The Garden of Burning Sand (16 page)

She accelerated up the lane and kept pace with the sedan as it meandered through the central suburbs. Ten minutes later, the Toyota turned into the Manda Hill shopping center, an ultra-modern Mecca of African consumerism. The driver nosed to the curb in front of Shoprite, and the old woman left the car with a handbag. Zoe pulled into a parking space and watched the driver puff away on a cigarette. She shook her head, marveling at Joseph’s prescience.

Grabbing her backpack, Zoe entered the store and found the old woman pushing a cart through the produce section. She studied the woman while pretending to examine papayas. Her face was lined with wrinkles, and she walked with a stoop, but her stride was strong.

Zoe moved toward the wall, looking for an opening. Eventually, the woman wheeled her cart toward a case stocked with milk and cheese. The closest shopper was twenty feet away. Now, Zoe thought and crossed the floor, stopping beside the woman.

“You work for Frederick and Patricia Nyambo,” she said quietly.

The woman stiffened. “Who are you?” she asked.

Zoe picked up a liter of milk. “I’m an attorney. I’m helping a girl who was raped.”

The woman looked confused. “How does that relate to me?”

Zoe met her eyes. “We believe Darious Nyambo was the perpetrator.”

The woman glared at her. “I don’t know anything about it.” She placed two liters of milk in her cart and moved toward a table piled high with loaves of bread.

“The girl is young,” Zoe persisted. “She needs your help.”

“I don’t know this girl,” the woman said, placing a bag of bread in her cart, then a package of beef from the meat counter. She turned away and angled toward the front of the store.

Zoe delivered a last-ditch plea. “She could be your granddaughter.”

The woman paused and pain shot through her eyes. “I do not have a granddaughter.”

Zoe watched her walk away, feeling sympathy and mistrust. Given her age and occupation, she was likely a widow and the Nyambos’ employment her sole source of income. In a country without a social safety net, a job was often a widow’s only alternative to destitution. Yet Kuyeya was a child. What woman turned her back on a child?

“Wait,” she said, catching up to the woman. She pulled out a ten-thousand-kwacha note along with a pen and wrote her mobile number on the money. “You can reach me at that number.” Then, almost as an afterthought she added, “The girl’s name is Kuyeya.”

The housekeeper stared at Zoe as if stricken. Her fingers went limp, and she dropped the money on the floor. She bent over to retrieve it and fumbled with the zipper of her handbag. Her mouth opened as
though she was about to speak. Then she looked away and pushed her cart toward the checkout line.

Zoe returned to the Land Rover, her thoughts a blur. She had seen something in the woman’s eyes when she spoke Kuyeya’s name, something mercurial and arresting—a glimpse of recognition. She called Joseph and he picked up immediately.

“I talked to the housekeeper,” she said. “I got nowhere when I confronted her about Darious. But when I mentioned Kuyeya, she looked shocked. I don’t understand. Is Kuyeya a common name?”

“Not at all. I’ve heard it once or twice, but only in Southern Province.”

“Do you think Darious took Bella home with him?”

“Not to his parents’ house. He might have treated her like a girlfriend at the bars, but he never would have introduced her to his family.”

Something nagged at the edge of Zoe’s consciousness. “What if the housekeeper knew Bella some other way?”

“Outside of her employment?”

Zoe shook her head. “Not necessarily. What if Bella had some sort of connection to the Nyambo family, not just to Darious? We still don’t know what she did when she got to Lusaka. She came in 1996. The journal Doris gave me starts in 2004. That’s a gap of eight years.”

“It’s possible, I suppose. But where does that get us?”

Zoe let out a sigh. “I have no idea.”

“Look, you did a great job. I’m impressed. Are you coming into the office?”

“Yeah,” she responded, starting the engine. “I’ll see you later.”

She left Manda Hill and drove toward the government quarter. She tried to put the housekeeper out of her mind, but she couldn’t shake the sense that she was missing something. In the early stages of the investigation, her curiosity about Bella’s history had been prompted
by instinct. But the more she had dredged, the more links she had discovered between Bella and Darious. It was no longer reasonable to consider the past irrelevant. But what did any of it
prove
?

She ran into traffic south of the Addis Ababa roundabout and took out her phone. She placed a call to the Nkana Mine and asked for the manager of personnel.

A man picked up. “How can I be of assistance?” he asked, sounding bored.

Zoe introduced herself and explained her business. “I’m trying to reach Mwela Chansa. He works at one of your mines. It’s a family matter.”

The man typed on his keyboard. “I can give you his mobile number.”

