The Garden of Burning Sand (20 page)

She placed a call to Joseph and asked for a ride. Then she took a seat in a small plaza and listened to the bubbling fountain behind her. The sky was mostly clear, and the sun was hot upon her skin. Distracted by unwanted memories, she barely noticed when a group of business-people approached the hostess at Rhapsody’s. It was the voice that caught her attention, the booming basso profundo that carried such gravity in the courtroom.

She looked across the plaza and saw him—Flexon Mubita. With him were two Zambians, a tall man in a dark suit and a handsome woman in
chitenge
. The man she didn’t recognize. But she remembered the woman well. Her stomach clenched involuntarily.

It was Patricia Nyambo.

Zoe took a few hasty photographs with her iPhone and then sat back against the bench, trying to make sense of what she had seen. Mariam trusted Mubita more than anyone on the bench; Dr. Chulu considered him an honorable man. His behavior in Kuyeya’s case had been unimpeachable. He had ruled in their favor on DNA and given Benson Luchembe a tongue-lashing over the theft of evidence. He and Patricia were both judges; they surely knew one another. It could just be a friendly lunch meeting.

The more Zoe thought about it, however, the less likely that seemed. Mubita was presiding over the trial of Patricia’s son. She sat on the High Court, which would hear any appeal in the case. What was it Judge van der Merwe had told her?
“Judging is one of the loneliest jobs in the world because relationships are always secondary. A judge can’t tolerate even a hint of impropriety.”
Perhaps judicial ethics were looser in Zambia, but conflicts of interest were the same everywhere. Besides, the Nyambos had proven their guile. Evidence had gone missing; someone had broken into her flat; Thoko Kaunda had been influenced. The thought struck Zoe with sudden force: what if the same thing happened to Mubita?

When Joseph pulled up to the curb, she jumped into the passenger seat. “Look who’s having lunch together,” she said, showing him the photos.

His eyes darkened. “They’re in there now?”

She nodded. “Who’s the tall guy?”

“The Deputy Minister of Justice.”

She shook her head. The involvement of a powerful politician—a deputy cabinet minister, no less—only accentuated her concerns. “What are we going to do?”

“If she compromises him, I doubt there’s anything we
can
do. But we don’t know what they’re talking about.” He looked at the pictures again. “Mariam’s husband has political connections. Maybe he can make a few inquiries.”

Zoe struggled to compose herself.
First Sylvia. Now this
. “Please take me home. I can’t go back to the office right now.”

Joseph nodded and pulled out onto Great East Road, heading toward Kabulonga. After a while, he asked, “What were you doing at Arcades?”

“It’s a long story.”

He glanced at her. “I don’t have anywhere else to be at the moment.”

Out of habit she almost deflected his inquiry, but something in her counseled the benefits of disclosure. She was tired of policing her words, tired of subjugating her feelings and hiding her scars.

“Okay,” she said, surprised by the lightness she felt in saying something so simple. “If you want to hear it, I’ll tell you.”

When they reached the Prentice bungalow, they found the carport empty. Zoe unlocked the front door and called out to Rosa, but she heard nothing beyond a marbled echo. She led Joseph to the terrace, and they took seats on wicker chairs facing the pool. She looked across the water and felt a tremor of apprehension. For an instant, she reconsidered her decision, but she knew she had to do it. The burden needed to be shared.

“My dad and I have a …
complex
relationship,” she began. “We’re very different, but I grew up respecting him. We had a lot of fun together, and he loved my mom more than anything.” She let out a chuckle. “Except making money, perhaps. He took it really hard when she died. Trevor and I had to figure things out on our own. It was a difficult time.”

She listened to the birds singing in the
msasa
trees. “A year later, he met a woman named Sylvia Martinelli at a charity function. She was a celebrity publicist—essentially an image consultant. She was beautiful and he was lonely. I didn’t like her, but it wasn’t her fault, at least not at first. After they got married, Dad started to change. His ambitions
grew. He’d built a hugely successful fund on Wall Street, but it wasn’t enough. Suddenly, he wanted to be President of the United States. I don’t know if it was Sylvia’s idea, or she just encouraged it, but his decision to run for office changed everything.”

She took a nervous breath. “His first race was for the U.S. Senate in 2000. He asked his investment partner—one of his best friends—to run the campaign. His name was Harry Randall. Our families were close. Every summer, the Randalls spent two weeks with us on Martha’s Vineyard. That year, Dad and Harry were too busy with the campaign, but the rest of us went. Harry had a son named Clay. I had a crush on him. He was affectionate, and I was seventeen and naive. It was all very juvenile, but I was foolish enough to believe he loved me.”

She glanced at Joseph and saw a far-off look in his eyes. “Am I boring you?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m starting to understand you.”

