain was almost gone, but the memory remained. “Definitely not guilty.”
“And what evidence do you present to the Court in your defence?”
“Please, Justice Shabalala. I don’t know anything about this,” said Bandile. “Swear to God.”
“Ignorance is not a defence, Mr Ndala.” Justice Shabalala shook her head. “It is the State’s contention that you were an accessory. You may not have been directly involved in Ms Shabalala’s kidnapping and murder, but you participated in what accused number five, Pastor Thobejane, called ‘The Secret Supper’, knowing that what you were consuming was made from the parts of another human being, killed to feed your hunger for wealth and success.”
“I didn’t know,” Bandile said. “I promise, Justice Shabalala.”
“Mr Ndala,” scolded the learned justice, performed with skill by Molly Shabalala. “If it is your intention to offer your own testimony in your defence, it must be done so under oath.”
Bandile nodded. “As the Court may please,” he said. His career may have soared to unparalleled heights after that night, but he thought himself as much the victim as anyone else. Being made to consume human body parts, like some sort of cannibal? The thought made his stomach turn. Or was it the Mandzana? Is it really turning his insides to liquid, or was that just another of Molly’s mind games? Is this all a dream?
He resolved to participate in this show trial and defend himself as best he could.
Five
The Trial of Bandile Ndala (Part II)
“MR NDALA,” SC Shabalala said. “Did you or did you not on July 19, 2015, a Sunday night in Sebokeng, participate in a night-time event called ‘The Secret Supper’, at the Church of the Holy Saints led by a man going by the name of Pastor Thobejane?”
“Yes,” Bandile said, having sworn to bailiff Shabalala, with his hand on the bible that his testimony would be truthful and binding on his mortal soul, so help him God. “But—”
“It was a yes or no question, Mr Ndala,” SC Shabalala said, cutting him off.
“And on that night did Pastor Thobejane not pray for you and hand you a tin mug from which you, of your own volition, drank a vile substance?” she continued.
“Yes, but—”
“Again, a yes or no question, Mr Ndala,” she said, curtly. Turning to Justice Shabalala, the SC asked that Bandile be instructed to answer her questions and await his turn to offer his testimony.
Exasperated, Justice Shabalala said, “May you please restrain yourself and answer the State’s questions, without testifying. You will have that opportunity later.”
Bandile nodded.
SC Shabalala continued. “Did you or did you not know that Pastor Thobejane was rumoured to specialise in human sacrifice, which he offered to parishioners?”
“How could I possibly know that?” Bandile said.
“Oh,” SC Shabalala said, pretending to be surprised. “Had you not seen him on television?”
“Yes, but—”
“Again, Mr Ndala, a yes or no question. Asked and answered. No need to say more,” SC Shabalala said. She continued. “Had you not read about him in The Blue Moon tabloid newspaper, which you mine systematically for story ideas now that your life of luxury has made you a stranger to the experiences of the everyman?”
“Yes, but—”
“Asked and answered,” SC Shabalala said.
“So …,” she said, letting the word linger. “You were pretending not to know of Pastor Thobejane when your friend, Mr Moyaba, told you of him that night after one too many whiskeys?”
“Uh,” Bandile said. He groped for words, yet found nothing, not a single reasoned thought to cling to.
“Well?”
Bandile felt confused. With the persistent anguish in his head and pain in his body, he could not form a clear memory.
“I … I wasn’t pretending,” he said. “I just … I just didn’t want Kulani to think of me as the kind of person who watched those televangelist channels.”
“So you were pretending.”
“What?” Bandile sang, in high soprano.
<
br /> “Pretending with your friend. You presented an image of yourself that was false,” SC Shabalala said.
Bandile’s chest ached. Everything hurt. His heart. Kulani. Dead. He was suddenly filled with regret about taking the stand.
SC Shabalala did not pull back. “Because Mr Ndala presented a false picture of himself to his best friend, Mr Moyaba, the latter, in his trial, confessed to an offence he did not commit,” she said, testifying knowing her opposing counsel was not legal-wise enough to know to object. “Mr Moyaba confessed to being the person who sent Mr Ndala into the clutches of Pastor Thobejane when Mr Ndala had known of the false prophet for some time.”
