Yellowbone

by Ekow Duker

  Precious went to the backroom where she’d stored Karabo’s things. The violin case was in the same place she’d left it the day she’d brought it back from the pawn shop in town. She took it to the kitchen and laid it on the table. She sat looking at it for a few moments before she opened the case and lifted out the violin.

  It didn’t make any sense to her. Why would Karabo steal something like this? It was nothing more than a slightly battered, miniature guitar, the size of instrument a tokoloshe would play. Precious plucked one of the strings and it made an oddly resonant sound. Saddam heard it and howled mournfully in response.

  ‘Aooooooo.’

  The hairs lifted on the back of Precious’s neck and the kitchen felt cold all of a sudden. Weren’t there spirits that infested objects and searched for each other, even across the ocean? There was a spirit lurking inside this violin and it was calling to the one Karabo had stolen. Precious’s hand crept forward and she plucked at a different string. It made a sound like the lowing of a cow. Saddam howled again, a long drawn-out cry that went on for an unnaturally long time. That frightened Precious and she hurriedly put the violin away.

  She would have to burn it. Then whatever evil spirit was inside the violin would release its hold over her daughter. For what good could a violin bring a black girl anyway? These things were not for them. She should have put her foot down the day Karabo brought the violin into the house. Wasn’t it Mrs Harrison who had given it to her? She should have known the violin had been dipped in bad luck. Precious wrung her hands, rocking back and forth on the chair. The ancestors had finally roused themselves to punish her for cheating on Teacher with Bill. Only the ancestors could come up with such a devious strategy involving a pair of violins two continents apart and her daughter trapped helplessly in the middle.

  No, it wouldn’t be wise to burn it. Not on her own. There were incantations to say and muti to sprinkle on the flames. Precious didn’t know the right words to recite or what to add to the fire to make sure the evil spirit fled in disarray. Evil spirits were very crafty. They might trick her into sprinkling garlic or ginger on the fire, only to find that they liked garlic and ginger the most. She would take it to Jabu Molefe, then. Jabu would know what to do.

  Precious was mumbling to herself and the thought of Jabu made her remember what he’d said to her the last time she’d seen him.

  ‘She will go back to her people.’

  Was that what Jabu had meant? That Karabo’s people were English like Bill? Or had he meant the Ghanaians? She’d never thought of it like that before. Precious buried her face in her hands. She could have chained Karabo to the metal railings around the municipality building. Or buried her up to her neck in a hole in the backyard. None of that would have helped. She would still have found her way to London. Or to Ghana. The spirits had decreed it so and there was nothing she could have done.

  She left the violin on the table. She didn’t even want to touch it. She’d tell Jabu to come and take it away, even if he didn’t like to leave his house. He was a bit like a Catholic priest who wouldn’t perform a marriage ceremony unless it was under the roof of a church. If Jabu wouldn’t come she’d speak to Fola Adebayor, the Nigerian pastor at the church. He’d be happy to take the violin away. But he’d grown too big, that one. Nowadays he spent half his time in Johannesburg or Cape Town and left the Mthatha ministry to his assistants. Precious shook her head. A violin infested by an evil spirit was no matter for an assistant.

  When Precious had exhausted herself with all this fevered imagining, she tried to call Karabo but didn’t get through. The subscriber, the recorded message said, was not available. The sun was coming up when Precious sent a text message to Bill. She wasn’t bothered that it was so early. He was a farmer and he’d be up anyway. And if there ever was a time he needed to show more responsibility towards his daughter, then this was it.

  He responded with a text message almost immediately.

  Sorry, overseas on business. Back in two weeks. I’ll call you. Let’s meet at our usual place.

  Our usual place? It was the implied entitlement that annoyed Precious. It hadn’t been their usual place in years. He was just like Jospeh Mbazima, leering at her and looking for any excuse to touch her or peer down the front of her dress. Perhaps if she hadn’t discovered that Bill slept with his farm workers, she might have texted him back. But she wasn’t like the women who let Bill fuck them in exchange for airtime or a bag of mealie-meal. She wondered if there’d ever been a time when she’d really been the only one.