“All right, I’m going to get this out,” she said, feeling a tear break loose. “My brother left after the first week to get ready for Harvard. As soon as he wasn’t around, Clay got more physical. He asked me to sleep with him. I told him I wasn’t ready. On our last day on the island, we went to the beach together. He started kissing me, and I played along. We’d done it before. But he wanted more. I said no. He didn’t accept that.”

Her tears were flowing freely now. “I didn’t expect this to make me a mess.”

“Take your time,” Joseph encouraged.

She laughed. “You’re never in a hurry.”

He shrugged but didn’t respond.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she went on. “Trevor was in Massachusetts. Dad was on the campaign trail. I finally broke down in front of Sylvia. She called my dad, and he came home. When I told him, I
saw his fear. I sat in the living room while he and Sylvia talked. After that, he started asking questions. How far had I gone with Clay before? How far with other boys? It was clear what he was suggesting. I asked him what he planned to do, and he said there was nothing he could do. It was just a misunderstanding. I needed to forget about it.”

Anger gleamed in Joseph’s eyes. “Have you ever told anyone about this?”

She shook her head, feeling depleted. “I wanted to tell Trevor, but every time I talked to him he was busy with his studies. Then Dad won the election, and I dived into my senior year. I guess I never found the right moment.”

He placed a hand on hers. “I’m so sorry, Zoe. It wasn’t your fault.”

She nodded. “I know that now. Men take what they want and women get the blame. It’s happening today all over the world.”

He thought about this. “What were you doing at Arcades?”

“Having lunch with Sylvia.”

“Ah, now I understand.”

She looked into the sky and saw clouds forming. By mid-afternoon it would storm. “We should go back to the office.”

He looked into her eyes. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

She nodded, wiping away the last of her tears. “You need to talk to Mariam.”

Lusaka, Zambia
December, 2011

A few days later, Mariam summoned the response team to a morning meeting. Since the samples had been stolen from UTH, the legal team had retooled its approach to prosecuting Darious, focusing on the development of new evidence, and Joseph had spent two months beating the bushes in Kabwata and Kanyama, searching for an eyewitness he had missed. In the past week, he had also been working with Mariam to investigate Flexon Mubita. When he sat down at the conference table wearing a satisfied look, Zoe knew that he’d discovered something.

“I have good news and bad news,” Mariam began. “I’ll start with the bad news. As you know, my husband works for the Ministry of Home Affairs. At my request, he made some inquiries about the Principal Resident Magistrate. His official slate is clean. He’s a sharp, experienced, fair-minded judge. Unofficially, he’s been in the running for a seat on the High Court for years, and he’s always been passed over. Apparently, he hasn’t made the right friends.”

She placed her hands on the table. “It’s possible he met with Patricia Nyambo and the Deputy Minister of Justice for entirely proper reasons.
I’d love to believe this, but I have serious doubts. A vote from the Ministry of Justice could guarantee him the next opening on the High Court. If I were in Mubita’s shoes, I would never agree to meet with them, not when I’m presiding over Darious’s trial. It raises too many questions. My guess is the Nyambos are courting him. With the parties involved, we have no way to stop that. If he turns against us, the best we can do is try the case and hope for an appealable issue.”

Niza looked skeptical. “Doesn’t a lunch meeting in public suggest they don’t have anything to hide? Rhapsody’s is an odd place to do a backroom deal.”

Sarge shook his head. “A restaurant gives them a legitimate excuse. Location isn’t the issue. It’s the meeting itself. I agree with Mariam. A careful judge would never agree to it, not under these circumstances. That he did agree to it suggests he’s thinking about something other than his reputation.”

Zoe looked at Mariam. “You know him. How likely is it that he’ll be corrupted?”

Mariam shrugged. “It depends on how much he wants what they’re offering. He’s always been fair to us. But that doesn’t mean he can’t change.”

Niza pursed her lips. “So what you’re saying is that this case could turn out to be a complete waste of time. What’s the good news?”

Mariam turned to Joseph. “Why don’t you tell everyone what you found?”

He leaned forward in his chair. “A while ago we had a discussion about whether the virgin rape myth played a role in Kuyeya’s assault. It was a wild theory, but I’ve been pursuing it. I now have evidence that the theory may be right.”

“You found an
nganga
,” Zoe said in amazement.

When he nodded, Niza asked, “How did you manage that?”

He smiled, enjoying the moment. “About a month ago I found an old woman in Kanyama who recognized Darious’s SUV. She said she’d seen it outside the house of an
nganga
by the name of Amos. I visited Amos and told him a story about being HIV-positive. I went back a couple of times, claiming the herbs he gave me didn’t work. Yesterday, I demanded a cure. I offered him a million kwacha. Guess what he prescribed?”

“You’re kidding,” Niza said. “He actually told you to have sex with a virgin.”

