Muti Nation (30 page)

Unfortunately, John didn’t reserve his smile just for me.

I found him in bed with another woman after coming home early from a trip to Uganda.

Breaking up had never been easier.

After John I threw my emotions, desires and dreams to the wind. When loneliness threatened to consume me, I had a casual fling here or a one-night-stand there. I didn’t get serious with any of my lovers. I was careful. It worked for years.

I was happy, because I didn’t have to tie myself down. I didn’t
need
to tell anyone about what I did for a living.

It worked until Howlen and I spent our first night together.

My personal life changed in a blink of an eye due to one drunken night. Gone was my handful of lovers, tossed to the sky without a drop of remorse. Hope leeched into my heart, the vault of “maybes and what-ifs” opening for the first time since John. Yes, I never felt for Howlen the same illogical love I’d felt for Pierre or John, you know, the type of love that starts in the pit of your stomach and bubbles into your heart and soul. But, it would’ve been easier to date someone who knew the ins and outs of the job, opposed to going out with a “civilian.” Yes, we argued often, we still do, in a professional capacity about science vs. pseudo-science, about what is real and what is not, about whether the pantheon exists, about
everything
.

Such a pity he had to ruin a good thing with a prostitute.

“Move it, Esmé!” Gramps shouts, snapping me back to reality. “Stop daydreaming in there and get dressed!”

“I’m coming!” I shout back. I rinse off the soap and get out of the shower.

When I’m dressed, Gramps rushes me out of my house, and into his car.

I’m not sure why he’s in such a hurry, but I’ve stopped asking questions he chooses not to answer. As soon as we’re driving though, his reasons in having me in a confined space, with little to no chance of escape, become clear.

“We might as well talk a bit. Here’s a topic: Tell me about Detective Louw.”

Chapter 34

Life isn’t fair.

It’s the hardest lesson a person will have to come to terms with in their lifetime.

Some are gracious in their acceptance of this inexorable fact, as difficult as it is at times. Others are prone to search for workarounds, regardless of who gets hurt in their pursuit for advantage. Lie, cheat, steal, kill—it doesn’t matter what it takes to make their lives easier, in the end they think it’s a small price to pay.

Him
, like most children who lose the only person who gives a crap about them, learned this lesson the hard way, and at a young age.

As he stands at his workbench, slicing through the soft organ he’d purchased for a hefty price, he thinks back to his humble beginnings. He thinks about what he’s sacrificed simply to survive another day, how he whored himself out for a piece of bread. Those weren’t good times. Not at all.

Him
shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the bad memories threatening to consume his focus, but the seed had already taken root in the folds of his brain. There is no running away from the horrible experiences he’d endured.

He looks over to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman huddling on the pallet, chained fast against the wall. Her buxom chest rises with each fearful breath she takes, falling every time she looses a shaky exhale. Whimpers escape her gag while her body shudders with such vigour the clothes she wears shiver in tandem. Her cosmetics streak her face as tears roll from her eyes. She is scared, with good reason.

And
Him
bets she has never known what real hunger and fear and cold feel like. Even now, chained up like a dog, she wouldn’t be able to begin to understand the hardships he’s had to face for more than half his life.

Him
gets back to work, slicing and dicing, eager to shake the memories from his mind. He doesn’t succeed. Flashbacks of his time on the streets pry his attention away from the work he wants to do. The hunger pangs, the crying, the filth, and the hatred. Every nightmarish moment cast in black and white, reels across his mind in staccato.
Him
stops slicing. His hands tremble from the fear of returning to such a state.

His ancestors aren’t making matters better with their constant yapping.

“Want, want, want! Need, need, need!”
Him
shouts, dropping the knife on the counter to clutch his head.

The woman screams a muffled scream, making matters so much worse. She screams again. And again.

A migraine is in its infant stages situated behind his right eye, but quickly growing into a potential problem. Memories and voices overlap in his mind, blurring his vision and making him nauseous.
Him
slides down the wall until he’s seated with his cradled head between his knees. He rocks back and forth in anguish.

If the magical attacks don’t let up soon, he’ll be incapacitated when he can least afford to be. He’d sent so many things after Esmé this past week; controlling the car she was in, killing Rochester before he could rat
Him
out, threatening her through the dead man’s vocal cords, and the tokoloshe—all in the hopes of grabbing her attention. And he needs to make sure she’s finally gotten the wake-up call.

If Esmé doesn’t get the message, he has to prepare himself for her next move: to dispose of her.

Simple.

But with the bad stuff flashing through his mind, every
kak
moment he’s lived through, and the buzz of voices telling him to do this and do that and to stop being such a pussy, he can barely breathe.
Him
presses his fingertips hard against his skull, leaving imprints and possible bruises on his skin, trying to relieve himself from reliving horrors and nightmares.

It’s not enough, though.

Not this time.

He rocks more violently as though the action might soothe the pain blossoming in his head.

Him
screams: “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” His voice cracks halfway through the mantra, but it doesn’t help. Screaming and rocking never helps.

He’s being tested by the ancestors again and there’s nothing he can do about it until they decide he’s had enough, that he’s still worthy.

They won’t hurt him permanently, he knows. Not while he is still useful to them. Who else will be so generous in their sacrifices? Who else aspires to be great, to be a god, in their names?

It’ll let up soon.

Him
’s sure.

Chapter 35

Tweedledee and Tweedledum, as Gramps calls them, are actually named Thembekile and Thembelihle, respectively.