  She decided to call Teacher again. It was after three o’clock in the morning in Ghana but she didn’t care. A woman picked up the phone and for a moment Precious thought it was Karabo. Then the woman said, ‘Hold on,’ and Precious could hear her speaking in that fucking kwerekwere language of Teacher’s. She cut the call immediately and rolled over onto her back. She bit her lip to stop it from trembling. She bit so hard that warm blood trickled into her mouth.

  Precious set out early the next morning but she had no intention of going to work. She was going to Claire Harrison’s house. She didn’t know what she’d say to Mrs Harrison but she couldn’t think of anywhere else to turn.

  She saw Mrs Harrison through the gaps in the wrought-iron gate. She was kneeling in her front garden, pulling weeds from a flowerbed. Precious watched Mrs Harrison work until the basket was almost full. Then she stood up like an old woman, slowly and with one hand on her hip for support. And when she saw Precious standing on the other side of the gate, she called out in an irritated voice.

  ‘We don’t have any jobs. Please go away.’

  ‘It’s me. Precious,’ she replied. ‘Karabo’s mother.’

  Mrs Harrison’s voice changed at once to a trill of pleasure and Precious felt jealous all over again. How was it that Karabo made everyone else so happy when she only made her sad?

  Mrs Harrison waddled across to the gate. She’d tied a red bandana around her neck to keep out the morning cold and wore a floppy straw hat on her head.

  ‘Come in! Come in, my darling! How is Karabo? I’ve not heard from her in ages!’

  Precious didn’t say anything until they were seated on the patio. She didn’t think Mrs Harrison remembered that she’d used to work in her house. She only knew of Precious as Karabo’s mother. The patio furniture had changed a lot in that time. It was lighter and more modern now, with the manufacturer’s oval plaque fixed discreetly to the back. Bill had first put his arms around Precious right where she was sitting now. Years later, his wife was beaming at her like they were old friends.

  ‘Tell me all about Karabo,’ Mrs Harrison said. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Karabo is in prison.’

  Mrs Harrison’s mouth fell open in slow motion. It was as if a tokoloshe were prying her lips apart.

  ‘My word! In London?’ she gasped. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘She stole a violin.’

  Mrs Harrison screwed up her face in confusion. ‘Karabo? Are you sure? But I gave her my violin before she left.’

  And that was the cause of the problem. Precious leaned forward until their heads almost met. She crinkled her nose at Mrs Harrison’s coffee-laden breath.

  ‘Karabo is not in London. She flew to Ghana to be with her father.’

  ‘But what about her studies?’ Mrs Harrison cried. ‘She didn’t just chuck it all in, did she?’

  ‘We are all worried about that. For her to do this after all the help you’ve given her …’ Precious gave a cluck of disappointment. ‘I don’t understand it myself.’

  ‘But prison?’ exclaimed Mrs Harrison. ‘There has to be a mistake!’

  She was speaking more like a mother than Precious was and that made Precious angry.

  ‘What mistake?’ she asked harshly. ‘That Karabo is in prison or that she stole someone else’s property? If she had stayed here in Mthatha, none of this would have happened.’

  She left the barb hanging but Mrs Harrison chose to ignore it.

&
nbsp; ‘But Karabo never showed much interest in violins. I only gave her mine because I couldn’t bear to have the damned thing around.’

  It was clear to Precious now. If Mrs Harrison couldn’t stand to have the violin in her house, then it must have been the tokoloshe who had urged her to give it away. It wasn’t only black people who heard the spirits. White people could hear them too. Black people just listened more intently because they had fewer things around to distract them.

  ‘Her father’s over there, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Teacher is in Accra.’

  Mrs Harrison gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that! It would break my heart if I thought she was alone.’

  Where was her indignation? Hadn’t she stuck her neck out to arrange a scholarship for Karabo, only for her to throw it all away? Another black person crawling back into the gutter when they could see the clear blue sky above them. She should be furious. Or at least embarrassed. Instead Mrs Harrison dabbed at her eyes and made Precious feel inadequate because her eyes stayed stubbornly dry.