She memorized the digits and dialed them. After three rings the line connected and a recorded voice said: “You’ve reached Mwela Chansa. Leave a message.”

“Mr. Chansa,” she said, suppressing her frustration, “this is Zoe Fleming. I met Cynthia’s brother, Godfrey, in Livingstone. I’d like to talk to Cynthia about her cousin, Charity Mizinga. Charity’s daughter is in need of help. I’d be very grateful if Cynthia would give me a call.”

She left her number and hung up. It was another barrier, another waiting game. Why was it that almost everyone who touched the case seemed to have secrets? Bella. Doris. Godfrey. Cynthia. Jan Kruger. Magistrate Kaunda. The housekeeper. The Nyambos. Even Joseph. In a moment of reflection, she realized she had left a name off the list.

Her own.

Lusaka, Zambia
January, 2006

She saw Darious for a year and a half, whenever he had the fancy or the need. Sometimes they went to his flat, other times to a hotel. Once in a while, he went home with her, and she put Kuyeya to sleep in the bathroom. He treated the matter of payment as if it were a gift. He gave her talktime and designer clothes, perfume and jewelry, and occasionally wads of kwacha. He didn’t ask what she did when they were not together; he never inquired about the other men she saw. He was predictable—he wanted sex and then he wanted to talk
.

The talking was what made her fear him. He spoke of abstract things, like a philosopher. Many of the names he mentioned were unknown to her, but sometimes she recognized one—Nietzsche, for instance, Lenin, Mussolini, Mugabe. He admired their power and their disdain for anyone who exercised borrowed authority. He loathed democracy, the messy elections, the way officials kowtowed to constituents. But he loved Western media. “Television is a god,” he said. “Those who rule the mind rule the world.”

He also talked about
mukwala—
African medicine—and the influence of the spirit world on the world of men. He wore an amulet on his neck and was obsessed with hexes. He knew many
ngangas
and consulted them often. He
despised the influence of modern medicine in Africa—he called it “neocolonialism”—and he had contempt for the Westerners who put so much stock in it
. Mukwala
and people who understood it were the things he missed most during his studies in London. In his mind
, mukwala
was the truest form of power
.

On a rainy night in January, he called her on her mobile and asked to meet at Alpha, as they always did. She heard something peculiar in his voice, a tension that belied his usual calm, but she agreed without hesitation. Kuyeya’s myopia was getting worse, and the
ngangas
were demanding payment for the herbs she took to treat her rashes. She hitched a ride with a friend—she never seemed to make enough money to buy a car—and arrived just before midnight. He greeted her with a kiss, but she saw agitation in his eyes
.

“Something wrong?” she asked in Nyanja
.

“Nothing you can’t cure,” he said enigmatically. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You don’t want a drink?” He had never broken their ritual before
.

Instead of answering, he took her arm and escorted her to his SUV. She hesitated at the door, trying to work out what could be bothering him. She felt a twinge of apprehension, an intuition that she shouldn’t go with him tonight, but she suppressed it. She was getting older and sicker, and she needed his money
.

The drive to his flat was brief. She walked beside him up the steps, ignoring his too-tight grip on her bicep. A light was on in the kitchen, but the rest of the flat was dark. He keyed the door and pushed her into the hallway
.

“What’s going on?” she asked, alarmed. She searched his face in the shadows, but she could see only the whites of his eyes. “Something’s wrong.”

“You deceived me,” he said after a pause. “Charity Mizinga.”

A bolt of fear shot through her. She had never told him her real name
.

“You didn’t really get your nursing diploma, did you?” he said, advancing on her
.

She backed down the hallway. “How did you …?”

It was then that he hit her—a painful blow to the cheek. Through a burst of stars, she saw him clearly for the first time: the anger submerged beneath the
polished surface of his personality, the hidden capacity for violence. She turned and ran into the kitchen, looking for the block of knives beside the stove. He caught her before she reached the counter and wrapped his arm around her neck. She twisted from side to side as he dragged her into the living room, but the harder she fought, the harder she found it to breathe
.

“You’re going to pay for what you did,” he hissed, grabbing her hair and shoving her face into the rug. “You’re going to feel what I felt.”

She didn’t know how long he spent raping her. It might have been a minute or half an hour. The pain was all consuming, as was the terror that flooded her mind. Afterward, he sat back on the couch and stared at her silently. She curled into the fetal position and wept, wondering if he was going to kill her. When he made no move to stand, she collected herself enough to stumble toward the door. She was barefoot and her dress was torn, but she didn’t care. She wanted only to escape
.