They are two ancient women, almost indistinguishable from one another due to their traditional clothing and deep wrinkles, and they don’t seem to mind being called Tweedledee and Tweedledum. I think this is because of what they call Gramps:
Mnumzane Hlanya
. One of them explained to me (in giggles, I might add) it meant “Mister Crazy.” I couldn’t argue with the nickname.

Considering the third degree I’d received on the way over, about my sex life of all things, I’m inclined to adopt the nickname for him, too.

Then one of them explains it’s for the best if I call them Tweedledee and Tweedledum, as well, because they get annoyed when people mix them up with one another. I’m not sure how logical their reasoning is, but then again, they are friends of my grandfather so it’s probably best not to question logistics anyway.

“Sit, sit.” One of the Tweedles practically forces me into a low seat.

We’re outside of a dung and peach pit hut, on a privately owned agriculture holding near Hammanskraal. I decide she’s Tweedledee, for the sake of keeping my head on straight.

She looks me over with her beady eyes, calls something over her shoulder, before the other Tweedle (here forth known as Tweedledum) shuffles closer. She also studies me with narrowed eyes, and then the two of them have a conversation in isiZulu.

“You are in big trouble,” Tweedledee says to me in English.

“We can fix it,” Tweedledum says, sounding slightly unsure of her proclamation. “We’re old, so it’ll take time.”

“Old? Ha!” Gramps barks a laugh, sitting down on one of the empty low seats. “You two don’t look a day over fifty.”

“Tsk.” Tweedledee smiles a toothless smile.

“Always trying to honey us up, huh?” Tweedledum scolds.

I feel like I should have a bowl of popcorn to fully appreciate these three together.

“You’re being a shameless flirt, while there’s a bad man trying to hurt your little one,” she continues.

“Very bad.” Tweedledee goes into the hut.

“Powerful, too,” Tweedledum says, puckering her lips up as though she’s sucked on an especially sour lemon.

“Powerful, but foolish.” Tweedledee returns from the hut with a rusty Ricoffy coffee can in her hands. “Possibly insane.”

“It happens to the best of us.” Tweedledum shrugs.

Tweedledee looks at her and nods. “Ancestral magic is dangerous if you don’t know how to wield it properly. This man was never trained. His magic is raw, which makes him powerful, but ruthless. It’s very dangerous.”

“Very dangerous,” Tweedledee agrees. “And he takes his ancestors to a bad place.”

“It’s slowly driving him cuckoo.”

“And he seems to have directed all of his magic onto you.” Tweedledee sits down on her knees on the leather mat in the middle of the cleanly swept courtyard, and opens the coffee can.

“I don’t think so,” I say and earn a reproachful look from Gramps. “The places where the bodies are found are sucked dry of everything. We call them “Dead Zones” because everything dies in the area. Even the air seems to turn sour. I think he uses his magic to do it, to leave a trace of himself behind.”

“No.” Tweedledee shakes her head and throws the contents of the coffee can onto the mat in front of her. Old, discoloured bones scatter across it. “That’s the darkness his ancestors are forced to invoke, acting as sieves. They draw the power from the body, the land, the sky, and the creatures. Then they push the raw, purified magic into him. In turn, he uses it on you. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“Vicious,” Tweedledum echoes, sitting down beside her sister. “Good thing you have us.”

“Twin sangomas are rare,” Gramps explains.

“We are two halves of one soul,” Tweedledee says. “But our half souls are big enough to sustain one body.”

“It means we’re more powerful than this boy trying to hurt you,” Tweedledum continues.

Tweedledee interrupts in her native tongue, speaking to her sister.

They go back and forth, until Tweedledum rolls her eyes. “He’s not trying to hurt you yet,” she says, looking at the bandage around my leg. “That’s because he lost control of his tokoloshe.”

“Well, now it makes sense why you couldn’t see what attacked you last night. Tokoloshes can become invisible when they drink water,” Gramps says, seemingly more excited about this magical intervention than I am. “So, what are we going to do?”

“Why are you so excited about this?” I ask my grandfather “It’s deeply disturbing.”

“We’ll purify your granddaughter.” Tweedledee looks intently at the bones. “And then we’re going to have to counter his upcoming attacks, which won’t be easy.”

“Not easy,” Tweedledum says, shaking her head. “But doable.”

“You going to concoct something special for Little Red, here?” Tweedledee asks her sister.

“Mhmmm,” Tweedledum hums, standing up slowly. Her body creaks and cracks from age but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m thinking we’ll have to delve into our Khoi shelf:
Waterblommetjies, sieketroos, hottentotsvy—
”

“Add in some bush-tick berry while you’re at it,” Tweedledee adds.

“One can never add too much bush-tick berry,” Tweedledum agrees. “Two Happy-Chappy Cocktails coming right up.”

“Two?” I ask.

Tweedledum disappears into a different hut.

“It won’t kill
Mnumzane Hlanya
to take his medicine either,” Tweedledee explains, staring daggers at Gramps. I can only guess what she knows about my grandfather. “Now,” she turns her attention back to me, “let’s talk about the plan.”

“What plan?”

“What plan, she asks.” Tweedledum shuffles out of the hut carrying two brown glass mugs. She pushes one into my hand, and one into my grandfather’s before slumping into one of the low seats. “What plan…?”

“Do you think it will be best to exclude them?” Tweedledee asks her sister. “Drink!” She points a finger between me and Gramps but keeps her eyes on Tweedledum. They seem to communicate without words.

I lift the cocktail to my lips, hoping it doesn’t taste as bad as it smells, and drink.

The thick, herbal mixture congeals in my throat. I push through, swallowing hard, and try not to think about what I’m putting into my body. It knocks my breath away.