Bandile’s head started to swim in a pond of pain while his soul drowned in guilt.
“Mr Ndala,” SC Shabalala continued, “is directly responsible for Mr Moyaba’s death at the hands of the State. In light of these new facts, may it please the Court, the State would like to add a charge of premeditated accessory to murder to the charges against accused number seven.”
Finding his voice, Bandile said, “No!” He screamed. “No!”
“Guilty,” Senior Counsel Shabalala said.
“Guilty,” the bailiff echoed.
“Guilty,” pronounced Chief Justice Shabalalala, her voice descending into an unearthly baritone.
Six
The Sentence
BANDILE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS to find Molly tilting his head up gently, serving him bottled water. The good kind. Not the tap water fed into a machine, cleaned with chemicals and enhanced with minerals, as available at local food stores under generic names. He was drinking the bottled-at-source stuff from a spring. One sip banished the thirst that had been part of his torture since checking into room 28 of the Cariba Inn.
When he’d drank his fill, he asked, “What happened?”
“With what?” Molly said, amused.
“The trial,” he said.
“You were obviously found guilty on both counts – accessory to murder after the fact, of me,” she gleamed, “And pre-meditated accessory to the murder of your friend Kulani.”
Molly laughed a sterile laugh that made the middle-aged man wish for his normal strength and virility. He hated the power the sprite had over him. Were it not for the drugs she’d injected into his system, he’d be strong enough to assert his superiority. Right now, he felt like a mouse being toyed with in its last moments by a cat.
“But,” she beamed. “The Court took mercy on you.”
“It did?” He was confused. Show trials only go one way. Railroad to death. He fully expected his to be around the corner.
“Restorative justice,” she said.
“What?”
“Relax, it’s easier than it sounds,” she said. “I, as the victim here, testified. I told the court that you could be my vessel, my conduit to the living world through which I ensure that my death wasn’t entirely pointless.”
Still confused, Bandile said, “Huh?”
“You’re a script writer. I’m an actress … was an actress. Match made in heaven. Your sentence is to write me a story,” she said. “Write me the movie role that would have shot me to the stardom to which I was destined.” Her voice turned menacing, “The stardom you stole from me.”
“But I’m dying,” he squirmed. “The Mandzana,” he said.
“Good,” she told him. “No greater motivator than a deadline. Tick-tock.”
“The pain,” said Bandile, rasping with one of his hands raised to his head. “My head. It hurts.”
“Of course, it does. That’s one of the side-effects,” she said. “And I have the pills to dull the pain,” she teased. “They’re yours as soon as you agree to give me what is mine, my justice.”
“Please, Ms,” Bandile begged through thick saliva. “I need those pills right now. I can’t do what you’re asking while in all this pain.”
“No need for formal titles,” she said. “You’re not in court anymore. Just call me Molly.”
“OK,” Bandile said. “Please, Molly.”
“No,” she fired back. “Pain is a great motivator. Write your way out of it. Agree to my demands and if you deliver, I will show you mercy.”
Bandile closed his eyes, threw his head back and prayed to the God he only remembered in times of need.
“Prayer answered,” Molly said.
“Huh?” he said.
“I will give you a taste of the relief that these pills can give you in your last days,” she said. “But this dosage will last only 12 hours, the next six of which you’re going to waste sleeping. I want to see words on the page in the next half a day, or no more pills.”
He agreed, out of desperation and exhaustion in equal amounts.
“The story you write should be … spectacular. Something with substance, something that will break records. I want to be blown away,” she said. “Write like the story is your last ever, because it is,” she added.
Bandile nodded. Anything for mercy from the pain, however short-lived.
“Every last cent you make from the film you donate to the Shabalala family. To my family,” she said.
Brain-battered, Bandile tried to focus on her while she fantasised about her chick flick.