“Worse,” Joseph said. “He said a child would do the trick.”

“Did you record him?” Zoe asked.

“I did. I showed it to him afterward and offered him two options. Either I’d throw him in jail on felony charges or he’d talk about Darious Nyambo. He made a bit of a fuss—”

“Just a bit?” Niza interjected.

Joseph held out his hands. “He was enraged, but he wasn’t stupid. He agreed to talk so long as he had a lawyer present.”

“Who’s his lawyer?” Sarge asked.

“Bob Wangwe.”

Niza laughed. “Lawyers get the clients they deserve.”

“Who’s Wangwe?” Zoe inquired.

Sarge answered. “He’s a shady character who represents other shady characters.”

“When are you meeting them?” Zoe asked.

“This afternoon,” Joseph responded, “as long as we get the DPP on board. Amos said Wangwe wouldn’t let him talk without a promise of immunity.”

“What does Amos have on Darious?” said Niza.

“He wouldn’t tell me. I threatened to arrest him, and he stood firm.”

“You should have a witness,” Sarge said. “In case he contests it later.”

“I’ll go,” Zoe volunteered, trying not to sound too eager.

“Is that all right with you?” Mariam asked Joseph.

He nodded. “We make a good team.”

Just before two o’clock, Joseph and Zoe drove to Kanyama in his truck. Somewhere in the traffic snarl southwest of Cairo Road, she put into words the question at the forefront of her mind: “Why didn’t you tell me about Amos?”

“I didn’t know if it would work.”

“Are you sure he’s going to cooperate?”

“You mean is he going to run? I doubt it. He’s been in Kanyama for a decade.”

A few minutes later, Zoe saw a sign that read: “D
R
. M
WENYA
A
MOS
, H
ERBALIST AND
T
RADITIONAL
H
EALER.”
They turned before the sign and drove down a dirt lane to a white house flanked by shade trees. Unlike the shambling residences around it, the
nganga
’s house had embroidered curtains, an herb garden, and a door painted bright red. Two cars were parked outside—a dingy yellow sedan and a white Prado SUV.

“See the door?” Joseph said. “Red is a symbol of spiritual power.”

“So he’s repugnant
and
delusional.”

He shrugged. “His clients obviously don’t think so.”

A bespectacled Zambian in a pinstripe suit met them in the yard. He coughed once, covering his mouth with his hand, and then offered the hand to Joseph. “Officer Kabuta, I’m Bob Wangwe, Dr. Amos’s attorney.”

Joseph ignored the handshake. “Is your client ready?”

Wangwe cleared his throat. “He’ll be out shortly. He has to purify the space.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. “How long is this going to take?”

“Who are you?” Wangwe asked with a frown.

“An attorney for the prosecution,” she said.

The lawyer grunted. “Does the DPP offer my client full immunity?”

“Your client is guilty of a felony,” Joseph replied matter-of-factly. “We’ll see what he has to say. If it’s helpful, we’ll give him immunity. If not, he goes to jail.”

Wangwe glanced at his watch—a shiny gilded piece that looked to Zoe like a Rolex knock-off—and turned toward the house. Before long, another man appeared on the threshold, wearing trousers and a loose white shirt. He walked to the garden and knelt down, harvesting a handful of herbs. He handed a herb to Wangwe, another to Joseph and a third to Zoe.

“Chew it and spit it out,” he said. “It will cleanse you of the spirits of the dead.”

Zoe’s impulse was to say no, but Joseph silenced her with a look. He placed the herb in his mouth, ground it with his teeth, and spat it onto the earth. Reluctantly, Zoe followed suit. The herb left her mouth tasting bitter.

“Come,” said Dr. Amos, leading them into the house.

The first thing Zoe noticed about the
nganga
’s residence was the pungent odor. The living room was cluttered with tables displaying the articles of his trade—incense, herbs, feathers, bones, and remnants of animals. Bottles of all sizes were strewn about. Some contained powder, some herbs; the rest were empty. At the center of one of the tables lay the mutilated carcass of a bird encircled by a halo of dried blood. Zoe felt nauseous. She braced herself against the wall, controlling her breathing.

The
nganga
pointed to a shadowy bedroom. “This way.”

The bedroom was half the size of the living room and empty of furniture. With heavy curtains veiling the windows, the room had the
atmosphere of a cave. Two rugs were on the floor, one white and the other red. Between them was a pile of partially burnt sticks. Dr. Amos sat cross-legged on the red rug and gestured for Joseph and Zoe to sit on the white one. The lawyer, Wangwe, looked around before squatting awkwardly on the cement slab.

Joseph threw aside the curtains, admitting wide shafts of sunlight. “We’re not here for a consultation,” he said, disregarding the
nganga
’s smoldering stare. “I want to see your eyes.”