As she struggled with the heavy deadbolt in the darkness, he came up behind her and held it fast. The touch of his fingers sent a shockwave through her body
.

“Look at me,” he commanded
.

She gave up fighting and swiveled around, pressing her back against the door. He turned on the light and she saw his face above her, his cat-like eyes. Siluwe. She had been right to call him that
.

“You still don’t understand,” he sneered. “Let me give you a hint. Livingstone General Hospital. 1996.”

At once she realized the truth she had been missing all along. She couldn’t believe it, but it was right there in front of her, written in the shape of his nose, the way his lips hung open after he spoke, the frankness with which he appraised her. So many other things were different, but these were the same
.

As soon as she said his name—his full name—he took his hand off the deadbolt and let her go. She turned the door handle quickly and slipped out of his flat into a drizzle of night rain. Running down the steps, she fled into the dark streets, thinking only of Kuyeya
.

The ghosts of the past had come for her, but she had survived
.

Lusaka, Zambia
October, 2011

September turned into October, and the warmth of the late dry season became the blistering heat that always presaged the arrival of the rains. Zoe checked her iPhone regularly, but neither the Nyambos’ housekeeper nor Cynthia attempted to contact her. The transition of governments from MMD to PF took place with few partisan skirmishes, and people began to talk as if Zambia had blazed a new trail for sub-Saharan Africa. The mood in Zoe’s circle was less sanguine—everyone expressed relief at the absence of violence but felt that Sata had much to prove.

On the fifth of October, Zoe was sitting at her desk in the legal department when the receptionist handed a stack of letters to Sarge. She glanced up from her laptop as he flipped through them and then looked back at the screen. Her concentration lasted only a few seconds. Suddenly, Sarge leapt to his feet, his face shining beneath a sheen of sweat.

“He did it!” he exulted, waving a document around. “Kaunda transferred Kuyeya’s case!”

Zoe rushed to his side, barely beating Niza, who knocked a stack of files off her desk.

“Go ahead,” Zoe said.

“You first,” Niza replied with a smile.

Zoe read the order in wonderment. It was a technical document, devoid of detail, but it accomplished something almost miraculous—the reallocation of judicial power in a pending criminal prosecution. Using vague statutory language, Magistrate Kaunda recused himself for administrative reasons and submitted the case to the Principal Resident Magistrate for reassignment. In addition, he scheduled a status hearing for the following Monday.

Zoe handed the order to Niza and laughed like a giddy child. “This changes everything. We should ask the new magistrate to reconsider the DNA issue.”

Sarge nodded. “It’s worth a try. We might get lucky.”

She gave him a hopeful look. “Do you mind if I draft the memo?”

He smiled. “You’re welcome to it.”

It took Zoe two days to produce an application that satisfied everyone. Persuasive writing was one of her passions, and she had honed her craft for more than a decade, writing columns for the
Stanford Daily
, notes for the
Yale Law Journal
, and briefs and opinions for Judge van der Merwe. She had even published an article in
Harpers
magazine on human rights in post-apartheid South Africa. She wrote like she swam, with single-minded intensity, tuning out all distraction until the last word was on the page.

She approached the memorandum like an appellate brief, highlighting the legal aspects of the DNA question and mentioning its social significance only in passing. She wanted the new judge to understand that using DNA in a rape case was not only de rigueur in courts around the world, but that Zambia was ready for it, that the law permitted it, and that justice demanded it.

Sarge filed the application on Friday, and Zoe spent the weekend in a state of agitation. Joseph, who joined her for a swim on Saturday, took delight in ribbing her.

“You’re like a tiger in a cage,” he said. “Pacing doesn’t change the fence.”

“It helps me forget about it, though,” she replied.

That evening, Zoe hosted a braai, and Joseph took charge of the grill, churning out buffalo burgers and chicken breasts for a dozen guests—CILA staff, neighbors, and expat friends. When conversation began to ebb, Zoe suggested dancing at Hot Tropic. Sarge groaned and complained about the heat, but Niza batted her eyes and elbowed him into submission.

They drove to Kalingalinga in three vehicles and piled into the club, which was already packed with young Zambians, drinking, chatting, and moving to the beat. After a few beers and a bit of prodding, Zoe convinced Joseph to dance with her. They carved out a space between tables and picked up the rhythm of a disco track. The combination of alcohol, sweat, and bass-heavy music drove Zoe into Joseph’s arms. She looked into his eyes and felt the stirring of desire.

“Let’s go back to my place,” she said.

“The time isn’t right,” he whispered into her ear.

“When then?” she demanded, feeling tipsy.