“Bandi, I want love, hate, pleasure, pain, loyalty, betrayal, losses and gains. You know, the impulses that drive life’s circadian rhythms,” she said. The young woman was lost in her monologue. “To me, life is a kitchen with multiple cupboards filled with ingredients. Everyone is a chef that either uses those ingredients to dish up delicacies, or follows recipes for disaster. I want this story of mine to show that complexity, to show the choices people make and the consequences of those choices.”
With sweat beading his forehead, Bandile nodded keenly. Anything for relief from the pain.
Molly walked over to him, opened his mouth and delivered two pills. She then held him and gave him water with the care of a nursing mother. He drank it all, swallowing every drop of water until the container was empty. The water eased the discomfort of thirst and he could feel the pain all over his body already diminishing.
Before he could take comfort in the relief, Molly reminded him that he was living on borrowed time.
“Tick-tock,” she said. “We’ve already wasted one of your seven days on a trial when you should have just pleaded guilty. You don’t have much time left. Your deadline is looming.”
Seven
House Rules
EARLY THE NEXT morning, Molly brought him a bowl of soft porridge made exactly how he liked it. He tasted it and knew right away that she had added four teaspoons of brown sugar and a few drops of vinegar. He was amazed that Molly knew such details.
She sat down on the bed and began to give him the house rules.
“Alright, listen up,” she began, “I have a few simple house rules. Obeying them will make your life less complicated. Do you understand me?”
He nodded. Feeling better, he felt bold enough to ask a question. “Before you give me your rules, which I promise to try to obey, I have to ask … who or what are you?”
She looked away. For the first time she seemed genuinely saddened.
“I am a spirit of vengeance, what in times gone by was called inzobu, a sort of poltergeist,” she said. “When I died, my soul was sent back to this plane by Amadlozi to avenge the lives taken by cruel beasts preying on the innocent. I was chosen to help bring peace to souls rendered lifeless before their natural time.”
Bandile rolled his eyes internally, but kept his actual gaze on Molly.
Her face darkened and her voice thundered. “It would be a mistake to dismiss or underestimate me like you are right now,” she said. “I’m in your head. I know your every thought. Your talent alone wasn’t enough to bring you success. It took sacrificing my body, my life and dreams, to make you prosper. But now you’re paying the price. All your fame and fortune has made you even crazier.”
It was true. Bandile had lived with depression since his early 20s. But what began to manifes
t in the back of his mind about five years ago and blossom to full-blown psychotic episodes had mirrored his success, but inverted.
“That was me, Bandi,” she said. “I made you crazy. And I can make things so much worse for you, if you test me. You got that?”
Bandile nodded, suddenly afraid that his own mind would betray him to her.
“Good,” she said, “be afraid. Don’t let me ever again catch you allowing that beady, little brain of yours trying to mock or undermine me.” She laughed. “And don’t even think of hatching a plan to escape. I’ll know about it before the plot is fully formed in your head. You’re not leaving here until I say so. Even if you do escape you’ll never find a cure for Mandzana, not at those fancy private hospitals you like to go to. None of those doctors will know how to save you.”
Rising from the bed, she said, “You are the last of my quarry. After I am done with you, my death will be avenged, I’ll move on to the next plane of existence.”
Molly put on her well-trained concierge voice again. “Now, for the house rules,” she said.
She gave him a tour of the room, pointing out the tools he would need to create the script that she demanded. Pens, paper, a laptop – no internet connection, obviously. She showed him the fully stocked fridge and bathroom with all the toiletries he’d need.
“There is really only one rule,” she said. “Write. Be quick about it and make it good. Do you understand me?”
Bandile again only allowed himself a nod, scared to let out other thoughts that would get him in trouble.
“I’ll give you space to create while I’m off to attend to other things,” she said. “But, I’m only a thought away and will return every 12 hours to give you your pain medication.”
Bandile was relieved. He couldn’t wait to see her leave. He also worried that she might not return fast enough if the pain medication wore off.
“There’s no need to worry about the poison attacking you before I return,” she assured him, demonstrating once again that she immediately knew his thoughts. “Once you feasted on my body, a piece of my essence came to live inside you. Our bond transcends the physical universe; it is telepathic, psychic.”
The Last Sentence Page 3