When everyone was situated, Wangwe was the first to speak. “I am advising my client not to answer questions until you agree to offer him full immunity.”

Joseph stared the lawyer down. “He’ll answer my questions now, or I’ll conduct the interrogation at the Woodlands Police Post.”

“That will not be necessary,” Amos replied hastily.

“I thought so.” Joseph took a digital recording device out of his pocket and placed it on the floor. “I’m going to record our conversation.”

“And I’m going to make a backup,” Zoe said, taking out her iPhone.

Wangwe shifted uncomfortably but didn’t object.

Joseph began with an introduction, stating the names and offices of everyone in the room, the date and time, the voluntary nature of the interrogation, the fact of recording, and the terms of immunity being offered. When Amos and Wangwe affirmed their agreement, he turned to the matter at hand.

“We’re interested in the services you provided to a man named Darious Nyambo,” he began. “Darious is the defendant in a pending defilement prosecution. When did you meet him?”

“He came to me last year when the rains ended,” Amos said. “He thought he had AIDS.”

“Had he gone for testing?”

Amos shook his head. “He didn’t want a diagnosis from Western doctors.”

“Why not?”

“Western medicine is for the weak. His father is a prominent man.”

“How do you know Frederick?” Joseph asked.

Amos chose his words carefully. “He consults a friend.”

“Is Frederick sick, too?”

The
nganga
shook his head. “He is a man of
mukwala
. He has medicine.”

“Meaning he practices witchcraft?” Zoe inquired.

Irritation showed in Amos’s eyes. “That is a word used by
muzungus
to describe what they do not understand. Mr. Nyambo has knowledge of the spirits.”

Something clicked in Zoe’s mind.
Darious was afraid he had AIDS, but he was even more afraid of his father’s medicine. So he avoided testing and ARVs and came to Amos
.

Joseph picked up the questioning again. “How did Darious find you?”

Amos shrugged. “Most of my patients are referred by someone. I didn’t ask who.”

“Did he tell you who he was?”

The
nganga
shook his head. “Not initially. But after a few visits he opened up.”

“What do you mean?”

Amos took a breath. “Officer Kabuta, I am not like white doctors who dispense pills and send their patients home. I encourage my patients to think of me as a friend. In the course of treatment, many tell me their stories. Darious was no exception.”

“What story did he tell you?”

The
nganga
frowned in puzzlement. “He told me many things.”

Joseph regrouped. “I’m interested in what he thought about his sickness.”

“He believed a
mahule
had given it to him.”

“Who was the
mahule
?” Joseph asked, trading a glance with Zoe.

The
nganga
opened his hands. “He didn’t tell me her name. But he thought she was a witch. He believed she had put a hex on him and stolen his health.”

“Why would he think that? Did she practice magic?”

“I know only what Darious told me. He said she had bewitched his family.”

“Did he say what he meant?”

The
nganga
gave him a grave look. “He said the
mahule
had brought a curse upon his parents. She was the cause of great strife and pain.”

Zoe was astounded.
Was Frederick also a customer of Bella’s? Did Patricia find out and confront him about her?

“Did he tell you anything else about his parents?” Joseph asked.

The
nganga
held out his hands. “That is all I know. But Darious hated the
mahule
deeply. The damage must have been great.”

“If he hated her so much, why did he sleep with her?” Zoe asked.

“He said he didn’t know who she was until it was too late.”

The gears of Zoe’s deduction ground to a halt. How could he not have known? Had she hidden her identity from him?

“The curse upon his family, when did that happen?” Joseph asked.

“Darious was a young man,” replied the
nganga
. “Sixteen years old, I think he said.”

Zoe stared at Amos. “Darious is thirty now, isn’t he?”

He nodded. “A terrible shame for one so young to be so sick.”

She sat back, beginning to understand.
Whatever happened between Charity and the Nyambos happened soon after she arrived in Lusaka. But Darious didn’t meet her then. When he met her at Alpha Bar years later, he thought she
was just a prostitute
. Suddenly, she had questions the
nganga
couldn’t answer. She made a mental note to talk to Clay Whitaker at the World Bank.

She had one last thought: “How did he find out who she was?”

The
nganga
searched his memory. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

Joseph cast a questioning glance at her, and she gestured for him to proceed. He took the conversation in a new direction. “When Darious came to you with his fears—about AIDS, about the
mahule
’s curse—what sort of medicine did you prescribe?”

“I gave him the same herbs I gave you,” said Amos. “One for TB, one for diarrhea, one for headaches. My own triple combination therapy.”

“How long was it before he asked for something more potent?”

“It was about two weeks. He said the herbs helped with the diarrhea, but he needed something for his skin. He had lesions on his face and neck. He also had a rash in his crotch.”

“What did you give him then?”