“Patience,” he said, leading her back to the table and the stability of her chair.

But patience was the furthest thing from Zoe’s mind.
You’re clearly attracted to me. What’s holding you back?

At last, Monday arrived and with it the hearing at the magistrate’s court. Maurice chauffeured the legal team to the courthouse where they met David Soso, the police prosecutor.

“I can’t understand it,” David said, looking at Sarge with wide eyes. “Do you know why Magistrate Kaunda transferred the case?”

Sarge shrugged nonchalantly. “Any news of a replacement?”

David shook his head. “The docket entry is blank.”

“I’m sure everything will sort itself out,” Sarge replied. He guided David through the lobby, and Zoe and Niza followed them, stifling grins.

The air in the arcade was oppressively hot, but the breeze afforded some relief. Zoe saw Benson Luchembe and his flock of defense lawyers in their usual huddle, this time outside Courtroom 10. Instead of standing with them, Frederick Nyambo was resting nearby on a bench, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. He appeared less imposing off his feet. The hubris was there in his steel-gray eyes, but he looked like a man contemplating the limits of his power.

Zoe entered the courtroom and found Joseph waiting for her on the front bench. She smiled and sat beside him. The defense team filed in just before ten o’clock. Ever the professional, Luchembe took a seat at counsel table, his expression neutral.

Soon, the door to the judge’s chambers opened. The middle-aged man who ascended to the bench was a study in contrasts. He had the imposing frame of a linebacker and the avuncular visage of James Earl Jones. At first Zoe didn’t understand the significance of his presence, but when she heard his name spoken by one of the defense lawyers, her heart skipped a beat.

Flexon Mubita. The Principal Resident Magistrate himself.

Mubita sat down and took off his round spectacles, wiping his nose bridge. “Hello, Sarge, Benson,” he said in greeting, his rich, resonant voice echoing in the courtroom.

At that moment, another door opened, and the courtroom deputy led Darious into the dock. Zoe had not seen him in the month since
the initial hearing. His eyes were still bright, but his frame looked more skeletal than gaunt and his face and neck were marked with lesions.

“I summoned the accused,” said the judge, “because I was not the one who read the charges at the initial hearing. He should know the magistrate who will decide his case.”

When the words hit Zoe’s ears, she felt a thrill unlike anything she had experienced in an African courtroom. Mubita had not only removed the case from Thoko Kaunda’s hands, he had taken it upon himself to see that justice was served. She glanced around at the ashen faces of the defense lawyers and could not help but smirk. The reversal of fortunes was monumental.

Benson Luchembe stood slowly. “The defense is delighted to have such an august judge handling this case. But might I ask what prompted Your Worship’s
personal
interest?”

“I assign cases by lottery,” Mubita responded simply. “My name was chosen.”

Luchembe hesitated, then sat down in a huff, shuffling papers.

The judge folded his hands. “I have reviewed the status of this case and the orders entered thus far. I have also reviewed the prosecution’s application to reconsider the question of DNA. I believe the matter is weighty enough to merit reconsideration, and I will do so on the briefs. You should receive my decision within a week.”

Luchembe leaped to his feet again. “Your Worship, with all due respect, Magistrate Kaunda heard argument from counsel and wrote a very thoughtful opinion, taking into account the weight of Zambian and foreign authorities. There is no need to review the issue.”

Mubita raised his eyebrows. “I will give proper deference to Magistrate Kaunda’s decision, but I will be trying this case. I intend to decide all issues that bear upon the trial.”

Zoe clutched Joseph’s arm, barely able to contain her excitement.

The judge, however, was not finished. “There is also the matter of the trial date. I’m disturbed to see that the trial is not scheduled until next December. With child witnesses, this is unacceptable. The Court has dates in March and early April. What is counsel’s preference?”

Luchembe could not contain himself. “Your Worship, I explained to Magistrate Kaunda that my calendar is booked until next summer.”

Mubita narrowed his eyes. “You have a first-rate staff. I’m sure you can manage.”

Luchembe glanced at the floor, looking trapped. After a pause, he opened his calendar. A brief negotiation ensued, and the judge set the trial for April fifth and sixth.

Mubita then turned to Darious. “Does the accused need clarification before we proceed?”

Darious gave the judge an insolent look, and their eyes locked like horns in a bullfight. The silence dragged on, save for the ticking of the clock on the wall. All at once, Darious lost his composure and looked at the floor.

“Since everyone is satisfied,” Mubita said, a trace of amusement in his voice, “this Court is adjourned.”