  ‘You must go to her of course,’ Mrs Harrison said in between sniffs. ‘Do you have any money?’

  That was what Precious had come for but Mrs Harrison’s directness put her off. It wasn’t like lying on her back and spreading her legs in exchange for money but it felt almost the same. Precious turned away and looked out towards the cornfields where Bill used to make love to her. A gust of wind ruffled the tall plants and they bowed their heads gently in her direction.

  Precious’s chest heaved all of a sudden and at last a tear rolled down her face. Mrs Harrison stood up and came across to her. She laid a hand on Precious’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly. ‘I feel like Karabo is my daughter too.’

  CHAPTER 47

  ‘Is that you, Potgieter?’ There was an echo on the line but it did not obscure the sharpness in Mrs Summerscales’ voice.

  ‘I hope I’ve not called at an inopportune time,’ André replied.

  ‘Not at all. I was just going through some paperwork.’

  André coughed politely. ‘And how are you getting on, Mrs Summerscales?’

  ‘The police are as useless as ever,’ Mrs Summerscales retorted. ‘All that Constable Duxberry does is tell me about protocols and procedures. If she reminds me one more time that this isn’t a television show, I swear I’ll slap her.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do to hit a policewoman,’ André murmured but Mrs Summerscales was well into her stride.

  ‘Policewoman or not, I find her manner most unbecoming. If she spent as much effort in tracing the violin as she did lecturing me, we’d be much further along than we are. It took her ages to confirm that Karabo had flown to Ghana when I’d told her as much days before. The stupid woman insisted on verifying every single fact for herself. What’s the use of paying a king’s ransom in taxes if the police won’t listen to you? It’s all quite ridiculous, if you ask me.’

  ‘Did you tell her that Karabo was in prison?’

  ‘I did but she didn’t show much interest.’ Mrs Summerscales paused for breath, then launched into her tirade once more. ‘At least someone is doing the right thing. No pussyfooting over there in Ghana. You break the law and you get carted off to prison, no self-serving liberal questions asked.’

  ‘And how is Nigel?’

  Mrs Summerscales snorted impatiently. ‘He’s been in an odd humour ever since you left. Whenever he comes by the house he just mopes around and generally makes himself unpleasant. He still believes I should have sent him to Ghana instead of you and surliness is his way of showing it. He’s just like his father.’

  ‘I suppose he feels responsible,’ said André.

  ‘And he bloody well should! Karabo must have seen him coming from miles away. She wrapped him around her finger like a string of chewing gum, then spat him out again, didn’t she? It’s high time he found himself a decent English girl. One with enough common sense to make up for Nigel’s lack of that particular faculty, and preferably with her own money. But enough of that, Potgieter. Have you found the Guadagnini?’

  André hesitated before responding. A part of him wanted to keep Mrs Summerscales in the dark about the whereabouts of the violin. But if he was to ever see the Guadagnini again, he realised he would need her help.

  ‘Well, yes and no.’

  ‘What do you mean, Potgieter? You’ve either found it or you haven’t.’

  She asked him again but more slowly in case he’d misunderstood her the first time.

  ‘Have you found the Guadagnini?’

  ‘I know where it is. But I’m afraid they won’t let it go that easily.’

  ‘Why on earth not? It’s not theirs, it’s mine!’

  ‘Of course it’s yours, Mrs Summerscales,’ André said carefully. ‘The problem is the judicial process. It could take years to reach a conclusion. Things can be rather slow over here.’

  ‘I can’t wait years, Potgieter,’ Mrs Summerscales snapped. ‘I’ve got bills and letters of demand streaming through my letterbox as we speak.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  There was a pause and when she spoke again her voice trembled slightly. ‘I’ll have you know, their tone has become progressively threatening in recent weeks. I don’t understand how they could be so heartless. Hounding a helpless woman into the street like a pack of dogs? It’s utterly deplorable.’