When the judge disappeared into chambers, Benson Luchembe traded a shell-shocked glance with Darious and strode out of the courtroom, his defense team in tow. Zoe grinned at Joseph, incapable of hiding her elation. There was so much she wanted to say, but she couldn’t say it until the defendant left the dock. She waited, watching Darious as he stared at the door to chambers. His look sent a chill up her spine. His eyes were full of loathing.

In time, he turned toward the rear of the courtroom, searching for
something. For a moment his confidence seemed to waver, then the hatred returned. Zoe followed his gaze and saw the empty bench.

Frederick Nyambo was gone.

The judge’s opinion on the matter of DNA arrived by email on Friday morning. Sarge printed it off and read it silently, then reclined in his chair, his lips curling into a smile of vindication. He waved the decision at Zoe and Niza, who read it together.

After examining the Constitution and statutes of Zambia, Mubita found no prohibition against a court-ordered blood sample in a defilement case and waxed eloquent about the benefits DNA would accord the justice system. He wrote:

Crimes of sexual violence assault the very fabric of Zambia’s communal society, and no prosecutor or court should be deprived of a constitutionally sound tool to identify the perpetrators of such crimes. If DNA changes the face of criminal justice in our country, so be it. The time has come to bring an end to the horrific acts of defilement and rape that leave our wives, daughters, mothers, and grandmothers afraid of walking the streets alone.

Mubita ordered Darious to submit a blood sample to Dr. Chulu at UTH by Monday afternoon and directed that the defendant’s blood and the samples taken from Kuyeya on the night of the rape be submitted to the DNA lab in Johannesburg for analysis.

Zoe gave Sarge a triumphant look. “We should have it framed,” she said.

He shook his head in wonderment. “This is going to change the way we practice law. Can you imagine it? A genuine deterrent against
child sexual assault.” He stood up suddenly. “Wait until Mariam hears about this.”

That afternoon, when the last of the staff left the office, Zoe tidied up her workstation and found Joseph waiting for her at the gate. She touched his arm. “Interested in a drive? I haven’t seen Kuyeya in a couple of weeks.”

He pondered this. “I was going to check on the samples at UTH.”

“It’s up to you,” she said, giving him a playful nudge.

He shrugged. “I’ll come with you.”

They drove through the city and took Great East Road toward the airport. The tarmac shimmered in the heat, and the sky was the color of mustard, clogged with wind-driven dust. When they reached the spur road, Zoe rolled up the windows to keep out the grit. The six-month absence of rain had turned the highland plain into a sandy desert.

At St. Francis, they parked beside a bougainvillea bush and left the air-conditioned comfort of the Land Rover. Much to their surprise, they found Dr. Chulu in the breezeway talking to Sister Anica and Joy Herald. The physician so dwarfed the nun and the SCA director that their exchange looked almost cartoonish.

“Zoe!” Sister Anica said. “You chose a good day to visit. The doctor is about to test Kuyeya again.”

“Has it been six weeks already?” Zoe asked, waving at Joy.

“Almost to the day,” Dr. Chulu replied, shaking her hand and Joseph’s.

Sister Anica led them through the breezeway and across the sunbaked courtyard to the garden. In the distance, Zoe saw Sister Irina kneeling on a patch of turned earth with children in a circle around her. Kuyeya had the privileged position on the nun’s left, but she seemed as much a part of the group as the other children.

“I was telling Joy and Dr. Chulu that she started running again last week,” Sister Anica said. “Her injuries appear to have healed. And she’s making good progress with Dr. Mbao. She’s started to talk about her mother.”

“What does she say?” Zoe asked.

“Her mother told her stories. That’s what she seems to remember most. Stories about animals and village people.”

“Has she said anything more about the incident?”

Sister Anica shook her head. “Dr. Mbao says she needs more time.”

They approached Sister Irina and the group of children. Zoe sat in the dirt beside Kuyeya, deciding not to worry about her office clothes. Joy took a seat on the other side.

Kuyeya looked at Zoe and made the balloon sound. “Hi, Zoe,” she said.

Zoe smiled. “How are you today?”

“Good,” the girl replied. “I like your music.” She began to hum rhythmically.

Listening, Zoe discerned a familiar tune. “‘I Walk the Line,’” she said, nudging Kuyeya’s shoulder. “That’s one of my favorites.”

“I like Johnny,” Kuyeya said.

Dr. Chulu knelt down next to Zoe. “Hi, Kuyeya. I’m Manny, your doctor.”

At the sound of his voice, Kuyeya clutched her monkey. She turned away from the doctor and began to rock back and forth, her eyes on her lap.