  ‘There is another way,’ he said.

  ‘Another way? What do you mean, Potgieter?’

  André took a deep breath. ‘You write an affidavit stating that Karabo did not steal the Guadagnini. That in fact she took it overseas with your blessing. Then everyone will realise what a terrible mistake all this has been. Karabo is released and you get the Guadagnini back.’

  ‘You mean I let the hussy go scot-free? Whose idea was that?’

  ‘Karabo’s actually,’ André replied. ‘But I think she has a point.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Summerscales said, ‘but you’re just as hopeless as Nigel! I can’t understand why the two of you don’t see right through Karabo. One would think she’s cast a spell on you. That’s what Africans do, don’t they, when they’re in a tight spot? Throw bones by moonlight and smear themselves with white paint while hopping around in circles.’

  ‘I don’t believe Karabo knows the first things about magic spells, Mrs Summerscales,’ André said. ‘More importantly, the longer the Guadagnini stays here the more likely it is to be ruined beyond repair. There’s the heat and the extreme humidity, not to mention the risk of accidental or malicious damage. By the time the Guadagnini is returned to you, it may be worth no more than a factory-made replica. And unless we act quickly, you may never get it back at all.’

  ‘We can’t have that,’ said Mrs Summerscales. ‘But at the same time I can’t let Karabo off the hook so easily. She broke into my house and assaulted me, for god’s sake!’

  ‘I understand fully. If I were in your shoes, I’d feel exactly the same. But which would you rather have? The Guadagnini back in your house or Karabo in prison?’

  ‘I’ll take the Guadagnini, of course. But she’s still got to be punished for what she did.’

  ‘And she will be.’

  ‘When? And don’t tell me any claptrap about some arbitrary day of judgement.’

  André let out a drawn-out sigh. ‘This morning I was at the prison where Karabo is being held,’ he said. ‘It’s no holiday resort, I can assure you.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’ Mrs Summerscales said coldly. ‘Send her a box of tissues?’

  ‘Actually, that might help. The conditions in the prison are extremely harsh.’

  The line went quiet as his words sank in.

  ‘You must think me terribly cruel for wanting Karabo’s head,’ Mrs Summerscales said grimly. ‘You must think of me as a modern-day Herodias in a cashmere twin-set. I’ll have you know I’m not the ogress many people make me out to be.’

  ‘I know that, Mrs Sum
merscales. But I’m inclined to believe Karabo made a foolish mistake. She’s headstrong and rash but no more than that.’

  Mrs Summerscales fell silent again and André did not interrupt her thoughts.

  ‘Are you still there, Potgieter?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You’re asking me to tell the UK police one thing and the Ghanaian authorities another. Isn’t that perjury?’

  ‘I’m not a lawyer but I don’t think it would ever get that far.’

  ‘And if I write this affidavit, are you sure it will get the violin back?’ There was a raw pleading in her voice, like a little girl negotiating an extra hour of television.

  ‘It’s our best shot,’ André replied. ‘I’m afraid we don’t really have a choice.’

  CHAPTER 48

  When André was finally ushered in to see Chief Superintendent Larbi at the Nsawam Prison, he was surprised at how small the man was. The days of waiting, the oft repeated ‘go and come’, had led him to imagine a man who was not only very important, but of a size to match.

  A brown-uniformed prison officer led him up the stairs to Chief Superintendent Larbi’s office. The administration block where he worked was in the men’s section of the prison. Jaundiced and ugly, it stood behind a high wire fence with a heavy iron gate.

  André wavered outside the painted wooden door. From the veranda, he could see the prison grounds sprawled out below him. Inmates milled about with varying degrees of purpose and it struck André how busy it looked. Compared to the eerie stillness of the women’s section, the men’s prison, a little more than a kilometre away, was as raucous as a street market.

  The officer knocked on the door and pushed it open without waiting for a response. He clicked his heels with a smart salute, his clockwork antics only adding to André’s apprehension. He peered over the officer’s shoulder and saw a small, pensive-looking man crouched behind a heavy wooden desk.